Rufus nodded absently, saying only “Yes, let’s wait…”
He was apathetic – a broken man, even though in his mind he continued to blame others for the defeat. Ortwin felt compelled to press him. If Rufus did not intend to make decisions, he at least was ready to keep the objectives of the sect in sight. “Tribune, Cassius Longinus has fled. You know what I did with Decimus Brutus,” he reminded him. “I am ready to do the same to him, before he can join Brutus…”
Rufus looked at him blankly and without speaking, so he went on. “I mean, if you think it right, I can take my Germans and some other soldiers and look for him in the mountains. We must not allow him to survive, don’t you think?”
The tribune did not answer. He was too depressed to take responsibility upon himself, so Ortwin decided that – in the absence of the supreme leader, with the army in disarray, the fate of the other ministers of the sect uncertain, and Antony triumphant – no one would blame him for taking the initiative.
He gathered his few Germans and Veleda, and headed to the mountains.
*
“Tell me where I can find Cassius Longinus or we will kill you all, one by one,” said Ortwin, positioning his horse between the small group of escaping enemy soldiers and the top of the hill.
The legionaries moved into combat formation, crouching behind their shields with their swords held out before them. No one answered. Veleda joined Ortwin and the other Germans moved to their sides, blocking any possible escape route for their opponents.
“Do not let yourselves be massacred,” said Ortwin. “There are more of us than there are of you, and there is a reward for the one who tells me where your commander is.” One of the soldiers spat towards the German. “Get lost or fight, you barbarian bastard!” he shouted, and the others followed suit. Ortwin spurred his horse toward the man who had insulted him, forcing the other soldiers to move out of the way, and his target was knocked down and fell under his horse’s hooves, just before the German’s spear went through his ribs, pinning him to the ground. Ortwin reined in his horse and drew his sword from its scabbard, while the legionaries around him stood there cautiously, not daring to attack for fear that the other horsemen would go for them. But the Germans were not moving: their leader had expressly ordered them to avoid aggression to encourage the legionaries to talk. “Anyone else want to go the same way? Is it worth it, for a man who killed your commander, and who you only served because he paid you well?” continued Ortwin. “If you speak, not only will you survive, not only will you return to fighting for Caesar’s son, but you will be rewarded even better than you were by Cassius.”
“That’s shit! You’re going to kill us all!” cried another legionary, hurling himself toward the German. Veleda could stay immobile no longer. She spurred her horse and threw herself between her man and the soldier, blocking his sword with her own. The two blades collided, throwing off sparks, and the clang rang out among the sparse trees of the gentle slope. She hoped that Ortwin would not come to her assistance, and in fact her companion, knowing how proud she was, remained where he was: Veleda knew his every muscle was taut and ready to intervene in the case of her needing help, but for the moment he was letting her deal with it.
The soldier, annoyed by her intrusion, started swinging at her, and she parried his blows with her shield. Two more legionaries started to move forward, but the spears of as many warriors dissuaded them from approaching further: they all knew that Veleda liked proving that she was just as skilled in combat as her comrades.
She had the advantage over her opponent of being on horseback, but could not exploit this to its full for she had no spear. The legionary slashed at the animal’s hocks, but Veleda spurred her horse forward so that he missed, then she turned round, now with the soldier on her right side – the one where she held her sword – and unleashed a torrent of swings at his head. It was all the man could do to defend himself, raising his shield over his helmet without being able to approach the animal’s flank, and when he did manage, a kick from Veleda sent him stumbling backwards. The man threw himself to the ground and rolled under the horse’s legs, almost being crushed. She resolved to throw herself on him before she lost her horse. She jumped down from the saddle and threw herself onto his back, and immediately had her blade to his throat which she slit with a horizontal gesture. She stood up, panting…
And found herself surrounded by enemy soldiers.
Without her horse.
