| The March on Hispannia |
Watching his army march in organized ranks brought a smile to his face. They were his men, ever since Alesia the loyalty of the men before him was no longer to some distant senate; no man would remain loyal to a faceless entity. They were Julius', so much so that they would willingly become traitors for him. They had given him their lives, and he felt an almost fatherly responsibility to see to it that their lives were used to achieve victory.
Pompey's unwillingness to have peace still irked him. He had offered the fleeing general peace countless times. And now with Italy lost to him, the old general had marshalled the republic against him. It would be a hard, costly war, none of his generals denied that. Yes, they were winning. Yes they were veterans of a war which had no equal in greatness aside from the Punic Wars years before. However they were to be fighting Romans. They were to be fighting brothers, fathers, sons, cousins. Families would be ruined by the war. This did not faze him or his generals, however,
The senate brought this on themselves with their petty greed.
|
| Siege of Emporion |
The city was quite beautiful, more in the sense of what it represented than its appearance. It had once been a Greek colony, a trading post for men to grow fat and wealthy. Now it was a Roman city, a place of order and true civilisation. Something worth fighting for.
“It is good to see that they have scurried behind their walls,” Otho grunted as the men came in to sight of Emporion. The Primus Pilus was a grizzled veteran, having been a soldier long before Julius took over governance of the northern provinces.
“It just means that we have to go in after them,” replied Octavian, already planning out the siege lines.
The walls looked strong and tall, as if they had been built by roman engineers to last. However, while a barbarian horde would gaze up in awe at such magnificence, the roman army sitting outside knew the truth: the walls were not strong. There was only a thin double-layer of stone, filled in with Hispannic soil. What made it amazing to Octavian’s eyes was that the wall was swarming with defenders. They obviously had greater faith in the strength of the line layer of stone than the romans outside.
“Begin the assault,” he declared. It was a simple command, and one his officers did not fail to carry out. He was the blood of their revered leader, and had suffered pains and illness to be here.
Siege weapons had been constructed since Julius left Gaul with the XIII Gemina. Now, they were allowed to unleash the pent-up fury that had been kept at bay for far too long.
****
“Do you think he will call of those blasted things long enough for us to get some sleep?” complained Titus, pulling his cloak over his head.
“I doubt it,” came the reply from an equally tired soldier.
It had been almost three days since their young commander had ordered the assault to begin, and the weapons had not ceased firing.
“The idiot obviously didn't realize that arrows, no matter how large, cannot bring down walls!”
The other men near groaned in agreement, sighing as the weapon crews shouted in the not-far-enough distance. However, the soldiers were happy to allow the boy to play soldier, waiting out the defenders as they were struck time and time again by volleys of stone and metal spear.
Just as Titus started to feel the relaxing embrace of sleep, an almighty roar issued across the land. The sharp scream of hundreds plunging to their deaths struck the Caesarian legionaries like a physical punch. They were up and racing towards the sight with nothing but moonlight to illuminate the scene.
When they realized what had happened, peering in to the gathering dust cloud, the legion let out an almighty cheer.
As the sun rose on the fourth day, Octavian rode along the front rank of the legion. Of his legion. Julius had spoken for countless hours about the spirits of men. He had told his heir of how to bind the soldiers to their commander. A roman general with a legion could do anything he wanted.
Let them see me. This is my victory.
However, he refused from giving a long speech. The city still stood. The breach was filled with bodies, slowly oozing fluids. And just beyond that, in the city proper, rank upon rank of Romans and Spaniards waited for the killing to begin.
“Forward! For Caesar!”
Octavian smiled a feral grin as the soldiers lurched forward, barely maintaining any resemblance of order as they rushed the opening. At the head ran the aquilifer, eagle raised high. For a second, the boy was about to call for the man to slow down, but then the rest of the men of the first cohort sprinted ahead, barely even having time to throw their pila before crashing in to the defenders.
Titus had ended up at the back of the column trying desperately to get in to the city. That fool Erebus had hit him with his shield as they struggled in the initial surge. Falling, the only thing the legionary could do was bring his shield up to protect him and hope that the stampede did not kill him.
Thankfully for him, and unfortunately for Erebus, he had survived with only a few feet stamping down on to him. Spitting out the foreign soil, he jogged after his comrades, already spilling blood and opening bowels.
On the walls, hundreds of soldiers launched missiles down on to the invaders streaming through the hole. Men who had survived the horrors of Gaul were skewered by spears or had their heads caved in by lumps of rock.
