The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,82

through a tension that built with every step.

Maecenas unsheathed a spatha sword on his left, longer than the usual gladius so he could cut down from the height of a horse. The Roman noble wore a breastplate that was perfectly smooth and polished to a high gleam. When Agrippa had mocked him for the way it caught the sun, Maecenas had only smiled. The gorgeous filigree and decoration favoured by senior officers made it easier for a sword tip to snag and then punch through. Agrippa had found himself a set of lorica armour, so that he clanked as he rode. They stayed close to Octavian and both men understood their role in the fighting to come. They knew Hirtius had hamstrung him, forcing him to accept the man’s consular authority. They would protect him, above all else.

Octavian looked for Mark Antony in the lines across the plain but could not see him. The man would be back in the third rank on his right wing, just as Hirtius and Pansa had chosen. It meant Octavian would be riding straight at his position. He did not yet know what he would do if he saw Mark Antony hard-pressed. Plans and stratagems swirled in his mind, but too much depended on the actions of others and Mark Antony in particular. The man had to trust him.

Octavian clenched his fists on the hilt of his own spatha sword, taking comfort from the weight and swinging it lightly through the air to warm his shoulder. He felt strong as he tied the reins to the high saddle pommel and drew up a long shield from where it bumped along behind his leg. From four hundred and forty paces, he would guide his horse with his knees alone.

At three hundred paces or less, the legions with Mark Antony remained still. By then, both sides could read the symbols held high by signifers next to the Roman eagles. Octavian wondered how they would react to the sight of the Fourth Ferrata coming at them, men they had known well in Brundisium. How many of them would realise they were facing Caesar in battle? With legions bearing down on them, Mark Antony’s men had no choice but to fight. On his own, he might have halted and let them see, perhaps even sent a messenger across to demand their surrender.

Octavian looked right to see if the consuls were reacting in any way, but no new orders came down the line. He bit his lip, feeling his bladder grow tight. Mark Antony did not want his men to rush ahead of the opening to the pass. He had positioned them with a clear line of retreat. That was useful information and if Octavian had been free, he knew he would have detached a thousand to threaten a block across the pass, forcing Mark Antony to respond. Yet the consuls only came on, closing the gap step by step.

At a hundred paces, horns sounded on both sides and the scorpion bows lurched on their stands, their bolts snapping out too fast for the eye to see. They ripped into the lines of legionaries, punching down files of men who never knew what had killed them. The only response was to move in fast before the teams could reload. Octavian kicked his horse into a trot to match the sudden lurch in pace. As well as Maecenas and Agrippa, a diamond formation of heavily armoured men jogged with him, their task to protect the senior officer at the heart. His horse would mark him as a target from the first moments, but like the legates and tribunes of the eight legions, he needed the height to see. The legionaries in the ranks jogged smoothly, holding heavy spears low and ready for the first cast along a line that stretched for more than a mile.

When it came, Octavian had to struggle not to flinch. On both sides, thousands of men let out an explosive grunt as they heaved the spears up and immediately passed another from left hand to right. There were few among them who could guide the path, but they counted on speed and force over accuracy to smash an opponent’s charge even as it began. Some fell on the scorpion teams, spearing them and then plunging into the ground so that the helpless, screaming men were held upright as they died.

Octavian raised his shield, staring as the air before him seemed to fill with whirring black stripes.