Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 (46 page)

Ciro hawked and spat behind him to clear the blood from his throat. His lips were split and swollen and his smile was red when he grinned painfully at his general.

They were all cut and battered. Julius winced with every movement. Something had torn in his lower back as he’d heaved a dead man off him. It sent sparks of pain up to his shoulders with every movement, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He looked over at Brutus, who’d been knocked unconscious by a berserk slave. Only a swift countercharge had reclaimed the ground and his body. Ciro had dragged him back through the ranks to recover, and as the sky began to darken he’d rejoined them, but he moved more slowly and his skill had almost deserted him. Julius wondered if his skull had been cracked by the blow, but could not send him back to the camps. They needed every man who could still stand.

They were all past exhaustion and pain, entering a sort of numbness that left the mind free to drift. Colors paled and their minds lost awareness of time, seeing it slow down and then rush to frightening speed, over and over.

With a jerk, Julius heard the cry of the cornicen’s horn nearest him. He staggered forward for another stint on the front line and shook off Ciro’s hand when it touched his arm.

“No more today, General,” Ciro said, bracing Julius with an arm to steady him. “The light has gone. That’s the call back to camp.”

Julius looked blankly at him for a moment, then nodded wearily. “Tell Brutus and Renius to form the lines and retreat in good order. Tell the men to keep an eye out for a sudden charge.” His words slurred with tiredness, but he raised his head and smiled at the man he’d found in another continent, another world.

“Better than the farm, Ciro?”

The big man looked around him at the bodies. It had been the hardest day of his life, but he knew the men around him better than he could explain. He had been alone on the farm.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and Julius seemed to understand.

  CHAPTER
39
  

S
uetonius leaned on the fence in the woods. At the edge of his vision, he saw his father’s slaves working unhurriedly to uproot the posts and remove the boundary. In a few hours all signs of it would be gone, and Suetonius frowned as he rested his head on his arms. The house he had planned would have been beautiful, rising above the trees on Caesar’s land to look down the hill. He had been going to have a balcony built so that he could sit there on warm evenings with a cool drink. All that had vanished with his father’s sudden weakness.

Suetonius picked at a splinter on the post, thinking of the host of petty insults that Julius had forced him to accept when they were prisoners and with the Wolves in Greece. He knew if Julius hadn’t been there, the other men would have accepted him more readily, perhaps even agreeing to his command in the end as they had for Julius. He would have handed over the body of Mithridates to the legate Lepidus, sharing a meal with the man rather than rushing off to the port with barely a pause. The Senate would have named
him
tribune and his father would have been proud.

Instead, he had nothing but a ransom that belonged to his father and a few scars to show for everything he had endured. Caesar had taken the Wolves away to the north, flattering and persuading them to follow him, while Suetonius was left behind, without even the small comfort of seeing his own house built.

He tore at the splinter in sudden anger, wincing as part of it scored the skin of his hand. He had applied to go north with the six legions, but none of the legates had accepted him. No doubt who had spread the word there. He knew his father could have called in favors for them to accept his son, but had stopped short of asking. The shame of how he had been treated burned at him in the stillness of the woods.

Another movement caught his eye and he raised his head to see. He almost hoped some of his father’s slaves were shirking their work. The flogging he would give them would go some way to break the lethargy he felt. He seemed to feel life more strongly in his veins when the time came to punish the lazy ones. He knew they walked in fear of him, but that was only right.

He took a deep breath to bark an order at them, hoping to see them jump. Then he froze. The men were moving stealthily through the thick undergrowth on the other side of the fence. They were not his slaves. Very slowly, he lowered his head back onto his arms and watched in silence as they passed not far away, oblivious to his presence.

Suetonius felt his heart hammer in sudden fear, and a flush came to his cheeks as he tried to breathe shallowly. They had not seen him yet, but there was something very wrong about the scene. There were three men moving together and a fourth some distance behind. Suetonius had almost stood to peer after the first group, and only some instinct warned him to hold still as they vanished through the trees. Then the fourth had come into sight, moving warily. He was dressed in rough dark clothing like the others and walked lightly over the dead wood and moss, showing a hunter’s skill with his silence.

Suetonius saw he too was armed and suddenly he thought the man must see him through the shadows. He wanted to run or to shout for his slaves. Visions of the rebellion in the north came to him, and his mind filled with pictures of their knives in him, vivid and terrifying. He had seen so many die and it was too easy to imagine the men turning on him like animals. His sword was at his side, but he kept his hands still.

