The Gods of War

by Conn Iggulden

  He was panting by the time he called for his slaves. They entered with downcast gazes and began to fit his armor to him. Pompey wondered if they guessed at the reason for the delay and decided he did not care. The gods would give him the time he needed to humble his last enemy. When Julius was dead, he would let them cut him, but until then he would get through each day, each hour, until it was over.

  The healer’s paste had taken the edge off his discomfort, he thought with relief. As the slaves were dismissed Pompey touched a hand to the pommel of his gladius and raised his head to walk out to the waiting men. He paused on the threshold and took a deep breath. Perhaps it was some calming property of the healer’s paste, or perhaps because he was finally committed to his path, but for the first time in months, he realized he was not afraid of his enemy.

  On the third morning of the march south, the scouts came back to Julius’s column, their faces flushed in the race to be first with the news. They described a vast and empty plain just a few miles ahead. Pharsalus.

  There were few in the ranks who recognized the name, but those who knew Greece felt the first twinges of excitement. At last, they were coming to a place well suited for battle.

  It was somehow fitting that the struggle should be settled as the old Roman generals had fought. On the flat earth of the valley floor, there could be no traps or clever use of land. Only a muddy brown river ran through the southern part of the plain, making a natural boundary. If Pharsalus were the battleground, Julius knew it would come down to speed, tactics, and simple strength. The commanders would face each other across lines of men and their armies would clash and kill until just one earned the right to return to Rome. Scipio Africanus would have approved the choice. Julius made the decision quickly. He would stand at Pharsalus.

  The Gaul legions entered the plain two hours later and the column did not pause as they marched across the open land. It was a barren place. Even in the protective shadow of the mountains, the winter had left a black landscape of smooth dry earth and broken boulders, shattered as if they had been thrown by vast forces. It was a relief to have firm ground under their feet, though it was so dry that curling dust shapes screamed across it, vanishing into the distance. The legionaries leaned into the wind and shielded their eyes from grit that rattled against their armor.

  The city of Pharsalus lay beyond the sluggish river to the south, too far to be seen. Julius dismissed it from his thoughts. The citizens there would play no part in the battle unless he was forced to retreat and needed their high stone walls. He shook his head as he considered finding fording points on the banks. There would be no retreat.

  “Continue the line of march to the far side,” he ordered Domitius over the wind’s howl. “I want a solid camp in the foothills there.”

  Julius watched as the extraordinarii streamed around him, freed at last from the need to guard the flanks. The enemy were all behind and Julius heard his riders whoop as they kicked their mounts into a gallop, drawn to speed by the openness of the land. He too felt the lift in spirits and tightened his hands on the reins.

  “We will stop them here,” he shouted to Octavian, and those who heard him grinned savagely. They knew Caesar had no other enemies after Pompey. Once the old man had been broken, they would be able to retire at last. Those who had grown old in Julius’s service felt the change in the air and marched a little taller, despite their tiredness. Aching bones were ignored and any man who looked around him saw the irresistible confidence of those who had brought Gaul to her knees.

  Only the new Fourth legion under Octavian remained grim and silent as they crossed the plain. Once more, they had to prove the right to walk in Caesar’s steps.

  CHAPTER 20

  The light of dawn spilled over Pharsalus, cloud shapes racing across its surface. The armies of Rome had woken long before, while it was still dark. By the light of torches, they had prepared themselves for the coming of day. Kit had been stowed with routine care; leather tents folded and bound in silence. They had eaten a steaming stew mopped up with fresh bread from clay ovens. It would give them strength for what lay ahead. The camp followers and tradesmen stood with their heads respectfully bowed. Even the whores were silent, clustering together as they watched the legions move out onto the plain. Horns wailed at either end of Pharsalus and the tramp of feet sounded like a heartbeat.

