March 17th 45 BC
Blows were landing left and right, each turned by Galronus’ chain shirt, his shield or his blade, but it was becoming more difficult, and he was taking more damage with every heartbeat now. His shield, an extended wood and hide hexagon with a bronze rim and a large boss, painted with the ancient symbols of the Remi along with Jupiter’s thunderbolts, was now little more than a chipped and shredded handful of broken boards and twisted bronze, centring on a dented dome around his fist. Still, it took blows. His sword had acquired nicks all along the blade, though it was hard to tell through the mess that covered it. His chain shirt would be beyond salvage, and would simply be discarded, for the shoulder doubling had come away in pieces, hanging down his back, twisted and torn holes were in evidence, and one sleeve had almost come away. He knew he’d been scratched in half a dozen places, but he knew equally that none of them, miraculously, would be lethal. The gods were with him.
To his right, one of the Aedui with him screamed and fell forward over his horse’s mane, blood welling up through the neck of his chain shirt from some unseen wound. He lolled to one side, dead, yet still mounted thanks to the stability of the Roman saddle. As Galronus hammered at a snarling horseman with his sword, he watched that dead, swaying figure carried off into the press by its panicked horse.
Four men were still with him, and he could hear the rest of his cavalry close behind, pushing to catch him up. He’d lost sight of the banners now, had no idea where Labienus was, other than somewhere ahead. A sword came out of nowhere, and he caught it with what was left of his shield, feeling his knuckles vibrate and ache under the blow. The dent it left in the boss was now pressing on his knuckles and making the shield more or less a waste of time. Even as he parried another blow with his sword and used his knees to drive his horse forward into the mass, he finally cast aside the remnants of his shield. He was left with a defenceless side for only a moment before an Arvernian off to his left took a spear to the back and straightened in agony in his saddle. Galronus swept out his left hand and grabbed the sword that fell from the rider’s fingers, gripping it tight and flipping it round to block yet another blow. It occurred oddly to him, too late to notice, that he wasn’t sure whether the dying horseman had been one of his or one of Labienus’. Strange how this civil war had not only pitted Roman against Roman but, because of their now long service to Rome, it was also pitting tribes against their own.
He was more than a little surprised when his sword cut down a rider and suddenly he could see an open space. For a heartbeat he thought he had carved a path right through Labienus’ cavalry and emerged behind them, and wondered where the commander and his standards had gone, but it took only moments and a straying of the eyes to determine what had happened.
He had been turned around in the press. While he’d thought he was pushing on west into the enemy, he had gradually, accidentally, curved to the right, and the space he had emerged into, strewn with thrashing horses and screaming near-corpses, was actually a breach in the enemy lines. Behind him, the Third Legion were surging forward into the gap. Ahead, he could see Pompey’s reserves shuffling in to try and plug the hole, but the cause was clear. The weak point in the enemy lines had been hit so hard by Bogud and his Mauritanian cavalry that they had broken through swiftly, leaving swathes of rebel dead, and breaking out into the rear. In fact, as Galronus peered off in that direction, he could see a new fight rising on the field.
Bogud and his horsemen had emerged into the space behind the enemy. A few of his men had peeled off in small units to take down signallers, musicians, standards, and small pockets of officers and messengers, attempting to limit the ability of commanders to control their army, but a sizeable force had made straight for the enemy camp behind the Pompeian lines. Galronus should have realised what would happen. Bogud’s men may be fierce, but they were not a disciplined fighting force such as Rome preferred to field. In fact, they were little more than a band of desert raiders tied together by loyalty to a king. The moment they had achieved their breach, as they’d been ordered, the next thing that had leapt to their mind had been plunder, regardless of the fact that the battle was still going on behind them. The Mauritanians were racing for Pompey’s camp with a mind for loot.
Ordinarily, Galronus would curse them for such a failing, which could easily lead to disaster for the Caesarians, but clearly the gods were still at work, gifting Galronus the chance of victory.
Labienus had seen the Mauretanians break through and race for the camp and, in a moment of hard decision making, had split his own force, leaving half his cavalry to hold Galronus’ riders, and taking the other half back across the field to chase down Bogud. For a moment, the Remi saw Labienus and his standards racing across the open ground back towards their camp and the rampaging Mauretani.
The man was a Roman commander of the old school and, despite Fronto’s examples, a Roman commander did not commit to fighting in the front lines. His place was at the rear, where he could see the ebb and flow of the battle and issue orders appropriately. Consequently, while Labienus’ riders, several thousand strong, were racing on the heels of Bogud’s Africans, the commander himself, along with a small bodyguard, two standards and a musician, trailed along behind, looking this way and that, seeing what they could do to regain control of the battle.
