Brutus watched grimly, shading his eyes to stare into the distance as Antony’s extraordinarii rode up the ridge as close as they dared and launched spears and lead balls high into the air. The balls flew further and could do terrible damage, though the spears caused more fear in the packed ranks. They plunged into the men standing or crouching on the ridge and Brutus could not see if anyone had been injured or killed. He knew the intention was to irritate a defending force to the point where they might boil out of their safe position. His men had enough discipline to resist, but it rankled with them not to be able to respond. One or two spears and scorpion bolts had been sent flying back on the first day, but against wide-spaced horsemen they were wasted. The weapons worked best against a massed charge. Until that time, Brutus knew his men had to endure the hail and remember they would get their chance to pay it all back.
Mark Antony’s riders had kept up the stinging attacks for the best part of two days, delighting in every yell of pain they caused. Brutus glowered at the thought of that man taking pride in the tactic. Eventually the legions from Rome would have to attack or go home with their tails between their legs. Brutus knew very well how much they were eating each day, as the same amount was consumed from the stores in Philippi.
As the sun set, Brutus had climbed to the town’s walls and looked out on his legions in battle array, reaching halfway down the western slope. If Mark Antony and Octavian attacked, they would have to come uphill in the face of spears, lead shot, iron bolts and a few other treats he had prepared for them. It should have brought him a feeling of contentment, but the disadvantage of such a strong position was that they were free to manoeuvre and he was not. They could roam the land all around, looking for weaknesses, while he could only sit and wait for the real killing to begin.
From the height of the town wall and with the ground dropping away, he could see for miles to the west, easily as far as the massive camp Octavian and Mark Antony had created. It was an odd thing to see for a man of his experience: the high earth ramps studded with stakes, the gates and sentries that were the signs of Rome in the field – yet on a side he faced as an enemy. It was strange to be in the position so many other nations had known since his people had first come out of the seven hills armed with iron.
When he’d seen Mark Antony had placed himself on the opposite right wing, Brutus was obscurely disappointed. Each side had two commanders and two armies, but Cassius would face Mark Antony, while Brutus would see the boy again. He cleared his throat and spat on the dry stone at his feet. He remembered Octavian very well. He had taught him to ride, or at least to ride with cavalry. His mouth quirked as he realised he felt some sense of betrayal at facing that young man in battle. Perhaps Octavian would be feeling the same way when the time came.
All his memories were of a boy, but Brutus knew he would meet a man when the killing started. He told himself not to underestimate the new Caesar. Brutus could still remember being that young, without the painful joints or the terrible slowness that seemed to have drifted over him in recent years. He remembered when his body worked as it was meant to, and if it hurt, it healed as fast as a young dog. He stretched his back at the thought, wincing as it clicked and ached.
‘If you remember me at all, boy, you’ll be afraid of facing me.’
He muttered the words staring into the distance, as if Octavian could hear him. One of his guards looked up, but Brutus ignored the unspoken question. He had yet to see Octavian’s men in any kind of action. The extraordinarii who galloped across his lines carried the legion standards of Gaul, making sure the defenders knew who were harassing them. Brutus felt the simmering anger on behalf of his own men, forced to sit and wait while their enemies hooted and jeered and tried to leave a few dead with every attack.
The biggest armies ever fielded by Rome stood less than a mile apart. The sun was dipping towards the horizon and even the long summer day would end in a few hours. He cleared his throat and spat again, tired of waiting for the dark.
Cassius looked up as the runner came racing down the hill to his position. He saw the man’s flushed face and braced himself against a spike of worry.
‘What is it?’ he said, too impatient to wait through formalities.
‘You need to come, sir. The men in the town think they’ve seen movement in the marshes.’
Cassius cursed as he mounted his horse and dug in his heels to ride up the hill. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, seeing Mark Antony’s extraordinarii gallop back across the front line for yet another sweep through their own dust. He could see specks of black lead rising from whirring slings and he ducked in unconscious reaction. The men under their path raised shields over their heads once more.
