Aurelius stayed close to Rome as they cut through the camp, dodging soldiers the legions prepared to assemble. Pompey had mirrored their movements, forcing them into progressively more hostile Greek territory. Now they were pinned down outside of Thessaly, no access to allies, dangerously low on supplies, and with no escape route in sight. He kept to Rome's heels as they entered Iulius's tent, standing at hand with the legatii crowded around the table.

"What's the count?" Rome asked, cutting past pleasantries.

"110 cohorts, three lines ten men deep," Iulius answered, watching Marcus lay out the corresponding figures on the map. "He has double our numbers, and he's playing it safe."

"That's because he doesn't want to fight. He'd rather starve us out," a legatus grumbled. The others murmured in agreement.

Aurelius tugged on Rome's hand. "Papa, how does Pompey have double the men? We have seven legions."

"They're not at full strength." Rome didn't look down, pulling his hand loose. "Pompey's allied with most of Greece, so we can't replenish our ranks here."

"I thought Greece was your son too—" He clamped his mouth shut as Rome shot him a glare and turned his attention back to the map.

Iulius set up more units, explaining, "To match the length of his lines, we can only stand six men deep. We have the river to our right, which is where the cavalry will go."

"Pompey's cavalry outnumbers ours seven to one, they'll smash right through that—" someone started, and Iulius held up a hand.

"Not when it's reinforced. Once we're arrayed, I'll give the order to thin the ranks to form a fourth line behind the cavalry as reinforcements."

Even Marcus pulled back, surveying the map with a grim expression. "That's risky," he ventured.

"Yes, and Pompey has every advantage." Rome leaned over the table, arms braced on the edge. "Old blood, old family, urged on by old senators. He doesn't understand the value of a gamble."

"What if he does?" Aurelius cringed as every eye in the room swiveled to him. He pushed on. "What if Pompey doesn't fight like normal?"

The legatii glanced at each other; Rome straightened. "We'll deal with that if we have to."

"If Pompey routes our cavalry, we will lose," Iulius clarified. Rome shot him a look too, but the general continued undeterred. "The loses we incurred at Dyrrhachium were substantial, and we do not have enough supplies to wait him out, or to keep marching. If we don't win, we will die. My men will not fail me, or themselves." The legatii nodded, and Aurelius felt his shoulders drop a fraction even as his stomach twisted. Even though it wasn't, Dyrrhachium still felt like his fault.

Iulius rattled off the legion assignments for the legatii, giving Rome a high rank in the cavalry. Iulius and Marcus commanded the left and right back legions, from which they could survey the field and give orders as necessary. As they went over last minute strategies to prevent the lines from collapsing, Aurelius edged away from the table. The battle would take place in the field just beyond the camp; it'd be like Dyrrhachium all over, huddled in the tent with the sounds of dying men in the distance, jumping at every roaring charge, hoping none of the screams were Rome. Better to be on the battlefield.

He paused. Rome had his back to him, focused on the legatii, gesturing in precise, clipped movements as he debated troop movement. Aurelius licked his lips and snuck out, hurrying back to their tent.

Antonius leapt to his feet when he entered. "Where's Papa?"

"Still at the meeting." Aurelius went straight to the chest at the foot of the bed, heaving up the lid and pulling out his armour. His brother came to his side.

"What're you doing?"

He almost said 'nothing'. "Getting ready." Buckling the cuirass on himself was close to impossible and he waved Cassius over, handing it to him.

Antonius moved in front of him, frowning. "Getting ready for what?"

"What does it look like, stupid?" he snapped, fumbling with the vambraces as the cuirass tightened. He grabbed his belt and dagger next, leaving the training sword in the chest. He'd have to find a different one.

His brother gaped. "You're going to fight?"

He nodded as Cassius strapped on the shin guards. Fully armoured, battle felt more real, more certain.

"You're certain this is what your father wishes?" Cassius asked as he stood.

Papa would flay him if he found out. "Yes. Cassius, run to fetch me a proper sword and—" He was too short to march with a legion on foot, he'd never keep up during the charge. But Papa was commanding the cavalry… "and my horse."

"Why don't I get to fight?" Antonius wailed.

"You're too small." Aurelius followed Cassius to the tent flap and peeked out. No sign of Papa. He turned back.

Antonius balled his fists. "I'm almost as big as you."

"Almost," Aurelius sneered. If Antonius said anything about this to Papa… But he'd go straight to the field from the meeting. Hopefully.

"I'm going to fight too!" Antonius rushed over to the trunk, dragging out his own armour.