It was an opportunity. Galronus could see the commander clearly, and there were but a dozen men around him. He had to get there before the Pompeian reserves fully blocked the gap, but he needed men with him. He was near exhausted, and couldn’t consider taking on several men at once, let alone a dozen.
‘Is that him?’ asked a voice at his shoulder.
Galronus turned to see Druccus sitting astride his horse, sheathed in gore, and with one eye welded shut with blood and viscera. Behind Druccus were a score of his riders, each wounded and coated with crimson, but each armed and with a fearsome expression.
‘That’s him.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
In a matter of moments, Galronus was galloping. He knew, could sense, Druccus and the others were with him, and he could hear the roar as the Third flooded in to try and hold the breach. Ahead, another roar announced the arrival of one of Pompey’s legions, hurrying to plug that gap. Galronus angled his mount, trying to hit that weak spot where the newly-arriving legionaries met the struggling horsemen Labienus had left on the flank. He hit the wall of men and riders like a cormorant plunging into the sea, his small party of horsemen at his back. His gaze was locked on the retreating figure of Labienus and his standards, following his riders, who in turn chased Bogud’s Mauritanians.
He was heedless of obstructions, now. His horse ploughed into the infantry, trampling them as he charged. He felt the glancing blows as he passed, and knew that his horse was suffering with strikes here and there, and yet he still knew that he would break through them, for the gods had offered him Labienus, and he would not fall until the Roman had. As he smashed through, he was aware that he had lost men in the charge, but Druccus was still with him, and a few other riders behind. His horse was whinnying in pain at numerous small wounds, yet still it pressed on with his direction.
Suddenly, he was in the open. He had perhaps half a dozen horsemen with him as he raced for that banner up the slope. Labienus had more, and they would be untouched as yet by combat. But Galronus’ men were fierce riders of the tribes with everything to fight for and their blood up, hungry for victory. For all that most of Labienus’ cavalry were men of the tribes, the commander was a Roman at heart, and those men surrounding him as he followed the clash wore red tunics and shiny breastplates, Roman noblemen, not seasoned warriors. But most of all, the gods had already decreed what was to happen. It was no contest.
Kicking his horse’s weary and injured flanks, Galronus bore down on the small party of Roman officers and bodyguards, the thunder of hooves in his ears telling him his men were still with him. He was aware of a surge of noise from behind, a new intensity to the sound of the battle, but for Galronus of the Remi, Munda had become more than a battle against the rebels. It had become personal.
Labienus had been a friend. He had been, of all Caesar’s officers, the one who had shown a true understanding of the people of the tribes. He had held the Belgae in high esteem and had decried their destruction. He had, over those years in the Gallic War, taken those tribes to his standard, and had become a leader among them, favouring their horsemen over Rome’s legions. He had been the man to lead the riders of the tribes for Caesar.
And then he had betrayed the general. And in betraying the general and Rome, he had taken the Belgae and the men of Gaul and had turned them against their own. The tribes had been Caesar’s men, but Labienus had turned them away and made them fight for him and his rebel allies. It was because of Labienus that Galronus had now spent three years fighting his own countrymen.
And Pompey was a figurehead just for his name. He could rally a certain resistance to Caesar, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that since the fall of the man’s great father, and then Scipio and Cato, it was Labienus who drove this war for the rebels. It was his strategies that kept it going. Pompey or no Pompey, without Labienus the war would end.
The Romans had finally become aware of the riders bearing down on them, and had turned, leaving their own horsemen to deal with Bogud’s Mauritani.
‘The commander is mine,’ Galronus shouted.
‘We’ll clear the way,’ Druccus replied, and the eight of them gripped their swords ready, kicking their mounts into an even faster charge, using up the last of the horses’ energy. That Galronus’ own horse could still plough on was a small miracle in itself, given the bloody stripes all over her.
The shiny Roman riders had gathered in front of Labienus and his signallers. Their musician was now blowing out a desperate call, while the standard bearers waved their burdens back and forth. The Roman noblemen set their faces into grim expressions, their swords out, left hand on the reins. Their blades were short, traditional gladii.
Galronus eased off at the last moment, letting his pace slacken. Druccus and his men managed to pull ahead, and two of the riders slipped in front of their Remi leader. They hit the Roman guards like a crashing wave, and Galronus smiled a rictus of war as the two men who’d got ahead of him hit their targets at just the right angle to force them aside, clearing a path for their commander. Suddenly, as the fight began, Galronus was face to face with Titus Labienus, eyeing him with a cold expression.
