As he had known it would, his armor drew them to him, distorting the fighting ranks as they caught sight of the silver and struggled to bring him down.
“Are you afraid of your old teacher?” he called to them, laughing wildly. “Is there not one of you good enough to face me now? Try me, boys. Come here and try me.”
They heard and the response was so savage that Brutus was shoved back, his sword trapped against his body by the press of men. Something heavy thumped into his helmet and broke the strap at his chin. He swore as he hit the ground and felt the helmet come loose, but he rose up with a jerk and killed two men before they could recover.
More came at him then and his shield was torn from his hand as he raised it, ripping flesh from his fingers. He cried out in pain and ducked a sword, ramming his own into a man’s groin from below. His foot slipped as his sandal studs raked the face of a corpse. He saw it was Seneca, his open eyes coated in dust.
Brutus fought without reason for a long time, cutting anything that came into range and bellowing weary defiance at the lines of men. He caught a glimpse of silver armor in a set that matched his own and yelled a challenge, seeing Octavian jerk his head around as he heard. Brutus waited for him. He could not make a space to breathe as they pressed him and he was growing tired. The endless energy of youth had somehow slipped away without him noticing. At his back, he heard Labienus calling for the Fourth to advance and the shout seemed to galvanize his old legion. They roared again and fought like berserkers, ignoring wounds. Octavian was straining to reach him and Brutus beckoned him on wearily. Blood spattered him as he struggled, panting. He wanted to see Julius, but he could not find him.
His sword blade turned uselessly against a shield. He did not see the blow that brought him to his knees, or the second that left him on his back.
“Where are you?” he called for his old friend, looking up at the sky. A crushing weight squeezed the air from his lungs and he heard his right arm snap. Then he knew nothing more.
Two hundred of Pompey’s horsemen galloped across the plain, leaving the noise and blood and death behind until all they could hear were the pounding rhythm of hooves and the snorting breath of their mounts. They were fierce with exhilaration as they chased the beaten enemy. They held their long spatha swords high over their heads and yelled with the pleasure of it. Casitas had risen to the post of decurion without seeing battle in the slow years of his Greece posting. He had not known it would be so exciting and he laughed aloud as he shot across Pharsalus, feeling as if he were flying.
Ahead of them, the extraordinarii of Caesar responded to a single horn and the wild rout changed. The ranks pulled together with the precision of a parade ground and the flying column slowed to wheel as one, turning back toward the battle.
Casitas could not believe what he was seeing. In dawning fear, he realized that the best part of two thousand crack cavalry were coming back in perfect riding order. He looked over his shoulder and considered trying to prevent them rejoining Caesar’s army. One glance at the dark line of enemy horses was enough to know it was a pointless gesture.
“Get back to the lines. We’ll gut them there,” he shouted, heaving his horse around and leading them. He saw his men look nervously over their shoulders as they rode and tried to resist the temptation himself. It was going to be close. Casitas could hear them coming.
The bulk of Pompey’s cavalry seemed to leap from distant figures to a mass of men and horses, churning amidst a cloud of dark dust. Casitas shouted uselessly into the wind to warn them, but his voice went unheard.
Julius bellowed orders to men he could barely see in the dust that cloaked them. His Tenth were fighting in perfect order, closing the holes in their ranks as they were cut out. It was agony to see them so hard-pressed, but Julius could not bring their whole strength to bear on the soldiers around Pompey. Out on the edges, he could see the mass of riders forming up for a charge. He could hear the whinnying of horses through the dust and every nerve and muscle was tight with strain. If they smashed his lines from behind, he knew the battle would be lost and he searched for anything he could use to blunt the attack when it came.
There was nothing. He looked over the lines and saw more of the Tenth die, fighting to the last as he would have expected. The dust would blind the horses, he realized. Even a solid shield wall would be broken as they smashed into them. He shook his head, shivering. The Tenth could not lock shields and defend the main line at the same time. They would be destroyed.
“Sir! To the east!” one of his scouts shouted.
The man had been taken from the extraordinarii and perhaps it was that allegiance that made him look for them. Julius turned in the saddle and his heart leapt. He saw Pompey’s chasers returning to the battle. Behind them came his extraordinarii, at full gallop.
Julius watched dry-mouthed as the fleeing riders tried to enter their own lines. There was no time for them to slow and the result was instant chaos. The attempt to form a charge was sent reeling and then Caesar’s extraordinarii struck them from behind.
Pompey’s riders were ruined by them. Their own men opened the holes in the ranks that the extraordinarii battered through, scattering them apart. Julius saw horses rear in terror before the choking dust swallowed them. It swelled to a thick cloud over the killing and out of it came Pompey’s riders, broken and bloody. Some were dying and fell from their saddles. Others were pulling uselessly at the reins of their bolting mounts.
The Tenth rushed forward as Pompey’s cavalry were smashed. Julius shouted and kicked his own horse into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the desolate figure of Pompey in the distance. The dust cloud swirled across him and he swore, pushing forward with his men.
Pompey’s flank buckled as if a great pressure had been removed and they almost fell toward the archers surrounding the Dictator. Julius was about to order shields raised when they too broke and the Tenth slaughtered those who dared to show their backs.
