The Gods of War (30 page)

The tiles creaked under their feet and they could only hope their progress wasn't being followed from below, with archers ready to catch them as they came down. The first roof blended into the next without a gap, but the third was too far away to step across.

“I need a man to jump this,” Domitius said.

In the moonlight, the alleyway seemed larger than it had any right to. A young soldier of the Fourth stepped forward and removed his sword. With barely a nod to his officers, he took two quick steps and launched himself over. The clatter as he landed made them all freeze, but already the palace seemed far behind and no one came. The rope was thrown to him, and one by one they used it to cross. Brutus went first this time, trusting his arm to hold his weight. The muscles were sending shooting pains, but the bones held and he reached the other side, sweating but exhilarated.

Four more roofs were passed in the same way before they came to a space too great to bridge. The street below seemed empty as the front rank lay on their stomachs and looked down. At the crouch, they came back and reported that the way was clear, then sent ropes skipping down to the stones below.

Brutus lost skin on his palms as he opted to slide, not trusting his arm to take his full weight yet again. With some misgiving, he realized there would be no retreat that way, not for him. Ahmose landed behind him without a sound. With a smile, he raised a hand to the Romans and strode away into the darkness. Brutus wished him luck in bringing Cleopatra's army. Even if they managed to block the harbor entrance, Julius needed an edge.

The cohort jogged through the streets in almost complete silence. For better grip on the roofs, they had tied cloths around their sandals, and no challenges were shouted as they made their way to the docks.

The harbor of Alexandria was well lit and busy. Domitius halted the men in the last shadows of the road, passing the word for them to be ready. They would be seen at any moment, and after that it would be a rush to block the port before the army could respond.

A voice began to yell and Domitius saw two men pointing in their direction. “That's it, then. We go,” he said, running out into the light.

There were never fewer than a dozen merchant vessels working their cargoes on or off the quayside. The cohort of five hundred Roman legionaries raced toward them, ignoring the shouts of panic as word spread. As they reached the docks, they split into four groups and ran up the loading planks of the nearest ships to them.

The crews were terrified at the sudden attack and three of them surrendered without hesitation. In the fourth, two sailors reacted more from instinct than sense, trying to stab the first men to board them. They were cut down and their bodies heaved over the side into the dirty water. The rest did not resist and moved down the loading planks as they were told until the Romans had the ships to themselves.

The sails went up with only a little confusion and the mooring ropes were cast free or cut. All four of the vessels began to ease away from the docks, leaving their shouting crews behind them.

Brutus could see men racing off into the dark streets to alert Ptolemy's army. By the time their night's work was over, the docks would be crowded with soldiers. At least it would give Julius a respite, he hoped. He could not regret having come, and for the first time in months he felt alive enough to cheer as the sails fluttered and the ships began their crisscrossing courses to the mouth of the port.

“Get two men up top, as lookouts,” he ordered, smiling as he remembered a time in his youth when he had climbed to that position himself. He did not imagine he could reach it now, but it gave him pleasure to recall the journey across Greece with Renius, when the world lay before them. The legionary who had been first over the roofs was climbing even before Brutus had finished giving the order. Brutus thought he should learn the man's name and was embarrassed that he did not know it. He had been apart from the workings of the legions for too long. Even if he did not survive the night, it felt right to be back in command. He had missed it more than he knew.

Away from the lights of the port, the moon followed their movement on the still, black water. The same barriers that prevented storms from wrecking Alexandria allowed only the smallest of breezes, and progress was painfully slow. It did not suit the mood of the men on board. They all turned to see the great fire on the lighthouse of Pharos, its gleam warning ships for miles. The glow of its flames lit their faces as they passed and they cast long shadows on the decks.

“Port watch coming!” a voice called from above.

Brutus could see them clearly, silhouetted against the glow of the lighthouse. Three galleys had altered course to intercept them, with oars working easily against the wind. Brutus wondered how well they were manned. He welcomed their presence, fully aware that he would have to try to swim home otherwise.

