Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Emperor: The Gates of Rome

Emperor: The Death of Kings

Emperor: Field of Swords

Emperor: The Gods of War

Emperor: The Blood of Gods

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

Conn Iggulden

EMPEROR

THE GATES OF ROME

CONN IGGULDEN

To my son Cameron and to my brother Hal, the other member of the Black Cat Club

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

The track in the woods was a wide causeway to the two boys strolling down it. Both were so dirty with thick, black mud as to be almost unrecognisable as human. The taller of the two had blue eyes that seemed unnaturally bright against the cracking, itching mud that plastered him.

‘We’re going to be killed for this, Marcus,’ he said, grinning. In his hand, a sling spun lazily, held taut with the weight of a smooth river pebble.

‘Your fault, Gaius, for pushing me in. I told you the river bed wasn’t dry all the way.’

As he spoke, the shorter boy laughed and shoved his friend into the bushes that lined the path. He whooped and ran as Gaius scrambled out and set off in pursuit, sling whirring in a disc.

‘Battle!’ he shouted in his high, unbroken voice.

The beating they would get at home for ruining their tunics was far away and both boys knew every trick to get out of trouble – all that mattered was charging through the woodland paths at high speed, scaring birds. Both boys were barefoot, already with calluses developing, despite not having seen more than eight summers.

‘This time, I’ll catch him,’ Gaius panted to himself as he ran. It was a mystery to him how Marcus, who had the same number of legs and arms, could yet somehow make them move faster than he could. In fact, as he was shorter, his stride should have been a little less, surely?

The leaves whipped by him, stinging his bare arms. He could hear Marcus taunting him up ahead, close. Gaius showed his teeth as his lungs began to hurt.

Without warning, he broke into a clearing at full pelt and skidded to a sudden, shocked stop. Marcus was lying on the ground, trying to sit up and holding his head in his right hand. Three men – no, older boys – were standing there, carrying walking staffs.

Gaius groaned as he took in his surroundings. The chase had carried the two boys off his father’s small estate and into their neighbours’ part of the woods. He should have recognised the track that marked the boundary, but he’d been too caught up in catching Marcus for once.

‘What do we have here? A couple of little mudfish, crawled up out of the river!’

It was Suetonius who spoke, the eldest son of the neighbouring estate. He was fourteen and killing time before he went into the army. He had the sort of trained muscles the two younger boys hadn’t begun to develop. He had a mop of blond hair over a face speckled with white-headed eruptions that covered his cheeks and forehead, with a sprinkling of angry-looking red ones disappearing under his praetexta tunic. He also had a long straight stick, friends to impress and an afternoon to while away.

Gaius was frightened, knowing he was out of his depth. He and Marcus were trespassing – the best they could expect was a few blows, the worst was a beating with broken bones. He glanced at Marcus and saw him try to stagger to his feet. He’d obviously been belted with something as he ran into the older boys.

‘Let us go, Tonius, we’re expected back.’

‘Speaking mudfish! We’ll make our fortune, boys! Grab hold of them, I have a roll of twine for tying up pigs that will do just as well for mudfish.’

Gaius didn’t consider running, with Marcus unable to get away. This wasn’t a game – the cruelty of the boys could be managed if they were treated carefully, talked to like scorpions, ready to strike without warning.

The two other boys approached with their staffs held ready. They were both strangers to Gaius. One dragged Marcus to his feet and the other, a hefty, stupid-looking boy, rammed his stick into Gaius’ stomach. He doubled up in agony, unable to speak. He could hear the boy laughing as he cramped and groaned, trying to curl into the pain.

‘There’s a branch that will do. Tie their legs together and string them up to swing. We can see who’s the best shot with javelins and stones.’

‘Your father knows my father,’ Gaius spat out, as the pain in his stomach lessened.

‘True – doesn’t like him though. My father is a proper patrician, not like yours. Your whole family could be his servants if he wanted. I’d make that mad mother of yours scrub the tiles.’

At least he was talking. The thug with the horsehair twine was intent on tying knots at Gaius’ feet, ready to hoist him into the air. What could he say to bargain? His father had no real power in the city. His mother’s family had produced a couple of consuls – that was it. Uncle Marius was a powerful man, so his mother said.

‘We are nobilitas – my Uncle Marius is not a man to cross …’

There was a sudden high-pitched yelp as the string over the branch went tight and Marcus was swung into the air upside down.

‘Tie the end to that stump. This fish next,’ Tonius said, laughing gleefully.

Gaius noted that the two friends followed his orders without question. It would be pointless trying to appeal to one of them.