As the dust blew on, Julius saw Pompey’s cavalry were clear of the field and still going. His extraordinarii were not chasing them, he saw, almost delirious with the change in fortunes. He watched his riders cut along the rear of Pompey’s lines, selecting their points of entry to begin carving them in slices.
Julius searched again for Pompey, but he was not there. His horse rode over the broken bodies of archers, stabbed by every rank that passed. The hooves threw up clots of blood and earth that hit his legs and slid away, leaving cold smears he did not feel.
Somewhere in the distance horns blew and Julius snapped around in the saddle. It was the tone for surrender and he had a sudden terror that his veterans had failed while he had been busy on the right flank. He heard a crash of arms as men threw down their weapons and in the press he still did not know if he had won or lost.
Octavian rode along the lines toward him, breathing heavily. His greave hung from a single strap and his armor and skin were torn, bruised, and scraped in equal measure. One eye had swollen completely shut, but it didn’t matter. He had survived and Julius’s heart leapt to see him.
“They have surrendered, sir,” he said. “As soon as Pompey left the field. It is over.” He saluted and Julius saw he was trembling with reaction.
Julius sagged in his saddle, leaning forward with his head bowed. After a long moment, he drew himself straight and looked north. He could not let Pompey escape, but the fighting could erupt again at the slightest provocation unless he stayed with his legions. His duty was to remain on the plain and bring order, not to chase a beaten man. He knew it, but he hungered to call his extraordinarii back and ride Pompey down. He shook his head clear of the warring emotions.
“Disarm them all and begin taking the wounded back to Pompey’s camp,” he said. “Bring the generals to me and treat them with courtesy. They did well to surrender, but it will be hurting them. Make sure the men understand there will be no mistreatment. They are not enemies. They will be given every courtesy.”
“Yes, sir,” Octavian said
. His voice shook slightly and Julius looked at him, smiling wryly at the worship in the younger man’s bloodshot eyes.
“I will accept a new oath of loyalty from them, as consul of Rome. Tell them the war is over.”
He could hardly believe it himself and he knew the reality would not sink in for hours or days. He had been fighting for as long as he could remember and it had all brought him to the plain of Pharsalus in the middle of Greece. It was enough.
“Sir, I saw Brutus fall,” Octavian said.
Julius broke out of his reverie. “Where?” he snapped, ready to move.
“In the center, sir. He fought with Labienus.”
“Take me there,” Julius replied, urging his horse into a trot. A sick dread settled on him then. His hands shook slightly as he rode, though whether in reaction or fear, he could not have said.
The two riders passed through the lines of men already involved in the routines they knew so well. Piles of captured swords were being formed and water passed to those who had not drunk for hours. When the legions saw their general, cheering began and swelled until they were all shouting in relief and triumph.
Julius barely heard them, his eyes on a limp figure in silver armor being pulled from a pile of corpses. He felt tears sting his eyes as he dismounted. He could not speak. The men of the New Fourth legion stood back respectfully to give him room, and he went down on one knee to look into the face of his oldest friend.
There was blood everywhere and Brutus’s skin was marble white against the stain. Julius took a cloth from his belt and reached out with it, gently wiping away the caked filth.
Brutus opened his eyes. With consciousness came pain and he groaned in agony. His cheek and mouth were swollen and deformed and blood trickled from his ear. His gaze seemed vacant as it swiveled toward Julius, then slowly a dim awareness returned. Brutus tried to lift himself, but the broken arm was useless. He fell back, crying out weakly. His lips moved over bloody teeth and Julius bent closer to hear him speak.
“Will you kill me now?” Brutus whispered.
“I won’t,” Julius said.
Brutus let out a long, shuddering breath. “Am I dying then?” he said.
Julius looked him over. “Perhaps. You deserve to.”
“Pompey?”
“He ran. I’ll find him,” Julius replied.
Brutus tried to smile, a cough racking him with agony. Julius watched, his dark eyes colder than death.
“So we lost then,” Brutus said weakly, trying to spit blood onto the ground. He didn’t have the strength. “I was worried when I couldn’t see you, before,” he said. “I thought I was finished.”
Julius shook his head in slow sadness. “What am I to do with you?” he murmured. “Did you think I didn’t value you? Did you think I wouldn’t miss having you in Rome? I didn’t believe your mother when she told me. I told her you wouldn’t betray me, not you. You hurt me then. You hurt me still.”
Tears came into Brutus’s eyes, screwed out by pain and misery. “Sometimes I just wanted to do something without the thought that the great Julius can do it better. Even when we were young, I wanted that.” He stopped to let a spasm run its course, clenching his jaw. “Everything I am, I’ve made. I’ve struggled through things that would have broken weak bastards. While I flogged myself, you made everything seem easy. It was easy for you. You are the only man ever to make me feel I’ve had a wasted life.”
Julius looked at the broken figure of the man he had known for too many years to remember. His voice broke as he spoke. “Why couldn’t you have been happy for me?” he said. “Why betray me?”
