The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,140

men while their eyes followed Brutus. They looked for just a word or a nod of approval from him, while Cassius stood forgotten. As he belched again, Cassius thought sourly of the way the legions had cheered Brutus’ wife as she left for the coast.

He wondered if he should have made more of an issue about commanding the right wing. The legions tended to accept the commander of that position as the man in charge and Brutus had drawn up his legions on the wide ridge without bothering to consult his colleague. They would face the worst of the fighting there, Cassius had no doubt, yet the men seemed pleased and honoured even so.

He kept all sign of unease from his expression as he mounted and rode along the ridge of Philippi, projecting, at least to his own mind, a mood of goodwill and confidence to anyone who saw him. To his left, birds wheeled and dived for insects above the marshes, while ahead the huge ripple in the land tapered down to the western plain. It was there that he and Brutus had positioned their legions to await the enemy. Cassius could only nod to himself as he trotted his horse through the Syrian legions he commanded. They were in the process of eating and he saw men stiffen and salute when they saw him. Hundreds more upset their wooden plates as they scrambled up. He waved them back to their food with only half his attention, trying to think of anything that could still be improved.

‘This is a good place to stand,’ he murmured to himself. He knew Philip of Macedon had chosen the spot to hold off hordes of Thracian tribesmen, but as far as Cassius knew, the walled town had never been attacked. No blood had ever been shed into the marshes of Philippi or the dry ground above it. That would change, he thought, with mingled satisfaction and dread. The very best of Rome would bleed and die on the land he could see all around him. There was no help for it, not any longer.

As he rode, he reached a group of legionaries sitting in the shade of an olive tree ancient enough to have been planted by Philip himself. They saw him approach and rose to their feet before he could wave them down.

‘We’re ready, sir,’ one of them called as he passed.

Cassius inclined his head in response. He knew they were ready. They all were. They had done everything they could and all he needed now was for men like Mark Antony and Caesar to overreach themselves, to believe just a little too much in their own abilities, then break their backs against the best fortified position he had ever known.

Octavian squinted up at the sun, his head aching in a steady thump that seemed to mimic his heartbeat. He had grown used to thirst during the previous eight days, accepting that he had it easier on horseback than the legions marching east. They had to wait for a formal stop before they could line up to refill the lead flasks with water. The most experienced of them drank sparingly, judging the time between stops so that they would have just a little left at each one.

They had marched a solid twenty miles from the coast on the first day and almost twenty-four on the second. That had remained their average pace, as the legions found their stride and muscles strengthened. It was a favourite activity amongst the men to while away the days, taking the length of their pace as three feet, then multiplying the number of paces and counting off the miles as they went. Even without maps, legions had a pretty good idea of how far they’d come at any time.

As they stopped at noon, Octavian found a spot in the shade of a tree by the road and wiped sweat from his face. He considered his own polished iron bottle, soldered with tin and bound in a strap of brass. He knew he should get it refilled, but he could still taste the metal in his mouth and the thought of more of that blood-warm water made him nauseous. It would be hours until the next stop and he either had to get up and fill the thing from the barrels trundling along behind the legions or call someone else to do it for him. Neither appealed. The water-carriers would be along in a moment, he told himself.