‘Let us down, you spot-covered pus-bag!’ Marcus shouted as his face darkened with the rush of blood.

Gaius groaned. Now they would be killed, he was sure.

‘You idiot, Marcus. Don’t mention his spots; you can see he must be sensitive about them.’

Suetonius raised an eyebrow and his mouth opened in astonishment. The heavy-set boy paused as he threw the twine over the same branch as Marcus.

‘Oh, you have made a mistake, little fish. Finish stringing that one up, Decius, I’m going to make him bleed a little.’

Suddenly, the world tilted sickeningly and Gaius could hear the twine creak and a low whistle in his ears as his head filled with blood. He rotated slowly and came round to see Marcus in a similar predicament. His nose was a little bloody from being knocked down the first time.

‘I think you’ve stopped my nosebleed, Tonius. Thanks.’ Marcus’ voice trembled slightly and Gaius smiled at his bravery.

When he’d first come to live with them, the little boy had been naturally nervous and a little small for his age. Gaius had shown him around the estate and they’d ended up in the hay barn, right at the top of the stacked sheaves. They had looked down at the loose pile far below and Gaius had seen Marcus’ hands tremble.

‘I’ll go first and show you how it’s done,’ Gaius had said cheerfully, launching himself feet first and whooping.

Below, he’d looked up at the edge for a few seconds, waiting to see Marcus appear. Just as he’d thought it would never happen, a small figure shot into the air, leaping high. Gaius had scrambled out of the way as Marcus crashed into the hay, winded and gasping.

‘I thought you were too scared to do it,’ Gaius said to the prone figure, blinking in the dust.

‘I was,’ Marcus had replied quietly, ‘but I won’t be afraid. I just won’t.’

The hard voice of Suetonius broke into Gaius’ spinning thoughts: ‘Gentlemen, meat must be tenderised with mallets. Take your stations and begin the technique, like so.’

He swung his stick at Gaius’ head, catching him over the ear. The world went white, then black and when he next opened his eyes everything was spinning as the string twisted. For a while, he could feel the blows as Suetonius called out, ‘One-two-three, one-two-three …’

He thought he could hear Marcus crying and then he passed out to the accompaniment of jeers and laughter.

He woke and went back under a couple of times in the daylight, but it was dusk when he was finally able to stay conscious. His right eye was a heavy mass of blood and his face felt swollen and caked in stickiness. They were still upside down and swinging gently as the evening breeze came in from the hills.

‘Wake up, Marcus – Marcus!’

His friend didn’t stir. He looked terrible, like some sort of demon. The crust of crumbling river mud had been broken away and there was now only a grey dust, streaked with red and purple. His jaw was swollen, and a lump stood out on his temple. His left hand was fat and had a blueish tinge in the failing light. Gaius tried to move his own hands, held by the twine. Though painfully stiff, they both worked and he set about wriggling them free. His young frame was supple and the burst of fresh pain was ignored in the wave of worry he felt for his friend. He had to be all right, he had to be. First though, Gaius had to get down.

One hand came free and he reached down to the ground, scrabbling in the dust and dead leaves with his fingertips. Nothing. The other hand came free and he widened his area of search, making his body swing in a slow circle. Yes, a small stone with a sharp edge. Now for the difficult part.

‘Marcus! Can you hear me? I’m going to get us down, don’t you worry. Then I’m going to kill Suetonius and his fat friends.’

Marcus swung gently in silence, his mouth open and slack. Gaius took a deep breath and readied himself for the pain. Under normal circumstances, reaching up to cut through a piece of heavy twine with only a sharp stone would have been difficult, but with his abdomen a mass of bruises, it felt like an impossible task.

Go.

He heaved himself up, crying out with the pain from his stomach. He jackknifed up to the branch and gripped it with both hands, lungs heaving with the effort. He felt weak and his vision blurred. He thought he would vomit and could do no more than just hold on for a few moments. Then, inch by inch, he released the hand with the stone and leaned back, giving himself enough room to reach the twine and saw at it, trying not to catch his skin where it had bitten into the flesh.

The stone was depressingly blunt and he couldn’t hold on for long. Gaius tried to let go before his hands slipped so he could control the fall back, but it was too hard.

‘Still got the stone,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Try again, before Suetonius comes back.’

Another thought struck him. His father could have returned from Rome. He was due back any day now. It was growing dark and he would be worried. Already, he could be out looking for the two boys, coming nearer to this spot, calling their names. He must not find them like this. It would be too humiliating.

‘Marcus? We’ll tell everyone we fell. I don’t want my father to know about this.’