Aurelius grabbed him. "No, you can't—Papa said if you misbehaved now, you'll have to wait three more battles before he'd let you fight."

"That's not fair!" The nationling threw a shoulder guard at him; he side-stepped without difficulty and missed Cassius by inches.

"Your horse is outside," he saluted, and held out a sheathed short sword. Aurelius took it, thanking him. The sword seemed heavier than his training sword, which couldn't be right; the only difference was the sharpness of the blade. He loosed the blade from the scabbard a few inches—the iron gleamed, freshly polished, and he could see tiny nicks on the edge, scars from previous battles. Maybe that's why it felt heavier; it had cleaved souls from bodies in the past. He clicked it back into place, attaching it to his belt before looking back to Cassius and nodding.

Antonius followed him outside to the horse, watching as Cassius lifted up the boy to mount. "You'll come back?"

Cassius deposited him securely in the saddle and darted back into the tent. He took the reins, sitting tall. "Of course I'll come back."

The Hispanic boy shifted from foot to foot. "I don't want to be alone."

A stab of guilt jabbed him in the gut and he glanced towards Iulius's tent. "Cassius will be with you."

"It's not the same…"

Said servant reemerged from the tent before Aurelius could answer and held out the child's helmet. A horn blared. His heart leapt to his throat and he snatched the helmet away. "I'll be back soon!" Their replies were muted by the helm sliding into place over his ears, and he nudged his horse into motion, heading for the gate.

His mare melded into the river of horses. His breath caught at the sight of every red commander's cloak, but it was impossible to tell which was Papa. None looked behind them. He followed the lead of the other equites; they dwarfed him, shielding him from view. As they rode onto the plain, the mass condensed into ranks—he fit into an empty space and knew this plan wouldn't have worked if they were at full strength. The number of gaps was alarming. The equites called to each other as they fell in, dares and blessings; the man next to him shouted something to a fellow man-at-arms, and Aurelius swiveled in his saddle, blurting:

"You're Gaulish!"

The man blinked. "You can't possibly be an equites yet."

Aurelius flushed to his ears. "I am!"

He received a hard look in return. "What's your name, boy?"

His mouth opened with 'Aurelius' on his tongue and said, "Maponos."

"Tennos," the Gaul grunted. "I'm sure you're not supposed to be here, Maponos, and more confused by where the hell you came from, but stick by me and I'll keep you alive as best I can."

Keep him alive. There was a legitimate chance he could be killed. He licked his lips, mouth dry, and nodded. His thanks were drowned out by another trumpet blast. The equites brought their horses to a stop, a hush settling over the crowd. Aurelius saw Iulius and Papa ride to the front and shifted his horse two steps to the side, putting a man in his line of sight to the commanders. Just in case.

He couldn't make out most of Iulius's speech, the helmet still muffling sound. In the far distance he could see Pompey's men lined up opposite them, and the tall mass by the river, the enemy cavalry. He could tell from here that they outnumbered them. The Gaulish men around him were armed with lances; he hadn't thought to grab one. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Fighting from horseback wasn't something he learned with the Tenth Legion, just infantry drills. He felt his palms sweating. The river flowed towards camp; if he fell in, it'd carry him straight back.

The men roared and he jumped, his horse shying. He pulled the mare back in line and saw Papa riding to the front of the equites, taking position by the banner. Another trumpet blast, and the legions lurched forward into a quick march, the cavalry at a brisk trot. His heart picked up tempo with the hooves around him. Ahead he saw Papa's red cloak snap in the wind, the matching plumb bobbing along with his horse's gait, and knew it was ridiculous to worry that Papa would spot him. A single rider in a sea of horses? He would need eyes like an eagle to find him. The thought should've been a relief; with the gap between the two armies closing, it was terrifying. He shot a look at Tennos, but the man's attention was fixed forward on the enemy. Aurelius looked back; they still seemed far away.

Ahead the banner dipped; the horses slowed, and he pulled back on the reins as well, brow knitted in confusion as they came to a stop. The men shifted in their saddles, murmuring; Aurelius strained to see around the larger bodies and saw the legatus from the front center legion was conferring with Papa, heads bowed, gesturing towards Pompey's forces. Now that the charge was halted, Aurelius could see that the enemy hadn't advanced at all.

Papa shouted a command but he missed it. Leaning over in his saddle, he asked, "Why did we stop?"

"Rest and regroup," Tennos grumbled.

"Why?"

"How should I know?"

