Gaius was puzzled for a moment. Why should he oblige him?
“Come on, Chaerea!” insisted the other. “Do a favour for a man who’s more than just a comrade, if you know what I mean…” he added. “I’ve been here long enough!”
Gaius threw open his arms in resignation. Laenas was quite capable of making himself a pain in the arse unless he kept him happy, and it made little difference to him whether he was under the battlements or involved in encircling the enemy. He motioned to his remaining men to follow him and ordered them to form a tortoise in the same place as Laenas’s men. The centurion gave up his position and hurried off, vanishing into the crowd, apparently eager to fight.
Shortly afterwards, a squad of enemy legionaries who had escaped encirclement and were headed for the door tried to break through the blockade. Their fellows in the battlements noticed, and unleashed upon the tortoise a hail of arrows and small and large stones that the roof of shields deflected easily. But now they had to fight too, to foil the attempt at retreat. Gaius ordered his men to advance towards the squad with shields together and led them to counterattack. A few seconds later there was the impact, which sparked a melee where he immediately realised they were outnumbered. Nevertheless, availing himself of the slope, they managed to repel their opponents at the price of only two soldiers and inflicted heavy losses on the enemy.
He was about to resume their position and reform the tortoise when he suddenly saw a boulder flying towards him from the battlements. He just had time to shift his torso but not his right leg, which was hit by the projectile, sending a wave of pain through him that felt like being stabbed simultaneously with dozens of swords. He heard his bones shattering into a thousand pieces then rolled over and fell backwards into the ditch, hitting his head and losing consciousness.
*
As incredible it might seem, the battle was won. Ortwin knew how to recognise the signs. The enemy army still had several units intact, and Brutus’s camp had not yet fallen, but the beginning of the dissolution of the enemy ranks was more than evident to a trained eye like his. Mark Antony had wiped out all resistance in his sector of the field and was gradually advancing towards the centre, pressing against the flanks of the legions engaged against Octavian who, for his part, had been facilitating the task of routing the enemy. The enemy cohorts were no longer either united nor in formation, and rather than fighting they were tending to retreat and take refuge in the gorges and mountains bordering the battlefield. The legionaries were no longer listening to their officers, busy as they were saving their own skins, no one was gathering around the standard bearers nor did anyone attempt to force the blockades that prevented access to the camps. Some soldiers threw down their arms and surrendered as soon as they saw the approaching army of Caesar’s avengers while others sent messages to talk terms.
But of Brutus there was no sign.
Octavian, of course, had entrusted to Ortwin the task of finding him at all costs, and thus the barbarian had climbed into the saddle, taking with him a squadron of Germanic and Roman horsemen – but not Veleda, who had remained with the triumvir – and had set off on the trail of the enemy commander, starting from the last position where he had been sighted, near Rufus’s sector of the battlefield. Every time he had the opportunity to talk to a fleeing enemy soldier, he asked him where the general was, promising him a rich reward or, alternatively, a quick death. But even the most talkative and co-operative had no idea of Brutus’s eventual goals and intentions, and could only say where they last saw him.
If nothing else, they could follow his trail. He had now come to steeper, wooded ground that forced him to dismount and climb the slope on foot. The silhouettes of fugitives could be seen amongst the trees up above them. If what the prisoners had told him was true, that was where Brutus might be. He quickened his pace, making his way through the bush and leaving behind the others, until he reached a clearing where he saw a wounded man.
He approached him and asked, “Were you with Brutus?”
The soldier spat blood. He had a gash on his side. “No, I was with that animal Labienus,” he said, with difficulty. There was a flutter of rage deep inside Ortwin’s soul. “They were together until a moment ago, then they split up when they left this clearing. I was stupid enough to decide to stay with Labienus, thinking that they’d be all over Brutus in no time… But the damn tribune dumped me here when he saw that I was hurt and might slow him down…”
Ortwin knelt down and seized him by the edge of his armour. “Where? Where did Labienus go?” he hissed at the man.
The soldier had only a breath of life remaining but did not hesitate to answer. “He went that way,” he whispered, with the little strength he had left, pointing ahead. “And Brutus went that way,” he added, pointing behind him. Then he closed his eyes and died.
At that moment, Ortwin’s men appeared. They looked at the German and peered around the clearing quizzically, then asked, “Now what?”
There was no doubt in Ortwin’s mind. “This soldier told me that Brutus went that way and is close by,” he said, pointing in the direction Labienus had taken. “Quickly!”