Marcus creaked round in a circle, oblivious.

Five times more, Gaius spasmed up and sawed at the twine before it parted. He hit the ground almost flat and sobbed as his torn and tortured muscles twitched and jumped.

He tried to ease Marcus to the ground, but the weight was too much for him and the thump made him wince.

As Marcus landed, he opened his eyes at the fresh pain.

‘My hand,’ he whispered, his voice cracking.

‘Broken, I’d say. Don’t move it. We have to get out of here in case Suetonius comes back or my father tries to find us. It’s nearly dark. Can you stand?’

‘I can, I think, though my legs feel weak. That Tonius is a bastard,’ Marcus muttered. He did not try to open his swollen jaw, but spoke through fat and broken lips.

Gaius nodded grimly. ‘True – we have a score to settle there, I think.’

Marcus smiled and winced at the sting of opening cuts. ‘Not until we’ve healed a bit though, eh? I’m not up to taking him on at the moment.’

Propping each other up, the two boys staggered home in the darkness, walking a mile over the cornfields, past the slave quarters for the field workers and up to the main buildings. As expected, the oil lamps were still lit, lining the walls of the main house.

‘Tubruk will be waiting for us; he never sleeps,’ Gaius muttered as they passed under the pillars of the outer gate.

A voice from the shadows made them both jump.

‘A good thing too. I would have hated to miss this spectacle. You are lucky your father is not here, he’d have taken the skin off your backs for returning to the villa looking like this. What was it this time?’

Tubruk stepped into the yellow light of the lamps and leaned forward. He was a powerfully built ex-gladiator, who’d bought the position of overseer to the small estate outside Rome and never looked back. Gaius’ father said he was one in a thousand for organising talent. The slaves worked well under him, some from fear and some from liking. He sniffed at the two young boys.

‘Fall in the river, did we? Smells like it.’

They nodded happily at this explanation.

‘Mind you, you didn’t pick up those stick marks from a river bottom, did you? Suetonius, was it? I should have kicked his backside for him years ago, when he was young enough for it to make a difference. Well?’

‘No, Tubruk, we had an argument and fought each other. No one else was involved and even if there had been, we would want to handle it ourselves, you see?’

Tubruk grinned at this from such a small boy. He was forty-five years of age, with hair that had gone grey in his thirties. He had been a legionary in Africa in the Third Cyrenaica legion, and had fought nearly a hundred battles as a gladiator, collecting a mass of scars on his body. He put out his great spade of a hand and rubbed his square fingers through Gaius’ hair.

‘I do see, little wolf. You are your father’s son. You cannot handle everything yet though, you are just a little lad and Suetonius – or whoever – is shaping into a fine young warrior so I hear. Mind yourselves, his father is too powerful to be an enemy in the Senate.’

Gaius drew himself up to his full height and spoke as formally as he knew how, trying to assert his position.

‘It is luck then, that this Suetonius is in no way attached to ourselves,’ he replied.

Tubruk nodded as if he had accepted the point, trying not to grin.

Gaius continued more confidently: ‘Send Lucius to me to look at our wounds. My nose is broken and almost certainly Marcus’ hand is the same.’

Tubruk watched them totter into the main house and resumed his post in the darkness, guarding the gate on first watch, as he did each night. It would be full summer soon and the days would be almost too hot to bear. It was good to be alive with the sky so clear and honest work ahead.

The following morning was an agony of protest from muscles, cuts and joints; the two days after that were worse. Marcus had succumbed to a fever that the physician said entered his head through the broken bone of his hand, which swelled to astonishing proportions as it was strapped and splinted. For days he was hot and had to be kept in darkness, while Gaius fretted on the steps outside.

Almost exactly one week after the attack in the woods, Marcus was lying asleep, still weak, but recovering. Gaius could still feel pain as he stretched his muscles and his face was a pretty collection of yellow and purple patches, shiny and tight in places as they healed. It was time, though: time to find Suetonius.

As he walked through the woods of the family estate, his mind was full of thoughts of fear and pain. What if Suetonius didn’t show up? There was no reason to suppose that he made regular trips into the woods. What if the older boy was with his friends again? They would kill him, no doubt about it. Gaius had brought a bow with him this time, and practised drawing it as he walked. It was a man’s bow and too large for him, but he found he could plant the end in the ground and pull an arrow back enough to frighten Suetonius, if the boy refused to back down.

‘Suetonius, you are a pus-filled bag of dung. If I catch you on my father’s land, I will put an arrow through your head.’