“I wanted to be an equal,” Brutus said, showing red teeth. Fresh pain made him gasp as he shifted. “I didn’t expect Pompey to be such a fool.” He looked up into Julius’s cold gaze and knew his life, his fate was being decided while he lay helpless. “Can you forgive me even this?” Brutus murmured, raising his head. “Can I ask you for this last thing?”
Julius did not reply for so long that Brutus fell back, his eyes closing.
“If you live,” Julius said at last, “I will let the past rest. Do you understand me? I will need you, Brutus.”
He did not know if he had been heard. Brutus’s battered face had paled even further and only the flutter of a vein in his throat showed he still lived. With great gentleness, Julius wiped his friend’s mouth free of blood and pressed the cloth into the limp hand before standing.
He faced Octavian and saw the younger man’s blank shock at what he had heard.
“Look after this one, Octavian. He is badly hurt.”
Octavian closed his mouth slowly. “Sir, please . . .” he began.
“Let it go, lad. We’ve come too far together for anything else.”
After a long moment, Octavian bowed his head.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
Pompey’s camp crested a hill that overlooked the plain. Bare gray rock showed through green lichen like bones and the only sound came from the wind. At such a height, the gale was free to moan and howl around them as Julius made his way to the gates. He saw Pompey’s camp workers had lit great torches, and streamers of black smoke reached over the plain below.
Julius paused to look down on Pharsalus. His generals were creating order on the battlefield, but from his vantage point Julius could see the line of bodies that marked where the armies had clashed. They lay where they had fallen. From so far away, it looked like a meandering scar on the land, a feature of the plain rather than a place of death. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and refastened the clasp that held it to him.
Pompey had chosen the site well for his stronghold. The path to the flat crest was narrow and overgrown in places as if even wild goats shunned the steepest trails. His horse picked its way carefully and Julius did not press the pace. He was still stunned at the new reality and his usual swift thought seemed to have been buried beneath a crushing weight of memory. All his life he had fought against enemies. He had defined himself in their shadow, saying that he was not Sulla, not Cato, not Pompey. It was a new world without them and there was fear in the freedom.
He wished he could have brought Cabera up to the fort on the hill. The old man would have understood how he could not exult in the moment. Perhaps it was just the wind and great height, but it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen. There was no sense in death. Men like Renius and Tubruk filled graves as long and wide as Cato or Sulla. In the end, all that was flesh would be ash.
Later, he would make offerings to the gods and give thanks, but as he made his way up he felt numb. Only hours before, he had faced a vast army and victory was still too fresh and raw to be real.
The great fort Pompey had built loomed over him as he grew closer. To know that every piece of it had been brought up from the lowlands was a testament to Roman ingenuity and strength. Julius had thought he would have it burnt, but as he reached the flat ground of the crest, he knew it should be left as a memorial to those who had died. It was fitting to leave them something on that bare landscape where even bloody dust soon vanished in the scouring wind. In a few days, when the legions had been sent away, the fort would be shelter for wild animals until age and decay made it slump and fall.
The gates stood open as Julius rode toward them. A thousand of his Tenth had made the climb with him and he could hear them panting as he passed through the walls and looked over the neat order of Pompey’s last camp.
Cooking pits and tents lay untended for as far as he could see. It was a lonely place and Julius shuddered to think how many of the men who had left it at dawn were now cold on the plain. Perhaps they had known they would surrender to him even then, but duty had held them until Pompey fled the field.
The old Senate of Rome formed silent lines on the main road through the camp, their heads bowed. Julius did not look at them, his eyes on the praetorium tent where Pompey had woken that morning. He dismounted in front of it and paused to untie the thongs
that kept out the wind. His Tenth came forward to help him and two of them threw back the heavy leather, tying it securely as he strode into the gloom.
Julius looked around him, unnerved by the dark chamber and feeling as if he were an intruder. He waited as his men lit the lamps and braziers and flickering gold illuminated the interior. It was bitterly cold, and he shivered.
“Wait outside,” he told them and in a moment he was alone. He brushed past a partition and saw Pompey’s bed had been neatly made for his return. There was a sense of order to the place, no doubt the work of slaves after the army had gone. Julius picked up a clay bowl crusted with white paste from a table and sniffed at it. He opened a chest and looked quickly through the contents. He felt nervous, as if at any moment Pompey would come through the door and demand to know what he was doing.
Julius continued his examination of the Dictator’s private belongings, finally shaking his head. He had hoped against reason that the seal ring of the Senate might have been left behind, but there was no sign of it and no reason for him to stay.
As he walked across the packed earth, his gaze fell on Pompey’s desk and a packet of his private papers. On impulse, he reached out for the red silk that tied them and his fingers picked at the knot as he thought. He knew he should read them. The journal and letters would complete the picture of the man he had fought across Greece. They would reveal his mistakes as well as Julius’s own, and his most private thoughts. Somewhere in the neat packet would be word of Brutus, the details Julius craved to know.
The crackle of flames from a brazier broke into his thoughts and he acted before his wandering mind could begin its arguments, lifting the package and dropping it whole onto the flames. Almost immediately he reached to pull it back, but then he mastered himself and stood watching as the red band charred and curled, browning slowly until flames leapt along the edges.
The Gods of War Page 24