Before she had time to assume the defensive position, Ortwin appeared between her and the Romans and mowed down the nearest one with a single blow. For a moment the others stood there, hesitating, then, seemingly having given up hope, they screamed wildly and threw themselves on the nearest German. By now they had no way out: the Romans were outnumbered, their opponents were on horseback and most of Ortwin’s men still had their spears. Veleda saw the legionaries fall one after another, pierced by a spear or trampled under hooves.
One stepped back to avoid one opponent’s blade, only to end up being stabbed from behind by that of another. A second leapt backwards, dodging a couple of spear jabs but accidentally making himself into an easy target for Veleda. She didn’t want to kill him from behind, though, so she grabbed his arm and turned him round with a jerk, ready to stick her sword in his stomach, but as soon as he saw that he was done for, he shouted, “No! Please spare me! I’ll tell you what I know!”
Veleda paused, but remained cautious. The soldier threw down his sword and then his shield, and soon had several spears pointing at his back and Ortwin’s sword resting against the nape of his neck. The woman looked at him: he was young, probably one of the many new recruits in the army of Caesar’s killers, and he did not want to die. He had held out until then so as not to look like a weakling to his more experienced comrades, but there was no longer anyone left to keep up a bold front for. They were surrounded by a pile of corpses.
“So?” said Veleda finally, anticipating Ortwin’s words. “Where is Cassius Longinus holed up? Speak, if you want to live!”
“I… I saw him not long ago. He was ahead of us… higher up on this plain, together with his henchman and his attendant. That’s all I know,” the boy murmured, in a trembling voice.
“Henchman? What henchman?” asked Veleda. That definition was well suited to a name which she both feared and longed to hear.
“You know, that Labienus – the one who follows him around like a puppy…” said the soldier.
Veleda winced, then looked over at Ortwin and saw his one eye narrow and his face transform into a grimace of hate. “Come on, up the hill, follow me!” cried the German immediately, urging on his horse, but she had another idea and grabbed his reins, stopping him from setting off. It wasn’t easy: Ortwin seemed possessed, and glared at her with hatred. But the woman did not appear intimidated – Quintus had always shown a remarkable ability, ever since she had first met him, to get himself out of any situation and to take advantage of their emotions. They must not risk letting him escape this time too.
“Do not underestimate Labienus. We have already done that too many times,” she said, stroking his leg in an attempt to calm him. “If he sees a group of Germans chasing him, he will surely find a way to evade capture.”
Ortwin took a deep breath, closed his eye and snapped impatiently, “So, what do you propose?” He was making a great effort to accommodate her.
“I propose stripping the corpses of the soldiers and putting on their armour. The shields will attest we are in one of Cassius’s legions and the Romans will let us get closer. Then we can do what we want with them.”
Ortwin looked at her. “And what do you want to do with them?” he asked, once again putting her feelings to the test.
But she had no doubt. Whatever the cord was which bound her to Quintus, it was time to cut it. Forever. “We will treat him like any of Caesar’s murderers. For him there is only death,” she replied, in a tone which she hoped Ortwin would find sufficiently determined.
Her man seemed to relax. “So be it. Quick, take their equipment,” he said to his men, nodding at the corpses around them, then he turned to the surviving soldier. “You’re coming with us. If you behave yourself, you will enter one of the legions of Caesar Octavian.”
They worked fast, and in no time at all, the group of barbarians had become a squadron of Roman cavalry, though equipped as heavy infantry, and had begun to climb the slope, where the trees grew more densely. The prisoner was riding alongside Ortwin, seated behind one of his men, and pointing out the direction in which he had seen Cassius and Labienus fleeing. Veleda realised she no longer cared about finding Cassius – or at least, cared less about it than she did about capturing her ex-lover, and she was certain that Ortwin felt the same way. At that moment, her desire for personal revenge was stronger than her commitment to the sect.
Dense woodland alternated with clearings, while below them, the victory songs and cries of joy from the armies of Brutus and Antony on the plain below could be heard over the sound of hooves on soft grass. Behind the group of Germans dressed as Romans, a pall of smoke rose from the camps, slowly climbing the slope behind them.
