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 forward. 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 Consul Pansa is badly injured and is being withdrawn to the rear.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 Paulinius 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.
‘I am told Consul Hirtius has been killed,’ he said. ‘Who commands now, that I may lay my complaint before him? Who allowed Mark Antony to escape to Gaul when he was in our grasp?’
Eyes turned to Octavian, who said nothing at first. He savoured the moment while Decimus Junius looked around from face to face, confused by the silence.
‘I believe my ranks of propraetor and praefectus entitle me to command,’ Octavian said at last. ‘Either way, I am Gaius Julius Caesar and this army is mine.’
He spoke as much for the benefit of the new legates as Decimus Junius, but the name was not lost on the man, who went pale and stammered as he tried to continue.
‘I … Propraetor Caesar …’ he began, struggling to find words. Decimus Junius took a deep breath and went on, though his eyes were sick with worry. ‘Two thousand of my legionaries are still held at the Castra Taurinorum, guarded by some of Mark Antony’s men. I seek your permission to free them and rebuild the fortresses. I was fortunate that the consul passed me by as he went for the pass, but my supplies are low. If I am to keep my position here, I must ask for food and materials …’ He trailed off under Octavian’s cold stare.
‘Your position, Decimus Junius?’ Octavian asked. ‘It is simple enough. You were one of those who murdered the Father of Rome. As his adopted son, it falls to me to demand justice.’
Decimus Junius paled further, his skin bright with sweat.
‘I … I was granted amnesty by the Senate of Rome, Propraetor,’ he said, his voice shaking.
‘An amnesty I revoke,’ Octavian said.
‘By what authority? The Senate …’
‘Are not here,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘I am the commander in the field and you will find my authority is absolute, at least so far as it relates to you. Guard! Place this man under arrest and hold him for trial. You may choose anyone you like to speak for you, Decimus Junius. I suggest you find someone of uncommon skill.’
The guard laid a hand on Decimus Junius’ shoulder, causing him to jerk.
‘You can’t do this!’ he shouted. ‘I was granted amnesty for bringing down a tyrant. Will you make yourself another? Where is the rule of law in this? I am immune!’
‘Not from me,’ Octavian said. ‘I will convene a court of senior officers for tomorrow morning. Take him away now.’
Decimus Junius slumped, his expression appalled as he was led away. Octavian faced the other men in the tent, focusing on the new legates in particular.
‘Will you criticise me for this?’ he asked them softly.
Justinius was the only one of the new men who met his gaze. The legate shook his head.
‘No, Caesar,’ he said.
The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when the trial began. Eight legions were encamped around a single laurel tree, so that the small space was at the centre of a vast host of men. The cold had deepened overnight, though the sky was clear and once again the wind whipped particles of frost against the exposed skin of the men as they waited for the judgement.
Decimus Junius had chosen to defend himself and he spoke for almost an hour while the legions waited and watched. In the end, he ground to a halt and Octavian stood up.
‘I have listened to your words, Decimus Junius. I find your arguments empty. There was no amnesty when you were one of Caesar’s murderers. That it was applied later is irrelevant. The Senate cannot order the sun to set after it has risen. In giving you some sense that you were absolved of your crime, they stepped beyond the bounds of their authority. As Caesar, I revoke that amnesty in the field and will do so formally when I am next in Rome. You are the first of the Liberatores to receive justice for your crimes. You will be one of many when you meet again across the river.’
Decimus Junius only stared at him, his eyes resigned. He had not doubted the result of the trial for a moment and he raised his head, refusing to show fear.
‘I pronounce you guilty of murder and blasphemy against the divine Julius,’ Octavian said. ‘The sentence is death. Hang him.’
Octavian watched without expression as two legionaries took hold of Decimus Junius, leading him over to the tree. They threw a rope over a branch and tied a loop around his neck while he stood, his chest heaving. Decimus Junius swore at them then, cursing them by all the gods. Octavian nodded to the legionaries, who joined together to pull the rope.
Decimus Junius’ voice was strangled into silence at the first jerk. One of his hands raised to touch the rope, the fingers scrabbling at the rough line tightening around his throat. As the soldiers continued to heave, he was raised to the tips of his toes and then, with a lurch, he left the ground. His legs kicked out and both hands were at his throat. On instinct, he gripped the rope above his head and pulled himself up. The soldiers exchanged a brief communication and
one of them braced himself to take the weight, while the other approached the kicking figure and knocked his arms away.
Decimus Junius jerked and sagged in spasms, his bladder emptying as he choked. It was not a quick death, but the legionaries waited patiently, only having to remove his hands once more before he was still, turning gently in the breeze. When it was over, they heaved on the legs until the neck snapped, then lowered the body down and took back the rope. One of the legionaries used his sword to hack the head from the corpse. It took three blows before it came free and the soldier held it up to the crowd as a prize. They cheered the sight of it, fascinated by the white upturned eyes as it was turned to show all those who crowded close.
Octavian let out a long breath, shuddering in release. He hoped the news would spread to the ears of more powerful men, such as Brutus and Cassius, or the ones who still scrambled in Rome as Suetonius did. They would hear, eventually, and they would consider what it meant for them. He had only begun to collect the debt they owed.
‘Legates, attend me,’ he ordered.
The eight men came to him, hushed and calm after what they had witnessed. They saw Octavian in spotless armour, his face unlined and youthful energy in every part of him.
‘The men have seen my purpose, my intentions,’ he said to them. ‘I would have their voices behind me before I move on. I recall that Caesar would sometimes summon a soldiers’ assembly when he was in the field, to take the feeling of the men. I will do that here, to know I have their support.’
His gaze fell on the legates who had come north with Hirtius and Pansa and they did not misunderstand. He had demonstrated his authority and they knew better than to refuse.
‘Summon all officers, down to tesserarius. I will speak to them and ask what they would have me do.’
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 196