The cavalry commander lifted his sword, horse dancing this way and that, nervously.
‘Prince Galronus,’ was all Labienus managed to say before the Remi swung his horse left at the last moment, his long, Gallic sword slashing out wide. To Labienus’ credit, he leaned back in the saddle and hammered out with his own sword, managing to avoid the blow and turn it away. Galronus could not help but notice that the Roman’s blade was a long example, a sword of the tribes, not a shorter, Roman weapon.
Labienus’ answering blow as he spun his horse back, was a powerful overarm chop, aimed for Galronus’ right shoulder. The Remi managed to turn in the saddle, bringing the second sword in his left hand across even as he leaned back. Labienus’ powerful downward strike hammered into the raised sword, smashing it back painfully against Galronus’ shoulder and almost knocking it from his shocked fingers. The Remi hissed in pain, but managed somehow to retain his grip.
He wheeled his horse once more.
‘For Caesar,’ was all he said, through gritted teeth, as he swung both swords at once.
Labienus saw them coming, but there was little he could do. He managed to slam his own blade in the way of one and tried to lurch away from the other, but like the closing of a pair of shears, he was trapped. The blade in Galronus’ right hand clanged off that of Labienus, sliding away with a shudder-inducing rasp, but his other sword smashed into the commander’s left arm and even above the din of battle, he heard the bone break.
Labienus bellowed his pain, still attempting to maintain control. He tried to back his horse up, but his left arm was useless, the fingers falling free of the reins. He swung with his right arm, but the blow lacked both strength and accuracy as the Roman, teeth gritted, struggled to master the pain of his shattered humerus.
Galronus swatted away the strike and swung again, his second blow smashing into Labienus’ side. Fury and desperation had lent him unexpected strength, and the sword slammed into the Roman’s cuirass hard, leaving a deep, long dent in the bronze. Even as Galronus danced away to make room, he knew that the dent was too deep for Labienus to survive. That blow had broken bones and torn the body beneath the bronze. Indeed, blood began to sheet down from inside the cuirass, flowing across the leather pteruges at Labienus’s waist.
‘…Caesar,’ was all the man managed to hiss in agony as he lolled back.
Galronus struck again, this time from high, the blade slamming down into Labienus’ neck, almost separating his head. The Roman howled as he fell back. Still Galronus did not let up, another blow to the man’s chest further denting the cuirass and sliding down it to hack off a piece of the saddle horn. No longer secured, the dying Roman slid from the saddle and fell to the churned and muddy ground, jerking wildly, sword fallen away.
Galronus watched the man die. Somehow, after everything they had all been through, he felt he could never be certain Labienus was gone unless he’d seen it with his own eyes. He watched the jerking end, watched the blood pouring. Watched the face take on a grey tint, and the eyes fall still, staring up, sightless, into the sky.
It was only when he could say for certain the man was gone that Galronus looked up. Labienus’ riders had chased Bogud’s cavalry into the great camp where, undoubtedly, a new fight was breaking out. Druccus lay nearby, fallen and sporting a massive gash to the side, a pool of blood around him growing rapidly. Two of the riders who’d accompanied him were still in the saddle, both badly wounded and exhausted, but every Roman lay dead. Galronus almost let out a cry of shock as his horse suddenly crumpled beneath him, and he realised as the beast collapsed and he leapt free only just in time to avoid being trapped beneath it, that his mount had taken more wounds from Labienus’ guards during this last fight. The horse was done.
He rose to his feet, shaking.
Labienus was dead.
It was almost over.
* * *
Fronto watched the men of the Tenth heaving the enemy back. Their initial success had since met with resistance as Pompey had brought reserves across from the far flank. As the Tenth felt the weight of extra forces pressing against them, Fronto had hoped that Pedius and Galronus were faring better, that the source of those reserves had left a gap for his friends to exploit.
Still, despite the pressure and the constant stream of injured soldiers filtering back through the lines to the medical section, it was clear that they were still the better force. As Fronto stepped Bucephalus forward, he continually avoided trampling the bodies of the fallen as he followed the rear of the Tenth, but now, among those bodies were the corpses of the enemy, for they had once more begun to push the rebel legions back up the slope.
With a roar, his men heaved forth again, and as Fronto followed, he struggled. This was, he was sure, the last battle. As long as they managed to break these legions and kill the commanders, the war would be over. He would retire. Rome, and Lucilia awaited. It was so close.
