“We should go back,” Suetonius said. “One more attack while they are breaking camp. They'd never expect it.”
“And how would we escape again, with dawn coming?” Julius replied irritably. “No. We march until we find cover.” He turned his face away so as not to see the sullen expression that he knew would follow his words. Even that was slightly more bearable than the vicious pleasure that had gripped the young officer since the raid. It sickened him. For Julius, the short battle had been without honor, a simple practical business of reducing the enemy numbers. The hot rush of excitement that had filled his veins in the fighting had faded as soon as he was clear, but Suetonius had been almost sexually aroused by the easy killing.
The veterans too, Julius noted, had moved away from the Greek camp as fast as they were able, without cheers or care for minor wounds. They kept a professional silence, as he had ordered. Only Suetonius had chattered as they marched, seemingly unable to stop himself spilling over with self-congratulation.
“We could send in our archers and fire from cover before retiring,” he said, his mouth opening wetly at the prospect. “Did you see the sentry I shot? Straight through his throat, perfect, it was.”
“Be silent!” Julius snapped at him. “Fall back in the ranks and keep your mouth shut.” He'd had enough of the man and there was something deeply unpleasant in his enjoyment of the slaughter. It hadn't seemed to surface in the sea battles, but somehow, killing men as they slept had awakened something ugly in the young officer, and Julius wanted to push it as far from him as he could. A thought of the crucifixions flashed into his mind and he shuddered, wondering if Suetonius would have shown mercy or gone on to the very end of them. He suspected it would have been slow if Suetonius had been giving the orders.
The young watch officer didn't drop back immediately, and Julius nearly struck him. He seemed to think they shared some private relationship that sprang from the memories in common, right back to the cell on Celsus's ship. Julius looked him in the face and saw that it was twisted in spite, the mouth working as he thought of a reply to the order.
“Get back, or I'll kill you here,” Julius snarled at him, and the lean figure trotted away at last into the darkness of the marching men behind.
One of the veterans stumbled with a curse. It was easy enough to do without a moon to see the ground. They had set a hard pace from the first, with no complaints. Every man there knew Mithridates would be out looking for them as soon as it was light enough to see. They had less than two hours to dawn, and at full speed they could cover nearly ten miles in that time.
With the wounded, it would be less. Without having to ask, those men who had trouble walking were supported by two others, but most of the wounds were minor. The nature of the fighting had left the Romans either dead or untouched for the most part. Julius hadn't had time to judge their losses, but he guessed they had done well, far better than he had hoped.
As he marched, he worked through how he would have defended the Greek army if he had had charge of them. A better sentry system for a start. It was that weakness that had let them run straight into the heart of the camp without an alarm. The Wolves had been lucky, it seemed, but for all his faults, Mithridates was not a fool. It would be harder the next time, with more Roman dead. Unseen at the head of the long column, Julius was finally able to take a moment in the silence of the night march to examine the success. For all Suetonius's debased enjoyment, he was right. It had been perfect.
As dawn came, most of the men were exhausted. Grimly, Julius forced them to stagger on, keeping up a string of orders and threats. A few miles more brought them to a series of sharp wooded hills that would hide them from the day and discovery. They would sleep and eat there, but as he listened to the groans of the veterans as even their iron will faded under the endless march, he guessed they would have to stay hidden for a while longer, to recover their strength.
At dawn, Mithridates sent out all his small store of horses in groups of twenty, with orders to report back the moment they sighted the enemy. His original plan of uprooting the entire camp for the search had worried him. Perhaps that was what they intended him to do, to leave the apparent shelter of the small valley and march out onto the plains where the hidden legion could take them apart. He paced his tent in an agony of frustration, cursing his indecision. Should he retreat to a city? They were all Roman and would defend their walls against him to the last man. But where was safe on the plains? He knew it was possible that more legions would be coming from the west to crush the rebellion, and played with the idea of disbanding his men, sending them back to their farms and valleys. No, he couldn't do that. The Romans could well take them one by one as they looked for rebels, and he would have gained nothing.
He grated his teeth in the same impotent anger that had coursed through him ever since he had seen the bodies of his men the night before. Would Alexander allow himself to be trapped between legions?
He stopped his pacing suddenly. No, Alexander would not. Alexander would carry the fight to them. But in which direction? If he moved his army back into the east, he could still be caught by those coming up behind. If he moved west toward the Roman ports, he would have these night killers to harry his rear guard. The gods forgive him, what would Sulla do? If the scouts came back with no news, and he didn't act, he would begin losing men to desertion, he was sure.
Sighing, he poured himself a third cup of wine, despite the acid feeling in his empty stomach as it rebelled at such punishment so early in the day. He ignored the discomfort irritably as he tipped it back. In a little while, he would have to tell his sons that they had cost lives by not moving fast enough during the night.
He drank more and more as the day wore on and the scouts returned on lathered mounts with nothing to report. Of all the camp, only Mithridates the king had drunk himself to sleep as night fell.
Julius knew the estimates of the short night raid were going to be vague or exaggerated. It was the nature of soldiers to claim greater success than they had achieved. Yet even allowing for that, he thought they had reduced Mithridates' force by between eight hundred and a thousand, losing only eleven of their own. Those men would not be buried under the eyes of Roman gods. There had been no time to collect the bodies, but it was still a thorn under the skin of the veterans, who had never liked to leave their own in enemy hands.
The younger men had released some of the night's tension as soon as they reached the safety of the tree line in the hills and Julius had given permission to stand down. They had whooped and cheered until they were hoarse, while the veterans looked on smiling, more concerned with cleaning and oiling their equipment than celebrating.
Quertorus had sent out fifty of their best hunters to bring back meat, and by mid-morning had a steaming meal ready, roasting hares and deer together on small fires. Any flame was a risk, but the trees would break up the smoke and Julius knew they needed the rejuvenation and warmth of hot meat, and only insisted the fires be scattered as soon as the last of the hunters' kills were cooked.
The difference that age makes was clear that afternoon. The young recruits were fully recovered, moving energetically about the camp in small groups, chatting and laughing. The veterans lay like the dead, without even turning in sleep, so they woke stiff and cramped. Bruises spread under their skins, appearing where there had been no mark the night before. The younger ones shrugged off their wounds, but didn't mock the veterans for their stiffness. They had seen their skill and not their age.