Aurelius glanced over the plain. They had covered about half the distance to Pompey, uphill… The infantry was reorganizing, reforming their lines and setting down their heavy shields. Pompey's army still wasn't moving, not trying to take advantage of their halt. Messengers went among the legions; Aurelius scanned the area but couldn't spot Iulius. The pause left him uneasy, even though his pulse settled to roughly normal. He had time to think. He fiddled with his belt, repositioning the dagger and hoping he wouldn't need it.

A trumpet blast pulled them back to attention. His throat tightened as he sat up in the saddle, white knuckles on the reins.

"Maponos." Tennos stared at him, pale eyes sharp. "Epona rides with you. Stick close."

He nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Another distant order, echoed back by the legatus; he heard Papa—

"Forward, march!"

They urged the horses into a trot again; Pompey's forces loomed closer, closer. A second command—the infantry broke into a run. Aurelius boggled to see the lines hold form, everyone keeping abreast. In front of them, Pompey's men set their shield wall, spears and swords jutting out like thorns. Aurelius held his breath as the two lines smashed together, screams and yells tearing the air—

"Maponos, eyes forward!" Tennos shouted. At the head of the column, Rome gave an order, drawing his sword; Aurelius followed suit as the equites lowered their lances, kicking their horses into a gallop. He gripped the reins with one hand, sword ready, the thunder of hooves deafening, driving out all thought, Pompey's equites were charging—

The Pompeiian forces crashed into their lines; chaos erupted. A horse stumbled sideways into his; he dropped the reins, clutching the pommel, and saw the incoming blade just in time to bat it away with his sword—the impact jarred his arm, numbing his fingers. He swung, missed, ducked another sword. He couldn't see Tennos. A surge of horses bodily lifted his, carrying them backwards several feet as his knees squeezed the saddle tight. Hooves found traction, launching him into one of Pompey's men, lanced raised—he hacked down, knocking the lance aside, sword snapping back without thinking. A spray of warmth splattered across his helm and cuirass as the man toppled backwards off his horse and disappeared under the pounding hooves.

Something slammed into his back, pitching him forward onto the mare's neck; his sword flew from his hand. He shoved himself upright, wheeling his horse around in time for a lance to bite deep into the horse's chest—it reared and he threw himself clear as it crashed to the ground, rolling from another set of trampling hooves. He scrambled to his feet, he didn't see his sword; a hand landed on the scruff of his neck and hauled him into the air, throwing him across a saddle, the pommel driving the air from his lungs into a pained groan. He twisted, trying to push himself up, he couldn't he his own shouts over the sounds of dying men and horses, trumpets blaring. He fumbled for his dagger and jammed it into his captor's leg, wedging into the gap between shin guard and armoured skirt. An iron-banded glove cracked into the back of his head and his vision winked out, dagger slipping from his grip. The rider jerked, horse lurching beneath them, and his stomach flew to his throat in the vertigo—his wrist crunched, pinned under him against the churned up ground, and something heavy collapsed on him, grinding him and his wrist deeper into the earth. He heard himself scream, high and short, the air in his lungs fleeing as his armour crumpled under the unyielding weight. He blinked, stamping hooves and still bodies swimming back into view, Gaulish boots mere inches from his face. He tried to free his arm, hand clawing the churned up ground for purchase and finding none. He couldn't breathe, the pain was blinding, darkness crawling into his vision; his head thunked to the ground, the metal helm digging into his cheek, and the sounds of battle faded into nothing.

-o-

Rome peeled away from the returning cavalry, steering his horse towards his tent. He'd have to report to Iulius soon and recap his experience of the battle, but all he wanted to do at the moment was take a nap. His whole body ached, the direct result of Romans killing Romans. He saw Labenius during the chaos, Iulius's former commander of the Tenth. Some twenty men stood between them though, so the traitor survived, to his knowledge. Impressive by anyone's account, on both sides. Pompey's cavalry ploughed through his ranks just as predicted, and Rome could kiss Iulius for the foresight to station a fourth infantry line as backup. Still, it was brutal; he was glad to be done with it.

Antonius latched onto his leg the moment he entered the tent. "Papa, you're back! Where's Aurelius?"

"What?" His eyes swept over the space—he presumed the boy had returned to the tent. They went straight to ranks after the meeting, he didn't have time to double check—"Where is he?"

"He said he was fighting—"

"What." He whirled to face Cassius. "Did you know he was planning this?"

