"They have surrendered, sir," he said. "As soon as Pompey left the field. It is over." He saluted and Julius saw he was trembling with reaction.
Julius sagged in his saddle, leaning forward with his head bowed. After a long moment, he drew himself straight and looked north. He could not let Pompey escape, but the fighting could erupt again at the slightest provocation unless he stayed with his legions. His duty was to remain on the plain and bring order, not to chase a beaten man. He knew it, but he hungered to call his extraordinarii back and ride Pompey down. He shook his head clear of the warring emotions.
"Disarm them all and begin taking the wounded back to Pompey's camp," he said. "Bring the generals to me and treat them with courtesy. They did well to surrender, but it will be hurting them. Make sure the men understand there will be no mistreatment. They are not enemies. They will be given every courtesy."
"Yes, sir," Octavian said. His voice shook slightly and Julius looked at him, smiling wryly at the worship in the younger man's bloodshot eyes.
"I will accept a new oath of loyalty from them, as consul of Rome. Tell them the war is over."
He could hardly believe it himself and he knew the reality would not sink in for hours or days. He had been fighting for as long as he could remember and it had all brought him to the plain of Pharsalus in the middle of Greece. It was enough.
"Sir, I saw Brutus fall," Octavian said.
Julius broke out of his reverie. "Where?" he snapped, ready to move.
"In the center, sir. He fought with Labienus."
"Take me there," Julius replied, urging his horse into a trot. A sick dread settled on him then. His hands shook slightly as he rode, though whether in reaction or fear, he could not have said.
The two riders passed through the lines of men already involved in the routines they knew so well. Piles of captured swords were being formed and water passed to those who had not drunk for hours. When the legions saw their general, cheering began and swelled until they were all shouting in relief and triumph.
Julius barely heard them, his eyes on a limp figure in silver armor being pulled from a pile of corpses. He felt tears sting his eyes as he dismounted. He could not speak. The men of the New Fourth legion stood back respectfully to give him room, and he went down on one knee to look into the face of his oldest friend.
There was blood everywhere and Brutus's skin was marble white against the stain. Julius took a cloth from his belt and reached out with it, gently wiping away the caked filth.
Brutus opened his eyes. With consciousness came pain and he groaned in agony. His cheek and mouth were swollen and deformed and blood trickled from his ear. His gaze seemed vacant as it swiveled toward Julius, then slowly a dim awareness returned. Brutus tried to lift himself, but the broken arm was useless. He fell back, crying out weakly. His lips moved over bloody teeth and Julius bent closer to hear him speak.
"Will you kill me now?" Brutus whispered.
"I won't," Julius said.
Brutus let out a long, shuddering breath. "Am I dying then?" he said.
Julius looked him over. "Perhaps. You deserve to."
"Pompey?"
"He ran. I'll find him," Julius replied.
Brutus tried to smile, a cough racking him with agony. Julius watched, his dark eyes colder than death.
"So we lost then," Brutus said weakly, trying to spit blood onto the ground. He didn't have the strength. "I was worried when I couldn't see you, before," he said. "I thought I was finished."
Julius shook his head in slow sadness. "What am I to do with you?" he murmured. "Did you think I didn't value you? Did you think I wouldn't miss having you in Rome? I didn't believe your mother when she told me. I told her you wouldn't betray me, not you. You hurt me then. You hurt me still."
Tears came into Brutus's eyes, screwed out by pain and misery. "Sometimes I just wanted to do something without the thought that the great Julius can do it better. Even when we were young, I wanted that." He stopped to let a spasm run its course, clenching his jaw. "Everything I am, I've made. I've struggled through things that would have broken weak bastards. While I flogged myself, you made everything seem easy. It was easy for you. You are the only man ever to make me feel I've had a wasted life."
Julius looked at the broken figure of the man he had known for too many years to remember. His voice broke as he spoke. "Why couldn't you have been happy for me?" he said. "Why betray me?"
