CHAPTER 14
Julius could not remember ever having been so cold. Knowing he would make the crossing to Greece in winter, he had paid for his men to be outfitted in the best cloaks and woolen layers for their hands and feet. After marching through the night with only a few mouthfuls of rubbery meat to keep up his strength, his very thoughts seemed to flow more slowly, as if his mind was sluggish with ice.
The night had passed without catastrophe as his legions took a wide berth around Pompey’s camp. The gibbous moon had given them enough light to make good progress, and his veterans had stuck to the task doggedly, without a word of complaint.
He had met with Domitius’s legion ten miles west of Pompey’s camp and delayed two hours there while the cart animals were bullied and struck into movement. They too had been sheltered with blankets from the stores and they had eaten better than the men.
As dawn came he could only estimate how far north they had come. Pompey’s army would be preparing to march against an abandoned position and it could not be long before his absence was discovered. Then they would be hunted, by men who were rested and well fed. It would not take long for Pompey to guess his destination, and seven legions left a trail that could hardly be disguised. Their iron-shod sandals beat the earth into a wide road a child could find.
“I . . . I do not remember Greece being this cold,” Julius stammered to the muffled figure of Octavian at his side. The younger man’s features were hidden by so much cloth that only the plume of white breath proved he was somewhere within the mass.
“You said a legionary should rise above the discomforts of the body,” Octavian replied with a slight smile.
Julius glanced at him, amused that his relative appeared to remember every conversation they had ever had.
“Renius told me that a long time ago,” he confirmed. “He said he’d seen dying men march all day before they fell. He said the true strength was in how far we could ignore the flesh. I sometimes think the man was a Spartan at heart, except for the heavy drinking.” He looked back at the column of his legions as they marched in grim silence. “I hope we can outrun our pursuers.”
He saw Octavian’s head turn stiffly toward him and he met the eyes that were deep within the folds of the hood.
“The men understand,” Octavian said. “We will not let you down.”
Julius felt a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with the cold. “I know, lad. I do know,” he said gently.
The wind battered against them like the pressure of a warning hand as they pushed on. Julius could not speak for the pride he felt. He thought he hardly deserved the simple faith his men placed in his leadership. The responsibility was his alone to see them survive their time in Greece, and he knew what he had been given in their trust.
“Pompey will be in our camp by now,” Octavian said suddenly, looking at the sun as it fought clear of the eastern hills. “He’ll come fast when he sees where we’re going.”
“We’ll run them into the ground,” Julius said, not sure if he believed it.
He had planned and prepared as much as he could before leaving Rome, but the simple fact was that he needed to find food for his men. Caecilius had said Dyrrhachium held the main supply, and Julius would have to push his legions on through exhaustion to reach it. He had other reasons for going to the city, but without food, his campaign would come to a shuddering halt and everything they had fought for would be lost.
He feared the pursuit. Though his men had been well rested as they prepared the feint to the east, they could not march forever in such conditions. No matter what Renius had thought of the spirit of fighting men, the strength of their bodies could take them only so far. Julius glanced behind him out of primitive fear, knowing that if Pompey’s army was sighted, he would have to double the pace. His men would begin to fall without rest and Dyrrhachium was still far to the north.
Every stage of the campaign seemed to have skirted the edge of disaster, he thought privately. Perhaps after seizing the supplies in Dyrrhachium, he would have time to breathe without Pompey’s army nipping at his heels. The only cause for optimism was that his knowledge of Pompey seemed to be giving him an edge in the maneuvers. He had hoped Pompey would not attack while a full legion remained out of sight. Domitius had been ready to take Dyrrhachium alone if necessary, while Julius decoyed his enemy into the east, but Pompey had behaved exactly as he had hoped.
Julius told himself over and over that he had to be cautious, though he had never expected Pompey to abandon Rome. He could not shake the suspicion that the Dictator had lost his taste for war. If that was true, Julius knew he should do everything possible to keep Pompey afraid.
He looked at the sun and gave way to the inevitable.
“Call a halt here and let the men eat and sleep. We will rest for four hours before moving on.”
The horns sounded and Julius dismounted painfully, his hips and knees aching. All around him, the legionaries sat down where they were and took what little food they had from their packs. The dried meat was like stone and Julius looked dubiously at his ration as it was brought to him. It would need a lot of chewing before it approached being edible. Shivering like an old man, he forced a piece of it between his lips and took a swig from a waterskin to begin the softening. From a pouch in his cloak, he took a wad of dried watercress that was said to reverse baldness, pushing it into his cheek in a quick, furtive motion. Visions of soft bread and fruit in Dyrrhachium filled his thoughts as he worked his jaw.
Pompey was ten hours or less behind them and would make better time in the short winter day. Julius passed his reins to a soldier on first watch and lay down on the hard ground. He was asleep moments later.
Octavian smiled with affection as he saw the still, pale features. Careful not to wake him, he took an extra blanket from his saddle and draped it over his general.
