Julius strode into his tent and threw down his helmet and sword with a clatter, before sitting at his map table. He rested his head on his hands for a moment and considered the events of the night. He had been terrified when he felt Pompey’s gaze on him from across the camp, but there was no shame in being afraid, only in what followed. Men could still stand while they sweated in fear. They could resist pain and exhaustion and weakness. They could beat it all down inside and stand their line. That was Rome’s strength and his men knew it as well as he did. Yet somehow the Third had run.
Approaching steps made him straighten in his seat and he took a deep breath as Ciro made it first into his presence. Regulus, Octavian and Domitius were close behind and Julius watched Domitius without expression as he came to stand before him. Had he too lost his courage that night?
Under the black smears, Domitius looked exhausted. He removed his sword and laid it on Julius’ table.
‘Sir, I ask to be relieved of command,’ he said. Julius did not reply and Domitius swallowed. ‘I … could not reach the position in time, sir. There is no excuse. I will resign my commission and return to Rome.’
‘If our enemies were led by a man who knew how to win, I would be dead,’ Julius said softly.
Domitius stared straight ahead in silence.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Julius said.
Domitius took a deep breath that shuddered out of him. ‘We found a river too deep to get across, sir. I saw the arrow signal while I was still on the wrong bank. By the time we had found a fording place, Pompey’s legions had answered the horns and it was too late. I could still have attacked then. It was my choice alone that I did not. We recrossed the river and made our way back here.’ He did not say that to have attacked Pompey’s legions would have been suicide. His orders had not allowed him to make the decision.
Julius drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Did you see why Pompey halted the attack?’
‘I saw him talk to his officers, but they were too far away,’ Domitius replied, ashamed not even to be able to provide this small piece of information.
‘I have not yet decided your fate, Domitius. Leave me and summon the Third before my tent. Have my Tenth march prisoner escort to them.’
Domitius saluted, his raised hand trembling. Julius waited until he had left before speaking again.
‘I never thought I would see a legion of mine run in fear,’ he said. He looked up at his generals and they could not meet his gaze. ‘I held the legion standard and they ignored it. They went past me.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘I left it there for Pompey. He has their honour, he might as well have their flag.’
They all heard the shouts and tramp of feet as the Tenth and Third gathered. Julius sat looking at nothing while his generals waited. The defeat seemed to have aged him and when he stood at last his eyes were blank and tired.
‘Take your places, gentlemen. The day must run its course,’ he said, gesturing outside. Without a word, they left the tent and he followed them into the pale sun.
The Third legion stood in silent ranks on the frozen ground. Many still bore the marks of the soot they had used on their faces, though most had taken a wet cloth and removed the worst of it. They carried their shields and swords and stood like men waiting for execution, with fear in every eye.
At their backs stood the Tenth; older and harder men. Julius remembered a time when some of them had run in the battles against Spartacus. He wondered if any of them were thinking back to that bloody day when Pompey himself had ordered the decimation of their ranks. The soldiers marked by the count had been beaten to death by the fists of their closest friends. It had been the most brutal thing Julius had ever witnessed at that time, yet out of it he had formed the Tenth and given them a name to record the deed.
The Third legion waited in silence for him to speak. A cold breeze blew through their ranks as Julius walked to his horse and mounted.
‘You have fought with me in Gaul. Shall I name the tribes, the battles? The Helvetii, the Suebi, the Belgae, Nervii, more? You fought with me at Gergovia, Alesia, against Vercingetorix and in Britain. You were with me when I pardoned the men of Corfinium. You took Dyrrhachium with me here.’
He paused, closing his eyes for a moment in disgust.
‘You left your honour on the field when you ran. All that you have been before was made ashes last night. You dishonoured and shamed me and I never thought I’d see that. Not from you. Only my Tenth have been longer at my side.’
From the height of his mount, he could see right across the gathered ranks. They stared ahead without daring to look at him, but he saw some of them were shaking with humiliation as if he were a father lecturing repentant sons. He shook his head and stared into nothing for a long time.
‘Your lives are forfeit,’ he said harshly, forcing himself on. ‘There can be only one payment for cowardice.’
Octavian had mounted his own horse and trotted along the silent lines towards Julius. When he was close, he leaned forward and spoke for Julius alone. ‘Sir, the Tenth are undermanned. Let them choose the best of them.’
Julius turned red-rimmed eyes on his younger relative and after a time he nodded. He raised his head to speak once more to the Third.
‘I have no sons. I have never needed them while I have known you. Let it be over between us. We have come far enough.’ He cleared his throat and threw his voice as far as he could. ‘My Tenth are short of men. They will walk among you and some will swell their ranks. The rest of you will be decimated. The survivors will fill the places of the dead in my loyal legions. I have no use for you now.’
A low murmur of agonised fear came from the ranks of the Third. No one moved from their position. Julius could hear the pleading note in their voices and he hardened himself to it.
‘Tenth legion! Stand forward and take the best of them. You will oversee what comes after.’