"I wanted to be an equal," Brutus said, showing red teeth. Fresh pain made him gasp as he shifted. "I didn't expect Pompey to be such a fool." He looked up into Julius's cold gaze and knew his life, his fate was being decided while he lay helpless. "Can you forgive me even this?" Brutus murmured, raising his head. "Can I ask you for this last thing?"
Julius did not reply for so long that Brutus fell back, his eyes closing.
"If you live," Julius said at last, "I will let the past rest. Do you understand me? I will need you, Brutus."
He did not know if he had been heard. Brutus's battered face had paled even further and only the flutter of a vein in his throat showed he still lived. With great gentleness, Julius wiped his friend's mouth free of blood and pressed the cloth into the limp hand before standing.
He faced Octavian and saw the younger man's blank shock at what he had heard.
"Look after this one, Octavian. He is badly hurt."
Octavian closed his mouth slowly. "Sir, please…" he began.
"Let it go, lad. We've come too far together for anything else."
After a long moment, Octavian bowed his head.
"Yes, sir," he said.
CHAPTER 21
Pompey's camp crested a hill that overlooked the plain. Bare gray rock showed through green lichen like bones and the only sound came from the wind. At such a height, the gale was free to moan and howl around them as Julius made his way to the gates. He saw Pompey's camp workers had lit great torches, and streamers of black smoke reached over the plain below.
Julius paused to look down on Pharsalus. His generals were creating order on the battlefield, but from his vantage point Julius could see the line of bodies that marked where the armies had clashed. They lay where they had fallen. From so far away, it looked like a meandering scar on the land, a feature of the plain rather than a place of death. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and refastened the clasp that held it to him.
Pompey had chosen the site well for his stronghold. The path to the flat crest was narrow and overgrown in places as if even wild goats shunned the steepest trails. His horse picked its way carefully and Julius did not press the pace. He was still stunned at the new reality and his usual swift thought seemed to have been buried beneath a crushing weight of memory. All his life he had fought against enemies. He had defined himself in their shadow, saying that he was not Sulla, not Cato, not Pompey. It was a new world without them and there was fear in the freedom.
He wished he could have brought Cabera up to the fort on the hill. The old man would have understood how he could not exult in the moment. Perhaps it was just the wind and great height, but it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen. There was no sense in death. Men like Renius and Tubruk filled graves as long and wide as Cato or Sulla. In the end, all that was flesh would be ash.
Later, he would make offerings to the gods and give thanks, but as he made his way up he felt numb. Only hours before, he had faced a vast army and victory was still too fresh and raw to be real.
The great fort Pompey had built loomed over him as he grew closer. To know that every piece of it had been brought up from the lowlands was a testament to Roman ingenuity and strength. Julius had thought he would have it burnt, but as he reached the flat ground of the crest, he knew it should be left as a memorial to those who had died. It was fitting to leave them something on that bare landscape where even bloody dust soon vanished in the scouring wind. In a few days, when the legions had been sent away, the fort would be shelter for wild animals until age and dec
ay made it slump and fall.
The gates stood open as Julius rode toward them. A thousand of his Tenth had made the climb with him and he could hear them panting as he passed through the walls and looked over the neat order of Pompey's last camp.
Cooking pits and tents lay untended for as far as he could see. It was a lonely place and Julius shuddered to think how many of the men who had left it at dawn were now cold on the plain. Perhaps they had known they would surrender to him even then, but duty had held them until Pompey fled the field.
The old Senate of Rome formed silent lines on the main road through the camp, their heads bowed. Julius did not look at them, his eyes on the praetorium tent where Pompey had woken that morning. He dismounted in front of it and paused to untie the thongs that kept out the wind. His Tenth came forward to help him and two of them threw back the heavy leather, tying it securely as he strode into the gloom.
