Titinius clapped Matius on the shoulder, taking heart from the mixed report.
‘I’ll take the news to the old man. This part of town has been quiet so far. I haven’t seen anyone else before you.’ After the mounting fear as he’d ridden in, Titinius was sweating heavily and he wiped his face. ‘I really thought I was done when I saw you,’ he said.
‘I can see,’ Matius replied with a grin. ‘I think you owe me a few drinks tonight.’
On the roof, the setting sun was casting the houses all around in dark gold and orange. The servant Pindarus called out everything he could see as Titinius reached the horsemen.
‘He’s pulled up, sir,’ he said, straining his eyes. ‘Gods, he’s … off his horse. They have surrounded him. I’m sorry, sir.’
Cassius closed his eyes for a moment, letting the tension bleed out of him.
‘Come with me then, Pindarus. I have a last task for you before you find a place of safety. I won’t hold you here now.’
‘I’ll stay, sir, with you. I don’t mind.’
Cassius paused at the head of the steps, touched by the offer. He shook his head.
‘Thank you, lad, but it won’t be necessary. Come on.’
They went down together and the gloom suited Cassius’ mood. He had always loved the grey light before darkness, especially in summer, when it stretched for ever and the night eased through the last of the day.
In the main room below, Cassius crossed to where a gladius lay on a table. The sheath was a work of art in stiff leather and a gold crest. He drew the sword, placing the sheath back down as he tested the edge with his thumb.
Pindarus looked at his master in growing dismay as Cassius turned to face him. The older man saw the pain in his servant’s eyes and he smiled wearily.
‘If they come for me, they’ll make my death a performance, Pindarus. Do you understand? I have no wish to be impaled, or ripped apart for their entertainment. Don’t worry, I am not afraid of what comes next. Just make it clean.’
He gave the sword hilt first to Pindarus. The young man took it with a shaking hand.
‘Sir, I don’t want to do this …’
‘You’d rather see me paraded for the common soldiers? Humiliated? Don’t worry, lad. I’m at peace. I lived well and I brought down a Caesar. That is enough, I think. The rest is just … the screeching of children.’
‘Please, sir …’
‘I gave my life for the Republic, Pindarus. Tell them that, if they ask. There’s a pouch of coins with my cloak. When it’s done, take it and run as far as you can.’
He stood straight before the young man with a sword. Both of them looked up as they heard hoof-beats growing closer.
‘Do it now,’ Cassius ordered. ‘They mustn’t take me.’
‘Would you turn away, sir? I can’t …’ Pindarus said, his voice breaking. He was breathing hard as Cassius nodded, smiling again.
‘Of course. Quickly, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me wait.’
He faced a window into the twilit town and he took a long slow breath, smelling the scent of wild lavender on the air. He raised his head to it, closing his eyes. The first blow knocked him to his knees and a groaning sound came from his torn throat. Pindarus sobbed and swung again, cutting the head free.
Titinius was cheerful as he threw a leg over his horse and dismounted. He hadn’t been able to see anyone on the roof as he rode back with Matius and the extraordinarii.
‘Come in with me,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He’ll want to hear everything you’ve seen.’
He strode in through the door and stopped on the threshold, frozen. Matius paused behind him.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Titinius shook his head, his mouth open. He could see the thin body of the commander lying in a pool of blood, its head off to one side.
‘Pindarus! Where are you?’ Titinius shouted suddenly, striding in.
There was no reply and he paled further as he stood over the body, trying to understand what had happened. Could the servant have been a traitor? Nothing made sense! He heard Matius gasp as he stared in from the doorway. Titinius looked back at him in sudden understanding.
‘He believed you were the enemy,’ he said. Titinius gathered his thoughts before they could spool away into uselessness. ‘I’ll look after things here. You need to find Marcus Brutus now. Tell him what happened.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Matius began.
