Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5)

by Conn Iggulden

  Octavian raised his shield, staring as the air before him seemed to fill with whirring black stripes. The desire to crouch low in the saddle and hide behind his shield was almost unbearable, but he knew his men would despise him if he did. He had to stay upright and keep watching to fend off the spears and protect his horse. The animal’s chest was partially covered by a bronze plate but was still vulnerable. If the fighting reached his rank, standing men could choose their spot to thrust from below.

  All along the lines, legionaries raised their shields against the storm of wood and iron. The rushing hiss became a thumping clatter, with men yelling in shock and pain on both sides.

  Octavian knocked a spear aside as it came down almost from above. It spun crazily as he deflected it, tripping a marching legionary, who looked up with a curse. Octavian could not respond as he threw himself forward to smack the shield into another spear coming down at his horse’s neck. That too fell away and by then the second wave was in the air.

  For a long time, the spears seemed to come only at him. Octavian was sweating as he battered and swung at them. One passed between his shield and his bare calf, striking the man behind him, who fell to his knees unseen. All the time, they marched forward and both sides drew swords at the same moment, when the third spear had been sent. They were men who took satisfaction in their tools and the armies met at a run, using the shields like a ram and thrusting swords forward with savage strength.

  Octavian rushed in with the others, unable to stop even if he had wanted to. The first two ranks on both sides were veterans. They protected the man on their left with their shields, while jabbing swords out at anything they could see. Octavian saw two of those guarding him go down, their bodies shuddering as blades punched through their armour. More of his diamond rotated up to the front, but he found himself pressed forward into the enemy. His horse snorted and tossed its head, panicky as it kicked out.

  The ranks facing him were vulnerable to horsemen. Their shields could not be raised high without leaving them open to attack from below. When they shoved forward to reach him, Octavian swung instantly, feeling the shock up his arm as he cut through the softer metal of a helmet. The sight of a mounted officer drove the enemy soldiers to press in eagerly. As they were spotted, Octavian, Maecenas and Agrippa became the targets for those further back who had yet to throw their spears.

  Octavian roared, forcing out his fear as spears came buzzing towards him. He had to split his attention between those trying to hack at his horse’s legs and the ones further back who were still striving to hit an officer with anything they could throw. The men at the front of his diamond had fallen again, trying to protect him, and the crush was too great to allow the others to move up ahead. For a time, Octavian fought in the front rank. Maecenas and Agrippa worked well on either side, killing the men who went low with swift cuts and using their shields to protect each other when spears came soaring in.

  Octavian heard his horse scream and the animal lurched. He felt a hot stripe across his face and he cried out as his horse fell into the gloom between his friends’ mounts. Both sides saw him go down and his own men bellowed in anger, pressing forward in a rush. Sickened, Octavian wiped warm blood from his eyes. He could hear his horse screaming behind him for a moment, then the sound was cut off as someone killed it to stop the wild kicking.

  Maecenas and Agrippa moved on with him as he staggered up, so that he walked at the level of their knees. The rush had forced a hole in the enemy line, though new, fresh soldiers were coming in fast to support the breach. A legionary with no helmet and bloody teeth opened his eyes wide as he saw who faced him. For an instant, Octavian thought he was holding up his sword to surrender rather than attack, but then Agrippa swung at the man from above, slicing an ear free and hacking into the joint between head and shoulder. The soldier fell to his knees and Octavian kicked him in the chest to knock him backwards before walking over the body. Through the horses, he could see milling men fighting and shouting in a red-faced combination of terror and rage.

  He wiped blood from his face, wondering where his shield had gone. The horses on either side made a strange corridor, where enemies could come only one at a time. His arms felt leaden already, his hearing half gone with the constant crashing on all sides. Gods, he could not see Mark Antony! The men behind still roared and pushed, so that he was buffeted forward and the two horsemen cursed. He heard Maecenas yell, either in fury or pain, he could not tell which. The light seemed too bright and Octavian found himself wet with sweat. He began to fear he would collapse, his heart racing so hard that it made him dizzy. His foot turned on a body and he staggered into Agrippa’s mount, feeling the heat from the horse’s skin. The men behind would not stop if he fell. They did not like walking over the fallen, as many of them could still stab in their last breaths. Each rank would be likely to plunge a sword into him until he was just a bloody, ragged thing, lost somewhere on the field of battle.

  ‘Agrippa! Pull me up, you big sod. I have to see!’ he shouted.

  His friend heard and reached down with his shield strapped to his forearm. Octavian scrambled up behind him, hiding his relief. He had come close to panic on the ground and yet his heart was settling and the light had dimmed enough for him to make out the forces he faced.

  The sun had moved. Somehow, his moments down by the snorting, stamping horses and men had taken longer than he had thought. He shook his head to clear it. The lines he faced had thinned to no more than four ranks deep, while the main force battered the right wing. In that first glimpse, Octavian had a sense that the ranks ahead were only holding, jamming their shields into the earth and linking them in an unbroken wall.

  ‘Slow advance! Slow there!’ Octavian ordered.