Julius looked around him, unnerved by the dark chamber and feeling as if he were an intruder. He waited as his men lit the lamps and braziers and flickering gold illuminated the interior. It was bitterly cold, and he shivered.
"Wait outside," he told them and in a moment he was alone. He brushed past a partition and saw Pompey's bed had been neatly made for his return. There was a sense of order to the place, no doubt the work of slaves after the army had gone. Julius picked up a clay bowl crusted with white paste from a table and sniffed at it. He opened a chest and looked quickly through the contents. He felt nervous, as if at any moment Pompey would come through the door and demand to know what he was doing.
Julius continued his examination of the Dictator's private belongings, finally shaking his head. He had hoped against reason that the seal ring of the Senate might have been left behind, but there was no sign of it and no reason for him to stay.
As he walked across the packed earth, his gaze fell on Pompey's desk and a packet of his private papers. On impulse, he reached out for the red silk that tied them and his fingers picked at the knot as he thought. He knew he should read them. The journal and letters would complete the picture of the man he had fought across Greece. They would reveal his mistakes as well as Julius's own, and his most private thoughts. Somewhere in the neat packet would be word of Brutus, the details Julius craved to know.
The crackle of flames from a brazier broke into his thoughts and he acted before his wandering mind could begin its arguments, lifting the package and dropping it whole onto the flames. Almost immediately he reached to pull it back, but then he mastered himself and stood watching as the red band charred and curled, browning slowly until flames leapt along the edges.
The smoke was not thick, but still it seemed to sting Julius's eyes as he walked back into the weak sunlight. He saw the thousand soldiers of the Tenth had formed up outside, and he took pride in their bearing. They would expect him to lead them back to Dyrrhachium, to negotiate with Pompey's Senate in a city rather than a battlefield. Part of him knew he should complete that work. There were a thousand things to do. The legions had to be paid, and with a start he realized he had assumed responsibility for the legions Pompey had led. They too would expect their silver on time, as well as food, equipment, and shelter. Pyres for the dead would have to be built.
Julius walked back to the edge of the hillcrest and looked into the far distance. Pompey was broken and there was no need to chase him further. It was true he carried a Senate ring, but from Rome Julius could send ships and letters denying his authority. The Dictator would be forced to take his straggling riders away from Roman lands and disappear.
Julius blew out a long breath into the wind. His legions had fought for years for this moment. They wanted to retire to the farms he had promised them, with silver and gold to build fine houses in the colonies. He had given them part of what they had earned in Gaul, but they deserved a thousand times more. They had given everything.
Julius saw Octavian walking his horse up the winding track. The younger man looked weary, though he tried to hide it under Julius's scrutiny. He arrived at the top with a new sheen of sweat on his face, smearing the dust of Pharsalus.
"Orders, sir?" Octavian said as he saluted.
Julius looked toward the horizon. He could see for miles and Greece had never seemed so vast and empty as from that height.
"I will stay for the funerals of the dead tonight, Octavian." He took a deep breath, feeling his own exhaustion in his bones. "Tomorrow I will go after Pompey. I'll need the extraordinarii, the Tenth, and the Fourth. I'll speak to the others and send them home."
Octavian followed his commander's gaze before replying. "They won't want to go back, sir," he said at last.
Julius turned to him. "I'll write letters to Mark Antony. They will be paid and those that want it can have the land I promised them. I'll make good my oath to all of them."
"No, sir, it's not that. They won't want to be sent back while you go on. I've heard them. Ciro even came to me to put in a word for him. They want to see it to the end."
Julius thought of the promise he had made to his daughter. Would she hate him if he killed Pompey? For an instant he imagined taking the Senate ring from Pompey's dead hand. Perhaps it would be enough to bring him peace. He did not know, but until he was able to stand before the Dictator it would never be over. Sulla had left Mithridates alive in this same land and Roman blood had been the price.
Julius rubbed his face roughly. He needed a bath and fresh clothes and something to eat. The body was always weak.