Titinius flushed. ‘The old man thought he was captured, Matius. He had his servant take his life rather than fall into the hands of Mark Antony and Caesar. Just get through to Brutus. He has sole command now. There is no one else.’
In the darkness, Octavian woke and stirred. He could not understand why his legs were so bitterly cold or why the air stank and things rustled around his head whenever he moved. He lay still for a time, staring up at a clear sky and a billion stars shining across the dark. He remembered stopping on the march and the dreadful taste of metal filling his mouth, but after that there was only confusion. Moments came to him, of being carried, of men cheering he knew not what, of the sounds of clashing iron coming closer and panic all around him.
He struggled to sit up, his legs skidding in the sludge that had settled around them as he lay there. To his shock, he felt an arm reach out to steady him, then jerk back as Agrippa found him moving, rather than just slipping from his seat into the marsh.
‘Octavian?’ Agrippa hissed.
‘Caesar,’ Octavian murmured. His head hurt and he could not understand where he was. ‘Do I have to tell you again?’
‘Maecenas? Wake up.’
‘I’m not asleep!’ came Maecenas’ voice from nearby. ‘You were asleep? How could you sleep in this place? It’s impossible!’
‘I was dozing, not fully asleep,’ Agrippa replied. ‘Keep your voice down. We don’t know who’s out here with us.’
‘How long was I sick?’ Octavian said, trying to sit up. ‘And where am I, exactly?’
‘You’ve been unconscious for days, Caesar,’ Agrippa replied. ‘You’re at Philippi, but it isn’t going well.’
He passed over a canteen to Octavian, who removed the top and sucked gratefully at the warm water within.
‘Tell me everything,’ Octavian replied. He felt as if his body had been battered all over. Every joint ached and tendrils of pain spread out from his stomach to his limbs, but he was awake and the fever had broken.
CHAPTER THIRTY
In the night Brutus had found sleep for a few brief moments before a unit of extraordinarii reached him with news that Cassius had taken his own life. His first response had been anger at the old man’s loss of faith, in their cause and in him. It was not over. They had not lost.
In the cool darkness, he’d drunk water and chewed on a piece of dried meat, while the cavalry officer watched him in the dim light of an oil lamp. Finally, Brutus made his decision.
‘Send your men out to every legion under Cassius. My orders are to form up on the plain below.’
The man went running for his horse, disappearing into the night as he passed on the order and his men scattered.
Brutus stood at the bottom of the ridge. He knew he could not command two separate armies of that size, not without Cassius. Orders took too long on different fronts, arriving after the situation had changed and causing chaos. His only choice was to bring them together into one host, or see them cut apart separately.
Under the stars, vast forces marched past each other on the ridge and around the marshes. They moved in deliberate silence, not knowing whether they passed friends or foes in the dark and with no particular desire to find out. It was true Brutus left Mark Antony in control of Philippi, but he thought the man would gain no benefit from the walled town. Mark Antony and Octavian had come to Greece to attack, not to remain behind defences. With Cassius already dead, Brutus knew they would want to complete the victory and take revenge for their losses the day before. He smiled grimly at the thought. Let
them come. He had waited his whole life.
As the sun rose, his legions drew up on the great plain at the foot of Philippi. Brutus spoke to each of the legates, one by one or in groups as they came to him. He was ready to fight again, legion against legion, pitting his ability to lead against the talents of Mark Antony and Caesar.
When there was light enough to see, Brutus rode along his ranks, judging the numbers left to him. His army had lost thousands, but they had taken the main camp of Mark Antony and Caesar and driven their legions back with many more dead. Bodies still littered the great ridge, glittering like dead wasps in the dawn.
In Philippi, Mark Antony had seen the vast array on the plain and begun to march his legions down. Brutus could see them coming, accepting the challenge. Mark Antony had always been arrogant, he recalled. He doubted the man had much choice, even so. His legates would pressure him even if he tried to hold back.