Shield protecting him, Titus clambered over stone, dirt and dead bodies to get in to the city. As he ascended the hill created the day before, the man had a sudden concern about the stability of the sections of the wall to either side. If the dirt filling it decided to pour out, then the corridor would be blocked, and half the legion cut off from the rest.
“For the republic!” he roared, casting aside his doubts as he reached the other side.
“Sire, we should remain back!” one of his guards called after him.
Ignoring the man, Octavian urged his horse forward. The gates had been opened by his men, and those defenders still on the walls were being cut down as they tried to flee deeper in to the settlement.
The victory was almost complete, and now was the safest time to show the men that he was one of them.
Entering at a trot, the young nobleman drove his sword in to the back of a foe who faced off against three of his men. Without checking to see if the blow had been fatal, he urged his steed forward, calling out for his men to press onward.
To his left, hundreds of his men faced off against a force of defenders blocked off from the rest of the city. To his right, hundreds of Gaullic veterans ran along the base of the wall, following a wide hook to strike at the rest of the defenders from the rear. And in front, the rest of his legion poured after those who had managed to break away from the fighting.
“Forward men!” he galloped forward, cutting down the fleeing men with sure strikes, as he had been taught.
Once he spotted the organised ranks of the remaining defenders, Octavian pulled up short. All around him his men pushed forward, slowing down their pace to allow pila to be passed to the front.
“They were true Romans!” Octavian called out to his men, as they waited in ranks of heaving victors.
Almost to the last man the defenders stood fighting, calling out their allegiance to the republic. Little did they know that the republic had died many years before. However, Octavian did appreciate their courage, to fight for something so long gone.
“Honour them for what they did in life. Yet, if they had been true men, then they would had stood shoulder to shoulder with us! This city is no better than a cesspit of barbarians! Take what you want! As much as you can carry!”
****
It took five days for the looting to finally end. By the time the legion had been reorganized outside the city walls, thousands had died. Many women would bear the illegitimate children from their forced unions. Many widows and widowers were made. Many children ended up on the streets, bleeding from wounds. Many resisted, and Octavian cursed every legionary he lost a husband willing to sacrifice themselves for their wife’s honour, or to a girl unwilling to accept the consequences of being attractive to the opposite gender.
Let them fear us. It was how Octavian would do things; the cold winter to his great-uncle’s warm summer.
 |
| Battle of Numantia |
It was Vercingetorix’s fault, Bernhardt had finally surmised. If that idiot had not tried to face the Romans, then they would not have approached his tribe in search of men. Bernhardt wouldn’t have had the opportunity to accept the gold and silver, and hence, not end up in a place countless leagues away from his family, fighting other Romans.
Yeah, if only those Arverni mules had accepted their new position, then I would still be back with my family.
Yet it was too late to leave. Maybe that was why he was complaining. If he tried to leave, then he would be captured and brought before the Roman commander. A quick execution would be something Bernhardt might be grateful for. He had seen some of the other punishments dealt out for lesser crimes than desertion.
“Romans!” a panting barbarian spat, collapsing at the German’s feet. “Romans are coming!”
We are fighting alongside Romans you fool, Bernhardt wanted to reply, but then he heard a trumpet. It was joined by a dozen others and shortly afterwards a faint noise which could only be the roar of seven thousand men.
The German turned and sprinted towards his mount. The other auxiliaries would have to hold the bridge without him. The Romans need to know. As he galloped off back to the Romans who were paying him, the man smiled.
He had never seen a battle between his people’s enemy before.
“Do you truly believe that Africanius would be this stupid?” Gnaeus Domitius asked, his voice dripping contempt. “We are defending the fords, and Sulla’s legion is only a few days behind us!”
He shook his head at the obvious overconfidence of the enemy. Sure, he has the numbers over us, but I have veterans of Gaul.
“Shall I sound the double-pace?” asked one of his commanders. The man was already gesturing to his men to speed up.
“Why should we? Let our barbarian allies bloody them first. Let the men remain fresh for the victory to come.”
This was the first time since leaving his home to serve the Romans in their army that Egon had seen an enemy host. His mouth was dry, and his hands clammy. When he tried to loosen up his muscles like the greybeards from his village had taught him, it only made his legs turn to jelly and caused his bowels to open. The men to either side of him smelt the foul reek coming from him and slid away without any attempt at subtlety.