Cassius wouldn't look at him, eyes on the dirt. "I thought it was what you wished—"

"What I wished—" Fury choked him. He lunged and caught the servant by the collar, fist colliding with his jaw hard enough that his legs gave out. Rome held him up, snarling, "Gods preserve you should he be lost." He threw Cassius down, storming out of the tent—Antonius scrambled out of his way as he passed. Leaping onto his horse, he shouted orders to the nearest soldiers, organizing a search, then wheeled around and galloped out of the camp.

The battle plain was bathed in fading gold from the setting sun. The dead were still lying where they fell, clumped together to mark pockets of intense fighting. The line where six of Iulius's cohorts attacked Pompey's flank was thick with bodies, most of them Pompeiian, but the river was lined with the huge forms of horses, dwarfing the equites themselves. Men from either side were moving among the corpses, beginning the long process of searching for the wounded, tending to the dead. Rome went to them; none had seen a young blond boy. At least, not yet.

If he were in Aurelius's place, how would he sneak into the battle? What legion? Rome's gaze crawled slowly over the field, picturing the layout in his mind. He'd avoid legions led by those most likely to recognize him at a glance. The equites, the legion under Iulius, and the legion under Marcus: out. A center position in any remaining legion would be ideal to avoid detection, given his height—no… Aurelius couldn't keep up with the legion in a full charge. He'd seen as much, when the boy practiced with the Tenth.

He frowned, turning his horse towards the river. Aurelius couldn't have snuck into his own damn unit, could he? He slowed, weaving his way among the death, eyes on the ground. Most of his casualties were here, mostly Gauls—he chilled.

"Aurelius!" he kicked his horse faster. Of course Aurelius went to the equities. Couldn't keep up with a legion, so he'd opt to be surrounded by his former people. He wondered if it was even a conscious decision. A man ahead, dead now, sitting on the ground, propped against his mount, arm flung aside as if to guard—a glint of blond.

He shouted to the men across the field as he jumped down, wedging his shoulder against the beast, heaving. "Aurelius!" The boy wasn't moving; Rome's heart pounded against his ribs and he shoved the horse up, but couldn't maneuver Aurelius free simultaneously. The men joined him; they braced the horse up and Rome twisted, ignoring the groans of the men as they bore the horse's full weight. He grasped Aurelius under the shoulders—"Lift higher!"—and dragged him free, turning him over. His dented cuirass was splattered with blood, his wrist swollen like a tree limb. He tugged the helmet off and the rest of his golden hair spilled out, his face was intact, his wide eyes glassy. "Fuck—" He cradled Aurelius in his arms, ear to his chest, and sucked in a sharp breath.

"No, come on, Aurelius…" He pressed two fingers to his neck, praying. The boy had been crushed, but now that he was free... The seconds dragged by like hours; Rome felt sick, he could feel the pitying eyes of his men on him as he knelt in the filth, son clutched to his chest. No, could a young territory really fall so easily? A weak flutter under his fingertips, then another—a flinched shot through Aurelius's body and a high whine escaped him.

"Oh thank gods," Rome gushed, folding Aurelius against him in a tight hug. The boy whimpered, unmoving, and he relented. "Oh my son, what were you thinking?"

Aurelius whined again, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted in a grimace, his good hand hovering over the battered cuirass. Rome kissed his forehead and stood, holding him like a bride. He saw the dead Gaul, sprawled on the ground where the men had knocked him aside, and nodded a small salute. "Note to me his name later," he instructed the others, before catching his horse's reins and walking back to camp.

Aurelius's injuries weren't as severe as they could have been. The blood stains weren't his, but both his wrist and a few of his ribs were broken. The greatest victory was simply having Aurelius alive. So long as he was alive, he would recover. Rome got him cleaned up, bandaged, and resting, sending Antonius to Marcus's ten with Cassius as an escort. He'd have to deal with the servant, but first, Aurelius.

He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down, gaze lingering on the heavy wrapping around the boy's wrist and chest. Aurelius shifted, wincing, and sighed.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Rome remarked, reaching for the wine goblet.

Aurelius nodded. "How long do I have to stay in bed?"

"Until you can take a full breath without cringing." He gingerly helped him sit up, holding the goblet for him to drink before letting him sink back into the sheets, eyes shut. "What possessed you to do that?"

Aurelius glanced at him and away, mumbling, "I wanted to help."

"You're not going to help anyone at your size and skill." Aurelius's cheeks coloured and Rome added, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. But during a battle, every man must be able to hold his own. You simply can't do that yet."

Aurelius said something under his breath; Rome leaned in. "What was that?"

"I killed someone."

His jaw dropped. "In the battle?" When Aurelius nodded, Rome straightened, trying not to grin. Damn it, he was supposed to be annoyed at the child, not pleased. "How do you feel?"