The spits of rock that formed the outermost gates of the port came slowly into view, marked for shipping with smaller lights that were never allowed to go out. Brutus had his men steer steadily for them, seeing that two of the other ships would reach the point first. Movement was still gentle over the waters and he could see their pursuers were gaining. It would be close, he realized. Brutus shook his head as he watched the galleys sweep closer. Julius had said axes or fire, but cutting through the lower holds would take too long. It would have to be fire.

“Find me a lamp, or a flint and iron,” he said.

A shuttered lamp was found and lit without delay and Brutus nursed the flame, extending the wick. The merchant vessels were built of old timber and would burn to rival the lighthouse.

Two of the stolen ships were in position and Brutus could see men lashing them together. He was thankful for the limp sails and weak breeze then. Such delicate maneuvering would have been difficult in anything stronger.

As he came alongside, ropes were thrown and his own ship creaked and groaned as the lines tautened, finally resting to rock in the waves from the deeper waters. As the anchors were sent splashing over the side, Brutus could see the galleys of the port watch were almost on them.

He wished he had a corvus bridge to be lowered onto the enemy ships as they came alongside, and acted on the idea, calling his men to lash planking together into a rough substitute.

“Light them up!” Brutus bellowed, hoping his voice could be heard on the other ships. He spilled the oil of his lamp across a pile of broken wood and watched flames rush along tar-covered ropes. The speed of it was appalling and Brutus hoped he had not acted too soon.

As the fire spread, he could hear angry shouts on the galleys and then his ship shuddered as they were rammed. Brutus laughed aloud at the thought of the hull being broken down below. The port watch was doing their work for them.

As the ship began to list, Brutus had his men heave the great section of planking over their heads, letting it fall onto the railing of the ramming galley. It was not solid and it shifted with the rocking motion, threatening to fall. The galley oars were already backing to pull them free. Despite the danger, the legionaries leapt onto their bridge and charged the other deck, facing the terrified crew.

It was carnage. As Brutus had hoped, the galleys were manned with only a few dozen above deck and the chained slaves below were unable to join the fight. In a few heartbeats, a slick of blood stained the dark wood and the legionaries had transferred across, letting their makeshift bridge fall back into the sea.

Behind them, the flames were roaring, making an inferno of the tilting ship. It went down fast and for a moment Brutus feared the vessel would sink so deep that the harbor would still be passable. As he watched with a pounding heart, the vessel stuck with a full third out of the water. Cleopatra had been right. The harbor had not been dredged in generations and even shallow-hulled ships were sometimes caught there on a low tide.

Brutus turned back to his work, his face alive with pleasure. The other galleys were holding off after the fate of the first. He did not hesitate, seeing flames spring up on all four of the blocking ships. He sent his men down below to order the slaves to take oars once more and grinned as the galley turned into the wind. They would not have to swim.

As the ships burned, the breeze freshened, carrying hot sparks upwards. By the time Brutus had filled his galley with the last of the cohort, the heat was like a furnace and many of the men had suffered burns as they waited to be picked up. Fat cinders sizzled in the sea, while more caught in the rigging of anchored ships. Brutus laughed as he saw them burn. His own men were busy with buckets of seawater for their own safety.

In the far distance, some of the glowing ashes reached the dry roofs of buildings around the docks. They licked and flickered there, spreading.

         

Julius watched as the voices and order in Ptolemy's army changed subtly. He saw runners come in from the direction of the port and guessed his men were causing chaos. Angry faces were turned toward the palace and, unseen, he smiled down at them.

In the light of their own torches, Julius saw Panek arrive from wherever he had been sleeping, pointing toward the harbor and giving orders in a frenzy. Hundreds of men began to form up and march to the east and Julius knew he would never have a better chance. Dawn was almost on them.

“Get the men ready to move,” he shouted down to Regulus and Octavian. “We're going out.”