But there is so many of them! he wanted to scream. There had to be many more of them in comparison to the legion coming behind. And we are supposed to hold until they get here.
“Alright, let us get this done with then,” called out the Roman who claimed to be in charge. He wore a metal helmet with a fanned horsehair crest, and was clad in the segmented armour which all the Romans wore. “Get ready!”
Taking in a deep gulp of hair, Egon hefted up one of his javelins, testing it for balance. All around him those men did the same, rolling their shoulders and tightening the straps of their helmets.
Oh damn, he cursed as he realized that his own helmet was not fitted correctly. Letting his oval shield and javelin fall, the barbarian brought both hands up to fix the straps. With that done, he retrieved his weapons. As he did so, his eyes glanced over to the large bridge, the only one for miles around.
Already the enemy were crossing, rectangular shields creating a moving wall which advanced in time to the stomping of hundreds of sandaled feet. They were emotionless metal daemons who killed and killed and killed.
“Let them have it!” the centurion called, raising his sword and letting it fall.
Bernhardt snarled as he crashed in to the Roman line. Beside him were hundreds of other barbarians, spitting at the dreaded foe as they hacked and slashed.
Behind them came the cohorts of Domitius’ legion, but those Romans were taking too long to reach the crossing. By the time they had formed up in to battlelines the foe would have already created a bridgehead large enough for them to transport over their entire force. So it was up to the Gauls and Germans who had no choice but to fight.
Missiles flew across both banks of the river, heavy pila and lighter javelins piercing flesh and shields in their hundreds.
Dancing back from a sword thrust aimed at his groin, Bernhardt brought his spear down like a cudgel, hitting the man on the back of his head. As the Roman fell, the German drove the tip of his weapon in to the man’s back, piercing the metal suit again and again.
****
“It seems the barbarians managed to earn the fortune we have wasted on them,” Domitius chuckled as he slowed down his horse to properly survey the battle.
“They have done that,” agreed Fluvius, checking to ensure that the 1st Cohort was deployed in the centre of the unfurling battleline of the legion.
The two men watched passively as the barbarian auxiliaries bled the enemy as they tried to force themselves across the bridge. Hundreds were dying on each side, but Domitius was honestly surprised that the tribesmen had held for so long.
When Gaius Caesar had put forward the plan to recruit Gauls and Germans to form an almost professional force alongside the Roman legions, it had not been met with much support. However, necessity meant that thousands of barbarians were armed with solid Roman-made weapons and armour. Commanded by veterans, they reinforced the ranks of the legions.
And now they are proving their worth. To see Julius right again sat fine with Domitius, but the fact that it was barbarians. These men had family who fought at Alesia. Was their loyalty truly with the Roman commanders placed above them?
Sometimes he wished that he had not volunteered. Sometimes the violence just got too much for Bublius. However, something always got in the way of him resigning. Sometimes it was fear of the consequences. Sometimes it was because he rationalized that he didn’t have anywhere to go. All of the reasons he gave were mere lies. He loved soldiering. He loved his comrades more than his own brothers. To quit would be to betray them. So he continued to serve, through the wintry years of the Gallic Wars fighting for the Senate. Now, he was fighting the Senate with the same comrades.
“Wait!” called the centurions, as the legionaries prepared to launch their pila.
The current was fast and strong, unfordable by the heavily-armoured legionaries. However, the Spanish auxiliaries serving Africanius tried to crossing anyway. As soon as they entered the lukewarm water they were fighting to stay afloat and not get swept away. Slowly but surely, they attempted to cross over and get to the other side.
For several tense minutes, the legionaries waited for the enemy to get closer.
“Now!” roared the nearest centurion, slamming his gladius against his shield.
Almost at the same time, the two cohorts launched their heavy spears in to the sky. The sound of them splashing in to the water was strange. It was a sound that Bublius had not often heard. The sound of the dying men, however, was something he had grown used to.
The battle was going well, if too slowly for Domitius’ liking. The auxiliaries had been pulled back from the frontline, and replaced with his professional soldiers. Once his legionaries got in to the fight, Lucius’ bridgehead shrunk almost instantly. Though, as soon as they realized that the men before them were no longer barbarians, the Pompeian legionaries redoubled their efforts.
And now it is a bloody slaughter. The grinding fighting was something Gnaeus did not want to have to witness. At every call for pila to be thrown the general winced. Hundreds of the heavy missiles were launched in to the sky, landing on both sides.
“They are holding,” muttered Fluvius, as disgusted by the stalemate as his general.