But what was life without this? He had devoted his whole career to this, eschewing the positions expected of a man of his status. He could hardly contemplate an aedileship now. Or some stuffy political role as a praetor. He didn’t want to be a governor. He didn’t want the responsibility of an entire province, and he had no real need for the gold he would be expected to skim from the top of the taxes. He most certainly didn’t want to be a senator. In fact, the only thing, other than war, for which he was suited, was sitting in a bar and getting drunk, and he wasn’t at all convinced that Lucilia would consider that a career choice. Would he be one of those old soldiers who, bereft of a battlefield for their talents, just sat by a fire telling the stories of their youthful days as he faded into a shadow of a man?
No. He had the boys. He had friends. There were always possibilities.
But still, if this was the last battle…
He was not at all sure what he planned to do as he urged Bucephalus forward, other than that he needed to do more than just follow along at the back. He had led the defence of Bibrax, he’d stood in the line with Caesar as the Belgae came howling. He’d shed blood hunting Ambiorix and roared defiance at Vercingetorix over the ramparts of Alesia. He’d faced Pompey at Pharsalus and struggled in the burning city of Alexandria. He was damned if he was going to let the war end without unsheathing his blade.
As he reached the lines of legionaries, he swung down from the saddle, cursing as his knee threatened to give way with the impact. Steadying himself, he handed the reins to one of the various couriers, orderlies and ancillary staff at the rear, and then moved forward on foot, bellowing for people to move aside. Men were lurching out of his way, then, as he pressed forward, a ripple of warning spreading through the Tenth ahead of him. He realised how far they’d pushed the enemy as he crossed the low rampart behind which Pompey’s army had waited for them.
As he crossed it, the sudden height the rampart offered him revealed an excellent view of the battle. He was just eight rows back from the fighting now, and he could see the struggle going on, like two teams at a tug-of-war, the line surging back and forth with every fresh kill. And there, two thirds of the way back through the enemy force, he could see the banners and standards that marked out Pompey’s location. He grinned. Maybe he could finish this by ending the younger Pompey. Fresh determination filling him, he pressed on into the mass.
A few moments later he was joined by a tall figure in a gleaming breastplate as Pompeius Niger appeared beside him, his own sword out.
‘Should you be this far forward, sir?’ the tribune asked in concern.
‘Bollocks,’ was all Fronto said, eyes ahead, still pushing forward. Niger shrugged and fell in beside him.
‘I saw Antistius Turpio a few moments ago,’ shouted Niger.
‘Who?’ Fronto frowned as they pushed on.
‘Centurion I faced at Soricaria,’ the tribune reminded him.
‘Ah yes,’ Fronto nodded, remembering the strange, almost heroic duel. ‘Try not to get yourself killed. The Tenth needs good officers.’
Although for how much longer, he couldn’t say.
He became aware that they had reached the front of the fighting only when the legionary in front of him screamed and fell back, fountaining blood, and Fronto realised that the next man in the line hefted the shield design of one of Pompey’s legions. Niger was suddenly busy, bellowing threats as he veered off in the direction of a red crest that betrayed his own quarry, eager to pick up their duel where they had left off.
Fronto saw the man coming at him and, aware that he had no shield, turned to his left, opening up a gap as the man lunged. The sword scraped across Fronto’s cuirass, leaving a gleaming line through the images of two winged victories and a medusa head. As the man overextended, Fronto leaned in and stabbed past his angled shield, driving his blade into the unprotected flesh below his arm.
The soldier bellowed and fell back. The blow had been awkward and not deep enough to kill instantly, but he’d cut flesh and drawn blood and if the wound wasn’t mortal, then it was certainly enough to put the man out of the fight. As the legionary fell back, Fronto stepped forward, ready to face the next man, but the Pompeian legionary behind was looking the other way. Fronto frowned, but his ears registered a new sound. An air of panic among the enemy.
As he stabbed at the inattentive legionary and pushed forward once more, he listened, catching snippets. He blinked in surprise as he heard what appeared to be the news that Labienus and his cavalry had fled the field back to their camp. That did not sound like Labienus to Fronto. Caesar’s army had gained the upper hand, certainly, but the battle was far from a foregone conclusion yet. Pompey still had larger numbers and the higher ground, his troops were better rested. Why would Labienus leave the fight and run back to the camp? It made no sense.
But it mattered not whether what he was hearing was true, nor, even if it was, why it was so. What mattered was that the enemy believed it. A collective bray of panic roared through the enemy legions at the news that their cavalry had fled the field. That meant the flank had fallen and that Caesar’s army would be surging forth to fold in on their southern edge, trapping them on two sides.
In that moment, Pompey’s army broke.