  Gods, Hirtius could hardly object to marching orders. The command was echoed by centurions and optios back down the line, so that the press from behind eased. Still the first two ranks clashed, stabbing and cursing as they jammed their own shields into the churned mud and fought on around them.

  Octavian caught sight of Mark Antony on his horse, shouting and pointing to send in different units and shore up the lines. Octavian knew he had to support the right flank. He formed the order in his head to have two or three cohorts cut across to protect the consuls, but he did not give it. A moment passed, then another, as his own advance slowed and came to a stop. The lines of linked shields ahead presented a solid obstacle, but he knew he could flank them. He had entire legions at his command to swing out and cut in from the sides, enveloping the soldiers of Mark Antony. He kept his mouth shut.

  Maecenas looked over to him, a brief glance away from the danger of spears and sudden thrusts. Mark Antony was risking everything to attack the right wing of eight legions. It was an insane gamble and it meant his entire force could be turned on the other side, rolled up until he was surrounded. His destruction lay in a few orders, but Octavian only stared and waited.

  ‘Caesar?’ Maecenas shouted. ‘We can flank them here!’

  Octavian tensed his jaw.

  ‘Send to consul Hirtius for new orders,’ he snapped.

  Maecenas stared, but he turned quickly, whistling to a runner then leaning low in the saddle to give quick instructions. The man hared off between the ranks.

  Octavian leaned past Agrippa’s shoulder to observe the locked battle ahead. The plain was open to his left and, even without orders, his legion had begun to swell past the fighting front, driven by the press from behind. Octavian nodded, making his decision. He could not let Mark Antony win the day.

  ‘Seventh Victrix! Seventh Victrix!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Cohorts One to Four saw left and flank! Double speed! Flank!’

  Men who had wondered at his silence cheered raucously. Their cramped ranks eased as two thousand men marched left and out of the main press, widening their line and coming around the heaving battle at the front.

  The effect could be felt immediately as Octavian’s men jogged in, striking the exposed sides of soldiers still pressing forw
ard. Octavian felt the block waver ahead of him as his cohorts slaughtered enemy legionaries behind the fighting front, driving them into their own ranks so they could not maintain the line of shields. He grunted in satisfaction as his men began to march forward once more, going faster.

  Octavian almost killed the runner who touched him on the leg. He jerked his sword down and held the blow just in time. He cursed the unfortunate messenger for his foolishness.

  ‘What orders?’

  ‘Consul Hirtius has been killed, Praefectus. Consul Pansa is badly injured and is being withdrawn to the rear. You have command.’

  Over the noise of thousands of men, Octavian could not be sure he had heard correctly.

  ‘What?’

  The messenger repeated himself, shouting the words. Many of the soldiers around them heard, raising their heads.

  Octavian looked up sharply. He could end it all. He had the men and the position to swing round and destroy Mark Antony’s legions. For an instant, he considered it, but the man had dealt fairly with him. Mark Antony had trusted him and he was not an enemy.

  ‘Sound the disengage!’ Octavian roared at the closest cornicens. They began to blow the single long note, the sound echoing down the lines. He waited, nodding as his horns were matched on the other side by the order to withdraw.

  A space appeared between the two armies, though dying men fell into it. It widened, leaving a red line on the grassy plain. Hundreds of voices bellowed orders in Mark Antony’s legions as they too backed away, panting and desperate, unable to believe they would not be rushed.

  ‘Dismount, Agrippa. I need to be seen now,’ Octavian said.

  His friend swung his leg up over the horse’s head and dropped to the ground, landing easily.

  ‘Form and dress ranks! Square formation!’ Octavian ordered, making his voice ring across the lines of his men. His men. Without Hirtius and Pansa, he was in sole command and Mark Antony’s battered forces looked small in comparison. He watched as eight legions completed the disengage, putting a hundred clear paces between the opposing ranks. By then, four of the legates had ridden across to him, their faces flushed and angry.

  Octavian was pleased to see that none of his own generals had thought to question the order he had given. He turned to face the group as the closest man spoke.

  ‘Caesar, the enemy are in disarray. We have them!’ the man said.

  Octavian looked at him coldly, seeing the legate’s barely hidden outrage.

  ‘These are legions of Rome, Legate,’ Octavian said. ‘My orders are to form squares in close formation. They will be allowed to march clear. Repeat your orders.’

  The legate gaped at him, but he dipped his head.

  ‘Form square. Close formation. They will be allowed to retreat, Praefectus,’ he said.

  ‘Well done. Now, return to your legions and await further orders.’

  The four legates were not used to being dismissed in such a way, but Octavian had given the clearest of commands. Stiffly formal, they could only salute and ride away, taking different paths to their own positions.

  Octavian turned back, watching Mark Antony’s legions withdraw to the broken fortress and the pass that led into Gaul. He saw the man himself ride along the marching lines and then stop, looking back to where Octavian sat on Agrippa’s horse. For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, then Mark Antony turned his mount and moved on.

  Mark Antony was no longer cold. The previous hour had been one of the worst of his life and he could still hardly believe he was being allowed to leave the battlefield. His legions were in a state of shock, unable to understand what they had witnessed. They knew they had lost the battle. It made no sense for an overwhelming force simply to watch them march clear. They knew by then that they had faced Caesar in battle and the talk was that he had showed them mercy.