****
Egon clambered out of the water with a painful lurch. All around him hundreds of auxiliaries pulled themselves out of the water, grateful that they had not been swept away. With bloody water cascading off of their armour, the men made their way up the bank of the river, towards the rear of the enemy.
The Spanish men, those who managed to reach land, had been driven back almost bloodlessly by the ready legionaries, who watched dispassionately as the exhausted swimmers were pulled down to the bottom.
Now without any enemy force to deter their own crossing, the skirmishers from across a hundred miles of Germanic and Gallic countryside, had dived in to the water.
“Forward men!” called their centurion, who wore only a soaked tunic. This did not stop him from jogging towards the enemy, his sword the only metal thing he could use to protect himself.
Madman, Egon sighed, putting on a brave face as he raced after his commander.
A few hundred disillusioned soldiers turned to face them, raising their shields to meet the threat swarming over them.
“Lucius is dead!” someone cried. The lone voice was joined by a hundred others a moment later, as the men on both sides recoiled from the news.
He was a bloody fool, Gnaeus frowned. Loyal and courageous; but a fool nonetheless. “Now, Fluvius.”
Accepting the command with a quick salute, the Tribune raced off at a gallop, the Gallic cavalry following close behind. Some of them whooped wildly as they splashed in to the river while others restrained themselves for the bloodletting to come.
He smiled as he saw the end of the battle. With their commander dead, there was no reason for the legionaries to die hundreds of miles away from their home. Those who could turned to run away. When they realized that their rear was being enveloped, any thoughts of continuing the fight were thrown away. The enemy stopped trying to press forward, and instead turned to get out of the rapidly closing corridor.
It was chaos, with dozens of men being pushed in to the flowing water as they tried to get back to supposed safety. Yet once they got back across the bridge, panting with exhaustion, the eager blades of Gnaeus’ auxiliaries.
“Ride back to Julius. Tell him that the northern passage is wide open.”
****
Bernhardt cheered wildly as he raised the eagle. It was covered in blood but that did not matter. He had taken a Roman eagle! It did not matter that the centurion would take it off of the barbarian and present it to his superiors, claiming he was the reason it had fallen in to their hands. Such acts of petty political maneuvering was beyond him.
I am a simple fighter, he decided. He raised the standard higher, keeping his eyes fixed on the gleaming bird, and off of the bodies being dumped in the river. A river that was already running red.
|
| The Battle of Llerda |
“We will coming upon this pup Octavian within the next few days,” Legate Marcus Petreius informed his tribunes, smiling as if victory was within sight.
When news reached him of the utter destruction of the Hispannic legion under Lucius, Marcus had called a halt to his easterly march. He had sent out his scouts, hoping beyond hope that the reports had been lies spread by Caesar's spies. The few men who returned relayed the same words as the enemy: Lucius was dead, and his legion butchered. Those few who had somehow escaped ended up filing the ranks of the dead of Domitius' legion.
Knowing that there was little hope for if he remained to face Julius, Legate Petreius redoubled his efforts to bring the young Caesar, Octavian, to battle. If he could force a battle with the youth, and in doing so, cut his way to southern Gaul...
It was a slim chance, and his men knew it. All the boy had to do was send word to his adoptive father while slowing down Marcus’ advance.
"I have doubled the scouts behind us," one of his tribunes informed Marcus, taking heart from his commander's supposed good mood. “We will know if any of Julius’ hounds intend to try and chase us down.”
And there it was again. Hounds. Lucius had used it before as an insult to those Gallic generals. Oh how we thought that our legions could crush him like Sulla crushed his beloved Marius years ago. Now, the Pompeian Legate was starting to feel that the slur was becoming a byword for their impending doom.
They had managed twenty miles before stopping for the night, the cornicens blowing a single, loud note to bring the men to a halt.
In the failing light, the near ten thousand strong Legio IX Hispania and their auxiliaries built their fortified camp with the calm ease of their training. The camp was loud, but not with the sounds of conversation between men who had served together for years. It was the sound of tents being strung up, of ditches being dug, and of sandals being repaired. It was the sound of men who knew that they could be dead on the morrow.
When the attack came, it was without warning.
****
Persius was the first out of the tent, dragging the bundle that was his armour across the dusty ground. His eyes darted this way and that, trying to locate anyone who knew what was happening.
Siege weapons pounded on the wooden walls of the camp, splintering the timber as if it were nothing. Flaming arrows arched through the night sky, falling on the neat rows of tents like rain. Hundreds of men floundered about, trying to throw on their equipment and rush to the breaches at the same time.