He spoke aloud as he went along. It was a beautiful day to walk in the woods and he might have enjoyed it if it wasn’t for his serious purpose in being there. This time, too, he had his brown hair oiled tight against his head and clean, simple clothes that allowed him easy movements and an unrestricted draw.

He was still on his side of the estate border, so Gaius was surprised when he heard footsteps up ahead and saw Suetonius and a giggling girl appear suddenly on the wide track. The older boy didn’t notice him for a moment, so intent was he on grappling with the girl.

‘You’re trespassing,’ Gaius snapped, pleased to hear his voice come out steady, even if it was high. ‘You’re on my father’s estate.’

Suetonius jumped and swore in shock. As he saw Gaius plant one end of the bow in the path and understood the threat, he began to laugh.

‘A little wolf now! A creature of many forms, it seems. Didn’t you get enough of a beating last time, little wolf?’

The girl seemed very pretty to Gaius, but he wished she would go away and lose herself. He had not imagined a female present for this encounter and felt a new level of danger from Suetonius.

Suetonius put a melodramatic arm around the girl.

‘Careful, my dear. He is a dangerous fighter. He is especially dangerous when upside down, then he is unstoppable!’ He laughed at his own joke and the girl joined in.

‘Is he that one you mentioned, Tonius? Look at his angry little face!’

‘If I see you here again, I’ll put an arrow through you,’ Gaius said quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. He pulled the shaft back a few inches. ‘Leave now or I will strike you down.’

Suetonius had stopped smiling as he weighed up his chances.

‘All right then, parvus lupus, I’ll give you what you seem to want.’

Without warning, he rushed at him and Gaius released the arrow too quickly. It struck the tunic of the older boy, but fell away without piercing. Suetonius yelled in triumph and stepped forward with his hands outstretched and his eyes cruel. Gaius whipped the bow up in panic, hitting the older boy on the nose. Blood spurted and Tonius roared in rage and pain, his eyes filling with tears. As Gaius raised the bow again, Tonius seized it with one hand and Gaius’ throat with the other, carrying him back six or seven paces with the sheer fury of his charge.

‘Any other threats?’ he growled as his grip tightened. Blood poured from his nose and stained his praetexta tunic. He wrenched the bow away from Gaius’ grasp and set about him with it, raining blows, but all the time keeping hold of his throat.

‘He’s going to kill me and pretend it was an accident,’ Gaius thought desperately. ‘I can see it in his eyes. I can’t breathe.’

He pummelled at the larger boy with his own fists, but his reach was not enough to do any real damage. His vision lost colour, becoming like a dream; his ears ceased to hear sound. He lost consciousness as Tonius threw him down onto the wet leaves.

Tubruk found Gaius on the path about an hour later and woke him by pouring water onto his bruised and battered head. Once again, his face was a crusted mess. His barely scabbed eye had filled with blood, so that his vision was dark on that side. His nose had been rebroken and everything else was a bruise.

‘Tubruk?’ he murmured, dazed. ‘I fell out of a tree.’

The big man’s laugh echoed in the closeness of the dense woods.

‘You know, lad, no one doubts your courage. It’s your ability to fight I’m not too sure about. It’s time you were properly trained before you get yourself killed. When your father is back from the city, I’ll raise it with him.’

‘You won’t tell him about … me falling from the tree? I hit a lot of branches on the way down.’ Gaius could taste blood in his mouth, leaking back from the broken nose.

‘Did you manage to hit the tree at all? Even once?’ Tubruk asked, looking at the scuffed leaves and reading the answers for himself.

‘The tree has a nose like mine, I’d say.’ Gaius tried to smile, but vomited into the bushes instead.

‘Hmmm. Is this the end of it, do you think? I can’t let you carry on and see you crippled or dead. When your father is away in the city, he expects you to begin to learn your responsibilities as his heir and a patrician, not an urchin involved in pointless brawls.’ Tubruk paused to pick up a battered bow from the undergrowth. The string had snapped and he tutted.

‘I should tan your backside for stealing this bow as well.’

Gaius nodded miserably.

‘No more fights, understand?’ Tubruk pulled him to his feet and wiped away some of the mud from the track.

‘No more fights. Thank you for coming to get me,’ Gaius replied.

The boy tottered and almost fell as he spoke and the old gladiator sighed. With a quick heave, he lifted the boy up to his shoulders and carried him down to the main house, shouting, ‘Duck!’ when they came to low branches.

Except for the splinted hand, Marcus was back to his usual self by the following week. He was shorter than Gaius by about two inches, brown-haired and strong-limbed. His arms were a little out of proportion, which he claimed would make him a great swordsman when he was older because of the extra reach. He could juggle four apples and would have tried with knives if the kitchen slaves hadn’t told Aurelia, Gaius’ mother. She had screamed at him until he promised never to try it. The memory still made him pause whenever he picked up a blade to eat.

