‘Now blow the horns. Quickly!’ he snapped at last, looking out onto the battlefield as the long notes wailed over it. The legions had gone far and fought on all sides, but they would not allow a rout, he knew. The squares would retreat step by ordered step against the horsemen, killing all the time.
The Gauls moved like bitter liquid in swirls of screaming, dying men as the legions fought their way back. Julius shouted wildly as he saw the eagles appear once more. He raised his arm and it trembled. The gates came down and he saw the legions stream in and rush back to the walls to shout defiance at the enemy.
The Gauls surged forward and Julius looked to the teams of ballistae men, waiting with desperate impatience. The whole of the Gaulish army was rushing in then and the moment was perfect, but he dared not order them to fire without knowing his legions were safely back.
He barely saw the launch of spears, but Renius did. As Julius turned away, Renius threw up the shield and held it against the numbing impact of the whining heads. He grunted and Julius turned to acknowledge the act, his face going slack as he saw the bloody ruin of Renius’ neck.
‘Clear! All clear, sir!’ his cornicen shouted.
Julius could only stare as Renius fell.
‘Sir, we must fire now!’ the cornicen said.
Barely hearing him, Julius dropped his arm and the great ballistae crashed their response. Tons of stone and iron sliced through the horsemen of Gaul once more, cutting great swathes of empty space on the field. The tribes were too closely packed to avoid the barrage and thousands were mown down, never to rise again.
A powerful silence swelled as the tribes pulled back out of range. Dimly Julius heard his men cheering as they saw the numbers of dead left behind on the field. He went to Renius’ side and closed the staring eyes with his fingers. He had no more grief left in him. To his horror, his hands began to shake and he tasted metal in his mouth.
Octavian trotted through the legionaries to look up to where Julius knelt, chilled in sweat.
‘One more, sir? We’re ready.’
Julius looked dazed. He could not have a fit in front of them all, he could not. He struggled to deny what was happening. The fits had been quiet in him for years. He would not allow it. With a wrench of will, he stood swaying, forcing himself to focus. He pulled off his helmet and tried to breathe deeply, but the ache in his skull built and bright lights flashed. Octavian winced as he saw the glazed eyes.
‘The legions still stand, General. They are ready to take the battle to them once more, if you wish it.’
Julius opened his mouth to speak, but could not. He crumpled to the ground and Octavian leapt from his saddle, scrambling up to hold him. He barely noticed the body of Renius at his side and shouted to the cornicen to fetch Brutus.
Brutus came at a scrambling run, paling as he understood.
‘Get him out of sight, quickly,’ he snapped to Octavian. ‘The command tent is empty. Take his legs before the men see.’ They lifted the twitching figure that had been lightened by the months of starvation and war, dragging him into the shadowed interior of the command post.
‘What are we going to do?’ Octavian said.
Brutus pulled the metal helmet from Julius’ rigid fingers and lifted it.
‘Strip him. Too many men saw us take him in. They must see him come out.’
The men cheered as Brutus strode into the weak sun, wearing the full helmet and armour of his friend. Behind him, Julius lay naked on a bench, with Octavian holding a rope of twisted tunic between his teeth as he writhed and shuddered.
Brutus ran to the wall to assess the state of the enemy and saw they were still reeling from the second smashing attack of the ballistae. In the darkness of the tent, it had seemed longer. He saw the legions look to him, waiting for orders and knew a moment of the purest panic. He had not been alone in command since setting foot in Gaul. Julius had always been there.
Behind the mask, Brutus looked out desperately. He could think of no stratagem but the simplest of all. Open the gates and kill everything that moved. Julius would not have done it, but Brutus could not watch from the wall as his men went out.
‘Fetch me a horse!’ he bellowed. ‘Leave no reserve. We are going out to them.’
As the gates reopened, Brutus rode through, leading the legions. It was the only way he knew.
As the Gauls saw the full force of legions coming onto the field, they milled in chaotic fear, wary of being drawn in again to be crushed by the war engines. Their lines were in disarray without the leaders who had been killed in the first attacks.
Brutus saw many of the lesser tribes simply dig in their heels and ride from the battlefield.
‘Better that you run!’ he shouted wildly.
Around him, the extraordinarii forced their mounts into a gallop, their bloody weapons ready. The legions roared as they accelerated across the plain and when they crashed into the first lines, there was nothing to hold them.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
By nightfall, those Gauls who survived had left the field of battle, streaming back to their homes and tribal lands to carry news of the defeat. The Roman legions spent most of the night on the plain, stripping corpses and rounding up the best of the horses for their own use. In the darkness, the Romans separated into cohorts that roamed for miles around Alesia, killing wounded and collecting armour and swords from the dead. As another dawn approached, they returned to the main fortifications and turned their baleful gazes on the silent forts.
Julius had not surfaced from tortured dreams before sunset. The violence of the fit had racked his wasted body and when it left him, he sank into a sleep that was close to death. Octavian waited with him in the tent, washing his flesh with a cloth and water.
When Brutus came back, spattered with blood and filth, he stood looking down on the pale figure for a long time. There were many scars on the skin and without the trappings of rank, there was something vulnerable about the wasted figure that lay there.