Pompey put his hand into the ashes of a watch fire, frowning as he felt the warm hearth. His stomach had revolted at the thought of food and he had eaten nothing since noon the day before. He swallowed bitter acid and winced as it seared his throat.
“Are the trackers in?” he demanded, his voice harsh with anger and pain.
“They are, sir,” Labienus replied. “The path leads south and west before curving north toward Dyrrhachium.”
He stood stiffly in the wind, ignoring the discomfort of the cold while his thoughts raged within. The men would know very well that Pompey had lost sight of an army of twenty thousand men through his caution. It would not help morale, after coming close enough to see them the day before. They had woken from sleep with the nervous tension that was to be expected before a battle and now there was no enemy to be seen.
“I knew it,” Pompey snapped, furious. “As soon as I heard they had gone, I knew it. We should be able to cut that curve and gain an hour on them.” He clenched a fist and tapped it on his leg. “If it is Dyrrhachium they’re after, there must be spies in the camps,” he said, working his mouth.
Labienus stared at the horizon.
“How could they go round us without a single scout marking their movement, Labienus? Tell me that!” Pompey demanded.
Labienus knew as well as he that the proof that it could be done lay in the fact that it had been. By taking a wide route, Caesar had not come closer to Pompey’s camp than two miles and it had clearly been enough. Pompey did not seem to require an answer.
“It seems that I must follow,” he went on, angrily. “They have had the night to get ahead. Can we catch them?”
Labienus looked at the sun automatically, judging how many hours had been lost. His sour conclusion was that it would be near impossible, but he could not find it in himself to tell Pompey in that mood.
“At our best speed, eating on the march and without sleep, we should hit their rear before they are in the city,” he said. “Your new walls may slow them.” He paused to choose the right words that would not worry Pompey further. “Even if they reach the city, they will need time
to replenish their supplies. We can deny them that.”
Labienus was careful to keep any hint of criticism from his voice, though he was privately appalled at the turn of events. Dyrrhachium was a key port on the coast and still the main store for the army in the field. Caesar’s legions should not have been allowed to make a strike for it. He knew some of the responsibility lay on his shoulders, but it profited nothing to dwell on past mistakes. The new position was not yet lost.
Pompey glared around him. “Then let us leave this barren place. Everything but food and water must come behind us at the best speed they can manage. The Senate too: they won’t stand the pace we will set.”
As Labienus saluted, Pompey mounted, his movements stiff with anger. He did not need to say that his family and the families of the Senate were in Dyrrhachium. Once Julius had them as hostages, his position would be immeasurably stronger. Pompey shook his head to clear it of hatred and fear. His stomach seemed to have settled as he made the decision, and he hoped a dose of chalk and milk would keep it docile for the day. His legions began to move around him, but he could no longer take comfort from their numbers.
Julius calculated the distance they had come, wishing he had the map in front of him. They had marched for twelve hours and the men were dragging their feet in the dust. Though they bore it grimly, some of them were staggering along and Julius had finally given the order to close up and rest an arm on the shoulder in front. It made them resemble invalids or refugees rather than legions of Rome, but every mile was one farther from the enemy behind.
“It should be in sight by now, surely?” Octavian said at his side.
Julius stared at him in silence until his younger relative swallowed and looked away. Julius squinted into the distance, searching for the first sign of the city. The sea glimmered silver to the west and that gave him hope that they were close. His eyes felt painful with weariness and he might have closed them as he rode, if the weakness would not have been seen.
Julius remembered marching in the wake of Spartacus’s slave army years before, and it was strange to realize there was a huge advantage in being the hunter in such a chase. Something about being followed sapped the will to go on and Julius saw more and more of the heads turn to watch the land behind as they marched. He was on the point of snapping an order to keep their eyes to the front when he saw Domitius was there ahead of him, bellowing out commands as he rode up and down the ranks.
The ground they walked on was stained in places by dark splashes of urine. It was not an easy thing to do whilst marching, but the men were long inured to it. The ones at the back would be walking on damp ground all the way to Dyrrhachium. When they stopped to rest, there was no time to dig a latrine pit, and they had to use whatever foliage they could find to wipe themselves clean. Some of the men carried a cloth that they dampened with water, but the material became slick and foul after the first night and day. A long march was an unpleasant, stinking business for all of them and the cold ate at their strength far worse than a summer’s heat.
The day seemed to have lasted forever and although Julius had been irritated with Octavian’s comment, he too thought Dyrrhachium should have been in sight by then. The sun was already dropping toward the horizon and the order to snatch another four hours of precious rest would have to come soon.
A warning note sounded from the rear of the column and Julius turned in the saddle, craning to see. In the distance, something glinted amidst a low line of dust. He shook his head in desperation. Just at the moment when he would have called a halt, Pompey had appeared on the horizon. Julius did not know whether to rage at the fact that the gap had been closed, or be thankful his aching, exhausted men had not been told to stop at this most dangerous time. He looked at the stumbling, swaying lines of men and knew they would somehow have to go on.
Two of his far-flung extraordinarii came galloping back to his position and saluted as they turned their mounts.
