Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) (46 page)

When it came, the crash was thunderous. In the haze of dust the two groups had lost sight of each other for vital moments and crossed each other’s paths. Horses tumbled over as they tangled at terrific speed, their riders thrown. Some of them struck and rolled, getting dazedly to their feet, while others lay stunned.

The legionaries saw thirty or forty horsemen lying helpless, victims of their own overconfidence. It was too much after another day of stinging blows and insults. The centurions and optios saw the danger and roared orders, but the front ranks were already moving, drawing swords as they bore down on the wounded men with savage expressions. Nothing could hold them back and they broke into a run. Thousands poured over the invisible line where they had stood for two days, a horde of delighted soldiers bellowing a challenge as they came.

The men behind responded, jumping up and racing forward even as their officers hesitated. Had an attack been ordered? They had heard no horns, nor the command word: liberty. The more cautious yelled at their units to stand down, while others thought they had missed the signal and helped to sweep the line forward. They were moving at last. They had waited weeks to fight and it was happening.

Like a roaring avalanche of men, the entire right wing of Brutus’ legions surged down the ridge, overwhelming the fallen cavalry in the first hundred paces as men stabbed anything on the ground and went on. They could see the legions of Caesar ahead of them, milling in panic.

The officers higher up the ridge wasted precious moments trying to call a general halt, orders flowing down the lines of command. By then, the first two legions had seen that the enemy were not ready and had not expected an attack of any kind. The legates at the front countermanded the order to halt as the opportunity to do real damage presented itself. They could see a chance and they took it on their own authority, knowing those behind did not have all the facts. They ordered a charge while the legions of Caesar were still running to form lines and yelling orders in complete chaos.

The moment hung in the air. The legions streaming off the ridge broke into a fast jog as they readied spears. The forces behind saw they were committed and were left with no more choices.

Brutus was still high above his moving ranks when he worked out what was happening. He could see his legions spilling out onto the flatter ground, driven faster by the slope. At first he was black-faced with fury. He had seventeen thousand horses on the wings of the ridge and the sudden surge of men had left them next to useless, unable to reach clear ground and accelerate. He stared in frustration as his first two legions crossed the empty mile over the bodies of dead men and horses, swallowing them up in a tide of red and grey.

Brutus felt his heart hammering in his chest. In an instant, he understood his legions had gone too far to call back. He had to throw the rest in support or see them slaughtered by overwhelming numbers. He took a deep breath and roared new orders to advance. Furious officers looked up to see who was interfering. When they realised it was Brutus, they added their voices to the rest. Horns blared across the ridge of Philippi.

There was confusion in the middle of the ridge as opposing orders met, but Brutus bellowed his command over and over, and gradually, slowly, the massed legions turned and formed up and marched towards the enemy.

On the left, the legions of Cassius marched back to defend against the attack from the marshes and Brutus had a vision of two snakes writhing against each other. He stood up on his saddle, his horse standing perfectly still in the press of men as it had been trained to do. In the distance, through the dust that rose with every step and every sandal, he could see his legions crashing into the Caesarian wing.

Brutus bared his teeth in an expression that lacked either amusement or pity. He wanted to be down there on the plain and he dropped back into the saddle, kicking in and urging the animal past sweating, swearing soldiers.

Mark Antony could see very little of the chaos on the ridge, though the sounds of battle drifted to him over the stinking marshes. For two days, he’d had a full legion working in the black filth that mired every step, while thousands more of his men felled trees well away from Philippi and sawed them into planks as thick as a clenched fist for the carts to bring in.

It had been brutal work, beset by flies and snakes lurking in the shallows, as well as the stench of gas released with every sucking step. Yet they had made themselves a path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. It stretched from the edge of the marshy ground to the centre, then across towards the palisade. His task that day had been to bring the legions up as close as he dared, relying on the reeds and rushes to keep them hidden.

They’d crept along, hunched over, until there were thousands of them on the planks and thousands more waiting to come after them. He’d gone himself to the head of the path, to see the last fifty feet and the wooden barricade Cassius’ men had built.

Anything one man had built, another could break, Mark Antony reminded himself. Under the shade of the ridge, he’d had men out all night gently sawing at the key beams, muffling the sound with cloths in great bundles. The town had slept peacefully above their heads and there had been no cries of alarm.

When they were ready, he had sent orders for his extraordinarii to keep the enemy attention focused on the front and then simply waited for the sun to set. His men would be vulnerable to missiles from the town. He needed poor light to spoil the aim of those defending, but enough for his men to scramble up the rough earth and stones and breach the walls.

Before that moment came, before the sun had even touched the horizon, he heard a great roar and he froze, certain they had been seen. If his men had been spotted, reinforcements would be running to the walls above his head. He had to move or withdraw and do either one quickly. Mark Antony made his decision and stood up straight, feeling his stiff knees protest.

‘Advance and attack!’ he roared.

His men lunged forward and those closest to the barricade heaved on ropes they pulled up from the muck, black and stinking in the light. For a few breathless moments, the beams groaned and then cracked, bringing down half of the construction. Slithering wooden stakes fell all around the closest men and they ran over them, clambering up the slope towards the walls above.

Mark Antony looked up at the fortress. The walls of Philippi were centuries old, but then his men were not wild tribesmen. Hundreds carried ropes with grapnels on their backs; others had hammers with long handles that they used to help them climb. They went up the hill in a surge and he soon saw the first men on the walls themselves, climbing up a hundred broken footholds, or smashing them out with heavy blows so that other men could ascend.

