The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,80

my signal and then smash the thing down around his ears.’

The legate saluted and hurried back to the waiting catapult teams, pleased to be moving. Mark Antony turned his horse, viewing the waiting legions with a stern eye. They were ready to rush in once the gates were broken and he found no fault with them. There had been no hint of disloyalty facing this particular enemy. He recalled that Caesar had once warned him never to give an order the legions would not obey. There was insight there, but he did not enjoy it. He knew there would be times when he sent his men against enemies they did not approve of and he could not risk them failing, as Buccio and Liburnius had failed. As the wind moaned past him from the mountains, Mark Antony licked his chapped lips and wondered how he could restore their discipline to unthinking obedience.

No formal response came from the fortress, not that he had really expected one. Mark Antony waited as the pale sun moved behind clouds in the sky. By then the chill had numbed him so deeply that he could not feel his hands or feet.

‘Enough of this,’ he said to a cornicen, his teeth chattering. ‘Blow two short notes.’

The sound rang out and the response came quickly. Small rocks launched from torsion weapons, driven by twisted ropes of horsehair three times the thickness of a man’s leg. Mark Antony could hear the teams roar as they beat the larger catapult to the first shot, but when it launched, the echoing thump of the beam silenced them. Twenty thousand men watched the huge stone fly on a shallow arc, soaring towards the fortress gates. With no resistance from within, they had been able to take their time placing the weapons. All the shots flew true, hitting the central gate one after the other. There was an explosion of splinters and dust and Mark Antony knew from the cheering that a gap had appeared in the defences. He squinted through the biting wind, his vision far better over distance than it was reading messages. The torsion weapons were wound once again by the teams, the only ones warm that morning on the plain. The catapult too began to come up, drawn peg by peg against the massive strength of the beam itself and great iron spars that bent like a bow. Mark Antony gripped his cloak tighter around his throat, twitching the folds of red cloth with his free hand so it covered his thighs and part of the horse’s flank. The animal snorted at the contact and he patted it, waiting.

He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye even as the heavy machines punched rocks into the air once more. His men shouted in excitement, but his own pleasure turned to bitter worry as he saw one of his riders come galloping across the white plain. Mark Antony had them out in two rings, ten and twenty miles from his position. He was not surprised to see the man panting after such a ride.

‘Legions sighted, Consul,’ the rider said.

‘You know how to report!’ Mark Antony snapped.

The young rider looked stricken, but he collected himself quickly.

‘Discens Petronius reporting, Consul!’

‘Report,’ Mark Antony went on, glowering at him.

‘Legions sighted, Consul, marching north. A large force, with auxiliaries and extraordinarii.’

Mark Antony tapped his fingers on the saddle horn, considering his choices.

‘Very well, Discens Petronius,’ he said. ‘Return to your position.’

He watched the young man ride away, his mind whirling like the frost the wind kept flinging against his skin. It could only be Octavian. All the plans Mark Antony had made were collapsing into dust. He could not hold the north for a single winter, not against a force at least equal to his own. That was if his men would fight at all, once they learned who they faced.

He paused for a moment, reflecting. His hand came up and patted his chest, where a crumpled letter lay in a pocket. He’d read it many times, in disbelief and dread. With a muttered curse, he realised his choices had narrowed to just one. No matter what else happened, he had to open the pass to Gaul. He looked up, his eyes as cold as the mountains as he stared at the fortress in his way.

Mark Antony raised his arm and dropped it, the signal for which his legions had been waiting. They surged forward, heading to the broken gates past catapult teams