Brutus had seen the vast, deserted camp on the plain. Everything valuable had already been taken, though Brutus was sorry none of his men had reported the death of Caesar. It would have been somehow fitting if Octavian and Cassius had both fallen on the same day, leaving the two old lions of Rome to fight it out. Brutus could still hardly believe he was in sole command, but the thought did not displease him. He was at the head of a Roman army. There was no Gnaeus Pompey, no Julius Caesar there to gainsay his orders. This battle would be his alone. Brutus exulted in the rightness of it. For this, he had killed Caesar in Pompey’s theatre. He was out of the shadow of others at last.
He looked up as a great cheer went up from Octavian’s legions, less than a mile from his ranks. He could see a distant figure riding up and down the lines there. Brutus gripped his sword hilt tightly, understanding it had to be Octavian, that the young man had survived to fight again. He told himself it didn’t matter to him. Seeing the pretender fall would only add to the sweetness of the day to come. It was a strange thought to know he had only two enemies left in the world and they would both face him that day across the plain of Philippi. Mark Antony would be confident, he thought. His men had done well, though Cassius had denied them the chance to capture him. Brutus gave silent thanks for the old man’s courage. At least the day would not begin with the spectacle of a public execution.
Octavian had yet to prove himself. His legions had run the day before and they would be seething with that humiliation, determined to restore their honour. Brutus smiled coldly at the thought. His men fought for liberty. It would do just as well.
Octavian was sweating, his body wet with it, though he had ridden barely a mile up and down the lines. He knew he had to let the men see him, to remind them they fought for Caesar, but he felt as if only his armour held him up, his body as weak as a child’s.
He saw a messenger galloping across his ranks with dash, a young man delighting in his own speed. When the rider reined in, he was panting and flushed.
‘Discens Artorius reporting, Consul.’
‘Tell me Mark Antony hasn’t found something else to delay him,’ Octavian replied.
The extraordinarii rider blinked and shook his head. ‘No, sir. He sent me to let you know Senator Cassius is dead. They found his body last night, up in the town.’
Octavian looked over his shoulder at the legions opposing him. There was no sign of Cassius’ banners in the cluster around the command position. He wiped sweat from his eyes.
‘Thank you. That is … most welcome.’
Those around him had overheard the rider and the news spread quickly. A ripple of thin cheering followed, though in the main the men were indifferent. They hardly knew Cassius beyond his name. Yet Brutus still lived and his legions were the ones who had forced the rout the day before. His legions were the ones they wanted to break. Octavian could see the determination in every face as he looked down the ranks. They surely knew the fighting would be hard, but they were more than ready for it to begin.
The two Roman armies faced each other over a mile while the remaining legions came down from Philippi. As Mark Antony was coming in from the east, Octavian had to give him the right wing. He knew the man would expect it and he could hardly make him march through his ranks to take position on the left. Octavian sat and sipped from a canteen, feeling the breeze dry the sweat on his face. Mark Antony seemed to be taking his time, as if he sensed the armies would stand all day until he arrived.
While he waited, Octavian half expected a sudden attack from the legions under Brutus. His men were certainly tense, waiting for it, but it seemed Brutus preferred not to leave a flank open to fresh legions coming off the ridge halfway through the battle.
The morning wore on, the sun moving slowly up to noon. Octavian tossed the empty canteen back to Agrippa and accepted another as the right wing formed piece by piece and the military powers of Rome faced each other on a foreign field. It would be brutal when it began, Octavian realised. No matter what the outcome, Rome would lose much of her strength for years to come. A generation would be cut down on the plains of Philippi.
On both sides, the extraordinarii gathered on the furthest point of the wings. Their peacetime roles as message-carriers and scouts were only to keep them occupied when they were not fighting. Octavian watched as the cloaked cavalrymen drew long swords and shields for their true purpose, their horses milling and snorting as the animals felt the growing excitement in their riders. He looked to his right, where Mark Antony had taken position at last in the third rank. The town and ridge were empty of men. They were ready.
