The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,81

who lounged on their weapons, their work done.

As they poured in, he heard the first clashes and screams echoing back from the hills above. He looked to his left, though the wind made him narrow his eyes to slits. Somewhere out there, a young Roman held Mark Antony’s future in his hands. He looked across the fort, to where the pass wandered up through the mountains before disappearing into the whiteness above.

‘Mars protect me,’ he murmured. Every instinct told him that fleeing would see him destroyed. Gnaeus Pompey had run the length of the world, but Caesar still caught him. Mark Antony knew he could send the auxiliaries and camp followers through the pass and win them time to get clear. At least his wife and children would be safe for a while longer.

‘Julius protect me,’ he whispered into the wind. ‘If you can see me now, old friend, I could use a little help.’

Octavian seethed as he rode, matching the pace of the legions. With so many men around him, he could not speak to Agrippa or Maecenas, but simply had to carry out the orders he had been given. Hirtius had placed him on the left wing, in the first of two lines of four legions. Legates Silva and Liburnius rode with him, the fairest choice he could make, while Buccio and Paulinius held station in the second line. Yet the formation ignored their superior numbers. The consuls had made the sort of Roman hammer that had failed so spectacularly against Hannibal three hundred years before. Octavian looked right to where the consuls rode in splendid cloaks and armour in the third rank. He could see them as distant spots of white and red, their lictors mounted to keep up with them. It was also the sort of deep formation that showed little trust in the men they commanded, which would hardly be lost on veteran legions. Those in the front ranks would feel their colleagues breathing down their necks the whole way, with everything that implied.

Octavian made a tunnel with his hands to focus his vision far away, an old scout trick. Through the moving circle he could see the mountains and Mark Antony’s legions like busy ants at their foot. They were forming lines as well, though less deep, so they could command a wider stretch of ground. Octavian glanced at the cornicen, but he could not give orders. Hirtius and Pansa were in command and the consuls had made themselves very clear. Octavian’s formal rank of praefectus was just an empty honour, at least for that battle. Octavian clenched his teeth until they ached.

The legions tramped on and as the sun reached the noon point, they were less than a mile from the ranks waiting for them. Octavian could see the remains of a fort across the pass, reduced to broken beams and rubble by thousands of willing hands. He had studied the maps Hirtius and Pansa carried and he knew the pass led through to southern Gaul, where the summer was still warm. When he was close enough to make out individual figures, he spotted a trail of carts winding into the mountains, away from the plain. Once more, he looked right to where Hirtius and Pansa sat in their ornate armour. It was possible they wanted Mark Antony to keep an escape route open, but if so, they had not shared it with their subordinates.

For the first time in his life, Octavian understood the terrifying reality of facing standing legions on a flat plain. Mark Antony had been given time to assemble his scorpion bows, weapons the size of carts that could send an iron bolt right through half a dozen legionaries. Octavian had made his plans, but they took him only so far. A single spear-thrust could put an end to all his hopes.

The temperature of the air had dropped in the wind coming off the hills and he shivered as he rode with his rank. All around him, legionaries were readying the heavy spears that would land the first blow. They would not draw swords until the first three waves had been heaved into the air, but unstrapping the wooden shafts with their iron tips brought that moment closer. The pace increased unconsciously and the centurions had to bellow to hold them steady. They strained forward as they marched and still Octavian could give no orders. He leaned in his saddle, wanting the clash to come rather than suffer any longer