The Silver Eagle

Chapter XXV: Pharsalus

Eastern Greece, summer 48 BC

Brutus reined in his bay horse, which was growing tetchy in the heat. The flies buzzing around its head were no help. ‘Steady,’ he whispered, patting its neck. ‘It will soon begin.’

Around him were six cohorts of legionaries. Like all Caesar’s units, they were understrength, but these were supremely fit, crack troops. Their obliquely angled position to the rear of Caesar’s triplex acies formation belied the importance of their task, Brutus thought proudly. Hidden away, he and his men were Caesar’s secret weapon.

After nearly a week of standoff on the plain of Thessaly, Pompey had finally decided to give battle. Moving away from the foothills to the north that morning, his eleven legions had formed up in three lines, the classic configuration; this was copied at once by Caesar’s nine. Although Caesar’s army matched the width of his enemy’s, the difference in their sizes was already obvious. Weakened by their heavy losses in Gaul, his veteran cohorts were stretched painfully thin. In contrast, Pompey’s were at full complement, meaning he had about forty-five thousand infantry to his opponent’s twenty-two. His cavalry, swelled by volunteers from all over the east, outnumbered Caesar’s by nearly seven to one. The figures were daunting, but Brutus’ general was not about to avoid confrontation. While his army was much smaller than Pompey’s, all Caesar’s legionaries were seasoned fighters; in contrast, many of their opponents were raw recruits.

It was an interesting yet potentially disastrous situation, thought Brutus nervously. Would Caesar’s gamble pay off? Only the gods know, he reflected, asking Mithras for his aid while there was still time. For battle would shortly commence. Both sides were ready now. Pompey’s right flank was protected by the River Enipeus, which ran roughly west-east, while nearly all his superior horse was massed on the left. Today there was to be no classical pincer movement, using cavalry to encircle the enemy on both flanks.

Like any military officer with wits, Brutus knew what was about to unfold instead.

As the opposing legionaries went head to head, the Republican horsemen would drive through Caesar’s small numbers of cavalry, opening up his rear. There they would wreak havoc, cause widespread panic and potentially win the battle. Unless Caesar’s risky venture paid off.

Still nothing happened. The summer sun was climbing in the sky, and although the air was warm, it was nowhere near what it would be by midday. Almost unwilling to fight, the two armies watched each other in silence. When they finally met, Roman would face Roman in unprecedented numbers. Armed and dressed similarly, attacking in the same formations, brothers would fall upon each other while neighbours fought to the death. The momentousness of this confrontation was obvious to even the lowliest foot soldier.

Yet it was time that things were resolved, thought Brutus impatiently. More than eighteen months after Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon, the two generals had still not fought a decisive battle. Italy was not to be the battlefield, either. Shocked, unprepared for Caesar’s daring, Pompey and most of the Senate had fled from Rome, foolishly leaving the treasury contents in the temple of Saturn. They convened at Brundisium, the main jumping point to Greece, where, furiously pursued by the newly enriched Caesar, they were nearly caught in March. But after an attempt to blockade the port failed, Pompey, his entourage and entire army had made the short crossing without harm.

Brutus smiled. As ever, his leader had not sat around for long.

Keen to secure his rear from the seven Pompeian legions in Hispania, Caesar marched north and west, besieging Massilia and its Republican garrison on the way. The city did not fall quickly so, leaving Brutus and Caius Trebonius to finish the job, he had continued to Hispania. After a frustrating campaign of four months, Pompey’s forces there were finally defeated and assimilated into Caesar’s own. Marcus Petreius and Lucius Afrianus, their leaders, had been pardoned on the condition that they did not take up arms against him again.

Brutus scowled. He would not have been so merciful. ‘Great Mithras, let me meet those treacherous dogs today,’ he muttered. It was unlikely on a battlefield this large, Brutus thought, but he could hope. Petreius and Afrianus were here. The instant they had been released, the pair had gathered what troops they could and sailed to join their master. Two other men whom Brutus badly wanted to meet were Cassius Longinus, the tribune and ex-army officer, and Titus Labienus, Caesar’s former trusted cavalry commander. In a surprise move, they had both switched sides to join the Republicans and were present on the field too. Traitors all, he thought.

Pompey in turn had not been idle while the conflict in Hispania went on, assembling nine legions of Roman citizens in Greece. Added to these were the two veteran legions from Syria, and allied troops numbering three thousand archers from Crete and Sparta, twelve hundred slingers and a polyglot force of seven thousand cavalry. Every city-state ruler and minor prince within five hundred miles had sent a contingent to join the Republican forces.

