Octavian trotted through the legionaries to look up to where Julius knelt, chilled in sweat.

“One more, sir? We’re ready.”

Julius looked dazed. He could not have a fit in front of them all, he could not. He struggled to deny what was happening. The fits had been quiet in him for years. He would not allow it. With a wrench of will, he stood swaying, forcing himself to focus. He pulled off his helmet and tried to breathe deeply, but the ache in his skull built and bright lights flashed. Octavian winced as he saw the glazed eyes.

“The legions still stand, General. They are ready to take the battle to them once more, if you wish it.”

Julius opened his mouth to speak, but could not. He crumpled to the ground and Octavian leapt from his saddle, scrambling up to hold him. He barely noticed the body of Renius at his side and shouted to the cornicen to fetch Brutus.

Brutus came at a scrambling run, paling as he understood.

“Get him out of sight, quickly,” he snapped to Octavian. “The command tent is empty. Take his legs before the men see.” They lifted the twitching figure that had been lightened by the months of starvation and war, dragging him into the shadowed interior of the command post.

“What are we going to do?” Octavian said.

Brutus pulled the metal helmet from Julius’s rigid fingers and lifted it.

“Strip him. Too many men saw us take him in. They must see him come out.”

The men cheered as Brutus strode into the weak sun, wearing the full helmet and armor of his friend.

Behind him, Julius lay naked on a bench, with Octavian holding a rope of twisted tunic between his teeth as he writhed and shuddered.

Brutus ran to the wall to assess the state of the enemy and saw they were still reeling from the second smashing attack of the ballistae. In the darkness of the tent, it had seemed longer. He saw the legions look to him, waiting for orders, and knew a moment of the purest panic. He had not been alone in command since setting foot in Gaul. Julius had always been there.

Behind the mask, Brutus looked out desperately. He could think of no stratagem but the simplest of all. Open the gates and kill everything that moved. Julius would not have done it, but Brutus could not watch from the wall as his men went out.

“Fetch me a horse!” he bellowed. “Leave no reserve. We are going out to them.”

As the gates reopened, Brutus rode through, leading the legions. It was the only way he knew.

As the Gauls saw the full force of legions coming onto the field, they milled in chaotic fear, wary of being drawn in again to be crushed by the war engines. Their lines were in disarray without the leaders who had been killed in the first attacks.

Brutus saw many of the lesser tribes simply dig in their heels and ride from the battlefield.

“Better that you run!” he shouted wildly.

Around him, the extraordinarii forced their mounts into a gallop, their bloody weapons ready. The legions roared as they accelerated across the plain, and when they crashed into the first lines, there was nothing to hold them.

CHAPTER 44

By nightfall, those Gauls who survived had left the field of battle, streaming back to their homes and tribal lands to carry news of the defeat. The Roman legions spent most of the night on the plain, stripping corpses and rounding up the best of the horses for their own use. In the darkness, the Romans separated into cohorts that roamed for miles around Alesia, killing wounded and collecting armor and swords from the dead. As another dawn approached, they returned to the main fortifications and turned their baleful gazes on the silent forts.

Julius had not surfaced from tortured dreams before sunset. The violence of the fit had racked his wasted body, and when it left him, he sank into a sleep that was close to death. Octavian waited with him in the tent, washing his flesh with a cloth and water.

When Brutus came back, spattered with blood and filth, he stood looking down on the pale figure for a long time. There were many scars on the skin, and without the trappings of rank, there was something vulnerable about the wasted figure that lay there.

Brutus knelt at his side and removed the helmet.

“I have been your sword, my friend,” he whispered.

With infinite tenderness, he and Octavian exchanged the battered armor and clothing until, once again,

Julius was covered. He did not wake, though when they lifted him, his eyes opened glassily for a moment.

When they stood back, the figure on the bench was the Roman general they knew. The skin was bruised and the hair was ragged until Octavian oiled and tied it.

“Will he come back?” Octavian murmured.

“In his own time, he will,” Brutus replied. “Let’s leave him alone now.” He watched the faint rise and fall of Julius’s chest and was satisfied.

“I’ll stand guard. There will be some who want to see him,” Octavian said.

Brutus looked at him and shook his head. “No, lad. You go and see to your men. That honor is mine.”

Octavian left him as he took position outside the tent, a still figure in the darkness.

Brutus had not sent the demand for surrender to Vercingetorix. Even in the armor and helmet, he knew Adàn would not be fooled for a moment, and besides, that honor belonged to Julius. As the moon rose, Brutus remained on guard at the tent, sending away those who came to congratulate. After the first few, the word spread and he was left alone.

In the privacy of the silent dark, Brutus wept for Renius. He had seen the body and ignored it while he and Octavian were heaving Julius’s body into the tent. It was almost as if some part of him had recorded every detail of the scene to be recalled when the battle was over. Though he had only glanced at the old gladiator, he could see his cold corpse as if it were daylight when he shut his eyes.

It did not seem possible that Renius could not be alive. The man had been the closest thing Brutus had had to a father in his life, and not to have him there brought a pain that forced tears out of him.

“You rest now, you old bastard,” he muttered, smiling and weeping at the same time. To live for so long only to die from a spear was obscene, though Brutus knew Renius would have accepted that as he accepted every other trial in his life. Octavian had told him how he had held the shield for Julius, and Brutus knew the old gladiator would consider it a fair price.

A noise from the tent told him Julius had woken at last before the tent flap was thrown back.

“Brutus?” Julius asked, squinting into the darkness.

“I am here,” Brutus replied. “I took your helmet and led them out. They thought I was you.”

He felt Julius’s hand on his shoulder and fresh tears wound down the dirt of his face.

“Did we beat them?” Julius asked.

“We broke their back. The men are waiting for you to demand a surrender from their king. It’s the last thing to do and then we’re finished.”

“Renius fell at the last. He held a shield over me,” Julius said.

“I know, I saw him.” Neither man needed to say more. They had both known him when they were little more than boys, and some griefs are cheapened by words.

“You led them?” Julius said. Though his voice was strengthening, he still seemed confused.

“No, Julius. They followed you.”

At dawn, Julius sent a messenger up to Vercingetorix and waited for the response he knew must come.

Every man and woman in Alesia would have heard of the slaughter of Avaricum. They would be terrified of the grim soldiers who stared up at the fortress. Julius had offered to spare them all if Vercingetorix surrendered by noon, but as the sun rose, there was no response.