Brutus knelt at his side and removed the helmet.
‘I have been your sword, my friend,’ he whispered.
With infinite tenderness, he and Octavian exchanged the battered armour and clothing until, once again, Julius was covered. He did not wake, though when they lifted him, his eyes opened glassily for a moment.
When they stood back, the figure on the bench was the Roman general they knew. The skin was bruised and the hair was ragged until Octavian oiled it and tied it.
‘Will he come back?’ Octavian murmured.
‘In his own time, he will,’ Brutus replied. ‘Let’s leave him alone now.’ He watched the faint rise and fall of Julius’ chest and was satisfied.
‘I’ll stand guard. There will be some who want to see him,’ Octavian said.
Brutus looked at him and shook his head.
‘No, lad. You go and see to your men. That honour is mine.’
Octavian left him as he took position outside the tent, a still figure in the darkness.
Brutus had not sent the demand for surrender to Vercingetorix. Even in the armour and helmet, he knew Adàn would not be fooled for a moment and that honour belonged to Julius. As the moon rose, Brutus remained on guard at the tent, sending away those who came to congratulate. After the first few, the word spread and he was left alone.
In the privacy of the silent dark, Brutus wept for Renius. He had seen the body and ignored it while he and Octavian were heaving Julius’ body into the tent. It was almost as if some part of him had recorded every detail of the scene to be recalled when the battle was over. Though he had only glanced at the old gladiator, he could see his cold corpse as if it was daylight when he shut his eyes.
It did not seem possible that Renius could not be alive. The man had been the closest thing Brutus had had to a father in his life and not to have him there brought a pain that forced tears out of him.
‘You rest now, you old bastard,’ he muttered, smiling and weeping at the same time. To live for so long only to die
from a spear was obscene, though Brutus knew Renius would have accepted that as he accepted every other trial in his life. Octavian had told him how he had held the shield for Julius and Brutus knew the old gladiator would consider it a fair price.
A noise from the tent told him Julius had woken at last before the tent flap was thrown back.
‘Brutus?’ Julius asked, squinting into the darkness.
‘I am here,’ Brutus replied. ‘I took your helmet and led them out. They thought I was you.’
He felt Julius’ hand on his shoulder and fresh tears wound down the dirt of his face.
‘Did we beat them?’ Julius asked.
‘We broke their back. The men are waiting for you to demand a surrender from their king. It’s the last thing to do and then we’re finished.’
‘Renius fell at the last. He held a shield over me,’ Julius said.
‘I know, I saw him.’ Neither man needed to say more. They had both known him when they were little more than boys and some griefs are cheapened by words.
‘You led them?’ Julius said. Though his voice was strengthening, he still seemed confused.
‘No, Julius. They followed you.’
At dawn, Julius sent a messenger up to Vercingetorix and waited for the response he knew must come. Every man and woman in Alesia would have heard of the slaughter of Avaricum. They would be terrified of the grim soldiers who stared up at the fortress. Julius had offered to spare them all if Vercingetorix surrendered by noon, but as the sun rose, there was no response.
Mark Antony and Octavian were with him. There was nothing to do but wait and, one by one, those who had been there from the beginning came to stand at his side. The missing faces hardly seemed worth the price, at times. Bericus, Cabera, Renius, too many more. Julius drank the wine he was offered without tasting it and wondered if Vercingetorix would fight to the bitter end.
The legions were never silent when the killing was done. Each man had his particular friends to boast with and, in truth, there were many stories of bravery. Many more could not answer their names at the dawn muster and the pale bodies that were brought in were testimony to the struggle they had fought together. Julius heard a cry of agony as a soldier recognised one of the corpses and knelt, weeping until others in his century took him away to get him drunk.
Renius’ death had hurt them all. The men who had fought with the old gladiator had bound his neck in cloth torn from a tunic and laid him out with his sword. From Julius to the lowest-ranking legionary, they had suffered through bouts of his temper and training, but now that he had gone, the men came in silent grief to touch his hand and pray for his soul.
With his dead laid out in the cold sun, Julius looked up at the walls of Alesia and thought through ways of burning them out of their stronghold. He could not just sit idle with Gaul in his hands at last.
There could be no more rebellions. Over the days to come, the word of the defeat would be taken to every tiny village and town across the vast country.
‘Here he comes,’ Mark Antony said, interrupting Julius’ thoughts.
They all stood as one, straining to see the king as he descended the steep path to where the legions waited. He was a lonely figure.
Vercingetorix had changed from the angry young warrior Julius remembered so long before. He rode a grey horse and wore full armour that gleamed in the first light. Julius was suddenly aware of his own grime and reached to detach his cloak, then let his hand fall. He owed the king no special honour.
Cingeto’s blond hair was bound and plaited in heavy cords to his shoulders. His beard was full and shone with oil, covering the gold links he wore at his throat. He rode easily, carrying an ornate shield and a great sword that rested on his thigh. The legions waited in silence for this man who had caused them so much grief and pain. Something about his stately descent kept them quiet, allowing him this last moment of dignity.
Julius walked to meet the king with Brutus and Mark Antony at his sides. As he strode to the foot of the road, the rest of his generals fell in behind and still no one spoke.