When Caesar had returned to Italy in December, he received the news of this, the host that was awaiting him in Greece. Keen to prevent further bloodshed, he made several attempts to open negotiations with Pompey. All were swiftly rebuffed. The Republicans had decided that they would settle for nothing less than their enemy’s total defeat. Caesar’s response was to carry the war to Greece without delay. Now Brutus laughed out loud, uncaring that his men looked at him strangely. Caesar had ignored all his officers’ advice and set sail from Brundisium. At the time, it seemed like utter madness: seven under-strength legions sailing at night, in the middle of winter, across a strait controlled entirely by the Pompeian navy. Like so many of Caesar’s daring tactics, though, it had worked; the next day his entire host landed unopposed on the western coast of Greece.

Caught napping by this, the wily Pompey then avoided battle for months, knowing that his supply situation was far superior to that of Caesar’s. With limitless ships to provide food and equipment to his army, he could afford to march up and down the land while his opponent could not. Boring the tactic might seem, but Pompey knew that Caesar’s men could not live on fresh air. They needed grain, and meat. It was during this lean time that Brutus really grew to respect their opponent. If the rumours were to be believed, Pompey was under constant pressure from the numerous senators and politicians he had in tow. The Optimates, Brutus thought scornfully. There isn’t a real soldier among them. Already resentful of Pompey’s position as supreme Republican commander, these hangers-on wanted a pitched battle and a quick victory.

So did Caesar, and when Pompey would not give it to him, he attempted to force the issue at Dyrrachium. Although by then his forces had been augmented by four more legions, it was a painful memory. The attempt to recreate Caesar’s victory at Alesia had seemed promising initially. More than fifteen miles of fortifications hemmed Pompey against the coast while dams were built to block the streams. A similar length of opposing defences prevented Caesar from advancing, but the combined constructions deprived the Republican army of water for its soldiers and fodder for its horses. By July, the bodies of hundreds of pack animals lay rotting in the sun, increasing the risk of disease among Pompey’s troops. If something wasn’t done, men would begin to die of cholera and dysentery. Meanwhile Caesar’s legionaries, who were short of supplies, ground up charax vegetable roots and mixed them with milk. The resultant dough was baked into loaves, and in a measured taunt of Pompey’s men, some of this bitter-tasting food was tossed into the enemy lines.

Fortunately for Pompey, it was then that two of Caesar’s Gaulish cavalry commanders defected. Discovering from them that parts of his enemy’s southern fortifications were incomplete, Pompey launched a daring attack at dawn the next day. Six legions took part in the massive assault. Uncharacteristically, Caesar refused to admit that his blockade was failing and launched a counter-attack, which failed miserably. Outnumbered and demoralised, his legionaries had fled the field en masse. Not even the presence of their legendary commander could stop the rout. One signifer was so panicked that when confronted by Caesar, he actually inverted his standard and menaced the general with its butt-end. Only the timely intervention of one of Caesar’s Germanic bodyguards — who sliced off the man’s arm — prevented him from coming to serious injury. The same could not be said of Caesar’s army, which lost a thousand legionaries and more than thirty centurions. Strangely, Pompey had soon called off his pursuit, allowing his opponent’s battered legions to escape the field. ‘The fools could have won the war that day, if they but possessed a general who knew how to win,’ Caesar had sneered. Brutus knew it was true.

A month passed. Again the two sides faced each other, but on an open plain this time. Caesar’s army had been depleted by injuries and the garrisoning of towns to nine legions, while Pompey still had eleven.

Superstitiously, Brutus prayed that Dyrrachium would not be repeated here today, at Pharsalus. That he would survive, and be reunited later with Fabiola. With seven cohorts as protection, she, Docilosa and Sextus were safe in Caesar’s camp, nearly three miles to the rear. If the battle was lost, the senior centurion in charge had orders to retreat to the south. It was best not to think of that eventuality, he reflected, hastily burying the thought. Then Brutus grinned, remembering Fabiola’s demand to march out on to the plain and watch the struggle. She was a lioness, he thought proudly. Fabiola had accompanied him everywhere since Alesia and now felt like his good-luck talisman. Discovering that she was also a devotee of Mithras had reinforced this feeling. They had prayed together for victory at dawn, before his departure. In that department, Brutus reflected, everything was going well. Almost everything. He sighed, thinking of Fabiola’s unexplained reticence towards Caesar. Still, it was rarely a problem. Plenty of other officers had used the excuse of the prolonged campaign to bring their mistresses along, diluting Fabiola into the mix.