He set off even faster than before and, the others behind him, raced off into the bush, all feelings of fatigue now vanished. The idea of facing his rival put wings upon his feet, and soon the others could no longer keep up. The German realised that he was supposed to be waiting for them to back him up, but he was afraid of losing track of Labienus, and did not slow down until, eventually, he spotted a few soldiers and, among them, an officer with a crest on his helmet. It could only be him.
“Quintus! Stop and face me man to man, scum!” he cried. “I assure you that it will be just you and me!”
The commanding officer halted suddenly at his words. He turned slowly and stared at him. It was Quintus Labienus. The other soldiers with him stood awaiting orders, and in the meantime Ortwin’s men appeared. Ortwin took a step forward and so did Labienus. Again, the German moved closer and the Roman followed suit, one step at a time, until they were face to face, only a few paces apart. All around, the soldiers of both factions, panting with fatigue, stood watching the duel as though frozen, the only sound the distant echoes of the battle on the plain.
“Why not? It’s about time we put an end to all this,” said Labienus, with a grin. “I won’t run away this time, Ortwin.”
“Oh really? How strange…” replied the other defiantly. His words provoked an attack from the Roman, whose blade smashed into his shield with a clang that echoed in the ears of those present. The German reacted with a swinging downward blow which went wide, hitting the ground next to the enemy. Labienus tried a lunge, which Ortwin, twisting his torso, avoided only by a whisker, before striking a blow in return which caught Quintus in the thigh, opening a gash in his flesh. The Roman glanced at his opponent with hatred and resumed his attack with renewed fury, raining blows upon him which went wide or crashed against his shield. His rage stoked that of Ortwin, who became equally disorientated, and the duel rapidly turned into a brawl. Whenever Ortwin’s eyes met the mad stare of the Roman, he remembered all the suffering that the man had caused Veleda, and his strength was renewed.
“Tribune, more of the enemy are coming!” shouted a voice from the bushes, warning Labienus to disengage. “No, not that,” thought Ortwin. “I must be the one to capture or to kill him,” and he intensified his fighting, lowering his own guard in order to encourage his opponent to do the same. But he had underestimated the reflexes of Labienus, who immediately took advantage of the fact and sank his blade into the chest of his eternal enemy. The German felt it penetrate deeply into the muscles and tendons of his shoulder, and the searing pain was renewed when the tribune withdrew it, took a deep breath, and prepared to strike the final blow.
“This is the end, it would appear…” said Labienus with an evil grin, while Ortwin fell to his knees, his vision growing foggy as he held his shoulder injury. “One day I will return to Rome to take Veleda. And you will be a
ble to do nothing about it, because you will be dead!”
The Roman raised his arm but a soldier stopped him.
“Forget about him! They’re here, they’re here!” he shouted, and his comrades began to flee. Labienus looked down the slope, from whence even Ortwin could hear the trampling of hundreds of feet, then made a gesture of irritation, and disappeared into the trees in an instant.
Ortwin slumped to the ground, and his men rushed to his aid. He had failed. He had disobeyed Octavian’s order and gone in search of personal vengeance, and now he could not even bring the triumvir the head of the man who had killed his mother.
And even less prove once and for all to Veleda whether it was he or Quintus who was worth loving.
Epilogue
Octavia felt as though she was losing her mind. Her fate had never been as uncertain as at was in that moment, and she had never been so alone. Her mother was dead, as was her maid, and her brother was away on a demanding military campaign which would put huge strains upon his delicate physique. Her husband had become a threat since she had discovered he was willing to kill anyone just to take his revenge upon her… And Gaius Chaerea… Gaius Chaerea was probably already dead too.
The latest news to arrive from the front had made her more and more downcast. In Rome they had learned that there had been an initial battle between Octavian and the assassins of Julius Caesar, and that Octavian had lost. Antony had won in his part of the battleground, however, so the situation was not entirely compromised, although food and supplies were scarce, which was causing serious problems for her brother’s army.
And then there was the disaster in the Adriatic. Domitius Calvinus had been forced to return to Italy without much of his fleet – the fleet in which Gaius had been travelling. By now, the only man Octavia had ever loved might well be at the bottom of the sea, or, at best, a prisoner of the enemy.