                                                      
CHAPTER
28
                                                      

T
he warriors of Alexandria wore no armor or helmets. Against the fury of the Egyptian sun, metal became too hot to bear against the skin and marching any distance would be impossible.

Julius had chosen the coolest moment of the day to attack. The sun was barely a glimmer on the horizon and the Roman legions could use their advantage. The doors to the palace were pulled open and the Tenth and Fourth came out at full speed, shields held high.

They surged through the gardens and those who had been in the extraordinarii roared in anger at the piled corpses of their mounts, already dark with flies. To see the best bloodlines of the legion lying sprawled with blackened tongues was enough to make them wild with hatred and disgust.

The centurions and optios were hard-pressed to hold their men from racing forward. The front ranks threw spears with grunts of effort, smashing the Egyptians as they tried to meet the sudden threat. Then the shield wall reached the enemy and the killing ranks slammed into them, fighting on all sides.

The Roman armor was crucial to the impetus. Where Ptolemy's army struck, they were met with a ring of metal. The veteran legionaries used their helmets to butt, their greaves to break shins, their swords to cut limbs from the enemy. They had been confined while Ptolemy's men jeered and sent their missiles. Now the chance had come to repay every insult.

“Regulus! Open the line!” Julius shouted to his general.

He saw the Fourth legion slow their headlong advance into the midst of the Egyptians and the attack widened, bringing more and more swords to bear. Julius looked back at the palace and saw they were still coming out. He marched forward as his men cleared the way, and when Ptolemy's forces tried to counterattack, Julius brought his shield up against arrows and stalked on, intent on the progress of his legions.

Near Regulus, a man went down with an arrow in the thigh and staggered back to his feet. He tried to go on, but the wound was gushing and Julius saw the man's optio grab him and send him back through the lines.

As the sun rose, its heat seemed to seek out the Roman armor and they sweated and began to gasp. The palace grounds were behind and the Roman line was hampered by the narrow streets. Still they cut and killed and walked over the dead.

To Julius's astonishment, he saw the citizens too had come out with daylight. Thousands of Egyptians shouted and wailed, filling the roads around the struggling armies. Many of them carried weapons and Julius began to consider a retreat back to the palace. His Tenth and Fourth were smashing Ptolemy's warriors, but the odds were still overwhelming.

On the right, toward the docks, Julius heard warning horns sounding. One of his extraordinarii scouts ran over, so spattered with blood that his eyes and teeth seemed unnaturally white.

“The harbor cohort is back, sir.”

Julius wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. “Any sign of those sent after them?”

“No, sir.”

Julius wondered what had become of the men Ptolemy had sent to kill the Roman cohort at the docks. If the king had understood who led them, perhaps he would have ordered many more to the harbor.

“If you can reach them, tell Brutus to hit the flank,” Julius ordered. “If they see Ptolemy, they are to kill him.”

The scout saluted and vanished back into the press.

Julius found himself panting. How long had it been since they had come out and hammered into the waiting army? The sun had cleared the horizon, but he could not tell for certain. Step by step, his legions moved forward and among the bronze bodies of the Egyptians were men he knew and had fought with for years. He gritted his teeth and moved on.

         

Brutus cursed his weak right arm as his smoke-blackened cohort came racing along the street. He could hear the sound of battle and for the first time in his life he did not welcome it or feel the excitement that usually drew him in. The ambush they had set for the Egyptians at the harbor had shown him his weakness. Still, the Roman veterans had crushed the enemy force as if it were an exercise. In a dark, narrow street off the docks, they had fallen on the Egyptians like wolves on lambs, cutting them to pieces.

Brutus held his sword awkwardly, feeling the weight of the heavy gladius pull at his weak shoulder. Domitius glanced at him as the tumult of heaving lines came into view. He saw the frustration in Brutus's face and understood.

“Take this,” Domitius shouted, tossing a dagger.