‘Sir!’ shouted one of Brutus’ centurions. ‘It’s begun. Listen.’

Brutus sat up in the saddle, cupping his right hand to his ear. The sound started as a low thunder, but quickly intensified until the ground shook. Without doubt, it was the noise of hooves. Pompey’s cavalry was attacking, and in response Caesar’s German and Gaulish horsemen trotted forward, to the north-west. There were a thousand of the experienced warriors, with a similar number of specially trained light infantry interspersed between. Yet their task was hopeless. Against more than three times their number all they could do was slow the speed of the enemy attack: a delaying tactic. Brutus’ pulse increased, and he looked around, checking that his men were ready. They were, he saw proudly. Two thousand of Caesar’s finest troops, who would follow him wherever he led.

The clarion sound of bucinae ripped through the air all along the host. Vexilla, red flags, were also raised and lowered, repeating Caesar’s orders to ensure accuracy. Instantly the rhythmic tread of caligae upon the hard ground added to the noise. Two of the three lines in front of Brutus were advancing. Only one, the third, remained to hold their position. He grinned. Undeterred by the cavalry charge, Caesar was taking the battle to Pompey.

Brutus and his men waited, watching and listening to the battle commence. Impatient, nervous, none of them enjoyed holding back while their comrades began fighting and dying. Yet this was different. They had to stay put because their mission was all important.

The first to meet were the two forces of cavalry. Brutus could see the clash in the distance. Sunlight glittered off polished helmets and spear tips, clouds of dust rose and battle cries rang out. Brutus knew what it was like; he had done it before. Within moments of hitting the enemy, all semblance of formation would be lost. The struggle would immediately become a mass of confusing, individual fights, rider against rider, foot soldiers against horsemen. Hack, slash, bend in the saddle. Reassure the horse, wipe sweat from your eyes. Look around, check where one’s comrades are. Dodge a spear thrust. Move forward.

He turned to look west, wondering why the infantry had not yet met. Roman soldiers advanced towards each other in total silence, but there would still be an enormous crash of weapons against shields when it happened.

A legionary messenger came from Caesar’s position, to the rear of the third line. ‘Pompey hasn’t allowed his men to advance, sir,’ he panted. ‘They’re just standing there, waiting.’

‘What did you say?’ Brutus demanded. No general ever held his troops back like that.

Grinning, the messenger repeated himself. ‘When our lot realised, they stopped and re-formed.’

Brutus swelled with pride. With his first and second lines already committed, Caesar would not have been able to give such a command. With astonishing initiative, his soldiers had shown their top quality by regrouping before the combat began.

A whistling sound filled the air.

Pila, thought Brutus. A volley from each side at twenty or thirty paces and they’ll hit.

Screams and cries began ringing out as the javelins landed. A few moments passed. And then, with a noise like thunder, fifty thousand men smashed into each other.

‘Caesar orders you to prepare yourselves, sir,’ said the messenger, darting off again. ‘All his trust is in you. But do not advance until his flag signals.’

‘Do you hear that, boys?’ Brutus cried to his men. ‘Caesar trusts us completely. And we will repay that confidence. Venus Victrix, Bringer of Victory!’ He roared out the password given to them that morning.

A great sound of approval met his words, swelling as it moved along the cohorts.

Brutus smiled. His legionaries’ morale was high. But that could not rid him of the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if Caesar’s hardened veterans in the front two lines won the day against Pompey’s less experienced soldiers, it would all mean nothing when the enemy horse swarmed around their right flank. There were no men on earth who could withstand a cavalry charge from behind. Everything depended on him and his six cohorts. Great Mithras, Brutus thought fervently. Give me courage. Grant me success.

Dismounting, he had a legionary take his mount to the rear. This task was for foot soldiers only, and Brutus wanted to be in the middle of it. He was no officer to lead from the back. Handed a pilum and a spare scutum, he took his place in the front line, nodding encouragingly to his men.

They waited in silence, baking in the hot sun.

An ominous feeling soon took hold of Brutus and he peered into the distance.

Covered by the Gauls and Germans, Caesar’s light infantry were beginning to retreat. Without this protection, they would be run down and killed to a man. But the cavalry’s discipline was good, Brutus saw with relief. Wheeling and turning to confuse the enemy, the tribesmen hurled the last of their spears into the advancing mass of Republican cavalry. Aware that their mounted comrades could not do this for long, the infantry broke into a sprint, towards the side of Caesar’s right flank. They were aiming to pass to the side of Brutus’ position.

