The Horse Changer by Craig Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

was close to death. I felt myself fading. I let my head settle into the dust as the slave bent down to inspect the wound. I heard the clap of horse’s hooves, the shouts of men. Then the dagger came ripping out of my ribs.
    After that, I heard nothing at all.

    The enemy cavalry charge I had observed might have overpowered Dolabella’s force if Pompey’s legions had not panicked at the sight of Labienus’s entire cavalry leaving the battlefield. Who can blame them? They had seen it before. They could only imagine their right wing had collapsed and Labienus was fleeing the field.
    Convinced a rout had started, Pompey’s army turned at once and ran. Those who got away first found their camp gates closed, already occupied by the enemy, but the city was not far away. And so they ran on without a backward glance and made it to safety.
    Those who followed them had mixed success. Some made it; some did not. For the rest it was death. Caesar’s left wing, led by his nephew, Quintus Pedius, began the rout. Once it had started, Caesar’s right wing was able to join them. Closing behind the cavalry were Caesar’s legions, all of them now coming at a run. It was Oculbo all over again, only with greater numbers. We came at the enemy’s back and into its vanguard; we swept up around their flanks. The killing continued all the way to the city walls. Once more, we took no prisoners. When it had finished, thirty thousand enemy lay dead or dying on the field. Of Caesar’s men only a thousand had perished, though a great many of us had been seriously wounded.

    I had lost quite a bit of blood after the surgeon pulled the blade free, and with my collarbone broken as well I was in serious peril. According to my doctor, a Greek slave formerly in Gnaeus Pompey’s army, the collarbone was easily set. As for the wound that had pierced my lungs, I nearly drowned in my own blood. For several days my doctor drained my wound and worried about infection. I hung between life and death, tied to my bed to keep me from moving.
    I ingested a mix of narcotics including opium, but the medicine was hardly sufficient for the job. I was in constant misery. Awakening I tasted a bit of broth, then I would sleep and dream. I asked about the battle at some point but could not follow anything beyond the simple fact that Caesar was victorious. Of course I ought to have concluded that much from the fact that I was still alive. A week afterwards my doctor was more hopeful, but he still worried about infection. For the sake of my broken collarbone and ribs, he kept me in traction several days longer.
    I learned at some point that Gnaeus Pompey had escaped once more. Titus Labienus had not been so lucky. His head presently decorated the entrance to Caesar’s command tent. This was presumably so that the two old friends might look one another in the eye.

    I was still bound to my bed when Caesar came to visit his wounded officers. I thought he only meant to see a few of the senior men and then move on. We were in fact a great number, including Dolabella, who had been struck by an arrow during the rout. Caesar had already started a siege against the town of Ronda, and he had sent a force back to reinforce the ongoing siege at Cordoba. So there was much for him to do and some worry still that he might not yet be as victorious as he seemed. Despite everything, Caesar took his time with his officers, ‘friends’ as he called us. Officer, legionary, or ally: his friends needed a personal thank you, and Caesar never failed to give it. When he came to me, his attending slave read from a scroll and whispered my name and rank, but Caesar spoke at once, as if needing no prompt, ‘Quintus Dellius!’
    He covered my hand with his own. I feel it still these fifty years afterwards, the warmth of the man, the charm, the mastery over others he possessed like no other I have ever known. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend.’
    Can any words ever be sweeter? But even then