Finally, Veleda heard movement in front of them, and saw that Ortwin had too: her man froze like a statue. She feared he would set off at a gallop and ruin everything, and was moving towards him when she noticed a man approaching. Ortwin stopped. She saw that behind the soldier, who was quite a way off and amongst the trees, she could see another two. The man approaching had a conciliatory demeanour: he must be Cassius’s steward. It was clear that he thought they were friends. He called out a greeting, to which they responded cautiously.
Veleda saw that behind him there was a small gully, which they would have to go round to reach the two fugitives. As they drew closer to the steward, she was able to make out the features of the other two. Both were without their helmets, and although she wasn’t sure that she recognised Cassius, she had no difficulty in identifying the other.
Quintus Labienus was only a few steps away from her. She looked at Ortwin. He, too, knew with whom he was dealing.
And that small gully represented an unforeseen difficulty.
“Friends, come around and join us!” cried the attendant. “Our enemies will never find us here and we can join Brutus.” It occurred to Veleda that, just as they had recognized Labienus, he might recognize them, in spite of their disguises, and she tried to move further back in the line, but then she distinctly heard her former lover’s voice. “Careful, those are Octavian’s Germans! I know them well, that one-eyed one and the woman without a hand!”
The aide appeared disorientated, and Ortwin urged his horse forward and ran him down, before cantering to the edge of the gully. He paused there for a moment considering whether to risk breaking his horse’s legs by riding through it, and in the meantime Veleda saw Labienus push Cassius Longinus down into it. The man rolled down the slope, and Quintus, with the mocking laugh which Veleda knew all too well, jumped into the saddle of a horse tethered nearby and raced away, disappearing between the trees. Ortwin froze, trying to follow with his one eye both Labienus and Cassius, who was now at the bottom of the small gorge. Cassius got up awkwardly, eyeing the Germans and looking for an escape route.
Ortwin gave a gesture of annoyance. He ordered his men to split into two groups and go round the gully – whether to surround Caesar’s murderer or to Labienus, Veleda could not say, nor did she find the courage to ask. But just then, Cassius cried out, “I acted as a free man and I will die as a free man!” He grabbed the handle of his sword with both hands, placed the point against his stomach and pushed, collapsing to his knees. Veleda and Ortwin watched him sink face down onto the earth while his sword, held firm by the contact with the ground, emerged almost in its entirety from his back.
The Germans looked dismayed, and Veleda was sure that she knew what her man was thinking.
The leader of Caesar’s murderers had just died in front of their eyes. But Labienus had escaped again.
XXII
Never in his life would Gaius Chaerea have imagined being reduced to licking tar to assuage his hunger. The problem now was that he did not know if the cramps he felt in his stomach were caused by the hunger itself or by having ingested something harmful. And even had he wanted to, he wouldn’t have had the strength or the opportunity to procure more, after going to seek the last piece in the gaps between the planking. Weakened by five days of hardship, he merely lay motionless on the deck of the ship which had escaped Staius Murcus, from which he had already torn out all the wood which he could deprive the ship of without sinking.
The others were no better off. Indeed, looking carefully at one of his comrades who lay nearby, he realised that he was no longer breathing. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had last heard him moan, but could not bring the images of the previous days, nor even the long, endless hours of that day itself, into focus. Blurred and indistinct, images of soldiers and oarsmen diving into the sea in despair and drowning in the waves, or gnawing on the ropes and sails of the wreck upon which they floated to give themselves the illusion of sustenance flashed before his eyes. He recalled that one, or maybe two, or more likely, three days before, a man had lowered a bucket into the sea to draw water which he had started drinking before Gaius, his reflexes already groggy, had been able to stop him. Within hours, the soldier had begun to show signs of madness, gesticulating and ranting with a new energy before eventually throwing himself upon a fellow soldier and slicing him open with a dagger, biting at chunks of flesh he tore from his body. Gaius had wounded his hand trying to stop him, and had been forced to kill the man with his sword before he could harm the other survivors.
