The press of bodies lightened without warning and Pompey saw the bloody knives of raptores held almost in salute as they backed away. Crushed bodies and screaming, wounded men lay all about them, but they did not attack. Pompey beckoned, holding his dagger ready, the blade parallel to his forearm.
Sweat poured from him and he watched in astonishment as the men pulled back to form a pathway to the steps of the Senate house. He darted a glance in that direction and considered how far he would get if he ran, then decided against it. He would not show them his back.
In that moment, he saw the uniforms of his legions battering through the press and Clodius standing there, panting. The mob leader seemed terribly solid compared to the others. Though he was not a tall man, he was tremendously strong and the crowd gave ground instinctively around him, as wolves will look away from the most brutal of the pack. His shaven head gleamed with sweat in the morning sun. Pompey could only stare.
“They’ve scattered, Pompey, the ones who lived,” Clodius said. “Call off your soldiers.” His right hand was wet with blood and the blade he carried had snapped off close to the hilt.
Pompey turned as an officer of his legion raised his sword to cut Clodius down.
“Hold!” Pompey cried, understanding at last. “These are allies.”
Clodius nodded at that and Pompey heard the order repeated as the legion gathered around him, forming a fighting square. Clodius began to be pushed away, but Pompey took his arm.
“Do I need to guess who is behind this attack?” he asked.
Clodius shrugged his massive shoulders. “He is already in the Senate building. There will be no link back to him, you can be sure. Milo is cunning enough to keep his hands clean.” As if in irony, Clodius threw down his broken knife and wiped his bloody fists on the hem of his robe.
“You had men ready?” Pompey asked, hating the constant suspicion that was part of his life.
Clodius narrowed his eyes at the implication. “No. I never set foot in the forum without fifty of my lads.
They were enough to reach you in time. I knew nothing until it started.”
“Then we owe our lives to your quick thinking,” Pompey said. He heard a whimper cut off nearby and spun round. “Are there any left alive to be questioned?”
Clodius looked at him. “Not now. There are no names given in that sort of work. Believe me, I know.”
Pompey nodded, trying to ignore the inner voice that wondered if Clodius had staged the whole thing. It was an unpleasant thought, but he owed a debt to the man that would bind him for years. To many men in the Senate, such a debt would be worth the deaths of a few of their servants, and Clodius was known to be ruthless in every part of his life. Pompey met Crassus’s eyes and guessed the old man was thinking along similar lines. Very slightly, Crassus lifted his shoulders and let them drop, and Pompey looked back to the man who had saved them. There was no way of knowing and probably never would be.
Pompey realized he was still gripping his dagger and uncurled his fingers painfully from the hilt. He felt old next to the bull-like strength of Clodius. While part of him wanted to wash the blood from his skin and soak in a hot bath somewhere private and, above all, safe, he knew more was expected from him. Hundreds of men stood within earshot and before nightfall the whole grisly incident would be the talking point of every shop and tavern in the city.
“I am late for the Senate, gentlemen,” he said, his voice growing in strength. “Clean away the blood before I return. The corn taxes won’t be delayed for any man.”
It wasn’t much in the way of wit, but Clodius chuckled.
With Crassus at his shoulder, Pompey walked along the avenue of Clodius’s men, and many bowed their heads respectfully as they passed.
The Tenth withdrew in panic, their orderly lines dissolving into the chaos of a complete rout.
Thousands of the Senones cavalry pursued them, breaking off from the main battle where the Ariminum legions fought solidly and held the line.
The fortified camp from the night before was less than a mile away, and the retreating Tenth covered it at great speed, Julius with them. The extraordinarii protected the rear from the wild assaults by the Senones, and not a man was lost as they reached the heavy gates of the fort and rushed inside.
The Senones were proving to be difficult adversaries. Julius had lost large numbers of the Third Gallica in an ambush from woodland and others since then. The tribe had learned not to offer a direct battle against the legions. Instead, they skirmished and moved away, using their cavalry to harass the Roman forces without ever allowing themselves to be caught where they could be crushed.
The extraordinarii followed the men of the Tenth under the gates of the fort and closed them behind. It was a humiliating position, but the fort had been designed for exactly that purpose. As well as giving protection for the night, it allowed the legions to retreat to a strong position. The Senones riders whooped and yelled as they rode round the huge banked walls, though they were careful to keep out of range. Twice before, Julius had been forced to bring back his entire force within the walls, and the Senones hooted as they brought it about again.
Their king rode with them and long banners waved from spears set into his saddle. Julius watched from the wall as the Senones’ leader brandished his sword at the men in the fort, mocking them. Julius showed his teeth.
“Now, Brutus!” he called down.
The Senones could not see into the camp and their cheering continued unabated. Over the thunder of their own hooves, they did not hear the extraordinarii as they gathered at the far end and kicked their mounts into a gallop across the wide camp, straight at the wall near the gate.
As they gathered speed, fifty men of the Tenth used lengths of wood to break down the loose blocks that made up the wall. It fell away just as Julius had designed it to do, leaving an open space wide enough for five horses to ride abreast.
The extraordinarii came out like arrows, straight at the king. Before his riders could react, he was surrounded and dragged from his horse. The extraordinarii wheeled in the face of the enemy and galloped back inside the gap in the walls, with the king yelling across Brutus’s saddle.
Julius opened the gates and the Tenth marched out in triumph. The panic and fear they had pretended had vanished and they hit the milling Senones with a roar. The Tenth hammered them with spears and swords and forced the Gauls farther and farther away from the fort and their captured king. Behind them, the hole in the wall was filled with carts that had been left for that purpose and Julius leapt into his saddle to race after them, glancing back to see the fort made secure once more.
It had taken a moonless night to construct the false wall, but it could not have worked better. The king of the Senones had been crucial to their attacks, a man able to answer every stratagem with speed and intelligence. Removing him from the battle was a vital step in beating the tribe.
Julius cantered to the front line of the Tenth and saw their pleasure at his presence. The Ariminum legions were holding their position as they had been told, and now the Tenth could strike the rear of the Senones, smashing them between the two forces.
From the first instant of the Tenth reaching their lines, Julius could feel the difference in the shifting mass of riders and foot soldiers. They had relied too much on their king, and without him they were already close to panic.
Though they tried to detach in units as their king had ordered on previous days, the core of discipline had vanished. Instead of an orderly retreat for tactical advantage, two charges fouled each other as they tried to organize themselves. The Tenth smashed them down from their saddles and moved on. Riderless horses ran screaming around the battlefield and the Senones were crushed, hundreds of them throwing down their arms and surrendering as the news of the king’s capture spread.