Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

Crassus stood then and Julius met his eyes, still unsure whether he could trust him. The consul looked down at the chained conspirators in front of him, and his expression showed a deep anger.

“I name Catiline as traitor.”

Julius felt a great wave of relief as Crassus spoke. Whatever the old man was doing, at least he was not the one to fall. Crassus glanced over at him before continuing and Julius wondered how much the man understood of his thoughts.

“As consul, I give my consent for the Tenth to leave Rome and take the field. Pompey?”

Pompey rose, his glance snapping to each man in turn. He too could feel there was more to the story than he was being told, but after a long pause, he nodded.

“Go then. I will trust the need is as great as I am told, Julius. My own legion will guard against a rebellion in the city. However, these men you call conspirators will not be sentenced until you return and I am satisfied the issue is clear. I will question them myself.”

A storm of whispering broke out on the benches at this terse exchange, and the three men took silent stock of each other’s positions. There was no give in any of them.

Crassus broke first and called for a scribe to write the order, handing it into Julius’s hands as he came down from the rostrum.

“Do your duty and you will be safe,” he murmured.

Julius stared at him for a moment before hurrying out into the forum.

Brutus rode with his extraordinarii at the head of the Tenth, covering many times the distance of the marching ranks as they scouted ahead and to the sides of the column. Of necessity, they were north and west of the city as the bulk of the legion had to be summoned from the camp near the coast and made their way across country to meet the single century Brutus had brought from the old Primigenia barracks.

When they had joined, some of the nerves that had affected Brutus vanished in the excitement of leading the legion against an enemy for the first time. Though he hoped to see Julius coming up behind them, another part of him wanted to be left alone to lead them in battle. His extraordinarii wheeled at his order as if they had fought together for years. Brutus reveled in the sight and felt more than a little reluctance at the thought of giving it up to anyone.

Renius had stayed at the coast with five centuries to protect the equipment and gold from Spain. It had to be done, but Brutus begrudged every man lost while the numbers of the enemy were unknown. As he cast a professional eye back down the column, he felt a thrill of pride at the men who marched for him.

They had started with nothing more than a gold eagle and a memory of Marius, but were once again a legion, and they were his.

He cast an eye up to the position of the sun and remembered the maps his scouts had drawn. Catiline’s forces were more than a day’s march away from the city, and he would have to decide whether to make a fortified camp or to march through the night. The Tenth were undoubtedly as fresh as they could ever hope to be, long recovered from the sea journey that had brought them home. As well as that, a rebellious thought reminded him that Julius would be able to catch them if they camped and the command would shift to him once more. The broken ground would be treacherous in the dark, but Brutus resolved to drive his men on until they met the enemy.

The region of Etruria, of which Rome formed the southernmost point, was a land of hills and ravines, difficult to cross. The Tenth were forced to spread into wider lines to negotiate their way around ancient tors and valleys, and Brutus was pleased to see the formations change with speed and discipline.

Octavian galloped across his line of vision, turning his gelding in a flashy display of skill as he came abreast.

“How much farther?” he called over the jingle and tramp of the ranks.

“Another thirty miles to the villages we scouted,” Brutus replied, smiling. He could see the excitement he felt mirrored in Octavian’s face. The boy had never known a battle, and for him the march was untempered by thoughts of death and pain. Brutus should have been immune, but the Tenth shone in the sun and the boy he had once been reveled in command.

“Take a century to scout the back trail,” Brutus ordered, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashed across the younger man’s face. It was hard on him, but Brutus knew better than to allow Octavian the first charge before he had learned a little more of the reality of battle.

He watched as Octavian gathered riders and moved in perfect formation to the rear of the column.

Brutus nodded in satisfaction, taking pleasure from the chance to think as a general.

He remembered how, years before, he had handed Primigenia over to Julius, and a bitter regret stole over him before he crushed it. The command he exercised was only a proxy until Julius arrived, but he knew the moments of this march would stay in his memory for a long time.

One of the scouts came in fast, the horse skidding in the loose earth as the rider yanked on the reins.

The man’s face was pale with excitement.

“The enemy is in sight, sir. They are marching toward Rome.”

“How many?” Brutus snapped, his heart racing.

“Two legions of irregulars, sir, in open squares. No cavalry that I could see.”

A shout went up from behind and Brutus turned in his saddle with a feeling almost of dread. Behind the column, two riders galloped toward them. He knew then that Domitius had done his duty and brought Julius to the Tenth. He clenched his jaw against the anger that swamped him.

He turned to the scout and hesitated. Should he wait for Julius to arrive and take command? No, he would not. The order was his to give and he took a cool breath.

“Pass the word. Advance and engage the enemy. Have the cornicens sound maniple orders. Velites on point to meet them. Extraordinarii to the flanks. We’ll break these bastards on the first charge.”

The scout saluted before galloping away and Brutus felt empty as he watched the dust cloud that promised blood and battle. Julius would take them in now.

As they sighted the legion coming at them, the ranks of mercenaries wavered and slowed. The Tenth were sliding over the land toward them like some great silvered beast, and the ground shivered delicately with the cadence of their march. A host of flags had been raised into the wind, and the wail of the cornicens could be heard thinly against the breeze.

Four thousand of those who had come for Catiline’s gold were from Gaul, and their leader turned to the Roman, resting a powerful hand on his shoulder.

“You said the way to the city would be undefended,” he growled.

Catiline shook the hand free. “We have the numbers to take them, Glavis,” he snapped. “You knew it would be bloody work.”

The Gaul nodded, squinting through the dust to the Roman ranks. His teeth showed through his beard as he pulled a heavy sword from a scabbard across his back, grunting as he took the weight. All around him, his men followed the gesture, until a host of blades were raised above their heads to meet the charge.

“Just this little legion, then, and one more in the city. We’ll eat them,” Glavis promised, tilting back his head to roar. The Gauls around him responded and the front ranks separated and moved faster, sprinting across the broken ground.

Catiline drew his own gladius and wiped sweat from his eyes. His heart pounded with unaccustomed fear and he wondered if the Gaul had seen it. He shook his head in bitterness and cursed Crassus for his lies. There may have been a chance to take Rome in confusion and panic and the dark, but a legion in the field?

“We have the numbers,” he whispered to himself, swallowing hard. Ahead of him, he saw a flowing mass of horses overtake the ranks. The ground shook with the weight of the charge, and Catiline suddenly believed he was going to die. In that moment, his fear vanished and his feet were light as he ran.