He shook his head groggily, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. None of the men around him seemed to be suffering particularly. Maecenas and Agrippa still looked fresh and relaxed as they stood talking nearby, as fit as the horses they rode.
Octavian opened his mouth as wide as it would go, feeling his jaw crack and trying to clear his senses. He hadn’t done much sparring or running with Maecenas and Agrippa recently. Perhaps that was it. He was out of condition and feeling it. It was nothing hard work and cool water couldn’t cure. The taste of metal in his mouth intensified, making him dry-heave.
‘Caesar?’ he heard a voice call.
Maecenas, he thought. He opened his mouth again to reply and the headache jabbed, making him groan. Octavian slumped, slipping away from the trunk of the tree and falling sideways onto the dry ground. His sweat sank into it, vanishing instantly as it fell in fat drops from his skin.
‘Shit! Caesar?’
He heard more words but he could feel a flood of vomit building in his throat. He could not stop it. Octavian had a sense of strong hands holding him down as he slipped off a ledge into a roaring blackness.
Maecenas shaded his eyes as he watched the legions with Mark Antony trudge over the hills into the distance. He’d sent messengers forward with the news that Caesar had been taken ill. There was no way to keep it secret. Whatever public declarations of brotherhood the triumvirs made to each other, a man like Mark Antony would be suspicious at his ally calling a halt while he marched towards hostile forces.
The legions gave no sign of stopping and Maecenas breathed in relief. The last thing he wanted was the triumvir’s booming voice offering to help. The best legion healers were already working on Octavian, though Maecenas didn’t allow himself to hope. They could cut a mangled limb free well enough, sealing the blood flow with hot irons. Injured soldiers sometimes lived through such operations and a few even survived the fevers that followed. Yet there was no wound on Octavian’s body to be treated, not beyond the numerous red bites they had all picked up in the sand dunes. Maecenas scratched idly at his own, wondering how long it would be before they were ordered forward, with or without their commander.
Each of the eight legates had come to the healers’ tent as the day wore on, while the men camped anywhere they could find a scrap of shade. It was a relief when the sun began to sink into the west behind them, though it only reminded them all of wasted time.
Agrippa came out of the tent, looking subdued.
‘How’s he doing?’ Maecenas asked.
‘Still burning up. He started speaking a while ago, but it was just gibberish. He’s not awake yet.’
Maecenas looked around to see if they could be overheard. The legates Buccio, Silva and Liburnius were standing in a small group nearby, so he bent his head closer to his friend.
‘Do you think it’s the falling sickness? The same thing we saw before?’
Agrippa shrugged. ‘What do I know about medicine? His bladder didn’t go, thank the gods. Good idea putting that horse blanket on him by the way. I … told the healers about the first time.’
Maecenas looked sharply at him.
‘Did you have to? He never said he wanted anyone else to know.’
‘I thought they might have more chance of healing him if they knew. We have to explain it, Maecenas, unless you think we can stay here for a few days with no one asking questions. It’s done, anyway. I think it won’t hurt him with the men. They know Caesar had it – and Alexander.’
Maecenas considered for a moment.
‘That works,’ he said. ‘I’ll spread the word tonight, maybe get a little drunk with a few of the officers. I’ll say being in the land of Alexander has brought it on.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ Agrippa said, snorting.
‘But believable. The noble ailment of Caesar’s. It means he’s a Caesar in blood as well as name. Telling them that won’t do him any harm.’
Silence fell between them as they stood there, waiting helplessly for some news or change in Octavian’s condition.
‘We need him, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘He’s the only one holding all this together.’
‘The name of Caesar …’ Agrippa began.
‘Not the name! Or the bloodline. It’s him. The men look to him. Gods, he took to this as if he was born to it. There’s never been an army this size, except the one we face. If it had been left to Mark Antony, we’d still be in Rome and you know it.’
Maecenas kicked idly at a loose stone by his foot.
‘He took command of legions in the Campus – and they accepted it. If he’d been willing to slaughter the Senate, he could have had it all, right then and there. His sense of honour is all that stopped him becoming an emperor in one night. By the gods, Agrippa, think of that! He faced down legates from Rome when the consuls were killed and they joined him. Octavian chose you to make a fleet. Who else would have done that? Perhaps there is something in the blood! But we need him now, or this army becomes Mark Antony’s and everything Octavian has done will end up in his hands.’
‘He came out of it quickly last time,’ Agrippa said at last.
Maecenas only looked tired.
‘He wasn’t running a fever then. This looks worse. I’ll pray he rises fresh tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, we’re going to have to move anyway. Mark Antony will insist on it.’
‘I can make a litter easily enough,’ Agrippa replied. ‘Maybe string it between two horses …’ He trailed off as he considered the problem. ‘It’s possible.’
By dawn the following morning, Mark Antony had already sent riders back to find out where his rearguard had gone. As if he already knew Octavian was still senseless, he sent accompanying orders to catch him up at their best speed.
Agrippa worked quickly with the planks of a water cart and his own tools. The sun was barely over the horizon by the time he was satisfied. It was rough work, but he’d rigged an awning stretched tight over the litter and Octavian’s limp form was strapped down with instructions to dribble water between his lips as they went.