Octavian trotted his mount back to his own position behind the first and second fighting lines. The sun crept over the noon point as both sides prepared, emptying bladders where they stood and sipping at waterskins or canteens they would try to ration through the day’s heat. Against so many, a battle could not be over quickly and they had to prepare to fight all day. In the end, it would come down to stamina and will.
Octavian checked his lines of command to his legates one last time, asking for confirmation that they were ready. Seven of them still lived, with Silva’s body somewhere among the carrion meat from the previous day. He did not know the man who had replaced him, but he knew the others. He knew their strengths and weaknesses; the ones who were rash and the ones who were cautious. Brutus would have no such personal knowledge of the legions he commanded, especially not those he had gained from Cassius. It was an edge and Octavian intended to use it.
The responses came back quickly and Octavian made what plans he could beyond the first clash. The left wing was his to command.
The men were looking to him, waiting for the order. Agrippa and Maecenas were there at his side, steady and solemn. They had saved his life when he was senseless with fever. It seemed another lifetime somehow and he felt the cares and trials of months fall away as he sat his horse and stared across the plain. His body was weak, but it was just a tool. He was still strong where it mattered.
Octavian took a deep breath and a mile away the legions of Brutus began to move. He raised and dropped his hand and his own ranks began to march, the release of tension palpable as they strode towards the enemy. On his right, Mark Antony gave the same order. Out on the wings of both armies, extraordinarii dug in their heels, holding back their mounts as they eased forward, forming slight horns past the marching legionaries. Cornicens blew long notes across the lines, sounding the advance.
The two armies walked over dry ground, raising great clouds behind the front ranks as the gap between them shrank down to a thread that was suddenly made black with thousands of spears in the air. Arrows came from the Parthian horsemen, cutting holes in the extraordinarii. The thread wavered as both sides soaked up dead and wounded men, stepping over and around them and breaking into a run. They crashed into each other with a noise like thunder on the plain.
Brutus felt a deadly calm settle on him, a coldness at the centre of his chest as the armies came together. He was not a young man to be carried away on a tide of excitement and fear, and he gave orders with cool detachm
ent. He frowned slightly to himself as he saw how long it took for them to be carried out, but he had not given complete freedom to his legates. This was his battle, though he began to learn how hard it is to command the best part of ninety thousand in the field. It was a larger army than Pompey had ever commanded, or Sulla, or Marius, or Caesar.
He saw his Parthian archers do well on the right wing, surging forward almost a mile away from his position in the centre. He sent a command across the marching lines for them to go wide and empty their quivers into the enemy extraordinarii from a safe distance before closing with swords. It was the right order, but by the time it reached them, they had already pulled back and the moment was lost.
At first, his legions pushed against both wings of the enemy and he felt a glittering pleasure as his men cut their way through thousands of Mark Antony’s men. The shade of Cassius would be watching and he wanted the old man to see.
It didn’t last long. Where his lines grew weak, the enemy legions advanced before he could shore them up with reinforcements. When his men won a temporary advantage and cut into the forces with Octavian, they found fast-moving legions thickening the ranks against them and brief chances vanished like frost in the sun. Having two commanders halved the time it took for them to control their chains of command and though the difference was subtle, it began to tell more and more as the afternoon crept past in blood and pain.
Brutus felt it happening. He could see the battlefield in his head as if from above, a trick of perspective he had learned from his tutors years before. When he saw the unwieldy lines of command were hampering his legions, he grew afraid. He sent fresh orders to cast his legates loose from overall control for a time, in the hope that they would respond faster on their own. It made no difference. One of Cassius’ Syrian legates staged a wild attack, forming an immense wedge formation that cut past Octavian’s front rank. Ten thousand men shifted right in saw orders against them, bolstering the lines and slaughtering the Syrian legionaries on two sides. None of his legates had moved fast enough to support the attack and the numbers of dead were terrible. The wedge fell apart inside Octavian’s ranks, engulfed in a flood.
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