“Persius!” Optio Carus called out, brandishing his hastile like a flag. “Get your armour on quick man!”
Cursing loudly, Persius stopped to put on his armour, painfully aware of the increasing volume of screaming coming from the camp. As he pulled on his chest piece, Persius stopped to look up at Carus striding towards him.
“Miles Persius!” he snapped, glaring down at the half-dressed soldier with disgust. “What was Centurion Macer’s last command to you before he dismissed the century?”
Oh gods! Is he really going to do this now?
“I believe Centurion Macer’s last command to you was this: “keep yourselves fully equipped. We must be ready to move at any moment.”” Pulling his lips in to a sneer, the officer bent down a fraction. “So why did you disobey his command?”
“Keep the men marching hard,” Marcus told the bloodied commanders around him. “We must reach that hill before Octavian can swing round us.”
The sudden strike on their camp should have been foreseen. They should have known that the Caesarians would try anything to delay his men from getting out of Hispania. Yet, the attack was a desperate move, and one which would have had a good chance of failure. Despite that, Pretreius had been loath to give battle, in the dark and with his troops half-asleep.
Calling the retreat was not cowardice, he told himself again, looking around him. I saved these men with my decision.
Leading the sally himself, Marcus managed to buy time for the majority of his legion to escape. Though only the loyalty of the tribesmen auxiliaries ensured that the men of the 1st Cohort were able to disengage, and join the rest of his men in the race back west.
“Shall I swing the cavalry forward?” asked Tribune Fuscus, keeping his injured arm tight against his chest. “If Octavian has already occupied the high ground then it would be best if we knew sooner, rather than later.”
The suggestion was a good one, but Marcus already knew that there would be traitors waiting on the hillside, or at least nearby. Clever to attack at night: poor visibility usually hides a lack of numbers. The Legate was certain that not all of Octavian’s legion had attacked the camp, and instead had moved ahead of them. Only a cohort or so, but that would be more than enough to delay us while he raced at us from behind.
“No, we will now soon enough, and the men need something to get to grips with.” Besides, those tribesmen are the only thing stopping that pup from overtaking us.
The skirmishing had been intense, even to the eyes of a man who had been waging war against guerrilla fighters for years. The cavalry clashed every mile, horses frothing with exhaustion as their riders forced them on for another charge. Archers strung their bows for one or two hurried shots before dancing away. Lightly armoured skirmishers on both sides launched a hail of missiles at the armoured legionaries until a century or two was dispatched to see them off.
The Legate knew that only the tireless efforts of the non-legionaries under his command was keeping his army relatively intact.
This is madness, Persius decided as he and the rest of the men pulled themselves up the hill towards the waiting legion. We are not going to be able to take them on. Any further thought was cut off as the double rank of the enemy legion launched a blanket of pila high in to the sky. Thousands of the heavy spears were heaved in to the sky, their high arcs taking them down the hill.
Spitting obscenities at the enemy, Persius raised his shield with the rest of the men, grunting as he trudged on up the hill under the deadly hail. Men collapsed all around him, some brought down with a grunt by the sudden weight added to their shields, others screaming as they were impaled by metal and wood. Those unfortunate enough to be skewered upright by the javelins died on their feet, faeces dribbling down the length of the shaft which had killed them.
And as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. Bringing his shield back down, the legionary prepared to raise his own pilum. To either side and behind the survivors did the same, dearly wishing to repay the carnage caused. They knew that they were beaten; victory was an option they could not choose. However victory is not everything a soldier fights to attain: revenge is good enough for most.
****
We are the hounds of Caesar, Vulso grinned to himself, as his men swarmed towards the battlefield.
The legion had finally battered aside the barbarian auxiliaries who harried their advance, scything through them in their haste to reach the legionaries loyal to Pompey. With the path clear, Vulso was able to bring the entirety of the 1st Cohort to bear as the lethal spear tip of the attack.
“Primus Pilus!” a tribune clattered up beside the beaming soldier, a thick column of barbarian cavalry at his back. “If you do not slow down, the rest of the legion will be separated!”
The hounds have been let off of the chain! Vulso told himself, his smile broadening until it hurt. “We have them Avidius!” he shouted back to the Tribune. “If we slow down then they may try and make a stand!”