There was no sign of life from his friend as the litter poles were tied to a saddle. Agrippa brought his own horse to take the other end, but the litter swayed so dangerously between the horses that he gave up and arranged for legionaries to take shifts carrying the litter in pairs. He and Maecenas took the poles for the first few hours, able to watch over their friend as they marched east with the others.
It was a long, hard day, under a sun that burned. Agrippa and Maecenas were ready to hand over to another pair at the noon rest. They were not surprised to see two of the legates ride across the face of the legions to their position. Buccio had been one of those who mutinied rather than attack a Caesar in the forum. He had gambled his entire future on Octavian and the worry showed in every line of his face. Flavius Silva had given his honour into the hands of the younger man when he swore an oath to him in the Campus. Neither man wanted to see him fail, having come so far.
Maecenas saw an opportunity as the two men stood with Agrippa, blocking the view of many of those around.
‘Stand just there for a moment,’ he said.
With care, he untied the straps holding Octavian to the litter and reached under the thin sheet of linen, pulling out a wineskin that sloshed half-full. Buccio looked confused for an instant, before his face cleared.
‘That’s clever,’ he said.
‘Agrippa thought of it,’ Maecenas said. He walked away to empty the urine into a bush, then returned. ‘The tricky bit is putting it back on. Would you like to have a go?’
‘No … no, thank you. Some things are for close friends.’
Maecenas sighed. ‘I never thought I’d … ah well. He is my friend. I suggest you block the view of the men as best you can. Oh, and I’d never mention this to him, if I were you.’
He shoved the empty skin back under the blanket and rummaged about with a strained expression before bringing his empty hands out and retying the straps.
> ‘That should hold him until this evening at least. I’m half tempted to give it to Mark Antony the next time he calls for wine.’
Buccio gave a snort of laughter, but as he looked at the other three, he saw only worry in their faces for the man lying senseless. He made a decision.
‘I think I’ll take a turn with the litter. Will you join me, Legate Silva?’
His colleague nodded, spitting on his hands and taking a grip on the closest pole.
‘Have someone lead my horse, would you?’ Silva said to Maecenas.
Maecenas was surprised at how the simple gesture touched him. The two legates lifted the litter together and as the legionaries around them saw what they were doing, they smiled in genuine appreciation.
‘Onward, then,’ Buccio said. ‘One way or another, he will reach Philippi.’
He clicked his tongue to start the horse on its way and they set off once more, moving through the legions as they formed to march. To the pleasure of Maecenas and Agrippa, a great cheer went up at the sight of their legates carrying Caesar to battle.
Mark Antony was in a dark mood as he assessed the maps before him. They had not been properly surveyed, but instead had been collated over the previous week from the efforts of hundreds of scouts and extraordinarii. Though the Parthian horse archers had taken a terrible toll, enough men had survived to crawl or ride back and describe the land to his clerks. The best of them had even made their own quick drawings with charcoal, scratching lines on vellum as they hid in the marshes or looked down from the hills.
The result had cost thirty-seven lives, as well as another dozen or so men being treated for arrow wounds. Mark Antony looked at the lack of detail and wondered if the best scouts were the ones who had been killed. There was certainly no obvious weakness in the place Brutus and Cassius had chosen.
‘What do you think, Pontius?’ he said. ‘Cast your eye on this and tell me you can see something I can’t.’
His second in command approached the table, where the great sheet was held with lead weights. He could see the massive ridge above the marshes, as well as a broken, jagged line to indicate the wooden palisades protecting the walled town from the south. On the ridge itself, blocks had been marked to indicate the position of the enemy forces. Numbers were hard to judge at the best of times, but Mark Antony had hoped to outnumber the enemy and had been disappointed.
When Pontius did not reply immediately, Mark Antony went on, his voice hard.
‘Show me a place I can attack that isn’t from the west. Gods, where did they find this place? The sea and mountains on two sides, marshes on the other? You can be sure they’ve prepared the only approach, Pontius. If we come from the west, it will be bloody work and with no guarantee of victory, none at all.’
He had begun to think the campaign was suffering from a surfeit of ill-luck. First Caesar had been brought low with some ailment – carried into battle on a litter, no less! Mark Antony had been to see when Octavian arrived in the camp, but it had not raised his spirits. Of all men, he had known the power of having Caesar on his side. Had he not lost two legions to him? It should have been a massive advantage, but if the young man died before battle was even joined, it would be taken as a terrible omen by the men. Mark Antony firmed his jaw. It would be easier to bear if he could see a way to break through the legions on the ridge of Philippi.
Cassius was a cunning old man, he acknowledged. He knew Brutus was capable enough in a field battle, especially with extraordinarii, but this! This had the marks of Cassius all over it. With good Roman legions, there wouldn’t be a mistake in the preparations. Cassius and Brutus would be happy to defend a strong position while Mark Antony bloodied his head against their walls.
‘You have scouted the marshes, I take it?’ Pontius said suddenly.
Mark Antony came back with a start from his trance of dark thoughts.
