The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,85

waver ahead of him as his cohorts slaughtered enemy legionaries behind the fighting front, driving them into their own ranks so they could not maintain the line of shields. He grunted in satisfaction as his men began to march forward once more, going faster.

Octavian almost killed the runner who touched him on the leg. He jerked his sword down and held the blow just in time. He cursed the unfortunate messenger for his foolishness.

‘What orders?’

‘Consul Hirtius has been killed, Praefectus. Consul Pansa is badly injured and is being withdrawn to the rear. You have command.’

Over the noise of thousands of men, Octavian could not be sure he had heard correctly.

‘What?’

The messenger repeated himself, shouting the words. Many of the soldiers around them heard, raising their heads.

Octavian looked up sharply. He could end it all. He had the men and the position to swing round and destroy Mark Antony’s legions. For an instant, he considered it, but the man had dealt fairly with him. Mark Antony had trusted him and he was not an enemy.

‘Sound the disengage!’ Octavian roared at the closest cornicens. They began to blow the single long note, the sound echoing down the lines. He waited, nodding as his horns were matched on the other side by the order to withdraw.

A space appeared between the two armies, though dying men fell into it. It widened, leaving a red line on the grassy plain. Hundreds of voices bellowed orders in Mark Antony’s legions as they too backed away, panting and desperate, unable to believe they would not be rushed.

‘Dismount, Agrippa. I need to be seen now,’ Octavian said.

His friend swung his leg up over the horse’s head and dropped to the ground, landing easily.

‘Form and dress ranks! Square formation!’ Octavian ordered, making his voice ring across the lines of his men. His men. Without Hirtius and Pansa, he was in sole command and Mark Antony’s battered forces looked small in comparison. He watched as eight legions completed the disengage, putting a hundred clear paces between the opposing ranks. By then, four of the legates had ridden across to him, their faces flushed and angry.

Octavian was pleased to see that none of his own generals had thought to question the order he had given. He turned to face the group as the closest man spoke.

‘Caesar, the enemy are in disarray. We have them!’ the man said.

Octavian looked at him coldly, seeing the legate’s barely hidden outrage.

‘These are legions of Rome, Legate,’ Octavian said. ‘My orders are to form squares in close formation. They will be allowed to march clear. Repeat your orders.’

The legate gaped at him, but he dipped his head.

‘Form square. Close formation. They will be allowed to retreat, Praefectus,’ he said.

‘Well done. Now, return to your legions and await further orders.’

The four legates were not used to being dismissed in such a way, but Octavian had given the clearest of commands. Stiffly formal, they could only salute and ride away, taking different paths to their own positions.

Octavian turned back, watching Mark Antony’s legions withdraw to the broken fortress and the pass that led into Gaul. He saw the man himself ride along the marching lines and then stop, looking back to where Octavian sat on Agrippa’s horse. For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, then Mark Antony turned his mount and moved on.

Mark Antony was no longer cold. The previous hour had been one of the worst of his life and he could still hardly believe he was being allowed to leave the battlefield. His legions were in a state of shock, unable to understand what they had witnessed. They knew they had lost the battle. It made no sense for an overwhelming force simply to watch them march clear. They knew by then that they had faced Caesar in battle and the talk was that he had showed them mercy.

As Mark Antony rode down the line, he reined in and stared back at the eight legions that had come north, still mostly intact. He could not see the bodies of the dead. They had not moved more than half a mile since the first barrage of spears and bolts and the corpses were hidden by the standing ranks. Mark Antony looked for Octavian among the mounted men. There was one in particular who might have been him, but he could not be certain. The letter crackled under his breastplate and Mark Antony almost reached for it and read it again, though he had done