The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,84

Through the horses, he could see milling men fighting and shouting in a red-faced combination of terror and rage.

He wiped blood from his face, wondering where his shield had gone. The horses on either side made a strange corridor, where enemies could come only one at a time. His arms felt leaden already, his hearing half gone with the constant crashing on all sides. Gods, he could not see Mark Antony! The men behind still roared and pushed, so that he was buffeted forward and the two horsemen cursed. He heard Maecenas yell, either in fury or pain, he could not tell which. The light seemed too bright and Octavian found himself wet with sweat. He began to fear he would collapse, his heart racing so hard that it made him dizzy. His foot turned on a body and he staggered into Agrippa’s mount, feeling the heat from the horse’s skin. The men behind would not stop if he fell. They did not like walking over the fallen, as many of them could still stab in their last breaths. Each rank would be likely to plunge a sword into him until he was just a bloody, ragged thing, lost somewhere on the field of battle.

‘Agrippa! Pull me up, you big sod. I have to see!’ he shouted.

His friend heard and reached down with his shield strapped to his forearm. Octavian scrambled up behind him, hiding his relief. He had come close to panic on the ground and yet his heart was settling and the light had dimmed enough for him to make out the forces he faced.

The sun had moved. Somehow, his moments down by the snorting, stamping horses and men had taken longer than he had thought. He shook his head to clear it. The lines he faced had thinned to no more than four ranks deep, while the main force battered the right wing. In that first glimpse, Octavian had a sense that the ranks ahead were only holding, jamming their shields into the earth and linking them in an unbroken wall.

‘Slow advance! Slow there!’ Octavian ordered.

Gods, Hirtius could hardly object to marching orders. The command was echoed by centurions and optios back down the line, so that the press from behind eased. Still the first two ranks clashed, stabbing and cursing as they jammed their own shields into the churned mud and fought on around them.

Octavian caught sight of Mark Antony on his horse, shouting and pointing to send in different units and shore up the lines. Octavian knew he had to support the right flank. He formed the order in his head to have two or three cohorts cut across to protect the consuls, but he did not give it. A moment passed, then another, as his own advance slowed and came to a stop. The lines of linked shields ahead presented a solid obstacle, but he knew he could flank them. He had entire legions at his command to swing out and cut in from the sides, enveloping the soldiers of Mark Antony. He kept his mouth shut.

Maecenas looked over to him, a brief glance away from the danger of spears and sudden thrusts. Mark Antony was risking everything to attack the right wing of eight legions. It was an insane gamble and it meant his entire force could be turned on the other side, rolled up until he was surrounded. His destruction lay in a few orders, but Octavian only stared and waited.

‘Caesar?’ Maecenas shouted. ‘We can flank them here!’

Octavian tensed his jaw.

‘Send to consul Hirtius for new orders,’ he snapped.

Maecenas stared, but he turned quickly, whistling to a runner then leaning low in the saddle to give quick instructions. The man hared off between the ranks.

Octavian leaned past Agrippa’s shoulder to observe the locked battle ahead. The plain was open to his left and, even without orders, his legion had begun to swell past the fighting front, driven by the press from behind. Octavian nodded, making his decision. He could not let Mark Antony win the day.

‘Seventh Victrix! Seventh Victrix!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Cohorts One to Four saw left and flank! Double speed! Flank!’

Men who had wondered at his silence cheered raucously. Their cramped ranks eased as two thousand men marched left and out of the main press, widening their line and coming around the heaving battle at the front.

The effect could be felt immediately as Octavian’s men jogged in, striking the exposed sides of soldiers still pressing forward. Octavian felt the block