  As Mark Antony rode down the line, he reined in and stared back at the eight legions that had come north, still mostly intact. He could not see the bodies of the dead. They had not moved more than half a mile since the first barrage of spears and bolts and the corpses were hidden by the standing ranks. Mark Antony looked for Octavian among the mounted men. There was one in particular who might have been him, but he could not be certain. The letter crackled under his breastplate and Mark Antony almost reached for it and read it again, though he had done so a hundred times before. It was a simple message, brought to him by an extraordinarii rider three days before.

  If we meet in battle, the consuls will stand on the right. If they fall, the battle is over, on my honour. Keep the messenger.

  It was sealed with a symbol Mark Antony knew well. He had not wanted to gamble with the lives of his men. Until he had seen the size of the army come to face him, he had intended to ignore the message. His heart had been in his mouth for the entire attack, spending the lives of loyal soldiers in a wild surge against the right wing, without defence or a second plan. Yet it had worked. His veterans had overwhelmed legionaries, lictors and guards, smashing through the first two ranks with massive numbers brought to bear on a single point. Mark Antony had lost hundreds of men in that single attack. It should have been suicide and he had not been able to shake the sense that Octavian had manoeuvred him to his own destruction. Yet when the consuls fell, the battle came to a shuddering halt.

  His men re-formed in squares, moving steadily towards the broken fort and the pass that led to Gaul and freedom. Mark Antony smiled suddenly as a thought struck him. He was the only consul of Rome once again and it would be weeks before the Senate even heard of the reverse in their fortunes. He had thrown the coin Octavian had given him, but it had come down on the right side.

  As his legions began to march up the pass, Mark Antony summoned the closest extraordinarii rider.

  ‘Petronius, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Consul,’ the young man replied.

  ‘Go back and find … Caesar,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Tell him I am in his debt.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Octavian felt his head dipping again as tiredness overwhelmed him. It was true that fighting wearied a man more than any other activity, and he was not alone, the yawns going back and forth among the legates who had gathered in the command tent on the plain. The wind still howled outside, but iron braziers gave some semblance of warmth and wine kept the rest of the chill away. The legionaries did not have the luxury of rest, as he had ordered a rampart built around their massive camp before dark. It had gone up quickly, thousands of men making short work of the stony ground with their spades. Even so, Octavian was determined to move the legions south the following day, away from the mountain chill and back to the soft breezes of a northern summer.

  The mood among the men was also warm and Octavian smiled to himself as he heard Maecenas laughing at something one of the legates had said. He lay on piled blankets, with more rolled under his head to form a cushion. A platter of cold food was at his elbow and camp servants stood close by to refill his cup whenever it was empty. Octavian ached in every bone and muscle, but it was a good ache and nothing like the threat of collapse he had feared in the battle.

  From half-closed eyes, Octavian watched the group of four legates Hirtius and Pansa had brought north. They stood together uncomfortably, though he had told the rest to make them welcome. He had congratulated them on the victory, but there was more to do before they realised they were now a part of his army and not simply on loan from the Senate. He rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up rather than drift off to sleep in the warmth. Their men had fought with Caesar, whether the legates realised the significance of that or not. They were his to command after that day. The continuing power of the name still astounded him, but he had learned to accept its magic. Rome may once have belonged to the Senate and the great orators, but Julius Caesar had made the legions his own.

  As he stood, Maecenas and Agrippa cheered him and Octavian grinned at them.

  ‘He rises!’ Maecenas said, passing him another cup. ‘I was just telling Pauli
nius here that we could do more with archers. Did you see the arrows fly today? Mark Antony has a unit of Syrian bowmen who made a fine showing.’

  Octavian had not seen that particular action and he only shook his head. He realised they were all watching him closely, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘I do not take too much pride in a battle against an army half the size of our own, but it is better than losing, gentlemen. To victory!’

  He raised his cup and they drank. He looked over at the new legates and decided to spend the evening in their company, to learn their strengths and weaknesses. He recognised the most senior of them, who had spoken to him at the end of the battle. Justinius did not look as if he had fought that day. His formal toga was fresh from his baggage and the man himself watched and listened politely as if he were at a Senate banquet rather than a field camp.

  Octavian was in the process of crossing the low tent to speak to the man when one of the legionary guards entered and saluted.

  ‘Decimus Junius has arrived, sir,’ he said to Octavian. ‘He is asking to speak to consuls Hirtius and Pansa.’

  ‘No easy task,’ Maecenas muttered.

  Octavian shot a warning glance at him. Pansa still lingered in the healer tents, his delirium and fever beyond anything they could do for him. Yet Octavian could not be seen to take delight in the way fortune had apparently favoured him.

  ‘Send him in,’ he said. His tiredness had vanished at the name and he faced the tent flap with bitter anticipation, wondering what he would do.

  The man who entered was a stranger to Octavian. Decimus Junius had a round, fleshy face that gave him a look of youth. Yet he was trim enough in the toga of a Roman senator and he looked sternly around the command tent, finally saluting with stiff formality.