As he began to climb after his men he heard the sounds of fighting above. With just a little luck, he would see Cassius and Brutus dead before the sun set. He breathed hard as he climbed, sinking his hands into soft earth and spitting against dust drifting in all directions. His heart pounded, his body drenched in sweat before he was halfway up to the walls. It didn’t matter, he told himself. The pain was just something to ignore.

The Seventh Victrix were the first to come under assault, as the legions of Brutus swarmed down the ridge at them. They were caught completely by surprise and could not form a fighting line before the forces met and the killing began.

Hundreds died in the initial contact, the marching machine of Rome cutting through Octavian’s forces. More and more raced down off the ridge, but Mark Antony’s wing was at half strength or less, with so many of his men down in the marsh. All they could do was hold position in a solid shield line, jamming the boards into the ground and crouching behind them. Rather than be flanked, they too began a slow withdrawal, step by step into the northern plain.

In his command tent in the twin camp, Octavian stirred sluggishly, unaware of the disaster unfolding for his legions. He did not see the initial rout, as Legate Silva was cut down from his horse by a spear and then torn apart. The men with Silva ran to get out of the way and it infected the rest, so that they broke suddenly and without warning. In the time it took the legate to die, his legion had been forced back into the next and they too had felt the impossibility of standing against a wave of Roman legionaries with their blood up and victory in their grasp. The Eighth Gemina fought a solid retreat as the Seventh Victrix broke, unable to do anything but hold lines and step back with locked shields.

They reached the edge of the massive twin camp and tried to steady the men there, but by then, all of Brutus’ legions had been turned in their direction and they could see the widest and deepest line of fighting men any of them had ever witnessed coming to tear them to pieces in savage rage. They fell back from the camp, abandoning the equipment and supplies of a hundred thousand men – and the commander lying unconscious within.

Brutus’ men charged into the camp, eager for loot and plunder. Somewhere in that perimeter was a war chest of gold and silver, and even those covered in blood looked for it as they stalked in and stabbed anyone who stood against them.

The command tents were at the centre of the camp, laid out according to rules the invading legionaries knew as well as anyone. They yelled in excitement as they saw them, racing forward, loping in like wolves.

Maecenas cursed as he sank into black mud to the knee. Each step into the marsh was an effort. He had to strain to pull his feet out, the unnatural motion making his knees ache. As he turned to speak to Agrippa, he slipped on some buried log and fell, clutching at the high reeds and wincing as cold muck slapped along his side.

The man they carried fell with him, so that Octavian’s body was spattered.

‘Get up, Maecenas,’ Agrippa snapped. ‘We need to get further in.’

They could hear the noise of the battle behind them, as well as the voices of Mark Antony’s men somewhere over on their left. The marsh stretched far enough and deep enough to hide them all from sight, so that he and Maecenas had entered a world of stillness. Things slithered away from them and they could see ripples in the standing water as they dipped as low as they could and dragged their senseless friend deeper into the marsh, constantly expecting the shout that would tell them they had been spotted.

Heading away from the town, they reached a wide pool and both men had to give up any idea of keeping clear of the black sludge. Agrippa and Maecenas stepped down into it, swearing in low voices as they supported Octavian between them. They could feel his searing skin on theirs, an unpleasant fever heat. Their friend murmured at times, seeming almost to come awake as they struggled with his weight and his body hung limp.

‘That’s far enough, I think,’ Maecenas said. ‘By Mars, what are we going to do now? We can’t stay here.’

They had placed Octavian on a raised hillock of the reeds, leaving him face up into the setting sun with his legs still in the water. He was in no danger of drowning, at least. Agrippa prodded another dense patch and decided to risk sitting down, lowering his weight carefully and groaning as the water reached him even through the dead plants. He rested his hands on his knees as Maecenas found a similar spot.

‘If you had a better idea, you should have said so,’ Agrippa snapped. His eyes caught a sinuous movement and he jerked his leg close as something slid through the water. ‘I hope that isn’t a snake. I should think even a scratch will turn to fever in this place, never mind a bite.’

Both men fell silent as they considered the prospect of spending the night in the marshes. They would not be able to sleep while things crawled over their feet and legs. Maecenas slapped his neck where something bit him.

‘You are the one who is meant to understand strategy,’ he said. ‘So if you have any ideas, this is the time to mention them.’

‘One of us has to get out and see how things lie,’ Agrippa said. ‘If the legions have been slaughtered, the best we can do is stay here for a few days and then try for the coast.’

‘On foot? Carrying Octavian? We’d have more chance surrendering now. By the gods, Brutus had a bit of luck today. I don’t think he ordered that attack. I didn’t hear any horns when it started, did you?’

Agrippa shook his head. With eight legions, he and Maecenas had watched in horror as the soldiers on the ridge came pouring down with no warning whatsoever. They’d looked at each other and come to the same conclusion in a moment, running for the command tent where Octavian lay helpless and carrying him out even as Brutus’ legions continued their mad rush down the ridge. For a time, they had found sanctuary among Mark Antony’s remaining forces, but those legions too had begun to retreat and Agrippa had seen the edge of the marsh nearby. He still didn’t know if he’d made the right decision.

Octavian twisted suddenly and began to slip into the black water. Maecenas was up first to grab him under the armpits and pull him back onto the crushed reeds. His friend opened his eyes for a moment and said something Maecenas could not understand before his eyes rolled up.