Vercingetorix looked down at the Roman and was staggered at the differences since their first meeting, almost a decade before. His youth had been left on the fields of Gaul and only the cold, dark eyes looked the same. With a last glance up at the forts of Alesia, Vercingetorix dismounted and lifted his shield and sword in his arms. He dropped them at Julius’ feet and stood back, holding the Roman’s eyes for a long moment.
‘You will spare the rest?’ he asked.
‘I gave you my word,’ Julius replied.
Vercingetorix nodded, his last worry vanishing. Then he knelt in the mud and bowed his head.
‘Bring chains,’ Julius said and the silence was shattered as the legions banged their swords and shields together in a cacophony that drowned out all other sound.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
As winter came again, Julius took four of his legions across the Alps to base themselves around Ariminum. He brought five hundred chests of gold with him on carts, enough to pay the tithe to the Senate a hundred times over. His men marched with coins in their pouches, and good food and rest had restored much of their polish and strength. Gaul was quiet at last and new roads stretched across the fertile land from one coast to another. Though Vercingetorix had burnt a thousand Roman farms, the land was taken up by new families before the end of summer and still they came, lured by the promise of crops and peace.
A bare three thousand of the Tenth had survived the battles in Gaul and Julius had awarded land and slaves to each man under his command. He had given them gold and roots and he knew they were his, as Marius had once explained to him. They did not fight for Rome, or the Senate. They fought for their general.
He would not hear of a single one of them spending a night out in the open and every house in Ariminum was suddenly home to two or three of the soldiers, packing the town with life and coins. Prices went up almost overnight and by the end of the first month there, the last of the wine ran dry, right across the port city.
Brutus had come with the Third Gallica and set about drinking himself to oblivion as soon as he was free and alone in the city. Losing Renius had hit him hard and Julius heard continual reports of his friend involved in a different brawl each night. Julius listened to the innkeepers who brought their complaints and paid their bills without a murmur of protest. In the end, he sent Regulus to prevent Brutus killing someone in a drunken rage and then heard reports of the two of them roaring around the town together, causing even more damage than Brutus alone.
For the first time since Spain, Julius did not know what the next year would hold for him. A million men had died in Gaul to serve his ambition and another million had been sold to Roman quarries and farms, from Africa to Greece. He had more gold than he had ever seen and he had crossed the sea to beat the Britons. He had expected to feel joy in his triumph. He had equalled Alexander and found a new world beyond the maps. He had taken more land in a decade than Rome had managed in a century. When he was a boy, if he could have seen Vercingetorix kneel, he would have gloried in it, seeing only the achievement. But he would not have known how much he would miss the dead. He had dreamed of statues and his name being spoken in the Senate. Now that those things were real, he scorned them. Even victory was empty because it meant the struggle was at an end. There were too many regrets.
Julius had taken Crassus’ house in the centre of the city and at night he thought he could still smell the perfume Servilia wore. He did not send for her to come to him, though he was lonely. Somehow the thought that she would break him out of his depression was too much to bear. He cherished the dark days of winter as reflections of himself and embraced the black moods as old friends. He did not want to pick up the reins of his life and go on. In the privacy of Crassus’ home, he could waste the days in idleness, spending afternoons watching the dark skies and writing his books.
The reports he had written for the city of his birth had become something more for him.
Each memory was somehow constrained as he wrote it down. The ink could not express the fear and pain and despair and that was right. It eased his mind to write each part of the years in Gaul and then put it aside for Adàn to copy out.
Mark Antony joined him at the house at the end of the first week. He set to work removing dustsheets from the furniture and making sure Julius ate at least one good meal a day. Julius tolerated the attention with reasonably good grace. Ciro and Octavian came to the house a few days later and the Romans set to work making it as clean as a legion galley. They cleaned out the clutter of papers in the main rooms and brought a bustle to the house that Julius found harder and harder to dislike. Though he had enjoyed the isolation at first, he was used to having his officers around him and only raised his eyes in mock indignation when Domitius turned up to take a room and the following night Regulus brought Brutus in over his shoulder. Lamps were lit all around the house and when Julius went down to the kitchens, he found three local women hard at work there making bread. Julius accepted their presence without a word.
The wine shipments from Gaul arrived by ship and were seized upon thirstily by the citizens. Mark Antony secured a private barrel and in a night where they managed to forget the barriers of rank, they drank themselves unconscious to finish it in one session, lying where they fell. In the morning, Julius laughed aloud for the first time in weeks as his friends staggered about and crashed, swearing, into the furniture.
With the passes closed, Gaul was as distant as the moon and ceased to trouble his dreams. Julius’ thoughts turned to Rome and he wrote letters to everyone he knew in the city. It was strange to think of those he had not seen for years. Servilia would be there and the new senate house must have been completed. Rome would have a fresh face to cover her scars.
In the mornings, with his study door closed to the rest, Julius wrote to his daughter at length, trying to make a bridge to a woman he did not know. He had given permission for her to marry in his absence two years before, but he had heard nothing since. Whether she read them or not, it was balm to his conscience to do it and Brutus had urged him to try.
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