Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

“Julius?” Brutus asked him, waiting for the order.

Julius glanced at his friend and saw his eagerness. There wasn't a choice after all. They had to take the front themselves and just pray Lepidus's men didn't leave them naked behind.

“Primigenia! Forward to the line!” he shouted, and the seven hundred men under his command jogged forward with him, holding their formation perfectly.

The last of Lepidus's men turned to run from the slaves and Primigenia cut them down before they could take the panic back with them. They did it with a vicious efficiency that should have warned the slaves who struggled to seize the advantage they had created.

The shields of Primigenia smashed into the breach and the swords rose and fell as quickly as they could, with every man sacrificing care for speed. They crunched over the wounded, leaving them screaming and often alive, but Primigenia shoved forward at such a pace that they were in danger of leaving the whole front rank behind and being cut off. Renius matched them, bringing the line up with bellowed orders.

Julius fought in a frenzy. His arm ached and one long wound had scored his skin in a red line from wrist almost to shoulder. A blade had skidded off him before he killed the owner. A powerful-looking slave wearing Roman armor leapt at him, but was knocked from his feet as Renius reached the position, stabbing the slave in the side through a gap in the plates.

Julius killed the next man who faced him, but then three more stabbed at him. He was grateful for the thousands of hours of practice that made him move before he had begun to think. He stepped to the side of the outer man and shoved him into the others, giving up the kill for the need to entangle them. The man stumbled into the path of the second and Julius took his throat out from the side, then lunged over his falling body to sink his gladius into the heaving chest of the middle man. It wedged in the ribs and he almost cried out in frustration as his bloody grip slipped completely from the sword as he pulled on it, leaving him unarmed in an instant.

The third man facing him brought a legionary gladius around in a hard, chopping sweep and Julius had to throw himself flat to avoid the blade. He felt panic then as he expected to feel the metal enter him and send his blood mixing with the slippery mess under him. The man died with Ciro's sword in his mouth and Julius scrabbled for his own blade, pulling a body off it and heaving until it came free with a crack of parting bone.

Brutus was a pace ahead and Julius saw him kill two more with a speed and ease Julius had never seen in anyone, never mind the boy he had known all his life. There seemed to be a peaceful space around Brutus and his face was calm, almost serene. Anything alive that came within the range of his sword died in one blow or two, and as if the slaves sensed the boundary, they gave him room and did not press the young soldier as closely as the rest.

“Brutus!” Julius called. “Gladiators in front!”

Racing toward Primigenia were men dressed in gladiator's armor. They wore full helmets that covered their faces, leaving only eyeholes that gave them a look of inhuman ferocity. Their arrival seemed to lift the slaves around them, so that Primigenia staggered to a halt, planting their shields into the soft ground.

Julius wondered if any of them were the men he'd met the night before. It was impossible to be sure in the clash of metal and bodies. They were fast and trained and Julius saw Renius shoulder one down as the ranks closed and another swung at him. Julius brought his shield high with a jerk, feeling twin shocks as his return blow dented armor. His shield entangled the man's sword arm as Julius hammered and hammered at the iron helmet until at last it split and he could move on, panting. His muscles ached and his breath seemed to scorch his throat.

Brutus waited in a pool of stillness that was untouched by the press of bodies all around him. The gladiator he faced feinted once and Brutus read it easily, swaying aside from the real blow. His own sword darted out in response and nicked the man's neck. Blood poured out and, a pace away, Julius heard the soft sound of surprise the gladiator made as he put his hand up to it in astonishment. It was no more than a nick, but a major vein had been severed and his legs collapsed under him. He struggled to rise, panting and groaning like a wounded bullock, then the life went out of him.

Julius hacked his gladius into an exposed neck, and was then knocked over backward as yet another fell against his shield, tearing the straps against his arm. He let it fall and grabbed blindly to hold his attacker long enough with his left hand to sink the gladius into his flesh with the other, though he felt a sting along his back as the man tried to bring a point to bear. He could smell the garlic of the man's last meal as he died.

The men of Primigenia were falling around him and he could see more of the gladiators rushing to take advantage of a breach that still wavered. He glanced behind him and saw with a gasp of relief that Lepidus's legion had re-formed and stood ready to move forward.

“Primigenia! Maniple order. Re-form on the fifth!” he shouted and killed two more raging slaves as they tried to take advantage of the change, charging wildly at the line of Primigenia and dying as quickly. There were so many of them, and without moving fresher men to the front, Primigenia would have been overwhelmed.

Brutus fell back with him and Julius was oddly pleased to see him breathing heavily. For a time, his friend had seemed untouchable by the battle, and it was reassuring to know he could become as tired as the rest of them. Julius watched with approval as Lepidus's men took up the attack and the advance pushed on. It was time to move back to the original position. The left flank was secure.

“Sir?” a voice said at Julius's side. He turned his head sharply in reaction, too tense to see anything except threats. A centurion stood there, without a helmet. A spreading bruise along his cheek and bloody forearms showed he had been in the thick of the battle.

“What is it?” Julius replied.

“General Lepidus is dead, sir. There is no one to command the left.”

Julius closed his eyes for a second, willing away the tiredness that had seeped into his aching muscles with every pace away from the fighting. He glanced at Brutus, who smiled.

“Still lucky, Julius,” he said with a trace of bitterness.

Julius took his friend's hand in a strong grip, a silent acknowledgment of what he had given up, then he turned to the waiting soldier.

“Very well, Centurion. I will assume command. Get the eagle over to me so the men know where to look for orders. Spread the word that if they break for me, I will crucify every last one of them when this is over.”

The centurion blinked as he looked into the young commander's eyes. Then he saluted and ran to fetch the standard-bearer. Four ranks ahead of them, the battle raged on without a pause.

Pompey and Crassus watched the unfolding battle from the high vantage point of their mounts. The sun was rising in the sky and still the hills around swarmed with the slave army. Pompey had ordered the onagers and catapults to keep firing over the front lines until they had exhausted their missiles. They had fallen silent after the first three hours and the battle had only grown in ferocity since then.

The senators could observe in relative safety, more than a hundred feet back from the front ranks of the right flank. A century protected the position, allowing only the extraordinarii messengers through to the two commanders. After so long, the horses arrived at the command point with white sweat and spittle lathering their skin. A rider trotted up to the senators and saluted smartly despite his tiredness.