‘Of course. The water is neck-deep in places and the mud is thick, black muck that could swallow a horse. There’s no way through there. I’m surprised they wasted time building that wooden barrier against the hill, in all honesty. The marsh is enough of an obstacle …’ He broke off. Julius Caesar had crossed wide rivers in Gaul. Mark Antony had seen it. What was a marsh compared to that? It was no deeper than a river and he just needed a path through it.
‘I think …’ Pontius said.
Mark Antony held up a hand to silence him.
‘Wait. Just … wait. If I could lay a path across that marsh, perhaps something narrow, the reeds would prevent anyone seeing my men, yes?’ He barely hesitated long enough for Pontius to nod before going on with a growing excitement. ‘They know we have to come up that cursed ridge, so I must come from the south. My men can break their palisade – whatever one man has built, another can take down. All I need to do is work out how to cross that marsh. They’ll never see me coming.’
He clapped Pontius on the back and strode out of the tent, leaving the other man staring after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Brutus watched grimly, shading his eyes to stare into the distance as Antony’s extraordinarii rode up the ridge as close as they dared and launched spears and lead balls high into the air. The balls flew further and could do terrible damage, though the spears caused more fear in the packed ranks. They plunged into the men standing or crouching on the ridge and Brutus could not see if anyone had been injured or killed. He knew the intention was to irritate a defending force to the point where they might boil out of their safe position. His men had enough discipline to resist, but it rankled with them not to be able to respond. One or two spears and scorpion bolts had been sent flying back on the first day, but against wide-spaced horsemen they were wasted. The weapons worked best against a massed charge. Until that time, Brutus knew his men had to endure the hail and remember they would get their chance to pay it all back.
Mark Antony’s riders had kept up the stinging attacks for the best part of two days, delighting in every yell of pain they caused. Brutus glowered at the thought of that man taking pride in the tactic. Eventually the legions from Rome would have to attack or go home with their tails between their legs. Brutus knew very well how much they were eating each day, as the same amount was consumed from the stores in Philippi.
As the sun set, Brutus had climbed to the town’s walls and looked out on his legions in battle array, reaching halfway down the western slope. If Mark Antony and Octavian attacked, they would have to come uphill in the face of spears, lead shot, iron bolts and a few other treats he had prepared for them. It should have brought him a feeling of contentment, but the disadvantage of such a strong position was that they were free to manoeuvre and he was not. They could roam the land all around, looking for weaknesses, while he could only sit and wait for the real killing to begin.
From the height of the town wall and with the ground dropping away, he could see for miles to the west, easily as far as the massive camp Octavian and Mark Antony had created. It was an odd thing to see for a man of his experience: the high earth ramps studded with stakes, the gates and sentries that were the signs of Rome in the field – yet on a side he faced as an enemy. It was strange to be in the position so many other nations had known since his people had first come out of the seven hills armed with iron.
When he’d seen Mark Antony had placed himself on the opposite right wing, Brutus was obscurely disappointed. Each side had two commanders and two armies, but Cassius would face Mark Antony, while Brutus would see the boy again. He cleared his throat and spat on the dry stone at his feet. He remembered Octavian very well. He had taught him to ride, or at least to ride with cavalry. His mouth quirked as he realised he felt some sense of betrayal at facing that young man in battle. Perhaps Octavian would be feeling the same way when the time came.
All his memories were of a boy, but Brutus knew he would meet a man when the killing started. He told himself not to underestimate the new Caesar. Brutus could still remember being that young, without the painful joints or the terrible
slowness that seemed to have drifted over him in recent years. He remembered when his body worked as it was meant to, and if it hurt, it healed as fast as a young dog. He stretched his back at the thought, wincing as it clicked and ached.
‘If you remember me at all, boy, you’ll be afraid of facing me.’
He muttered the words staring into the distance, as if Octavian could hear him. One of his guards looked up, but Brutus ignored the unspoken question. He had yet to see Octavian’s men in any kind of action. The extraordinarii who galloped across his lines carried the legion standards of Gaul, making sure the defenders knew who were harassing them. Brutus felt the simmering anger on behalf of his own men, forced to sit and wait while their enemies hooted and jeered and tried to leave a few dead with every attack.
The biggest armies ever fielded by Rome stood less than a mile apart. The sun was dipping towards the horizon and even the long summer day would end in a few hours. He cleared his throat and spat again, tired of waiting for the dark.
Cassius looked up as the runner came racing down the hill to his position. He saw the man’s flushed face and braced himself against a spike of worry.
‘What is it?’ he said, too impatient to wait through formalities.
‘You need to come, sir. The men in the town think they’ve seen movement in the marshes.’
Cassius cursed as he mounted his horse and dug in his heels to ride up the hill. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, seeing Mark Antony’s extraordinarii gallop back across the front line for yet another sweep through their own dust. He could see specks of black lead rising from whirring slings and he ducked in unconscious reaction. The men under their path raised shields over their heads once more.
Cassius trotted his mount after the runner. They passed through waiting legionaries the whole way, the ground completely hidden by soldiers sitting or standing idle, as they had been all that day and the one before.
Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) Page 33