“And your name, Captain?” Julius said as soon as he stood on the deck.
The officer did not reply and stood frowning, tapping one hand on the other.
“Then I will tell you mine once more. I am Julius Caesar. I am Consul of Rome and the only elected authority you are sworn to serve. All orders given by Pompey are revoked. You are under my command as of this moment.”
The captain opened his mouth but Julius went on, unwilling to lose the momentary advantage. He spoke as if there was not the slightest chance of being disobeyed.
“You will pass the word to the other galleys to summon their captains here to be given orders. I have six thousand men and horses waiting to be picked up on the docks. You are my transport to Asia Minor, Captain.”
Deliberately, Julius turned away to help Octavian over the railing. When he faced the captain once more, he showed the first sign of anger.
“Did you not understand the orders I gave you, Captain? As consul, I am the Senate in transit. The orders I give take precedence over any others you may have received. Acknowledge now, or I will have you relieved.”
The captain struggled to reply. It was an impossible position. He was being asked to choose between two commanders and the conflict slowly brought a flush to his cheeks.
“Acknowledge!” Julius roared, standing closer.
The captain blinked in desperation. “Yes, sir. The orders are acknowledged. You have authority. I will send the signals to the other galleys.”
He was sweating as Julius nodded at last and the crew ran to raise the flags that would bring the other captains in.
Julius felt Octavian staring at him and did not dare risk a smile.
“Return to the docks and get the men ready to leave, General,” he said. “We go on.”
Brutus stood on the stone dock, scratching a scab under his sling as he watched the galleys. His arm and ribs were healing at last, though he’d thought being carried in a jolting cart would drive him mad at first. It had been a clean break, but he had seen enough injuries to know it would take as long to build back the muscle as it did to heal the bones. He still wore the sword he had carried at Pharsalus, but he could draw it only with his left hand and felt as clumsy as a child. He hated to be weak. The soldiers of the Tenth and Fourth had grown bold with their sneers and insults, perhaps because he had too much pride to complain. They would not have dared when he was well. Though it burned him, Brutus could do nothing but wait, his fury well hidden.
With him stood Domitius, Octavian, Regulus, and Ciro, their nervousness showing as they strained their eyes on the darkening sea. Octavian had returned with the news and they had all watched as the galley captains were rowed across to meet Pompey’s enemy. No word had come since the last of them had climbed onto the deck and the tension mounted by the hour.
“What if they’re holding him?” Domitius said suddenly. “We’d never know.”
“What can we do if they are?” Octavian replied. “Take those fat merchant ships out to do battle? They’d sink us before we could get close and you know it.” He spoke without his eyes ever leaving the sleek shapes of the galleys as they rocked in the swell outside the port. “He chose the risk.”
Ciro glanced at the setting sun, frowning to himself. “If he’s not back by dark, we could slip out. If we packed onto a single ship, we’d have enough to storm one of the galleys. Take one and you can take another.”
Brutus looked at him in surprise. The years had subtly altered the men he thought he knew. Ciro had become accustomed to command and his confidence had grown. Brutus replied without thinking.
“If they hold him, they’ll expect us to try that. They’ll anchor as far out as they can get and spend the night in close formation. That’s if they don’t head straight for Asia Minor with Julius, to give him to Pompey.”
Octavian stiffened as he spoke. “Shut your mouth,” he said flatly. “You hold no command. You are here only because my general did not see fit to execute you. You have nothing to say to us.”
Brutus glared back at him, but dropped his gaze under the combined stares of the men he had known. It did not matter, he told himself, though he was surprised how much they could still hurt him. He noted how they looked to Octavian in Julius’s absence. Perhaps it was something in the blood. He took a deep, angry breath and his right hand twitched in the sling before he gained control.
“I don’t think—” he began.
Octavian rounded on him. “If it were my choice, I would nail you to a cross on these docks. Do you think the men would object?”
Brutus did not have to consider it. He knew the answer very well indeed. “No, they’d love a chance at me. But you won’t let them, will you, boy? You’ll follow his orders even if it means everything you value is destroyed.”
“You can still try to justify what you did?” Octavian demanded. “There aren’t words enough. I don’t understand why he brought you here, but I will tell you this. If Julius expects you back as one of us, I won’t do it. The first time you ever try to give me an order, I’ll cut your throat.”
Brutus narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. “You’re brave now, boy, but bones heal. When they do . . .”
“I’ll do it now!” Octavian said, raging.
He surged at Brutus, and Regulus and Ciro grabbed hold of his arm as it came up with a blade. Brutus staggered back out of range.
“I wonder how you would explain killing me to Julius,” he said. His eyes were full of malice as the younger man struggled to reach him. “He can be cruel as well, Octavian. Perhaps that’s why he let me live.”
Octavian subsided as Ciro prized the knife from his hand.
“You think you’ll heal, Brutus?” he said. “What if I had the men take you somewhere quiet and smash your arm properly? They could shatter your hand so badly you’d never use a sword again.”
Octavian smiled as he saw a trace of fear in Brutus’s eyes.