The Republican horsemen surged forward, pushing ever harder. Lightly armed with spears and swords, few bore shields or wore armour. They were Thracians, Cappadocians, Galatians and a dozen other nationalities, all vying for the honour of turning the tide in Pompey’s favour. Behind them charged thousands of archers and slingers, the next attack wave.

Brutus chewed a fingernail. This was the most critical point of the battle.

Losing more and more men, still the Gauls and Germans did not break.

The light infantry tore around Brutus’ cohorts, and headed east. If everything went to plan, they would re-form with their mounted comrades in a few moments.

The battered cavalry were perhaps three hundred paces away. Still much too far for an attacking foot soldier to run at a horseman, thought Brutus. Mithras, bring them nearer.

‘Close order!’ He shouted at the nearest centurion. ‘Shields up. Ready pila.’

His order was obeyed at once. Scuta clattered off each other, forming an impenetrable wall. Angled up in the position to throw, his men’s javelins poked forward over the shield wall. Ranks of determined faces peered into the dust cloud before them.

A hundred and fifty paces separated the remnants of the Gauls and Germans from Brutus’ six cohorts. They could hear the excited shouts and cries of the pursuing Republicans. Faces began to grow nervous, and the officers looked to Brutus for orders.

In turn, Brutus glanced anxiously at Caesar’s location. He could just see his general’s red cloak amidst the mass of senior officers and bodyguards. But no damn flag. Come on, Brutus thought, his heart thumping in his chest. Give us the command.

Less than a hundred paces.

Their cavalry were close enough now for Brutus to see the sweat lathered on their tired mounts, the wounded men barely upright in the saddle, the numerous horses without riders. Respect filled him at the heavy sacrifice the tribesmen had made.

Protected by the horses’ height, the six cohorts were still hidden from the enemy. This was precisely Caesar’s purpose.

Seventy paces.

Fifty.

At the last moment, the Gauls and Germans turned their mounts’ heads and rode across the front of the shield wall.

Now, thought Brutus. By Mithras, it has to be now.

Again he looked for the vexillum. This time it was there, a piece of scarlet cloth, urgently bobbing up and down. Typically, Caesar had waited until the last possible moment.

‘At the double,’ Brutus screamed, pointing his javelin. ‘Charge!’

With an inarticulate roar, his men obeyed. Trained relentlessly as new recruits to keep their shields together when running, they presented a fearsome sight to any enemy. Particularly to horsemen, who were never charged by infantry. And for the previous few weeks, Brutus had taught the six cohorts to stab their pila at enemy riders’ eyes and faces. The legionaries were delighted by this novel tactic. As everyone knew, cavalrymen were dandies who thought themselves better than any other soldier.

Shouting at the top of their lungs, they pelted forward, emerging from the dust like grey, avenging ghosts.

The Republican cavalry did not know what had hit them.

As expected, they had driven off Caesar’s horse and light infantry, causing heavy losses. Now the entire enemy rear was exposed and they could break into smaller squadrons, free to ride along it at will. Pompey’s inexperienced soldiers were holding up well, so Caesar’s legions were trapped between a hammer and an anvil. Very soon they would be crushed. Whooping exultantly at the thought of victory, the Republicans trotted forward.

And were met by a shield wall over eleven hundred paces wide.

Stunned, they came to an abrupt halt.

Brutus’ men slammed into them at full tilt. Hundreds of pila stabbed upwards in unison, biting deep into the Republicans’ open mouths, eyes and unarmoured flesh. Plenty of horses were struck too, suffering painful wounds which made them rear up in terror. Keen to cause as much distress to the mounts as possible, the legionaries screamed fierce battle cries. Keeping their scuta locked together, they ripped out the barbed javelin heads and thrust at their enemies again. And again. The shocked cavalrymen quailed before the savage and totally unexpected attack. This was not what was supposed to happen!

The six cohorts managed to move forward a step. Then another.

Brutus was like a hound which has just found the scent. They had to keep the advantage that their surprise had granted them. Considerably outnumbered by the enemy horse, causing panic was their main weapon. ‘Forward,’ he screamed, the veins bulging in his neck. ‘Push forward at will!’

The centurions and junior officers repeated his order.