When Tubruk had brought the barely conscious Gaius back to the villa, Marcus was out of bed, having crept down to the vast kitchen complex. He’d been in the middle of dipping his fingers into the fat-smeared iron pans when he heard the voices and trotted past the rows of heavy brick ovens to Lucius’ sickroom.

As always when they hurt themselves, Lucius, a physician slave, tended to the wounds. He looked after the estate slaves as well as the family, binding swellings, applying maggot poultices to infections, pulling teeth with his pliers and sewing up cuts. He was a quiet, patient man who always breathed through his nose as he concentrated. The soft whistle of air from the elderly physician’s lungs had come to mean peace and safety to the boys. Gaius knew that Lucius would be freed when his father died, as a reward for his silent care of Aurelia.

Marcus sat and munched on bread and black fat as Lucius set the broken nose yet again.

‘Suetonius beat you again then?’ he asked.

Gaius nodded, unable to speak or to see through watering eyes.

‘You should have waited for me, we could have taken him together.’

Gaius couldn’t even nod. Lucius finished probing the nasal cartilage and made a sharp pull, to set the loose piece in line. Fresh blood poured over the day’s clotted mixture.

‘By the bloody temples, Lucius, careful! You almost had my nose right off then!’

Lucius smiled and began to cut fresh linen into strips to bind around the head.

In the respite, Gaius turned to his friend. ‘You have a broken, splinted hand and bruised or cracked ribs. You cannot fight.’

Marcus looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps. Will you try again? He’ll kill you if you do, you know.’

Gaius gazed at him calmly over the bandages as Lucius packed up his materials and rose to leave.

‘Thanks, Lucius. He won’t kill me because I’ll beat him. I simply need to adjust my strategy, that’s all.’

‘He’s going to kill you,’ repeated Marcus, biting into a dried apple, stolen from the winter stores.

A week later to the day, Marcus rose at dawn and began his exercises, which he believed would stimulate the reflexes needed to be a great swordsman. His room was a simple cell of white stone, containing only his bed and a trunk with his personal possessions. Gaius had the adjoining room and, on his way to the toilet, Marcus kicked the door to wake him up. He entered the small room and chose one of the four stone-rimmed holes that led to a sewer of constantly running water, a miracle of engineering that meant there was little or no smell, with the night soil washing out into the river that ran through the valley. He removed the capstone and pulled up his night shift.

Gaius had not stirred when he returned, and he opened the door to chide him for his laziness. The room was empty and Marcus felt a surge of disappointment.

‘You should have taken me with you, my friend. You didn’t have to make it so obvious that you didn’t need me.’

He dressed quickly and set out after Gaius as the sun cleared the valley rim, lighting the estates even as the field slaves bent to work in the first session.

What mist there was burned off rapidly, even in the cooler woods. Marcus found Gaius on the border of the two estates. He was unarmed.

As Marcus came up behind him, Gaius turned, a look of horror on his face. When he saw it was his friend he relaxed and smiled.

‘Glad you came, Marcus. I didn’t know what time he’d arrive, so I’ve been here a while. I thought you were him for a moment.’

‘I’d have waited with you, you know. I’m your friend, remember. Also, I owe him a beating as well.’

‘Your hand is broken, Marcus. Anyway, I owe him two beatings to your one.’

‘True, but I could have jumped on him from a tree, or tripped him as he ran in.’

‘Tricks don’t win battles. I will beat him with my strength.’

For a moment, Marcus was silenced. There was something cold and unforgiving in the usually sunny boy he faced.

The sun rose slowly, shadows changed. Marcus sat down, at first in a crouch and then with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He would not speak first. Gaius had made it a contest of seriousness. He could not stand for hours, as Gaius seemed willing to do. The shadows moved. Marcus marked their positions with sticks and estimated that they had waited three hours when Suetonius appeared silently, walking along the path. He smiled a slow smile when he saw them and paused.

‘I am beginning to like you, little wolf. I think I will kill you today, or perhaps break your leg. What do you think would be fair?’

Gaius smiled and stood as tall and as straight as he could. ‘I would kill me. If you don’t, I will keep fighting you until I am big and strong enough to kill you. And then I will have your woman, after I have given her to my friend.’

Marcus looked in horror as he heard what Gaius was saying. Maybe they should just run. Suetonius squinted at the boys and pulled a short, vicious little blade from his belt.

