No formal response came from the fortress, not that he had really expected one. Mark Antony waited as the pale sun moved behind clouds in the sky. By then the chill had numbed him so deeply that he could not feel his hands or feet.
‘Enough of this,’ he said to a cornicen, his teeth chattering. ‘Blow two short notes.’
The sound rang out and the response came quickly. Small rocks launched from torsion weapons, driven by twisted ropes of horsehair three times the thickness of a man’s leg. Mark Antony could hear the teams roar as they beat the larger catapult to the first shot, but when it launched, the echoing thump of the beam silenced them. Twenty thousand men watched the huge stone fly on a shallow arc, soaring towards the fortress gates. With no resistance from within, they had been able to take their time placing the weapons. All the shots flew true, hitting the central gate one after the other. There was an explosion of splinters and dust and Mark Antony knew from the cheering that a gap had appeared in the defences. He squinted through the biting wind, his vision far better over distance than it was reading messages. The torsion weapons were wound once again by the teams, the only ones warm that morning on the plain. The catapult too began to come up, drawn peg by peg against the massive strength of the beam itself and great iron spars that bent like a bow. Mark Antony gripped his cloak tighter around his throat, twitching the folds of red cloth with his free hand so it covered his thighs and part of the horse’s flank. The animal snorted at the contact and he patted it, waiting.
He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye even as the heavy machines punched rocks into the air once more. His men shouted in excitement, but his own pleasure turned to bitter worry as he saw one of his riders come galloping across the white plain. Mark Antony had them out in two rings, ten and twenty miles from his position. He was not surprised to see the man panting after such a ride.
‘Legions sighted, Consul,’ the rider said.
‘You know how to report!’ Mark Antony snapped.
The young rider looked stricken, but he collected himself quickly.
‘Discens Petronius reporting, Consul!’
‘Report,’ Mark Antony went on, glowering at him.
‘Legions sighted, Consul, marching north. A large force, with auxiliaries and extraordinarii.’
Mark Antony tapped his fingers on the saddle horn, considering his choices.
‘Very well, Discens Petronius,’ he said. ‘Return to your position.’
He watched the young man ride away, his mind whirling like the frost the wind kept flinging against his skin. It could only be Octavian. All the plans Mark Antony had made were collapsing into dust. He could not hold the north for a single winter, not against a force at least equal to his own. That was if his men would fight at all, once they learned who they faced.
He paused for a moment, reflecting. His hand came up and patted his chest, where a crumpled letter lay in a pocket. He’d read it many times, in disbelief and dread. With a muttered curse, he realised his choices had narrowed to just one. No matter what else happened, he had to open the pass to Gaul. He looked up, his eyes as cold as the mountains as he stared at the fortress in his way.
Mark Antony raised his arm and dropped it, the signal for which his legions had been waiting. They surged forward, heading to the broken gates past catapult teams who lounged on their weapons, their work done.
As they poured in, he heard the first clashes and screams echoing back from the hills above. He looked to his left, though the wind made him narrow his eyes to slits. Somewhere out there, a young Roman held Mark Antony’s future in his hands. He looked across the fort, to where the pass wandered up through the mountains before disappearing into the whiteness above.
‘Mars protect me,’ he murmured. Every instinct told him that fleeing would see him destroyed. Gnaeus Pompey had run the length of the world, but Caesar still caught him. Mark Antony knew he could send the auxiliaries and camp followers through the pass and win them time to get clear. At least his wife and children would be safe for a while longer.
‘Julius protect me,’ he whispered into the wind. ‘If you can see me now, old friend, I could use a little help.’
Octavian seethed as he rode, matching the pace of the legions. With so many men around him, he could not speak to Agrippa or Maecenas, but simply had to carry out the orders he had been given. Hirtius had placed him on the left wing, in the first of two lines of four legions. Legates Silva and Liburnius rode with him, the fairest choice he could make, while Buccio and Paulinius held station in the second line. Yet the formation ignored their superior numbers. The consuls had made the sort of Roman hammer that had failed so spectacularly against Hannibal three hundred years before. Octavian looked right to where the consuls rode in splendid cloaks and armour in the third rank. He could see them as distant spots of white and red, their lictors mounted to keep up with them. It was also the sort of deep formation that showed little trust in the men they commanded, which would hardly be lost on veteran legions. Those in the front ranks would feel their colleagues breathing down their necks the whole way, with everything that implied.
Octavian made a tunnel with his hands to focus his vision far away, an old scout trick. Through the moving circle he could see the mountains and Mark Antony’s legions like busy ants at their foot. They were forming lines as well, though less deep, so they could command a wider stretch of ground. Octavian glanced at the cornicen, but he could not give orders. Hirtius and Pansa were in command and the consuls had made themselves very clear. Octavian’s formal rank of praefectus was just an empty honour, at least for that battle. Octavian clenched his teeth until they ached.