He held his breath as the last man passed. The man seemed to sense eyes on him and hesitated, scanning the trees around him. He didn’t see Suetonius and after a while he relaxed and moved on, disappearing as completely as his companions before him.

Suetonius breathed out slowly, still not daring to move. They had been heading toward the Caesar estate, and his eyes became cruel as he realized it. Let Caesar have his land, with those men walking on it. He would not give them away. It was in the hands of the gods and out of his.

Feeling as if much of his pain and bitterness had been lifted from him, he stood up and stretched his back. Whoever the hunters were, he wished them luck as he walked over to where the slaves were taking down the fence. He gave orders for them to pack up their tools and return to his father’s estate, instinctively wanting to be far away from the woods for the next few days.

The slaves saw his mood had lightened and exchanged glances, wondering what viciousness he’d seen to cheer him as they shouldered their burdens and made their way home.

*      *      *

Julius was exhausted, cursing under his breath as he stumbled on a loose stone. He knew that if he fell, there was a chance he wouldn’t get up and he’d be left on the road.

They could not stop, with the slave army running before them toward Ariminum. Fleeing the field in the dark had given them half a day’s start, and Pompey had sent out the order to run them down. The gap hadn’t closed in seven days, as the legions pursued an army far fresher than themselves. Julius knew they could lose many more men, but if the slaves turned south, Rome stood naked for the first time in her history.

He fixed his eyes on the legionary in front of him. He had been staring at that back all day and knew every tiny detail of it, from the patchy gray hair that showed under the helmet to the spatters of blood up the man’s ankles where he had stamped for a mile to break his blisters. Someone had urinated up ahead, darkening the dust of the road. Julius trudged through the patch indifferently, wondering when he would next have to do the same himself.

At his side, Brutus cleared his throat and spat. There was nothing of his usual energy showing in him. He was hunched under the weight of his pack, and Julius knew his friend’s shoulders were raw. Brutus rubbed cooking fat on them at night and waited stoically for the calluses to form.

They had not spoken since dawn, the battle with endurance and the road going on without a public show. It was the same for most of them. They marched with slack and open mouths, all awareness narrowed to a point just ahead on the road. Often when the horns sounded a halt, men would stumble into those ahead and wake almost from sleep as they were cursed or struck.

Julius and Brutus chewed on stale bread and meat as it was handed out to them without a halt. As they tried to find saliva to swallow, they passed another fallen soldier and wondered if they too would be left on the road.

If Spartacus wanted to exhaust the legions in a chase, he could not have done better, and always there was the knowledge that there would have to be another battle when the slaves and gladiators finally found a place to stand. Only death would stop the legions.

Cabera coughed dust out of his throat and Julius glanced at the old man, marveling again that he had not fallen with the others. The poor rations and the miles had reduced his thin frame further, so that he looked almost skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and dark and the march had stolen away his humor and his talk. Like Brutus and Renius behind him, he had not spoken since the moment they were forced to their feet by weary optios, using their staffs on officers and men alike without interest, their faces as thin and tired as the rest of them.

They were allowed only four hours to sleep in the darkness. Pompey knew they could find Ariminum in flames, but the slaves would barely be able to pause before the legions were on the horizon, forcing them on. They couldn’t allow Spartacus to regroup. If necessary, they would chase him into the sea.

Julius held his head high with difficulty, knowing he was seen by Primigenia around him. The legion of Lepidus marched in rank with them, though there was a subtle difference between the groups. Primigenia had not run and every soldier knew that the punishment for that failure still had to be meted out. Fear showed in the eyes of Lepidus’s men and sapped at their will as they filled the hours with silent worry. There was nothing Julius and Brutus could do for them. The death of Lepidus went only some way in repairing their moment of panic in the battle.

The cornicens sounded as they reached the site of an old camp. It was two hours early, but Pompey had obviously decided to use the boundary they had erected once before, with only a little work needing to be done to shore up the spilled earth. Once inside, the men fell down where they stood. Some lay on their sides, too tired to remove their packs. Friends untied each other and the dwindling rations were brought out from packs and passed along lines to the cooks, who started fires in the ashes of the old ones. The men wanted to sleep and they had to eat first, so the cornmeal and dried meat was heated through and sent out on iron plates as fast as possible. The legionaries stuffed the food into their mouths without interest, then unrolled the thin trail blankets from their packs and lay down.