“That would hurt you, wouldn’t it? You’d never ride a horse, or write your name, even. That would break the arrogance out of you at last.”
“Ah, you’re a noble man, Octavian,” Brutus said. “I wish I had your principles.”
Octavian went on, his hatred barely in check. “One more word out of you and I’ll do it. No one will stop me, not to save you. They know you deserve it. Go on, General. One more word.”
Brutus stared at him for a long time, then shook his head in disgust before turning and walking away from the group. Octavian nodded sharply, shaking with reaction. He hardly felt Domitius’s grip on his shoulder, steadying him.
“You shouldn’t let it show,” Domitius said softly, looking after the broken man he had once revered.
Octavian snorted. “I can’t help it. After all he’s done, he stands with us as if he has a right. I don’t know what Julius was thinking, bringing him here.”
“Neither do I,” Domitius replied. “It’s between them, though.”
Regulus hissed in a breath, making them all turn back to the sea. As the sun sank in the west, the galleys were moving, their great oars sweeping them in toward the dock.
Octavian looked at the others. “Until we know he is safe, I want the men in formation to repel an attack. Get spears ready. Domitius, have the extraordinarii stand back as foot reserves. They’re no good to us here.”
Caesar’s generals moved away quickly to give the orders, not thinking to question his right to command them. Octavian was left alone to watch the galleys sweep in.
The little port could not take all six of the ships that clustered around the bay. Two of them came in together and Octavian watched as one bank of oars withdrew, leaving the other to scull the final gap to the dock. In the gloom, he could hardly make out the details of the great corvus bridges that were sent crashing down. Crewmen carrying ropes thumped across them and then Octavian saw Julius on the wooden slope. He sagged in relief.
Julius raised an arm in formal greeting. “Are the men ready to board, General?” he called.
>
“They are, sir,” Octavian replied, smiling. Julius could still astonish him, he realized with amusement.
“Then get them on. There is no time to waste. The galleys carried his horses only two days ago—we have almost closed the gap.” He paused, feeling again the thrill of the hunt. “Tell them there are good stocks of food on board and they’ll move a little faster.”
Octavian saluted and walked over to the men he commanded. Julius would have noted the formations and ready spears, though he could hardly mention it with the galley crews in earshot. Octavian could not help but grin as he relayed the order to the centurions of the Fourth legion. Though there would be harder days of marching ahead, he felt a growing confidence. Pompey would not escape them.
The slow dawn brought the coast of Asia Minor into view, with sharp, gray-green mountains plunging into the sea. Geese called overhead, and pelicans floated high above the galleys, watching for silver shoals beneath the surface. The first touches of spring were in the air and the morning seemed full of promise.
It was a new land for all of them, farther east from Rome than Britain lay to the west. Asia Minor supplied the cedar that built galleys for Rome. Its figs, apricots, and nuts would pack the holds of merchant ships heading for home markets. It was a golden land, an ancient one, and somewhere in the north were the ruins of Troy. Julius remembered how he had bothered his tutors to be told the stories of that place. Alexander had been there and offered sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Julius ached to stand where the Greek king had stood.
He shivered in the spray from the bows as the oar slaves propelled them toward a tiny port.
“When I return to Rome after all this,” he said to Domitius, “I will have seen the ends of Roman land, both east and west. It makes me proud to be so far from home and still hear the speech of my city. To find our soldiers here, our laws and ships. Is it not wonderful?”
Domitius smiled at Julius’s enthusiasm, feeling it himself. Though the pursuit across Greece had been hard, a different mood was stealing through the legions. Perhaps it was the aftermath of Pharsalus, as they realized they had come to the end of their years of battle. The sight of Julius commanding the enemy galleys had made it a reality. They were no longer at war. Their task was merely to stamp out the last embers of Pompey’s rule. Those who had been with Julius from Spain and Gaul felt it most strongly of all. They clustered at the rails of the six galleys, laughing and talking with unaccustomed lightness.
Domitius glanced up to where Adàn had climbed the mast. Even so far above their heads, the Spaniard’s voice could be heard as he sang some ballad from his youth.
The quaestor of the tiny coastal port spoke excellent Latin, though he had grown up in sight of the local barracks. He was a short, dark man who bowed as Julius entered the dock buildings and did not rise until permission came.
“Consul,” he said. “You are welcome here.”
“How long since Pompey’s riders left this place?” Julius asked impatiently.
The little man did not hesitate and Julius realized Pompey had left no orders to stop the pursuit. He had not expected them to cross against his galleys. It gave Julius hope that Pompey might have slowed his pace.
“The Dictator left last night, Consul. Is your business urgent? I can have messengers sent south if you wish.”
Julius blinked in surprise. “No. I am hunting the man. I do not want him warned.”
The quaestor looked confused. In two days, he had seen more foreign soldiers than at any other point in his life. It would be a story for his children that he had spoken with not one but two of the masters of Rome.
“Then I wish you luck in the hunt, Consul,” he said.
CHAPTER 23
They sighted Pompey’s riders after four days of hard marching. They had made good time heading south, and when at last the scouts rode in with the news, Julius’s men let out a great cheer. It had been a long chase, but when the horns sounded and they formed ranks for an attack, they were ready to crush the enemy for the last time.