But that had been days ago, and it seemed to that an eternity had passed since then. Now, he would not have even had the strength to shout at him to stop, let alone overpower him. If one of his companions had gone mad, all he would be able to do now would be to let him kill himself. He looked at the seven other survivors, but saw that they were all in a semi-comatose state, and he decided they were not the danger he needed to protect himself from now.
Anyway, he had plenty of other things to worry about. He hadn’t eaten or drunk for days, and didn’t think he could hold out much longer. The boat was adrift without sails and none of them had the strength to use the few oars that had not been broken during the naval battle. Sometimes, though indistinctly, he seemed to see land – the outline of the coast of Epirus, or of Italy, or of one of the many other islands of the Adriatic, he couldn’t tell. And at any moment he expected to hear the ship run up against a rock and drag its occupants down to the seabed with it.
And then there had been the rain. The day before they had been surprised by violent storms with thunder and lightning which had shaken the boat, and a tempest which had made her sway dangerously until he feared that she would capsize. It seemed to him too, though he was not sure, that he had lost two men when the elements had unleashed their fury, one washed away by a wave and another, who had failed to grasp the guardrail in time, and been thrown into the sea by one of the most violent swells. There were even those who, at the end of the storm, had rejoiced over the deaths of their fellow soldiers because it meant there was more for the survivors to put into their stomachs, notwithstanding which, fights had broken out over some frayed ropes and torn sails, dirty with the excrement scattered over the deck by men who could no longer control their bodily functions. Gaius had given up early on attempting to intervene to quell the bickering, surrendering to the evidence of being no longer able to impose his authority on those who were reduced to little more than animals.
With great difficulty, he dragged the body of the man he believed to be dead over to check that he actually was. Wearily he leaned his head on his chest to listen for a heartbeat, and realised that another soldier was looking at him. He heard him whisper something and realised that the man was asking him if he was dead. He nodded, and the other man turned to his neighbour, who pulled out a knif
e from his belt. Together, the two legionaries began to crawl towards the body and towards Gaius.
“What… what are you doing?” murmured Chaerea, with barely the strength to speak.
“You know very well, Centurion,” said one of them, when he was closer. “And you won’t try to stop us.”
“No, not that,” said Gaius. He would not allow it, not as long as he was nominally in charge of that small group of legionaries. Under his command, no one would feed upon a fellow soldier. He had said so right after the battle: no one would lose his dignity as a Roman soldier, whatever the conditions events forced upon them. But those who survived with him on that ship were now neither soldiers nor citizens. They were no longer even human beings, and he wondered how he could prevent the atrocity that they were now preparing to commit upon the corpse.
He watched them as they approached, their faces deformed by hardship but also by the anticipation of their meal. Their eyes were popping out of their sockets, their cheekbones protruded, their hair was plastered on their foreheads and their lips were ravaged by thirst and by biting themselves in hunger. He wondered if he was in the same state, and thought it likely: if he looked in a mirror, he would see a ghost.
“You… You won’t do it,” he said, without the authority or strength necessary to deter them.
“Yes, we will,” replied one. “And there’s some for you too, Centurion.”
“…or we’ll be feasting on your flesh too,” added the other.
*
If nothing else, all was not yet lost, Maecenas said to himself after having listened carefully to the guards who surrounded the section of the camp Brutus had reserved for the prisoners Caesar’s murderers had taken after the battle. Wandering casually amongst the soldiers who had been captured with him, he heard the guards saying that the victors had ripped Octavian’s litter to pieces with arrows and had plundered his tent of everything of value it contained, but of Caesar’s heir there was no trace. Many said that the triumvir must have disguised himself as a soldier to avoid recognition, and there had been a manhunt. Some had actually boasted of killing him and had brought his body before Brutus, but it had turned out only to be a lad, a recruit, who happened to look like him.
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