He watched as the centurions of his Tenth moved out amongst them. He was exhausted and despair filled him. They had lost hundreds of men the night before to death or capture. Yet there were still more than three thousand of a veteran legion remaining. He could not disband them so far from Rome. They would be forced to prey on the villages and towns of Greece just to survive. He would be releasing a plague on Roman citizens that would eventually have to be hunted down and killed. He had no choice but to mark the day in their blood. They had run.
The officers of the Tenth indicated their choices with a brief touch on the shoulder. Each man chosen seemed to crumple slightly, as if he could not believe what was happening. They left gaps in the lines as they walked back to the Tenth and humiliation and relief rode them in equal measure.
As the process continued, Julius shot a suspicious glance at Octavian and found his general already watching him. The younger man was stiff with tension and when Julius opened his mouth to interrupt the choosing, he saw Octavian shake his head minutely, his eyes begging. Julius resumed his gaze over the legions and said nothing.
The chosen men re-formed as a third group standing by the Tenth and it was soon clear that the officers had interpreted Julius’ orders to suit them. Julius guessed Octavian was behind the idea and he could only watch as every single man of the Third was tapped on the shoulder and marched over to the new position. They had left no one behind and Julius saw the beginnings of hope on the faces of the Third as they understood. The pressure of Octavian’s gaze was relentless.
Julius beckoned Octavian over to him. When he was close enough, Julius leaned towards him, his voice low. ‘What have you done?’ he murmured.
‘Their lives belong to the Tenth now,’ Octavian replied. ‘Please. Let it stand.’
‘You undermine me,’ Julius said. ‘Would you have them go unpunished?’
‘The Third are gone, sir. These men are yours again. They will not forget the chance if you grant it to them.’
Julius stared at Octavian, seeing again how far he had come from the boy Julius had known. The warrior and gen
eral before him had outgrown his youth. Julius knew he had been manipulated, but he took an odd pride in seeing it from his own blood.
‘They are yours, then, General. Domitius will lead the Tenth.’
Octavian shifted in his saddle. ‘You are honouring him?’ he said.
Julius nodded. ‘It seems I can still surprise you. It is the only choice now. This “new” legion will fight well for you, as the man who saved them. If I let Domitius command any lesser men than my own Tenth, he will lose face and that will eat at his discipline. This will show I do not hold him to account for the failure.’ He paused, thinking. ‘In fact, I do not. I should have allowed for delays and arranged for a different system of signals. Too late now, but the responsibility is my own as well.’
He saw Octavian relax as he realised his scheme to save the Third would not be overturned. He had presented Julius with the choice of humiliating both Octavian and the Tenth, or making the best of it. The cleverness of it appealed to Julius as it would have to no other Roman commander.
‘Have you a name for them?’ Julius asked.
Had Octavian thought that far ahead? It seemed he had, as the younger man answered immediately.
‘They will be the Fourth Greek legion.’
‘There is already one of that name,’ Julius replied coldly. ‘They are the ones we fought last night. Labienus commands them.’
‘I know it. When they next meet in battle, they will fight all the harder to earn the right to keep it,’ Octavian said.
Despite his experience, he searched Julius’ face for approval and in response Julius reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but if they ever run again, I will crucify them to the last man. I will not save you from their punishment, Octavian. Do you still want to lead them?’
Octavian did not hesitate. ‘I do, sir,’ he said, saluting. He took up his reins and trotted back to the lines, leaving Julius alone.
‘My Tenth have bought new honour for you,’ Julius said, his voice ringing over them. ‘If they can see your worth, I will not refuse them this. The Third are no more and their name will be removed from the Senate rolls in Rome on our return. I cannot give you back your history. I can only offer a new start and a new name. You will be the Fourth Greek legion. You know that name from the men we faced last night. We will take it from them, and when we meet in war we will take back our honour with it.’
The soldiers who had been freed raised their heads in relief. Many of them shook with the power of their deliverance and Julius was satisfied he had made the right choice.
‘General Domitius is free of blame and will command the Tenth to show the honour I place in him. General Octavian has asked to be given the new Fourth and I have accepted. Remember that your lives have come from the honour of my Tenth and you carry that honour with you. Do not shame them.’
He swept his gaze over the thousands before him and felt that some of the shame of the previous night had indeed been washed away. He knew now that Pompey had lost his courage. He could be beaten.
Labienus stood still on the training yard at Dyrrhachium. More than two hundred of Caesar’s Third legion were on their knees in the red dust, their hands bound behind them. The wind whipped across the yard, coating them in grit so that they were forced to lower their heads and blink out the stinging grains.
Labienus was still furious with the man who watched the proceedings from the back of a fine Spanish gelding. He knew his duty, however, and he would not hesitate to give the order for the execution to begin. A dozen officers were under guard in another barracks and would be tortured for information. The rest were simply an example to be made.