Pompey’s men heard the horns and Julius could only imagine the fear and consternation in their ranks. These were the same extraordinarii who had run at Pharsalus. To find themselves hunted in another country would be a terrible blow. They had been beaten once and Julius did not doubt his men could do it again. It gave him pleasure to outnumber Pompey’s small force, as he had been at Pharsalus. Let them know what it felt like to face so many warriors bent on their destruction.
In the distance, Julius saw the ranks of Roman horsemen wheel, turning to face the threat. It was a hopeless gesture, but he admired their courage. Perhaps they wished to wipe the slate clean for the rout they had suffered before. He saw them kick their mounts into a steady trot back toward the Tenth, and he showed his teeth in anticipation, looking for Pompey’s red cloak amongst them.
Along the ranks of the Tenth and Fourth, the legionaries readied spears. As the thunder of hooves came to them, they lifted their heads, swept up in savagery that was a little like joy.
“Go, sir, please! Let us hold them here,” the decurion, Casitas, shouted to Pompey.
The Dictator sat as if stunned. He had not spoken since the first appalling moment when Roman war horns had sounded behind. It was not a sound he had ever expected to hear again.
As he watched the legions from Pharsalus, Pompey mopped at a dark stain on his lips and considered riding with the last of his armies. It would be a grand gesture perhaps. The poets of Rome would write it into their ballads when they spoke of his life.
His vision blurred as his pain writhed inside him. He wore armor no longer, having none that could contain the swelling. It grew daily, pressing up into his lungs until it was hard to breathe. There were times when he would have given anything just to slip into the peaceful dark. He dreamed of an end to the agony and as he patted his horse’s neck he yearned to kick his mount into a last gallop.
“Sir! You can get clear. The coast is only a few miles farther south,” Casitas bellowed, trying to break through the stupor that held his commanding general.
Pompey blinked slowly, then Caesar’s legions seemed to sharpen in his vision and his wits returned. He looked across at the decurion. The man was desperate for Pompey to ride and his eyes pleaded.
“Do what you can,” Pompey said at last and somehow, over the noise of the horses, Casitas heard and nodded in relief. He called quick orders to those around him.
“Fall out, Quintus! Take Lucius and go with the consul. We will hold them as long as we can.”
The named riders pulled out of the formation to Pompey’s side. Pompey looked around him at the men who had come so far from home. The vagueness that had smothered his mind as the sickness worsened seemed to have lifted for a few precious moments.
“I have been well served by you all,” he called to them.
He turned his back and as he rode away he heard the order given to begin the advance that would end in a desperate blow against Caesar’s soldiers.
The sea was not too far away and there would be ships there to take him clear of Roman lands at last. He would lose himself where Rome had no authority and Julius could search for years without finding him.
Pompey patted the leather bag that was strapped to his saddle, taking comfort from the gold within. He would not be poor when he reached the ports of Egypt. They had healers there who would take away the pain at last.
The Tenth and Fourth launched their spears less than thirty feet from the charging line. The heavy shafts destroyed the first horses and hampered those behind as they found the way blocked. The veteran legions moved quickly forward, darting in to gut the milling horses and pull men down from saddles. They had fought cavalry in Gaul and had no fear of the stamping, rearing beasts.
Pompey’s riders did not give their lives easily and Julius was staggered at their recklessness. Even when it was hopeless, they fought on with grim despair. He could hardly believe they were the same soldiers he had seen fleeing the plain o
f Pharsalus.
The field was filled with guttural shouts and the hacking sound of metal cutting flesh. Julius’s own riders had moved to flank the single charge and began to batter them on all sides. They trampled purple flowers under the feet of their mounts, spattering the ground with strips of blood until they were numb with killing.
When Pompey’s men were reduced to less than a thousand, Julius signaled the cornicens to sound the disengage. His legions stepped back from piles of broken flesh, and in the lull he offered an end to it.
“What does it profit you to fight to the last?” he shouted to them.
One man in the armor of a decurion rode up and saluted, his face grim.
“It is not such a great thing, to die here,” Casitas said. “Our honor is restored.”
“I grant you all honor, Decurion. Accept my pardon and tell your men to stand down.”
Casitas smiled and shook his head. “It is not yours to offer,” he said, turning his horse away.
Julius gave him time to reach his companions before he sent the legions in once more. It took a long time to kill them all. When there were no more than a few weary men standing on the red field, he tried for peace a final time and was refused. The last man alive had lost his horse and still raised his sword as he was smashed from his feet.
The legionaries did not cheer the victory. They stood, bloody and panting, like dogs in the sun. The silence stretched across the field and there were many in the ranks who whispered prayers for the men they had faced.
Julius shook his head in awe at what he had witnessed. He barely noticed as the search began for the body of Pompey. When it was not found, Julius looked south, his face thoughtful.
“He did not deserve such loyalty,” he said. “Find me a clear spot to make a camp and rest. We will move on tomorrow when we have honored our Roman dead. Make no distinction between them. They were men of the same city.”