The man accepted that with an annoyed sigh, deciding against causing a standoff in the midst of a battle. With a cry, he galloped off towards the outnumbered Pompeian legion, the mounted auxiliaries following him closely.
****
“Call back the second line!” Petrieus coughed, his throat painful from the lack of moisture. “Reform to face Octavian!”
A tired messenger, no older than sixteen, forced his horse off, towards the fighting raging on the hillside. He galloped up and along the advancing legionaries, calling on them again and again to follow their orders.
The Legate felt a sudden wave of fear as he watched near half of his legion break off from the assault on the hill and come clattering down to face Octavian’s nearing legionaries. The few men had kept back to delay the pursuing legion were being swamped too quickly, and only the addition of reinforcements would allow them to hold. There is no hope now. Without any hope of matching the Gallic legionaries on the hill man for man, Marcus’ hurried assault on Julius’ forces would fail. Not that there had been much hope of it succeeding anyway.
Watching the battle progress, Julius noticed the enemy legionaries retire from the assault. His first instinct was to order the advance. As soon as the command left his mouth, the consul realised that he was not seeing the beginnings of a rout. It was too organized, too selected. It was whole cohorts slinking away from the fighting, taking measured steps as they backed away.
He is going to try and outflank the wings! The very notion was absurd: by trying to outflank the centre would be too weak to hold and the legion would be split in half. But if it were to succeed…
“Cohorts six and seven are to cleave left and advance. Push forward!”
As his messengers raced off, Julius turned his head to his right, towards the cavalry who clashed again and again. “Bring forward the auxiliaries!” He spurred his horse forward towards the cavalry on the right wing, a slight frown gracing his face.
****
Manius grunted as he drove his gladius in to a man’s throat. Metal carved through flesh and as it was retracted, Manius heard a soft sucking noise, almost inaudible in the midst of the battle.
Men were screaming . Men were weeping. Men were laughing.
Driving the dead body over with his battered shield, Manius took a lurching step forward in to the next line of enemies. He brought his sword up to meet a savage swing, deflecting the strike away as he forced his shield forward.
They had collapsed on to the enemy as they tried to move away down the hill. It did not matter that the Pompeian soldiers looked like they were pulling back; it could have easily been some sort of stratagem.
“Caesar!” Manius roared as he weaved his sword beneath the metal plates of his next victim. The cry was echoed by a thousand others.
****
Persius fell backwards, dropping both his shield and sword as the ground smacked him in the back of the head. He felt his helmet bend beneath the pressure, just as his arm slammed against the jagged edge of a dead-man’s armour. The twisted iron had gouged a hole in to his forearm, but at that moment, Persius had more pressing matters to see to.
Bloody barbarians! The wings were being rolled up like dough ready for the oven. The fighting retreat was fast becoming a full on rout, and Persius knew that he was in danger of being caught by the oncoming avalanche of “Caesar” chanting butchers. Those who stood defiant were speared. Those who turned their backs found blades plunging in to them.
Rolling over the dead bodies of his comrades, the soldier forced himself on to his feet. With blood dripping down him, Persius made off down the hill, tasting copper at the back of his throat. Eight legionaries suddenly appeared before him, locked shields and swords held high. They spared a glance for their cowardly friend before charging off up the hill, towards the victorious Caesarians.
Persius was certain he heard each one of those men’s death-cries, above the death cries of the other thousands.
“He is a determined one, isn’t he?”
You are not wrong there. The Legate had finally accepted death, looking on as one of Caesar’s legions prepared to bring the loyal city of Saguntum to heel. Looking out on the straight lines of Lepidus’ legion, the loyal friend of Pompey knew that he had failed the Republic. He had been overconfident. No. He had been arrogant and ill-prepared and undeserving of the trust of the senate.
Behind him stood the remnants of two proud legions of Rome, which had fought together for years. They were around two cohorts strong now; twenty cohorts had stood only a few months previous. Disheartened, bloody, exhausted, thirty, hungry.
Behind that sorry lot was Octavian Caesar, advancing slowly, proudly, now that he had sent word ahead to Marcus Lepidus of the approach of Marcus and his survivors. He had left his legion behind, allowing them to feast on the food stolen from Petreius’ camp. Not that he needed them.
Some of his men decided to stand with him against Lepidus, who launched an attack with the full might of his legion. Some stood with their master as he gave himself to the mercy of the gods. A mercy that the living men would not give him.
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[XGM] The Populares of Rome - Updated 28th June
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Originally Posted by Tigellinus
So already I have steered away from history 