“What news?” Julius asked, impatient at the slightest delay.
“The city is in sight, sir. Three miles ahead.”
Automatically, Julius looked at the sun and back at his column. It would be dark before they reached the walls, but the news would keep the men going, for all that.
“There is a wall before the city, sir, about two miles away. It looks manned.”
Julius swore aloud. Pompey had been busy. The thought of having to break through a defensive line while Pompey came racing up behind was almost too much to bear.
“I’ll ride forward with you,” he said quickly. “I must see this for myself.” As he took a tighter grip on the reins, he looked over his shoulder at Octavian. “Tell the men to resume the standard distance between ranks. I will not be shamed in front of the enemy. Increase the pace for the last miles.”
He saw Octavian hesitate, not daring to voice his dislike of such an order.
“They will not let me down, General. My Tenth will lead them in.”
In the gloom of the fading day, the army of Caesar sent tremors of fear into the hearts of every soldier who stood on the incompleted wall around Dyrrhachium. At the full height of twelve feet and with a few thousand men, they might have had a chance of stopping the Gaul legions, but more than one section was just a few beams across a gap. It would not be nearly enough.
The warning shouts of Pompey’s officers sent the Greek laborers harrying back to the protection of the city, tools littering the ground around them. Those grim soldiers who were left took positions as they were ordered, drawing swords and exchanging a few last words. They did not consider turning away, though the wind made them shiver as they waited.
“Hold until you are relieved,” the senior centurion bellowed, making his voice carry. It was taken up further down the line and the defenders raised their shields and readied themselves. They all knew there would be no relief force, but it was strange how the words brought a little hope.
Caesar’s legions came closer and closer, until faces could be seen despite the failing light. Both sides roared a challenge as the Gaul legions reached the last barrier to Dyrrhachium and forced their way through. The gaps in the wall vomited men and the defenders were cut down, their bodies tumbling. Julius’s Tenth stormed through with barely a check on their speed, loping on toward the unprotected city.
CHAPTER 15
Julius rode slowly through dark streets, struggling with exhaustion. A local man led the way with a gladius prodding his back, but it was still disconcerting to be so deep in a maze of streets that none of them had ever seen before.
Only the Tenth had been allowed into the inner city. The other six legions would see no more of it than the walls they manned. Julius was determined not to give them a loose rein in hostile territory. He still shuddered to remember a town in Gaul where he had lost control of his men. Whenever his heart was made to race by the thunder of a charge or the snap of flags in a stiff breeze, he would recall Avaricum and how the streets had looked with the coming of day. He would not allow such actions to be repeated under his command.
If any other man had led the Greek legions, Julius would have expected an assault in the night. Pompey’s officers knew the city well and there could even have been entrances Julius had not seen. It was enough of a threat to keep his own men out of trouble on the walls, but he did not think Pompey would risk the lives he valued in Dyrrhachium. The days of reckless youth were behind for both of them.
His guide mumbled something in Greek and pointed to a wide gate set into a wall. A single lamp hung from a brass chain to light the entrance and Julius had the whimsical thought that it had been set there to welcome him. He gestured and two men with hammers stepped forward to break the lock. In the silent street, the sound was like a ringing bell and Julius could feel eyes on him from all the local houses. Possibilities swirled in his head and he took a deep breath of the night air, thinking of the enemy outside the walls of Dyrrhachium.
To fight a war with subtlety and propaganda was dangerously intoxicating. Julius s
eized on every tiny detail of Pompey’s strengths and weaknesses, anything that might be used. He had sent men to undermine the Dictator in his own camp, knowing they could be killed. It was a vicious sort of war they had carried to Greece, but he had come too far and lost too much to lose it all.
His somber thoughts were interrupted as the gate fell with a clang on the stones of the street. The noise had woken the house and lamps were being lit inside, acting as a spark for the local inhabitants as they roused and sought light to banish terror.
As he had expected, the sound of marching feet came quickly behind the hammer blows and it was only moments before the space in the wall filled with grim soldiers. Julius did not speak at first, watching with professional interest as they locked their shields to prevent a sudden rush.
“You are late, gentlemen,” he said, dismounting. “I could have been inside by now if I hadn’t waited for you.”
Five hundred of his Tenth were stretched along the street and he could feel their tension in the biting air. A single word from him and they would cut the defenders down. He looked into the eyes of the centurion guarding the gate and was intrigued to find no sign of fear there. The officer did not bother to answer and merely returned his stare. Pompey had chosen well.
“I am a consul of Rome,” Julius said, taking a step forward. “Do not dare to block my way.”
The men in the gateway shifted uncomfortably, the words pulling at everything they had been taught from childhood. The centurion blinked and Julius saw him reach out to one of the defenders, settling him.
“My orders are from Pompey, Consul,” the centurion said. “This house is not to be touched.”
Julius frowned. It would not be a good beginning for his new policies if he butchered decent men doing their duty. With the restrictions he had imposed on himself, it was an impasse.
Conn Iggulden - Emperor 04 Page 17