  The veterans of Gaul found themselves eager for the fight. They pushed forward like the finest horses and the lines had to be dressed and orders shouted to keep the pace steady. Despite the best efforts of optios and centurions, cheerful jibes and insults were exchanged by men who had fought together for too many years to count. As Pompey’s army grew before them, the calls and banter lessened until they were grimly silent, each man making ready for what was to come.

  The patterns of men and cavalry changed constantly as the armies closed. At first, Julius placed his Tenth at the center of his fighting line, but then sent them to the right flank, bolstering the strength there. Pompey saw the movement and his own ranks shifted like shining liquid, maneuvering for the slightest advantage. It was a game of bluff and counterbluff as the two commanders altered formations like pieces on a latrunculi board.

  Pompey had known both fear and exultation when he saw Caesar’s legions would turn at bay and face him at last. It was an act of colossal confidence for Julius to choose the open plain. Another man might have tried for broken ground: something more suited to stratagem and skill. Caesar’s message was clear to Pompey’s soldiers. He feared them not at all. Perhaps it was that which made Pompey deploy his legions in three wide lines, each ten ranks deep, stretching for more than a mile across Pharsalus. With the river protecting his right flank, he could use his left as a hammer.

  When Julius saw the heavy formation, he felt a surge of new confidence. If a commander thought his men could break, he might shelter them in such ponderous blocks, supporting and trapping them among friends and officers. Julius knew the Greek legions would feel Pompey’s lack of faith and it would drag their morale even lower. He planned accordingly, sending a string of new orders to his generals. The armies drew closer.

  Julius rode at walking pace on his best Spanish mount. He had surrounded himself with scouts to take his orders, but on such a wide line the command structure was dangerously slow. He was forced to trust in the initiative of his generals. He had known them long enough, he thought. He knew their strengths and weaknesses as well as his own. Pompey could not have that advantage, at least.

  Julius saw that Pompey had concentrated his horsemen on the left flank as he faced them. The sheer numbers were intimidating and Julius sent quick orders to detach a thousand men to form a mobile fourth line. If he allowed his veterans to be flanked by so many, there would be no saving them. He positioned himself on the right with his Tenth, so that he and Pompey would face each other. He touched the pommel of his sword and scanned his lines again and again, looking for flaws. He had been in enough battles to know that the illusion of time to spare would vanish as quickly as dawn mist in summer. He had seen even experienced commanders leave it too late to move their men to the best position. He would not make that mistake and chose to send them early, letting Pompey react.

  The wind had lessened and the dust spirals were trampled down unnoticed as the two armies marched inexorably toward each other. Julius squinted at the formation Pompey had created. With just another thousand extraordinarii, he might have threatened the far edge of Pompey’s army and forced him to split his cavalry. As it was, Pompey was free to muster them in one great mass. Behind them the ground was black with archers, protecting Pompey’s own position. It would begin there.

  “Send to General Octavian and have his Fourth move back toward the center,” Julius told the closest scout. “When it begins, he must push forward with all speed.” He looked around him and selected another, little older than a boy. “The extraordinarii are not to advance past the flank. They must hold the position.”

  As the man scurried away
, Julius fretted, sweating despite the wind. Had he thought of everything? His scorpion bows and heavy engines were being pulled into position by oxen and shouting men, all along the marching mile. Pompey too had assembled his massive weapons and Julius shuddered at the thought of what they could do. Pompey had many more than he had been able to bring to the field. No doubt they would play a part in deciding the battle.

  At two thousand feet, both Julius and Pompey ceased looking for an advantage from their formations. The battle lines were set and what followed would be a test of courage and skill that neither man had experienced before. For all the skirmishes and minor battles between them, they had not faced the best of Roman legions on good, dry land. The outcome could not be known.

  Julius continued to give orders, as he knew Pompey must be doing. Part of him was almost hypnotized by the ritual moves of the dance as the armies neared each other. It was formal and terrifying and Julius wondered if Pompey would close to the exact distance specified in the manuals before beginning the final charge. His memory flickered back to the dry voices of his tutors telling him that six hundred feet was perfect on good ground. Any more and the men would be flagging before they reached a charging enemy in the middle. Any less and they risked losing the advantage of a crashing first strike. Julius reached up and pulled down the full-face helmet that hid his features. As it clicked shut, the wind became a dull thrumming and sweat trickled down from his hair.