‘Little wolf, mudfish – you are too stupid to get angry at, but you yap like puppies. I will make you quiet again.’

He ran at them. Just before he reached the pair, the ground gave way with a crack and he disappeared from sight in a rush of air and an explosion of dust and leaves.

‘Built you a wolf trap, Suetonius,’ Gaius shouted cheerfully.

The fourteen-year-old jumped for the sides and Gaius and Marcus spent a hilarious few minutes stamping on his fingers as he tried to gain a purchase in the dry earth. He screamed abuse at them and they slapped each other on the back and jeered at him.

‘I thought of dropping a big rock in on you, like they do with wolves in the north,’ Gaius said quietly when Suetonius had been reduced to sullen anger. ‘But you didn’t kill me, so I won’t kill you. I might not even tell anyone how we dropped Suetonius into a wolf trap. Good luck in getting out.’

Suddenly, he let rip with a war whoop, quickly followed by Marcus, their cries and ecstatic yells disappearing into the woods as they pelted away, on top of the world.

As they pounded along the paths, Marcus called over his shoulder, ‘I thought you said you’d beat him with your strength!’

‘I did. I was up all night digging that hole.’

The sun shone through the trees and they felt as if they could run all day.

Left alone, Suetonius scrabbled up the sides, caught an edge and heaved himself over and out. For a while, he sat there and contemplated his muddy praetexta and breeches. He frowned for most of the way home, but, as he cleared the trees and came out into the sunshine, he began to laugh.

CHAPTER TWO

Gaius and Marcus walked behind Tubruk as he paced out a new field for ploughing. Every five paces, he would stretch out a hand and Gaius would pass him a peg from a heavy basket. Tubruk himself carried twine wrapped in a great ball around a wooden spindle. Ever patient, he would tie the twine around a peg and then hand it to Marcus to hold while he hammered it into the hard ground. Occasionally, Tubruk would sight back along the lengthening line at the landmarks he had noted and grunt in satisfaction before carrying on.

It was dull work and both boys wanted to escape down to the Campus Martius, the huge field just outside the city where they could ride and join in the sports.

‘Hold it steady,’ Tubruk snapped at Marcus as the boy’s attention wandered.

‘How much longer, Tubruk?’ Gaius asked.

‘As long as it takes to finish the job properly. The fields must be marked out for the ploughman, then the posts hammered in to set the boundary. Your father wants to increase the estate revenues and these fields have good soil for figs, which we can sell in the city markets.’

Gaius looked around him at the green and golden hills that made up his father’s land.

‘Is this a rich estate then?’

Tubruk chuckled. ‘It serves to feed and clothe you, but we don’t have enough land to plant much barley or wheat for bread. Our crops have to be small and that means we have to concentrate on the things the city wants to buy. The flower gardens produce seeds that are crushed to make face oils for high-born city ladies and your father has purchased a dozen hives to house new swarms of bees. You boys will have honey at every meal in a few months and that brings in a good price as well.’

‘Can we help with the hives when the bees come?’ Marcus spoke up, showing a sudden interest.

‘Perhaps, though they take careful handling. Old Tadius used to keep bees before he became a slave. I hope to use him to collect the honey. Bees don’t like to have their winter stores stolen away from them and it needs a practised hand. Hold that peg steady now – that’s a stade, six hundred and twenty-five feet. We’ll turn a corner here.’

‘Will you need us for much longer, Tubruk? We were hoping to take ponies into the city and see if we can listen to the Senate debate.’

Tubruk snorted. ‘You were going to ride into the Campus, you mean, and race your ponies against the other boys. Hmm? There’s only this last side to mark out today. I can have the men set the posts tomorrow. Another hour or two should see us finished.’

The two boys looked at each other glumly. Tubruk put down his spindle and mallet and stretched his back with a sigh. He tapped Gaius on the shoulder gently.

‘This is your land we’re working on, remember. It belonged to your father’s father and when you have children, it will belong to them. Look at this.’

Tubruk crouched down on one knee and broke the hard ground with the peg and mallet, tapping until the churned, black soil was visible. He pressed his hand into the earth and gripped a handful of the dark substance, holding it up for their inspection.

Gaius and Marcus looked bemused as he crumbled the dirt between his fingers.

‘There have been Romans standing where we are standing for hundreds of years. This dirt is more than just earth. It is us, the dust of the men and women who have gone before us. You came from this and you will go back to it. Others will walk over you and never know you were once there and as alive as they themselves.’

‘The family tomb is on the road to the city,’ Gaius muttered, nervous in the face of Tubruk’s sudden intensity.