Cassius trotted his mount after the runner. They passed through waiting legionaries the whole way, the ground completely hidden by soldiers sitting or standing idle, as they had been all that day and the one before.
As he reached the town itself, Cassius saw one of his tribunes gesturing to him from a set of steps that led up to the wall. Grim-faced, Cassius jogged up and followed him to the top. He saw Brutus further along, already moving in his direction. Cassius raised a hand to greet him.
The tribune found the spot he wanted and pointed into the marshes that stretched into the distance. At his shoulder, Cassius and Brutus stared out across the broken land of water and reeds higher than a man.
‘There, sir. Can you see? Beyond that twisted tree.’
Cassius leaned forward to squint, but his eyes were not as sharp as they had once been and the marsh was just a blur of brown and green to him.
‘I can’t see anything at that distance,’ he snapped in frustration. ‘Describe it to me.’
‘I see it,’ Brutus said. ‘There’s movement, wait … yes. There.’
‘I was told those marshes cannot be crossed,’ Cassius said.
Brutus shrugged. ‘I sent men to try it and they almost drowned before they made it halfway and had to come back. But anything can be crossed with enough wood and time. It occurs to me that Mark Antony has been keeping us busy watching his extraordinarii while he sneaks up to flank us.’
‘Flank us, or come up behind,’ Cassius said bitterly. ‘I’ll have to bring men back to guard the walls here and the Via Egnatia. This town is like an island. I can hold it for ever with the legions we have.’
‘Give the orders then,’ Brutus said. ‘I can hold the ridge.’
Both men looked up suddenly at a great roar, turning their heads.
‘What was that?’ Cassius demanded.
He spoke to empty air. Brutus was already running back along the wall and vanishing down the steps to the town. Cassius turned to the tribune, picturing the ridge forces in his mind.
‘Legions Thirty-Six and Twenty-Seven to this spot to defend the palisades. I want …’
He hesitated, unable to recall which of his legions were closest, before losing patience.
‘Pick three more to march through the town and guard the eastern road. We cannot allow them to land soldiers from the sea.’
It would be enough, he told himself. No matter what Mark Antony was planning, he would find Roman legions waiting for him. Cassius cracked his knuckles, showing his worry as the tribune ran to deliver the orders. A man of his position should not have to pelt about the walls like a boy, but he was desperate to know what had caused the great roar from the front.
The noise went on, growing louder and louder. Cassius blanched. He summoned calm with an effort and walked back down the steps to the street below, mounting his horse and trotting towards the ridge.
The summer had been hot and there had been no rain for weeks around Philippi. As Mark Antony’s extraordinarii raced along the front, a great cloud of dust had lifted and followed them, hanging in the windless air and thickening as they wove back and forth, launching their spears and shot. To get in range, they galloped in hard to barely thirty paces off the front ranks, close enough to see the faces of those glowering at them. The legions of Cassius and Brutus stood straight, with their shields resting on the dry ground and their swords and spears ready. They hated those horsemen and there were more than a few men fingering sword hilts in anticipation, longing for the order to rush forward and gut the vainglorious cavalry who jeered and mocked them.
Almost two hundred riders cantered up and down the front ranks, masking the great care they took over range and demonstrating their courage to the standing men. Even when their spears and balls of lead were gone, they remained, making sudden darts and lunges at the impassive ranks to see if anyone would flinch or try a spear-shot they could mock. The dust continued to rise until they were dashing through an orange-yellow haze and the dry particles covered every inch of exposed skin.
A new century of horsemen rode up from the main camp, each man carrying a spear in his right hand and a sling with a bag of shot dangling by his knee. The officers yelled parade-ground orders at the riders, making their mounts prance back and forth in complicated patterns that could only contrast with the sullen soldiers watching them. The entire century came back together when they had launched spears, following the flights with their eyes as they went. At full gallop, they wheeled together to head along the line. At the same time, the riders already there turned to race back through the dust.
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.