  The vast lines were a thousand feet apart and Julius felt the tension in his legions as he walked his horse forward with them. The animal snorted and fought the tight rein he held on it, bowing its head almost back to the neck. His horses and men had been fed and water boys marched with them. The grindstones had been busy all night to put an edge on their swords. He had done everything he could think of to weaken the host he faced.

  He did not know if it was enough and he felt the old signs of fear from every battle of his youth. His bladder tightened, though he had emptied it into the piss trench before mounting. His mouth was dry with the grit that swirled in the cold air. His vision became sharper as every sense drank in the land and men around him. He knew he could die on the plain and he scorned the thought. He had been consul twice and had taken Gaul and Britain. He had taken Rome herself. He had written his legacy into the laws of his city and he would not easily be forgotten.

  He searched for silver armor somewhere amongst the enemy. Brutus would be there and Julius knew him well enough to imagine his thoughts, his expression as the armies neared. The pain of the betrayal was constant in him, with the need to see Brutus one more time, even if it was over a sword’s length.

  He looked across the ranks at Octavian. He wished he had left sons to carry on his line, but the blood would survive even if he did not. Had he told Octavian how proud he was of him? He thought he had.

  “Let him live, if I fall,” Julius whispered against the clasp of his helmet. “By Mars, let them both live.”

  Pompey looked at the legions coming against him and he could not feel the gods. Memories of Caesar’s victories in Gaul slipped like tongues into his mind. The man had beaten the hordes of the Helvetii. Pompey’s sickness throbbed at his waist, draining his confidence.

  There were men in Rome and Greece who said Caesar was the greatest general of an age; and now Pompey would try to kill him. He wished he could summon the reckless courage of his youth, but it was not there for this enemy. He was cold and uncomfortable on the saddle, at times so angry with the pain that he could barely see. Sweat poured under his armor and chilled so that he felt the cloth of his tunic chafe wetly against his neck.

  Pompey glanced to his left, where Labienus sat his horse, stiff with anger. The general had argued against the order to place the men in such deep ranks, but Pompey knew them better than he. He had watched them closely and seen the reluctance that was the death of fighting spirit. They feared the legions of Gaul. It would not matter once they saw his cavalry crush the flank, but until the battle began, Pompey did not dare trust them.

  Even as the veteran legions neared, he could see signs of distress in his ranks. They took their positions as he had ordered, but his experienced eye saw flaws and hesitation.

  “Have General Labienus approach me,” Pompey told his messengers.

  They cantered along the shifting lines and returned with him.

  “General, at six hundred feet, we will stop and await their charge,” Pompey said.

  For a moment, Labienus was too shocked to speak. “Sir?” he said.

  Pompey beckoned him closer.

  “They will break at the first charge unless we make them stand, General. I have deep lines and now I will use them. Have the men ready to halt. Their spears will be thrown accurately, at least.” He paused for a moment, his eyes glittering. “If my extraordinarii break the flank as quickly as I think they will, the legions may not even have the chance to throw!”

  “Sir, you must not force—”

  Pompey turned abruptly away from him. “You have orders. Follow them.”

  Instinct made Labienus salute before he rode back to his legions, sending the new command up and down the lines. Pompey felt the gaze of his soldiers as they turned to him in puzzlement, but he stared stonily ahead. If they had shown a better spirit, he would have let them charge against the veterans. Instead, they would be his wall against the charge.

  As the armies crossed a thousand feet, the noise of so many marching men could be heard as dim thunder, felt by all of them through the soles of their sandals. Hundreds of standards flew on each side and the bronze eagles were held proudly up to catch the sun. At eight hundred feet, both armies readied their spears. The front lines were punctuated with the heavy weapons and those who marched opposite them felt the first silken touch of terror.