"I will speak to the men. Their loyalty…" He paused, unable to find words. "Rome must be kept safe and we stripped her bare to come here. I will take the Fourth and Tenth and the extraordinarii, no more. Tell Ciro to commission his senior tribune in his place. I'll take him with me. I suppose it is fitting that those who were on the Rubicon should see this out."
Julius smiled at the thought, but he saw Octavian's expression had hardened at his words.
"Brutus too, sir? What would you have me do with him?"
Julius's smile faded. "Bring him. Put him in one of the carts for provisions. He can heal on the way."
"Sir," Octavian began. He fell silent under Julius's eyes.
"He's been with me since the very beginning," Julius said softly, his words almost lost in the wind. "Let him come."
Brutus lay in darkness and pain. Under a full moon, the plain was a ghostly place of white shadow that barely reached the wounded in their tents. Brutus closed his eyes, wishing sleep would take him once more. His arm had been set and splinted and his ribs bound where they had cracked under the weight of dead men. The pain was worse when he tried to move, and the last time his swollen bladder forced him to sit up, the effort made him grind his teeth against screaming. The pot brimmed under his cot, growing dark and fetid. His mind still swam from the blows he had received and he had only a vague memory of speaking to Julius in the blood and filth after the battle. It burned worse than his wounds to think of it.
Someone nearby cried out in their sleep, making him jump. He wished he had the strength to stagger out of the stinking tent into the night air. He sweated constantly and when his thoughts were clear he knew he was running a fever. He croaked for water, but it did not come. At last, he slid away into blacker depths and peace.
He surfaced from unconsciousness with a moan, tugged from deathlike sleep by a rough hand on his arm. Fear made his heart race as he saw men standing around him. He knew them. Each one had been with him in Spain and Gaul. They had been brothers once, but now their expressions were cruel.
One of them reached down and pressed a small blade into his left hand.
"If you have any honor left, you should cut your throat with this," the man said, spitting the words.
Brutus passed out for a time, but when he woke again they were still there and the knife was tucked between his arm and his bandaged chest. Had it only been moments? It had seemed like hours, but none of the men had moved.
"If he won't do it, we should," one of the soldiers said in a
hoarse growl.
Another nodded and reached for the knife. Brutus swore and tried to writhe away from the probing fingers. He was too weak. Fear of dying in the stinking tent filled him and he tried to cry out, but his throat was too swollen and dry. He felt the knife pulled clear and winced in anticipation.
"Put it in his hand," he heard, and felt his lifeless fingers opened.
A new voice broke through his terror in the dark. "What are you men doing in here?"
He didn't recognize it, but they scattered and the newcomer shouted angrily as they shoved their way past him in the gloom. Brutus panted as he lay on his back, the little knife clutched unfelt in his hand. He heard footsteps approach and looked into the face of a centurion as he bent over him.
"I need a guard," Brutus whispered.
"I can't spare one for you," the centurion replied coldly.
Outside on the plain a rush of flame from the funeral pyres lit the night. The darkness of the tent lessened slightly and the centurion's gaze fell on a bowl of soup on a wooden stool. He picked it up and grimaced at the shining clots of phlegm that floated there.
"I'll get you some clean food and a clean pot to piss in," he said in disgust. "I can do that much for you."
"Thank you," Brutus said, closing his eyes against the pain.
"Don't thank me. I don't want anything from you," the man snapped.
Brutus could hear the outrage in his voice. He raised the knife without looking. "They left this," he said. He heard the centurion snort.
"You keep it. I heard what they were saying to you. Maybe they were right. Not by their hands, though, not on my watch. But maybe you should think about doing it yourself. It would be clean."
With a huge effort, Brutus threw the knife away from him, hearing it thump into the earth somewhere near. The centurion did not speak again and after a time he left.
The crackle of the pyres went on for hours and Brutus listened to the prayers before he slid into sleep once again.
The Gods of war e-4 Page 24