Seizing the opportunity, groups of legionaries shoved into the gaps between enemy horsemen. Protecting themselves with their scuta, they used their pila to strike terror into the Republicans’ hearts. Here and there, a slashing sword cut down a soldier, but the impetus was all with Brutus’ cohorts. And a few moments later, he saw the most welcome of sights in a battle. Men’s heads turning to the rear. Fearful expressions twisting faces. Cries of alarm. Turn and flee, you whoresons, Brutus thought fiercely. Now.

It was like watching a flock of birds change direction. Entirely consumed by terror, the leading Republican cavalry wheeled and urged their horses away from the merciless javelins, which offered nothing but death. Panicked, shouting incoherently, they collided with the squadrons behind, which were dividing up in preparation to assault Caesar’s rear.

Sick with tension, Brutus held his breath. If there were solid, disciplined officers in the enemy’s ranks, this was the moment to pull back, regroup and then charge them on the flanks and rear. If that happened, all his preparations and Caesar’s hopes would be dashed, and the struggle lost.

But faced with a retreating wave of terrified and injured comrades, the astonished riders did what most men would do in the circumstances. They turned and fled. In an instant, the Republican cavalry attack had become a rout. Trailing a huge cloud of dust, the horsemen galloped away into the distance.

Raising his bloodied pilum in the air, Brutus cheered. His cry was echoed by two thousand exhilarated legionaries, but their task was not over, nor the battle won.

The enemy cavalry’s panic and cowardice completely exposed thousands of advancing archers and slingers, who were there to support the mounted attack. Wails of fear rose up as they saw their protective screen vanish like so much morning mist. Ready for this exact moment, Caesar’s regrouped cavalry and light infantry swept forward again, creating a bloody slaughter that scattered the terrified, lightly armed soldiers across the plain.

The way to Pompey’s left flank was wide open now, thought Brutus delightedly. Looking around, he saw that his men had realised the same thing. It was time to deliver a hammer blow of their own.

‘Come on,’ Brutus shouted, trotting forward. ‘Let’s show those fuckers what real soldiers can do!’

It was half a mile at least to the Republican lines, but Brutus’ men charged forward like hunting dogs let slip from the leash. As they ran, he was aware of the third line moving on his left side. Caesar was making his final play by committing all his troops to the fray. Its legionaries would provide a much-needed input of fresh energy to the two sections which had now been locked in battle for some time.

Brutus’ main worry now was Pompey’s response to his attack. Like Caesar, he had probably held back his third line, which meant that his own cohorts’ advantage could be swiftly dispelled by Republican reinforcements. All the more reason for speed, Brutus thought, pushing himself into a sprint. Wearing a transverse crested bronze helmet and mail shirt and carrying a heavy scutum, it was an exhausting effort. The sun had been beating down on the dry plain since dawn and was near its zenith now. The air was hot and still, difficult to breathe. Most men had not drunk for hours and every throat was parched. Yet no one held back.

It was at moments like this that victory could be achieved.

And Caesar had placed his trust in them.

An hour later, and Brutus knew that the day was theirs. In a wonderful stroke of luck for Caesar, Pompey had committed all three lines of his army against his opponent’s two. Presumably an effort to bolster his raw troops, the measured decision had left the Republican leader with no reserves to counter Brutus’ wheeling attack. In addition, his cavalry were scattered to the four winds, and his missile troops butchered. Brutus and his six cohorts had fallen on Pompey’s unsuspecting left flank like wolves on helpless sheep. Driving the soldiers in it sideways, they watched delightedly as the panic spread.

When Caesar’s third line had crashed against the Republican front a few moments later, the end was nigh. Brutus had to give the enemy legionaries credit — holding their ranks, they fought on, refusing to run. It was a different story with Pompey’s allies, however. When the fate of their cavalry was followed by these further setbacks, they turned tail and fled towards their camp. With renewed courage, Caesar’s legions had pressed home their attack on the Republican legions. Step by step, they advanced, pushing their increasingly demoralised enemies backwards.

Brutus grinned mercilessly. It always started at the rear, when men who could see that their comrades in front were losing, looked back. Armed with long staffs, optiones and other junior officers were positioned here to prevent any retreat without orders. Thinly spread out though, they had no chance of stopping men from flight when the panic reached a critical mass. Inevitably that was what happened. Preceded by their commander, Pompey’s shattered legions had deserted the field as a disorganised rabble. Reaching the supposed safety of their fortified camp a short while later, they had been horrified when Caesar’s men followed and placed them under siege. After a short, vicious encounter, the gates had been forced, requiring Pompey and his soldiers to go on the run again.