Labienus glanced at Pompey, waiting for his nod. He could not escape the feeling that the three legions Pompey had assembled hardly needed to see more Roman blood. They had witnessed enough of their own being shed to learn anything new from the process. This was not for them, he thought. This was for Pompey. Perhaps there was a part of the old man who knew what a fool he had been in holding back the extraordinarii the night before. Labienus had sent out his trackers at dawn and they had found no sign of any larger force. Labienus knew the information would seep out and morale would sink even lower.
As Pompey met his eyes, Labienus realised he had been staring and saluted hurriedly to cover his embarrassment. Pompey looked as if the stiff breeze could blow him down and his skin was taut and yellow across his bones. Labienus thought he was dying, but until the Senate revoked his Dictatorship, he had the power of life and death over them all.
Pompey nodded sharply and Labienus turned to the five men who had been chosen for the task. He could see they did not relish it, though he had picked the most brutal killers under his command.
‘Begin,’ Labienus said.
Four of them walked forward, their knives held ready, but the fifth hesitated.
‘Sir, these are Roman. It’s not right.’
‘Stand still,’ Labienus snapped at him. ‘Centurion! Come to me!’
The soldier shook his head in terror as his officer approached. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I only meant …’
Labienus ignored him. The centurion who had come at his order was pale and sweating, he saw.
‘This man has refused my order. He will join the others,’ Labienus said.
The soldier opened his mouth to cry out and the centurion struck him hard with his fist before he could add to the shame he had brought to his legion. Two more crashing punches forced the dazed soldier to his knees and Labienus watched dispassionately as he was disarmed and trussed at the end of the line of prisoners. They did not look at him.
Labienus expelled a slow breath, stilling his racing pulse. Pompey had witnessed the incident, but it seemed he chose to ignore it. Labienus clenched his fists behind his back, trying not to show the tension he felt. In calmer days, he might have had the man whipped for insolence, but Pompey was capable of executing the entire century for the idiocy of one man. That had been averted at least and Labienus offered up a silent prayer to see him through the day.
The four remaining men of the execution party went to work with swift efficiency. They walked behind the kneeling prisoners with knives reaching to encircle their throats. One quick jerk and then a shove to send dying men onto their faces and they moved on. The dust grew darker with blood until the ground was full and could take no more. Then lines of it moved sluggishly out in twisting branches, like a red tree drawn on the ground.
Pompey waited until the last of the prisoners fell twitching before he summoned Labienus to his side.
‘The Senate have demanded a meeting with me, General. It is strange that they should ask so soon after the events of last night, is it not? I wonder if there is someone amongst your ranks who could be passing information to them?’
Labienus met his stare without daring to blink. He thought of the letter he had written and left unsigned, but no sign of guilt showed in his face. It was done and he could not regret it.
‘Impossible, sir. They have been under my eye ever since we came back.’
Pompey grunted and shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is just to confirm my Dictatorship then. It is due for renewal in two days, though it is just a formality. Your men must return to work on the walls, General. As soon as these bodies have been burnt.’
Labienus watched Pompey leave the parade ground and wished he could be present to hear what the Senate would say to him. He suspected the future would be shaped by it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘My health is not at issue here!’ Pompey shouted, red in the face. ‘You dare to suggest I am incapable?’
The sinews on his hands stood out like wires as he gripped the rostrum and faced the Senate. The meeting hall was packed and many were on their feet to speak. It was chaotic without the ordered traditions of Curia debates. Pompey had already been interrupted twice and a vein throbbed visibly in his temple as he considered stalking out and leaving them. He would have done if he had had even a month
in hand before his Dictatorship was to be renewed. They knew the leverage they had and seemed determined to extract its value.
Cicero dropped his gaze to scan a parchment in his hand. Pompey would have given a great deal to know its author. As Cicero looked up again, the rest fell silent with a discipline they had not shown to Pompey.
‘Your health is at issue when illness prevents you from acting in the best interests of Rome,’ Cicero said, glancing infuriatingly at the parchment once more. ‘You should stand down until you are well, Pompey. If it was another man, you would be among the first to say it.’
Pompey glared at him, feeling the gaze of them all batter at his defences. The pain in his gut was a wild red thing and it took every grain of his strength not to let it show.
‘You were not so insolent when Rome was burning and I was granted my Dictatorship,’ Pompey said. ‘I kept order then, when no one else could. I broke Spartacus when his army threatened us all; do you remember that? And you dare to suggest I am not fit for my command? Why don’t you read that paper in your hand, Cicero, instead of hinting at its contents? I fear no criticism from you or any man. My record speaks for me.’
There was a murmur of approval from the benches and Pompey was pleased to see Cicero did not have the complete support of the others in the hall. Many of them would be horrified at an attempt to end the Dictatorship on such grounds. If they had been in Rome, it could not have been contemplated, but Pompey knew the campaign had not been going well. There were too many in the Senate who understood nothing of war and were suffering without the comfort and respect they enjoyed in their own city. He knew he had to find words to move them.
‘Your record is without equal,’ Cicero said, ‘but you are sweating now, Pompey, because you are in agony. Stand down for a month and we will have the best healers brought to you. When you are well, you will resume the war.’
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