  At six hundred feet, Pompey saw Caesar’s entire front line twitch as they expected his men to begin the charge. Instead, Pompey raised his sword and brought it down, halting fifty thousand men in three paces. Orders echoed up and down the lines and Pompey began to breathe faster in anticipation as teams winched back the machines. He could see the faces of the enemy as the gap narrowed all along the mile.

  The scorpion bows hammered into their rests on both sides, sending bolts as long as a man out so fast they could be seen only as a dark blur. They punched their way through the ranks, scattering men in tangles of limbs.

  As Pompey’s cavalry began to accelerate on the wing, Caesar sent in the charge at less than two hundred feet, his men pounding across the dry earth. Twenty thousand spears went up on both sides, sending a writhing shadow over the ribbon of ground between them.

  If there were screams, they were swallowed by thunder as they met.

  Across a mile of land, thousands of armored men crashed into the shields and swords of their enemies. There was no thought of brotherhood. They killed with a manic ferocity that gave no quarter and expected none in that bloody slash across Pharsalus. The fighting mile was solid as they gave their lives.

  Pompey’s extraordinarii galloped along the edge, riding at the smaller force of cavalry they had come to destroy. Pompey wiped slippery sweat from his eyes and craned to see. As his horsemen began to push back the flank, he found himself shaking. He could not tear his eyes from their progress, knowing the battle depended on it. They hammered into Caesar’s cavalry, shattering their ranks with sheer numbers, so that every one was faced by two or three of Pompey’s riders.

  “Break, you bastards. Break! Give him to me,” he shouted into the wind.

  Then the Tenth counterattacked. They widened their line to include the cavalry on the wing and Pompey saw them gutting his precious horses and riders as they slowed in the mass. Pompey cried out as he saw them press toward him. He flickered a glance at the centuries guarding his position and was reassured. As well as the best of his guards, he had kept archers back to wreak carnage on any force that threatened him. He was safe enough.

  Even the blades of the Tenth could not stop Pompey’s cavalry a
s they went round them. They were too fast and mobile to be caught for long and Pompey saw the line of battle blister out to the east as Caesar’s riders struggled hopelessly to halt the advance.

  Pompey could see Julius on his horse over the heads of thousands. The slight figure was gesturing calmly, sending orders over the field. Pompey looked along his own lines to check that they were holding. He stared back at the cavalry charge and with a rush of joy saw Caesar’s riders break at last, turning their backs on the enemy and galloping away. Pompey’s pain was forgotten as he raised both hands.

  Men and horses lay dying on ground made slippery with blood. Pompey saw his officers detach two hundred riders from the farthest edge and send them after the fleeing enemy. He nodded sharply, his face savage. It had happened as he had hoped it would and he thanked the gods. His messengers looked to him for new orders, but there was no need.

  The noise was appalling and the dust had risen above the ranks in such heavy clouds that riders and men appeared out of it like shadows. Pompey saw his cavalry break away to re-form and knew once they struck at full gallop, they would carve their way to the very heart of the veterans. Even the Tenth could not hold them while they fought on two sides. The reputation Caesar had built around himself would be destroyed.

  Four cohorts of the Tenth turned neatly to face the charge they knew was coming and Pompey swore at the concealing dust. These were the core of Caesar’s legend and he wanted to see them humbled as much as their commander. Julius himself was somewhere in the mass, but it was getting harder and harder to see.

  “Come on, come on. Cut into them,” he said, his voice breaking. “Make the charge.”

  In the center of the battle line, Brutus shoved a dying man backwards and raised his shield to stop a blow. His horse was dead and he had barely cleared the saddle before it collapsed. He did not know if it was deliberate that Julius had sent his old legion against him. Perhaps they had expected it would weaken his arm. It had not. Though he had trained the men he faced, though he knew them as brothers, he killed them without a thought.