Urged on now by Caesar himself, the exhausted legionaries were in hot pursuit of their defeated enemies, who were to be denied rest, water and food. The victory, thought Brutus, would be nothing less than total. Once again, Caesar had stolen victory from the jaws of defeat, this time using one of the most inventive tactics in the history of warfare.

Swallowing the warm dregs from his leather water carrier, Brutus grinned.

All they needed was to capture Pompey, and the civil war was virtually over.

In the event, that was not to happen. Although twenty-four thousand soldiers were taken prisoner, with numerous high-ranking officers and senators among them, Pompey and many others made good their escape that night. Included in this number were Petreius, Afrianus and Labienus, Caesar’s former friend and ally on the Gaulish campaign.

Early the next day, Brutus stood on a nearby hill, studying the battlefield. Fabiola was by his side, silently aghast. While not as bloody as Alesia, the human cost of Pharsalus had been high: over six thousand Republican legionaries lay dead below them, while Caesar had lost more than twelve hundred. Uncounted numbers of Republican allied troops were strewn everywhere, worthless in death as they had been in life. Clouds of vultures, eagles and other birds of prey already filled the air overhead.

‘Will they all just rot?’ asked Fabiola, revolted at that thought.

‘No. Look,’ answered Brutus, pointing. Small groups of men could be seen stacking wood in rectangular piles all across the plain. ‘Funeral pyres,’ he said.

Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining the smell of burning flesh. ‘Is it over then?’

Brutus sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid not, my love.’

‘But this. ’ Fabiola pointed at the carnage below them. ‘Have enough men not died?’

‘The losses are terrible,’ he agreed. ‘Yet the Optimates will not give up this easily. Word has it that they will take ship for Africa, where the Republican cause is still strong.’

Fabiola nodded. About the only area where Caesar had suffered a setback so far was in the province of Africa. The year before, Curio, his former tribune, had made the foolish mistake of being lured away from the coast and into the barren hinterland. There he and his army were annihilated by the cavalry of the king of Numidia, a Republican ally. ‘That will require another campaign,’ she said, wishing the bloodshed were already over. When it was, she could reactivate her plans to take revenge upon Caesar. ‘Won’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Brutus replied simply. ‘But you can go back to Rome at any stage. I’ll make sure you have enough protection.’

Pleased by this, Fabiola kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll stay by you, my love,’ she said, still wary of the potential danger from Scaevola. ‘What of Pompey?’

Brutus frowned. ‘The scouts say he headed east to the Aegean coast, unlike the others. From there, my guess is that he will sail for Parthia, or Egypt.’ He saw her questioning look. ‘The man won’t just give up. He needs more support for his cause.’

‘It will never end! Pompey still has two sons in Hispania. They’ve got to be untrustworthy too,’ cried Fabiola despairingly. ‘Africa, Egypt, Hispania. Can Caesar fight a war on three fronts?’

‘Of course,’ Brutus smiled. ‘And he will win. I know it in my heart.’

Fabiola did not answer, but despair filled her. If Caesar truly was capable of defeating so many foes, he would prove to be the most formidable general ever seen. How could she ever take revenge on someone so powerful? Brutus loved her, she was sure of it, but it seemed doubtful he would ever betray Caesar the way she wanted him to. What chance, therefore, had she of convincing anyone else? Disconsolate, Fabiola stared out over the plain, searching for a clue. For a long time there was nothing. At last she saw it, a single raven flying apart from the other birds, coasting on the warm currents of air which rose from the baking ground below. Rapt, Fabiola watched it for a long time. And then she knew. Thank you, Mithras, she thought triumphantly. The worst enemies were always the ones within. So Brutus and his compatriots were still the key.

‘If he succeeds,’ Fabiola said calculatingly, ‘you cannot trust him ever again. Rome must beware of Caesar.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brutus, confused and a little angry.

‘The arrogance of a man with such ability knows no bounds,’ Fabiola answered. ‘Caesar will make himself king.’

‘King?’ The mere concept was now anathema to every citizen. Almost five hundred years before, the people of Rome had committed their proudest act: overthrowing and then expelling the city’s last monarch.

Fabiola knew one more vital detail.

An ancestor of Brutus had purportedly been the main instigator.

Exulting, she watched the blood drain from Brutus’ face.

‘That can never be,’ he muttered.