In heartbeats, the panic became a howling din of terror, and rebel legionaries were abandoning even a fighting withdrawal in favour of simple flight. The rawness and inexperience of Pompey’s huge force was telling, as men who could still have fought a disciplined retreat to the town simply cast away their shields and ran for their lives.
Fronto tried to stab out at a man, but the legionary was gone before the blow landed. All along the fight, the enemy were routing, the men of Caesar’s legions pushing on with renewed vim. Here and there, pockets of rebels continued to fight. Cohorts of Pompey’s legions drawn from experienced units tried desperately to hold their ground while rebel centurions and senior officers raced this way and that shouting, trying to halt the rout and to rally the panicked legions, and all to no avail. There was no hope now of stopping the flight.
His gaze darting this way and that, Fronto spotted the banners of Pompey. The man was still in the field, bellowing orders at his officers. He could see Tribune Niger shouting in fury as the centurion he had been facing once more disappeared into the press, unwilling to throw away his life even for a duel of such importance to the two men. Turpio was making for Pompey’s banners, but there was no hope of reaching them, for at that moment the enemy general clearly decided that the battle was lost. Pompey gave one last glare of distaste at the site of his failure, and then turned and rode away, the banners and standards going with him.
Fronto hissed in frustration. There was little chance of catching them, for they were on horseback and already at the rear of the field. Pompey was going to get away. Breathing heavily and rolling weary shoulders, Fronto looked this way and that. Pompey escaping meant that it wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over until the two Pompeys and Labienus were removed. But at the same time, he could see how total their victory had been here. Caesar’s legions were now swarming over the hill and towards Pompey’s camp and the city of Munda beyond. The enemy forces were melting away, some of them making for Munda and the perceived safety of its walls, though the majority were shedding armour and weapons as they ran and fleeing into the open country. It had taken Pompey two years to amass a force large enough to face Caesar, and it had only been the African campaign and their time in Rome that had granted the young commander such an opportunity. He would not get another.
There was, quite simply, no way this army was going to be pulled together and fielded once again. It was done. And now that Caesar was here in Hispania with his legions and finally, seemingly, unopposed, there would be no chance for the rebels to build a new force. The war was all but over, and this should be the last battle after all. Now, they had to hunt down the three commanders and make sure they were dealt with before they could rally anyone, and they could not run far. With the exception of the trouble in Syria at the far end of the world, nowhere in the republic would now give succour to Labienus and the Pompeys.
He watched with an air of satisfaction as the legions of Caesar cheered among the fallen ramparts of Pompey’s rebellion.
* * *
‘It was the Remi commander, sir,’ one of the centurions explained.
Fronto, still shaking from his exertions, once more astride Bucephalus, looked across at Caesar, who was nodding slowly. He turned to look back at the ground. Titus Labienus lay twisted and bloody, his flesh a deathly grey. It had not taken long, as the army routed Pompey’s forces, chasing them from the field, for someone to report to the general that one of the three enemy commanders had fallen. Caesar and Fronto had been together on the right flank when the news arrived, and had ridden side by side to the site.
Fronto looked at the body with conflict in his heart. Labienus had had to die. Of all the commanders remaining among the rebels, it was Labienus that would never have stopped. As long as Caesar lived, Labienus would oppose him, alone if need be. As such, he had to die. There had been no hope for capture and clemency here. And yet as Fronto looked down into those sightless eyes, it was extremely difficult not to recall the good man he remembered from the north. The man who had lamented the destruction wrought among the Belgae, who had been able to see a better future even as it failed to manifest. He had been the enemy for years now, yet, no matter how misguided or wrong Labienus’ decisions had been, every man here knew that the commander had only ever worked from the noblest of motives. He’d believed he was right, and that what he was doing was right and for the good of the republic. No amount of blood could obscure the purest of motives.
Caesar was clearly experiencing the same strange struggle. Finally, the general breathed in and out, slowly, heavily, and straightened. ‘Find Galronus of the Remi and ask him to seek me in my tent. I wish to thank and congratulate him personally.’
‘He might have fallen, sir,’ the centurion said. ‘There are so many cavalry down.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘No. He lives. Find him and have him come to me. And organise a burial detail. Titus Labienus was our enemy, but he was the best of men. He will be buried here, where he fell, and a mound raised, with a monument to mark the site. See to it.’
The centurion saluted.
Fronto sat silent as Caesar expounded on the importance of their victory, and he hadn’t realised just how tense and worried he had been until he finally caught sight of Galronus, staggering wearily towards them, leaning on a fellow unhorsed cavalryman.
‘Well thank fuck for that.’