Hesitation clouded Aurelius's face. "I… Proud? It was scary. I didn't really think about it."

"You did well," Rome assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Still, you shouldn't have fought, especially without telling me. You remember what happened to Antonius when he snuck off and hid during the siege of Ilerda?"

Aurelius paled, nodding. Rome resisted the urge to comfort him. "I've half a mind to lash you, but I think the broken ribs are enough." He patted the bandaged sternum lightly and Aurelius winced. Rome smothered a chuckle and stood. "I need to report to Iulius. Rest, and don't try getting out of bed."

Aurelius called out just before he reached the tent flat. "Who won?"

Rome shook his head. "Given that our camp's not over-run, I'll let you figure that out." Aurelius made a face; Rome returned it and left.

A decisive victory, marred only by an over-eager son. He tried not to dwell on how the day could've ended, with dead or captured commanders, his sons, himself. He couldn't decide how Pompey would treat him, if the general would try to punish him for his involvement with Iulius. He wasn't sure how he'd react to Pompey. He could still feel that nervous tugging in the back of his mind, reminding him that Iulius was flying in the face of tradition, that Pompey had the backing of the Senate. Pompey wasn't fully on the right of the law though either—ordering Iulius to disband his Gallic legions before his term as governor was up, forbidding him to run for consul in absentia. The people were the trump card here—his citizens were for Iulius, and he used that knowledge of counter the nagging voice for Pompey.

He longed for the day when he didn't have to debate it.

He met with Iulius, the man flushed with victory, his sombre visage briefly lifted. He related the cavalry's role in the battle and praised the imperator for the fourth line genius, and shared word of Aurelius's adventures. The smile slipped during the retelling, and Rome's own spirits dropped as Iulius's frown deepened.

"Romulus—"

"Iulius. You're giving me that look. I know a war camp isn't for children. I'm not sending them away."

The commander shook his head. "Do you realize how fortunate you are? Imagine if Antonius had tried the same—"

"I won't, if it's all the same to you," Rome scowled, sending a slave for wine. "Come now, Iulius, don't do this, we just won a major battle! Have we gotten word from Pompey?"

Iulius held his gaze, debating, and let it go. "Not directly, but it appears that he's fled the camp with his family."

"Ha! That explains the poor defense of the camp itself." Rome accepted the cup and took a long drink, sighing. "We'll pursue him then. Where' he headed?"

Iulius shrugged. "No one can say for certain, possible the eastern kingdoms, but indications suggest Aegyptus."

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Aegyptus? Aren't they in the midst of their own internal dispute?"

"They are."

"He's desperate…" Rome sat back on the sofa, musing. He hoped Pompey had enough sense to avoid that trap. The senator never would though. He'd seek out the stronger of the two Aegyptian sides and offer to back them once his own position was secure. And once he was in power, he'd back out and leave Aegyptus to crumble, until the African empire recovered enough to get even. Rome relayed these thoughts to Iulius and drained his cup.

Iulius nodded. "Seems likely. How do you think Aegyptus will respond?"

"Hard to say. I don't know much about the king and queen, aside from the face that they're family. Their whole conflict is sibling rivalry writ large."

"And the empire?"

"We've never met. Aegyptus is a woman; she's older than I am, and that's about the extent of my knowledge. She's rumoured to be much removed. Hard to get audience with. Formal." Not his idea of a party. Gods only knew how she was handling the political chaos.

"We'll see if the rumours are true." Iulius stood; Rome heard an audible crack. He gave the general a look, standing as well. The commander huffed, "I need to review then men, and visit the medical tent."

Rome caught him by the shoulder when he tried to pass. "Promise me you'll rest after."

"Romulus, there are things to which I must attend—" he began, trying to push past.

"Chief of which is your health," Rome stated, holding firm. "Rest after."

Iulius rolled his eyes but conceded. Rome watched him go, brow creased. He didn't used to creak like that. He called for more wine; a servant appeared, refilling the cup and vanishing, leaving him alone. He returned to the sofa, cup in one hand, chin propped on his fist. He stared at the map, nursing his wine until the lamps burned low. He was gone by the time Iulius returned.

-o-

Mostly done with the Caesar's Civil War now. Next up: Egypt! Cleopatra, chariot races, boating trips down the Nile, weird pseudo-family arrangements!

Feel free to leave comments, critiques, and questions! Also, if you like this fic and think you know others who might as well, please pass it along via the social media tool of your choice~ See you soon!