The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,86
so a hundred times before. It was a simple message, brought to him by an extraordinarii rider three days before.
If we meet in battle, the consuls will stand on the right. If they fall, the battle is over, on my honour. Keep the messenger.
It was sealed with a symbol Mark Antony knew well. He had not wanted to gamble with the lives of his men. Until he had seen the size of the army come to face him, he had intended to ignore the message. His heart had been in his mouth for the entire attack, spending the lives of loyal soldiers in a wild surge against the right wing, without defence or a second plan. Yet it had worked. His veterans had overwhelmed legionaries, lictors and guards, smashing through the first two ranks with massive numbers brought to bear on a single point. Mark Antony had lost hundreds of men in that single attack. It should have been suicide and he had not been able to shake the sense that Octavian had manoeuvred him to his own destruction. Yet when the consuls fell, the battle came to a shuddering halt.
His men re-formed in squares, moving steadily towards the broken fort and the pass that led to Gaul and freedom. Mark Antony smiled suddenly as a thought struck him. He was the only consul of Rome once again and it would be weeks before the Senate even heard of the reverse in their fortunes. He had thrown the coin Octavian had given him, but it had come down on the right side.
As his legions began to march up the pass, Mark Antony summoned the closest extraordinarii rider.
‘Petronius, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Consul,’ the young man replied.
‘Go back and find … Caesar,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Tell him I am in his debt.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Octavian felt his head dipping again as tiredness overwhelmed him. It was true that fighting wearied a man more than any other activity, and he was not alone, the yawns going back and forth among the legates who had gathered in the command tent on the plain. The wind still howled outside, but iron braziers gave some semblance of warmth and wine kept the rest of the chill away. The legionaries did not have the luxury of rest, as he had ordered a rampart built around their massive camp before dark. It had gone up quickly, thousands of men making short work of the stony ground with their spades. Even so, Octavian was determined to move the legions south the following day, away from the mountain chill and back to the soft breezes of a northern summer.
The mood among the men was also warm and Octavian smiled to himself as he heard Maecenas laughing at something one of the legates had said. He lay on piled blankets, with more rolled under his head to form a cushion. A platter of cold food was at his elbow and camp servants stood close by to refill his cup whenever it was empty. Octavian ached in every bone and muscle, but it was a good ache and nothing like the threat of collapse he had feared in the battle.
From half-closed eyes, Octavian watched the group of four legates Hirtius and Pansa had brought north. They stood together uncomfortably, though he had told the rest to make them welcome. He had congratulated them on the victory, but there was more to do before they realised they were now a part of his army and not simply on loan from the Senate. He rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up rather than drift off to sleep in the warmth. Their men had fought with Caesar, whether the legates realised the significance of that or not. They were his to command after that day. The continuing power of the name still astounded him, but he had learned to accept its magic. Rome may once have belonged to the Senate and the great orators, but Julius Caesar had made the legions his own.
As he stood, Maecenas and Agrippa cheered him and Octavian grinned at them.
‘He rises!’ Maecenas said, passing him another cup. ‘I was just telling Paulinius here that we could do more with archers. Did you see the arrows fly today? Mark Antony has a unit of Syrian bowmen who made a fine showing.’
Octavian had not seen that particular action and he only shook his head. He realised they were all watching him closely, waiting for him to speak.