In Rome, all were awaiting the decisive battle, and no one dared to take sides before they knew who would win. With the proscriptions and the dominance of the triumvirate, it had appeared that all were now supporters of Caesar – but when news had started arriving of the triumvirate’s difficulties overseas, many Republicans had started making their voices heard once more, and no one dared silence them, for fear of falling victim to persecution in the event of Brutus being victorious.
She took care not to be seen in public, and while she awaited news from the front lived a reclusive life, locked up inside her house and receiving no visitors, as all those who had dealings with Octavian’s family now feared compromising themselves. She spent the days playing with her little daughter Marcella and wondering what would happen to them if Caesar’s murderers prevailed: she would probably end up in exile, if she was lucky – otherwise, some hothead might send them to join her mother.
And not a day went by that she didn’t feel guilty for having sent Gaius Chaerea to his death, depriving his son Marcus of a loving father. She had forced him to compromise his principles, and the fate of the child tormented her too.
If only she hadn’t had that ridiculous idea of sending Gaius to Macedonia… now he would have been near her, and would have defended her and his own family from the tumult that would undoubtedly arise in Rome in the increasingly likely event of an enemy victory. Gaius had agreed for her sake, but inside he must have known that it was a hopeless undertaking. Still, he had attempted it just the same. Octavia had thought she was making herself useful to the sect by tearing him from the warmth of his family and using him as a messenger, but instead she had delivered the mortal blow to the sacred brotherhood by sending the only one of them who had a real chance of saving himself, off to die.
Rarely was there a knock on the door of her domus in those days, and when there was, Octavia always started in fear: it might be news from the front, of which there had been none for almost a month. She started again when she heard the door open, and motioned for Marcella to be quiet when she heard the heavy footsteps of the caretaker and his voice telling a slave to take a letter to the domina. She felt an icy grip in her stomach and her temples began to throb, and when the door of the tablinum opened and the man handed her the package containing the wax tablet, she wished that the duty of reading it fell on another.
But she forced herself to take it and dismissed the slave. With trembling hands she opened the little parcel and, after taking a deep breath, began to read the letter.
Philippi, v day before the Nonae of October
Dear sister, we have won. The Mars Ultor sect has triumphed and avenged our father after a hard campaign and a battle we had to fight twice. Of course, not all the murderers are dead. Cassius Longinus committed suicide in the first battle, as you may have already heard. Marcus Brutus did the same after the second defeat, when he saw that his soldiers preferred to surrender rather than continue to fight for him. I personally killed one of the Casca brothers, Veleda killed the other. Agrippa eliminated Tullius Cimber. Others fell in combat and only a few remain on the loose, but we will hunt them down, and sooner or later they will pay for their crimes. Quintus Labienus, the murderer of our mother and Etain, also escaped because Ortwin did not manage to stop him. Luckily, all our followers survived, but Ortwin, Maecenas and Gaius Chaerea were wounded. Chaerea got it worse: he lost a leg, but I will never cease to be grateful to him for showing his attachment to the sect by crossing Italy, the sea, Greece and Macedonia. He survived a shipwreck to fight for us and to inform me of your husband’s betrayal.
Just as I will never cease to be grateful to you, my sister, for having had the initiative to send him to me. You have no idea how vital it was to strengthen our resolve and our unity, which, under the weight of a thousand difficulties, had threatened to fall apart. You are truly a valuable member of the sect, and I owe you an apology for not having realised this earlier.
I will soon be back in Italy, where it is vital that I remind all who the victor of Philippi was. Antony, for his part, is about to set off for Egypt, where he will meet Queen Cleopatra, who helped us by ignoring Cassius’s demands for assistance. Antony and I have decided that Lepidus has become superfluous and, at the appropriate time, we will remove his authority. Why govern in three when we can do it in two? We have defeated the murderers of Julius Caesar, we have the support of the army, and there is no reason for him too to benefit from our power. It will be another step, my sister, towards the realisation of all the goals we set ourselves when we swore to avenge Caesar and to complete his work of reforming the empire of Rome. Once again, we have proven ourselves to be invincible.
Take care and give my love to my niece Marcella. We will see each other soon, and when I return we will decide what to do with your husband.
Yours,
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian
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ANDREW FREDIANI is an Italian author and academic. He has published several non-fiction books as well as historical novels including the Invincible series and the Dictator trilogy. His works have been translated into five languages.
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First published in Italy in 2016 by Newton Compton
First published in the UK in 2016 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Andrew Frediani, 2015
The moral right of Andrew Frediani to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781784978938
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