Brutus caught it in his left hand. He would rather have had a shield, or his silver armor, but at least he would be able to strike. His first blow in the ambush had turned in his hand, achieving nothing more than a scratch down a bare chest. He should have been killed then, but Ciro had hacked the man's wrist and Brutus had been saved.

As they neared the king's army, they formed into a rank six across, with Ciro in the center. Ptolemy's flank men turned to face them and all six picked their targets, calling their choices to each other.

They hit the Egyptian soldiers at almost full speed against raised shields. Ciro's bulk knocked his man flat, but the edges held and the charge faltered. It was Ciro who broke the hole for them to follow, swinging his gladius like an iron bar and using his free fist to club men down. Whether he hit with the flat or the edge, the man's strength was enormous and he towered over the enemy. Brutus followed him into the press, stabbing his dagger and using his gladius only to block. Even then, the shock of blows seemed to bite at him and he wondered if his bones would stand it for long.

Brutus stumbled over a fallen shield and, with a pang of regret, threw down the sword he had won in Rome to pick it up. He moved to Ciro's right side, protecting him. Domitius appeared on his own right with another shield and the Roman line moved farther into the claustrophobic heart of the battle.

It was a far cry from the open plain of Pharsalus. Brutus could see men climb gates and statues, still hacking with their swords at those who pressed them. Arrows flew without being aimed, and against the screaming, the Egyptians chanted in their alien language, their voices low and frightening.

It did not help them. Without armor, they were being hammered and the return of the port cohort sent a shudder through their ranks. The chanting changed into a low moan of fear that wailed and echoed through the swelling crowds at their backs. Brutus saw two of the extraordinarii defending well, before both were downed by clubs and daggers from the people of Alexandria. He ducked under a thrown spear, knocking it aside with his shield.

Somewhere nearby, Brutus could hear the tramp of feet and he groaned. He had seen enough of the Roman lines to know that Julius had committed them all.

“Enemy reinforcements coming,” he shouted to Domitius.

Strange horns blared to confirm his suspicions and Brutus took a numbing impact against the shield that made him cry out. His mind flashed back to the final moments of Pharsalus and he stabbed his dagger in a wild frenzy, cleansing his rage with every death.

“There's the boy,” Domitius roared, pointing.

They all saw the slight figure of Ptolemy, shining in the risen sun as he sat a horse, surrounded by his courtiers. The royal party watched the battle with an aloofness that enraged the Romans. The men with Brutus forgot their weariness to push forward once more, struggling to reach the one they had seen betray them. There was hardly a man who had not exchanged a few words with the boy king in his month of imprisonment. To have him turn on them, on Caesar, after the first bonds of friendship was enough to draw the Roman killers like moths.

Ptolemy's gold mask turned jerkily as he watched the deaths of his followers. Panek stood by him, giving orders without a sign of fear. Brutus saw messengers bow to the courtier and run to where the horns had sounded. If the reinforcements were large, he knew there was a chance none of them would survive the morning.

Ciro searched the ground as they struggled forward, then dipped to come up with a Roman spear, its length crusted in blood and dust. He took a sight on Ptolemy and cast it with a growl, sending it high. Brutus did not see it land, though when the ranks parted again, the king remained. Panek was gone from his side and Brutus did not know if he still lived. Another blow crashed against his shield arm and he yelled in pain. It felt too heavy to raise in his defense and three times Domitius saved him from a bronze blade.

Ciro cast again and again as he found spears to throw, and then Brutus saw Ptolemy's courtiers scuttling out of range. He heard a howl of frustration from the legion lines ahead of them and, without warning, his weary cohort reached the armored Roman flank. They had cut their way through and now both forces seemed to gain fresh strength from the contact. The Fourth were off on the wing, holding the new arrivals, but the Tenth were free to push for the king.

Missiles began to come from the crowd in greater and greater numbers. Curds of cattle dung were harmless enough, but the stones and tiles were a constant danger and distracted more than one legionary long enough to be killed.