Julius had just finished his and was licking his fingers to remove every last crumb of the mush his body needed so desperately when he heard a cornicen blow a warning note nearby. Pompey and Crassus were approaching his position.

He scrambled to his feet and kicked Brutus, who had curled up, already drifting toward sleep. Renius opened an eye at the sound and groaned, heaving himself into a sitting position with his arm.

“Up! Get the men on their feet. Centurions, form Primigenia into squares for inspection. Quickly!”

He hated having to do it as he watched the men drag themselves upright, looking dazed. Some had been asleep and they stood loosely, their arms hanging and only dull awareness in their eyes. The centurions bullied and heaved until some semblance of ranks was produced. There were no groans or complaints; they hadn’t the energy or the will to resist anything that was done to them. They stood where they were pushed and waited to be told to sleep once more.

Pompey and Crassus rode through the camp, bringing their horses close to Julius before dismounting. As well they might, both men looked fresher than the legionaries around them, but there was an air of tight-lipped seriousness about the generals that woke some of Lepidus’s men to the danger, making them glance nervously at each other. Pompey approached Julius, who saluted.

“Primigenia stands ready, sir,” Julius said.

“It is your other command that brings me here, Caesar. Tell Primigenia to rest and have Lepidus’s men form ranks in their place.”

Julius gave the orders and the three of them waited as the soldiers moved quickly into position. Even after the losses they had suffered in the panic of the battle, there were still more than three thousand survivors. Some were wounded, though the worst of these had already been left on the road, days before. Pompey mounted his horse to address them, but before he began, he leaned down to Julius and spoke quietly.

“Do not interfere, Julius. The decision has been made.”

Julius returned the questioning stare impassively, then nodded. Pompey joined Crassus and together they trotted their horses right up to the front rank of the assembled men.

“Centurions stand forward!” Pompey barked out. Then he raised his head to have his voice carry as far as possible. “This legion carries a shame that must be cut out. There can be no excuse for cowardice. Hear now the punishment you will receive.

“Every tenth man in line will be marked by the centurions. He will die at the hands of the others. You will not use blades, but crush and beat them to death with fists and staffs. You will shed your own friends’ blood in this way and always remember. A tenth of you will die this day. Centurions, begin the count.”

Julius watched in horror as the centurions called off the numbers. As they marched along the ranks, the men around the unlucky one would cringe in fear as the officers came abreast of them, then gasp as the hand fell on a different shoulder. Some cried out, for themselves or for friends, but there was no mercy to be had. Crassus and Pompey watched the whole process with stiff disdain.

It took less than an hour, but by the end, three hundred men stood out from the ranks. Some wept, but others gazed blankly at the ground, unable to understand what was happening to them, why they had been singled out to die.

“Remember this!” Pompey bellowed at the men. “You ran from slaves where no legion has run in generations. Lay your swords down and complete your task.”

The lines dissolved as each man standing apart was surrounded by nine of his friends and brothers. Julius heard one of them muttering an apology before he landed the first blow. It was worse than anything Julius had ever seen. Though the optios had staffs, the common soldiers had only their fists to smash the faces and chests of people they had known for years. Some of them sobbed as they struck, their faces twisted like children, but not a single one of them refused.

It took a long time. Some of the battered soldiers died quickly, their throats crushed, but others lingered on and on, shuddering and screaming in a terrible chorus that made Brutus shiver as he watched, transfixed by the knots of bloody-handed men, kicking and punching savagely. Brutus shook his head in disbelief, then looked away, sickened. He saw Renius was standing rigidly, his face pale.

“I never thought I would see this again,” Renius muttered to himself. “I thought it had died out long ago.”

“It had,” Julius replied flatly. “Looks like Pompey’s revived it.”

Ciro watched in horror, his shoulders sagging. He looked at Julius questioningly, but there were no words for him.

Julius watched as the last blows were struck and the centurions checked each corpse. The men stood back, their energy disappearing as they shambled into ranks. The bodies sprawled before them in circles of bloody grass, and many of the living bore the spatters of the executions, standing with their heads bowed in misery.

“If we were in Rome, I would order you disbanded and forbidden to bear arms,” Pompey roared into the silence. “As it is, circumstances may save you yet.” He glanced at Crassus and the senator shifted in his saddle. Julius frowned suddenly. For Pompey to give way to Crassus meant that he needed the weight of the Senate authority behind whatever was going to be said. For all their maneuvering, only Crassus had that. The older man cleared his throat to speak.