The old gladiator shrugged. ‘In recent years, but our people have been here for longer than there was ever a city there. We have bled and died in these fields in long-forgotten wars.We will again perhaps, in wars in years to come. Put your hand into the ground.’

Reaching out to the reluctant boy, he took Gaius’ hand and pushed it into the broken soil, closing the fingers over as he withdrew it.

‘You hold history, boy. Land that has seen things we cannot. You hold your family and Rome in your hand. It will grow crops for us and feed us and make money for us so that we can enjoy luxuries. Without it, we are nothing. Land is everything and wherever you travel in the world, only this soil will be truly yours. Only this simple black muck you hold will be home to you.’

Marcus watched the exchange, his expression serious. ‘Will it be home to me as well?’

For a moment, Tubruk did not answer, instead holding Gaius’ gaze as the boy gripped the soil tightly in his hand. Then he turned to Marcus and smiled.

‘Of course, lad. Are you not Roman? Is not the city as much yours as anyone’s?’ The smile faded and he returned his gaze to Gaius. ‘But this estate is Gaius’ own and one day he will be master of it and look down on shaded fig groves and buzzing hives and remember when he was just a little lad and all he wanted was to show new tricks on his pony to the other boys of the Campus Martius.’

He did not see the sadness that came onto Marcus’ face for a moment.

Gaius opened his hand and placed the earth back in the broken spot Tubruk had made, pressing it down thoughtfully.

‘Let us finish the marking then,’ he said and Tubruk nodded as he rose to his feet.

The sun was going down as the two boys crossed one of the Tiber bridges that led to the Campus Martius. Tubruk had insisted they wash and change into clean tunics before setting out, but even at the late hour the vast space was still full of the young of Rome, gathered in groups, throwing discuses and javelins, kicking balls to each other and riding ponies and horses with shouted encouragement. It was a noisy place and the boys loved to watch the wrestling tournaments and chariot practices.

Young as they were, they were both confident in the high saddles that gripped them at the groin and buttocks, holding them secure through manoeuvres. Their legs hung long over the ribs of the steeds, gripping tight in the turns for added stability.

Gaius looked around for Suetonius and was pleased not to see him in the crowds. They hadn’t met again after trapping him in the wolf pit, and that was how Gaius wanted to leave it – with the battle won and over. Further skirmishes could only mean trouble.

He and Marcus rode up to a group of children near their own age and hailed them, dismounting with a leg flung over the pony’s side. No one they knew was there, but the group parted as they approached and the mood was friendly, their attention on a man with a discus gripped in his right hand.

‘That’s Tani. He’s the champion of his legion,’ one boy muttered aloud to Gaius.

As they watched, Tani launched himself, spinning on the spot and releasing the disc at the setting sun. There were whistles of appreciation as it flew and one or two of the boys clapped.

Tani turned to them. ‘Take care. It’ll be coming back this way in a moment.’

Gaius could see another man run to the fallen disc and pick it up before spinning it into flight once more. This time, the discus was released at a wide angle and the crowd scattered as it soared towards them. One boy was slower than the rest and when the discus hit and skipped, it caught him in the side with a thump, even as he tried to dodge. He fell winded, and groaned as Tani ran up to his side.

‘Good stop, lad. Are you all right?’

The boy nodded, clambering to his feet, but still holding his side in pain. Tani patted him on the shoulder, stooping smoothly to pick up the fallen discus. He returned to his spot to throw again.

‘Anyone racing horses today?’ Marcus asked.

A few turned and weighed him up, casting gazes at the sturdy little pony Tubruk had chosen for him.

‘Not so far. We came to watch the wrestling, but it finished an hour ago.’ The speaker indicated a trampled space nearby where a square had been marked out on the grassy ground. A few men and women stood in clusters nearby, talking and eating.

‘I can wrestle,’ Gaius broke in quickly, his face lighting up. ‘We could have our own competition.’

The group murmured interest. ‘Pairs?’

‘All at once – last one standing is the winner?’ Gaius replied. ‘We need a prize, though. How about we all put in what money we have and last one standing takes the collection?’

The boys in the crowd discussed this and many began to search in their tunics for coins, giving them to the largest, who walked with confidence as the pile of coins grew in his hands.

‘I’m Petronius. There’s about twenty quadrantes here. How much have you got?’

‘Any coins, Marcus? I have a couple of bronze bits.’ Gaius added them to the boy’s handful and Marcus added three more.

Petronius smiled as he counted again. ‘A fair collection. Now, as I’m taking part, I’ll need someone to hold it for me until I win.’ He grinned at the two newcomers.