Brutus strode through the fighting square of the Tenth to Julius, panting in reaction. They let him pass with little more than a glance.

Julius saw him and smiled at his battered appearance. “They can't hold us,” he shouted above the crash of battle. “I think the king's down.”

“What about the reinforcements?” Brutus answered, yelling into Julius's ear.

As he spoke they both felt a shift in the movement of men and Julius turned to see the Fourth legion being pushed back. They did not run. Every man there had been saved by the honor of the Tenth against Pompey and they would not give way. For the lines to buckle, Julius knew the reinforcements must be large.

“Tenth! Cohorts one to four! Saw into the Fourth! Move to support! One to Four!”

Julius kept roaring the orders until the cohorts heard him and began to move. The whole left wing was being compressed and Julius shook his head.

“I could use a horse, if the bastards hadn't slaughtered them,” he said bitterly. “I can't see what's happening.”

As he turned to face Brutus he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and froze. “What are you
doing
?” Julius whispered.

Brutus jerked around to see. Cleopatra had walked out behind the legions and both men watched in amazement as she climbed onto the base of a statue to Isis, swinging herself up with neat agility until she stood at the feet of the goddess, looking down on the armies.

“Get her off there before the archers see her!” Julius shouted, pointing.

She had a horn in her hand, and before he could wonder what she intended she raised it to her lips and blew.

The note was deep and low, going on and on until she had no more breath. By the end of it, heads were turning in her direction and Julius was terrified she would be torn from her perch by a cloud of shafts.

“You will stop!” she cried. “In the name of Cleopatra, your queen. I am returned to you and you will stand back!”

Julius saw Roman hands reaching up, imploring her to come down. She ignored them, calling again. Her voice reached the lines of Egyptian soldiers and the reaction was like a shock of cold water. They pointed to her and their eyes went wide with awe. They had not known of her return to the city. Julius saw their swords begin to lower and the Tenth immediately launched themselves forward, killing indiscriminately.

“Sound the halt,” Julius snapped to his cornicens. “Quickly!”

Roman horns wailed their echo to Cleopatra and an eerie silence fell over the bloody streets.

“I am returned to you, my people. These men are my allies. You will stop the killing
now.
”

Her voice seemed louder than it had before, without the clash of arms to drown it. Ptolemy's army seemed dazed by her appearance and Julius wondered if she had chosen the statue of Isis deliberately, or whether it was simply the closest. He was surrounded by gasping, bloody men and his mind was blank.

“I wonder what she—” Julius began, then the people of Alexandria lost their stunned expressions and dropped to their knees.

Julius looked around in astonishment as Ptolemy's soldiers knelt with them, pressing their heads to the ground. The Roman legionaries stood stunned, looking to Julius for orders.

“Tenth and Fourth, kneel!” Julius bellowed instinctively.

His men glanced at each other, but they did as they were ordered, though their swords were ready. Ciro, Regulus, and Domitius went down onto one knee. Brutus followed as Julius's eyes fell on him, and then only Julius and Octavian were still on their feet.

“Don't ask me,” Octavian said softly.

Julius looked him in the eye and waited. Octavian grimaced and knelt.

Against the foreground of thousands of bowed heads, one other group still stood on the far side of the battleground. The courtiers of the king held their heads high, watching the development in sick horror. Julius saw one of them kick out at a soldier, clearly demanding the fight go on. The man flinched, but did not rise. To Julius's eye, they looked like a pack of painted vultures. He relished the fear he saw in their gleaming faces.

“Where is my brother, Ptolemy? Where is my king?” Cleopatra called to them.

Julius saw her leap lightly down and stride long-legged through the gashed flesh and kneeling men. She walked proudly and as she passed Julius she beckoned to him.

“Where is my brother?” she demanded again.

Her voice struck at the courtiers like a blow and they seemed to wilt as she approached, as if her presence was more than they could bear. They parted as Cleopatra walked into their midst. Julius followed closely, his glare daring them to raise a hand against her.