The legions tramped on and as the sun reached the noon point, they were less than a mile from the ranks waiting for them. Octavian could see the remains of a fort across the pass, reduced to broken beams and rubble by thousands of willing hands. He had studied the maps Hirtius and Pansa carried and he knew the pass led through to southern Gaul, where the summer was still warm. When he was close enough to make out individual figures, he spotted a trail of carts winding into the mountains, away from the plain. Once more, he looked right to where Hirtius and Pansa sat in their ornate armour. It was possible they wanted Mark Antony to keep an escape route open, but if so, they had not shared it with their subordinates.
For the first time in his life, Octavian understood the terrifying reality of facing standing legions on a flat plain. Mark Antony had been given time to assemble his scorpion bows, weapons the size of carts that could send an iron bolt right through half a dozen legionaries. Octavian had made his plans, but they took him only so far. A single spear-thrust could put an end to all his hopes.
The temperature of the air had dropped in the wind coming off the hills and he shivered as he rode with his rank. All around him, legionaries were readying the heavy spears that would land the first blow. They would not draw swords until the first three waves had been heaved into the air, but unstrapping the wooden shafts with their iron tips brought that moment closer. The pace increased unconsciously and the centurions had to bellow to hold them steady. They strained forward as they marched and still Octavian could give no orders. He leaned in his saddle, wanting the clash to come rather than suffer any longer through a tension that built with every step.
Maecenas unsheathed a spatha sword on his left, longer than the usual gladius so he could cut down from the height of a horse. The Roman noble wore a breastplate that was perfectly smooth and polished to a high gleam. When Agrippa had mocked him for the way it caught the sun, Maecenas had only smiled. The gorgeous filigree and decoration favoured by senior officers made it easier for a sword tip to snag and then punch through. Agrippa had found himself a set of lorica armour, so that he clanked as he rode. They stayed close to Octavian and both men understood their role in the fighting to come. They knew Hirtius had hamstrung him, forcing him to accept the man’s consular authority. They would protect him, above all else.
Octavian looked for Mark Antony i
n the lines across the plain but could not see him. The man would be back in the third rank on his right wing, just as Hirtius and Pansa had chosen. It meant Octavian would be riding straight at his position. He did not yet know what he would do if he saw Mark Antony hard-pressed. Plans and stratagems swirled in his mind, but too much depended on the actions of others and Mark Antony in particular. The man had to trust him.
Octavian clenched his fists on the hilt of his own spatha sword, taking comfort from the weight and swinging it lightly through the air to warm his shoulder. He felt strong as he tied the reins to the high saddle pommel and drew up a long shield from where it bumped along behind his leg. From four hundred and forty paces, he would guide his horse with his knees alone.
At three hundred paces or less, the legions with Mark Antony remained still. By then, both sides could read the symbols held high by signifers next to the Roman eagles. Octavian wondered how they would react to the sight of the Fourth Ferrata coming at them, men they had known well in Brundisium. How many of them would realise they were facing Caesar in battle? With legions bearing down on them, Mark Antony’s men had no choice but to fight. On his own, he might have halted and let them see, perhaps even sent a messenger across to demand their surrender.
Octavian looked right to see if the consuls were reacting in any way, but no new orders came down the line. He bit his lip, feeling his bladder grow tight. Mark Antony did not want his men to rush ahead of the opening to the pass. He had positioned them with a clear line of retreat. That was useful information and if Octavian had been free, he knew he would have detached a thousand to threaten a block across the pass, forcing Mark Antony to respond. Yet the consuls only came on, closing the gap step by step.
At a hundred paces, horns sounded on both sides and the scorpion bows lurched on their stands, their bolts snapping out too fast for the eye to see. They ripped into the lines of legionaries, punching down files of men who never knew what had killed them. The only response was to move in fast before the teams could reload. Octavian kicked his horse into a trot to match the sudden lurch in pace. As well as Maecenas and Agrippa, a diamond formation of heavily armoured men jogged with him, their task to protect the senior officer at the heart. His horse would mark him as a target from the first moments, but like the legates and tribunes of the eight legions, he needed the height to see. The legionaries in the ranks jogged smoothly, holding heavy spears low and ready for the first cast along a line that stretched for more than a mile.
When it came, Octavian had to struggle not to flinch. On both sides, thousands of men let out an explosive grunt as they heaved the spears up and immediately passed another from left hand to right. There were few among them who could guide the path, but they counted on speed and force over accuracy to smash an opponent’s charge even as it began. Some fell on the scorpion teams, spearing them and then plunging into the ground so that the helpless, screaming men were held upright as they died.
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 reach
ed 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.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 195