‘I’ll hold it for you, Petronius,’ a girl said, accepting the coins into her smaller hands.

‘My sister, Lavia,’ he explained.

She winked at Gaius and Marcus, a smaller but still stocky version of her brother.

Chatting cheerfully, the group made their way over to the marked square and only a few remained on the outside to watch. Gaius counted seven other boys in addition to Petronius, who began limbering up confidently.

‘What rules?’ Gaius said as he stretched his own legs and back.

Petronius gathered the group together with a gesture. ‘No punching. If you land on your back you are out. All right?’

The boys agreed grimly, the mood becoming hostile as they eyed each other.

Lavia spoke from the side: ‘I’ll call start. All ready?’

The contestants nodded. Gaius noted that a few other people were wandering over, always ready to view or bet on a contest in whatever form. The air smelled cleanly of grass and he felt full of life. He scuffed his feet and remembered what Tubruk had said about the soil. Roman earth, fed with the blood and bones of his ancestors. It felt strong under his feet and he set himself. The moment seemed to hold, and nearby he could see Tani the discus champion spin and release again, his discus flying high and straight over the Campus Martius. The sun was reddening as it sank, giving a warm cast to the tense boys in the square.

‘Begin!’ Lavia shouted.

Gaius dropped to one knee, spoiling a lunge that went over his head. He shoved up then, with all the strength of his thighs, taking another boy off his feet and leaving him flat on the dusty grass. As Gaius rose, he was hammered from the side, but spun as he fell so that his unknown attacker hit the ground first, with Gaius’ weight knocking the wind from him.

Marcus was locked in a grip with Petronius, their hands tight on each other’s armpits and shoulders. Another struggling combatant was shoved blindly into Petronius and the pair fell roughly, but Gaius’ moment of inattention was punished by an arm circling his neck from behind and tightening on his windpipe. He kicked out backwards and raked his sandals down someone’s shin, hacking back with an elbow at the same time. He felt the grip loosen but then they were both sent sprawling by a knot of fighting boys. Gaius hit the ground hard and scrambled to get to the side of the square, even as a foot clouted into his cheek, splitting the skin.

Anger swelled for a moment, but he saw his attacker hadn’t even registered him and he retired to the edge of the square, cheering on Marcus, who had regained his feet. Petronius was down and out, knocked cold, and only Marcus and two others were still in the competition. The crowd that had gathered to watch were yelling encouragement and making side bets. Marcus grabbed one of the pair by the crotch and neck and tried to lift him into the air for throwing. The boy struggled wildly as his feet came off the ground and Marcus staggered with him just as the last gripped him around his own chest and knocked him over backwards in a heaving pile of limbs.

The stranger came to his feet with a whoop and took a circuit of the square with his hands held high. Gaius could hear Marcus laughing and breathed deeply in the summer air as his friend stood up, brushing off the dust.

In the middle distance, beyond the vast Campus, Gaius could see the city, built on seven ancient hills centuries before. All around him were the shouts and cries of his people and underneath his feet, his land.

In hot darkness, lit only by a crescent moon that signalled the month coming to a close, the two boys made their way in silence over the fields and paths of the estate. The air was filled with the smell of fruit and flowers and crickets creaked in the bushes. They walked without speaking until they reached the place where they had stood with Tubruk earlier in the day, at the corner of the peg-marked line of a new field.

With the moon giving so little light, Gaius had to feel along the twine until he came to the broken spot at the corner and then he stood and drew a slim knife from his belt, taken from the kitchens. Concentrating, he drew the sharp blade across the ball of his thumb. It sank in deeper than he had intended and blood poured out over his hand. He passed the blade to Marcus and held the thumb high, slightly worried by the injury and hoping to slow the bleeding.

Marcus drew the knife along his own thumb, once, then twice, creating a scratch from which he squeezed a few swelling beads of blood.

‘I’ve practically cut my thumb off here!’ Gaius said irritably.

Marcus tried to look serious, but failed. He held out his hand and they pressed them together so that the blood mingled in the darkness. Then Gaius pushed his bleeding thumb into the broken ground, wincing. Marcus watched him for a long moment before copying the action.

‘Now you are a part of this estate as well and we are brothers,’ Gaius said.

Marcus nodded and in silence they began the walk back to the sprawling white buildings of the estate. Invisibly in the darkness, Marcus’ eyes brimmed and he wiped his hand over them quickly, leaving a smear of blood on his skin.

Gaius stood on the top of the estate gates, shading his eyes against the bright sun as he looked towards Rome. Tubruk had said his father would be returning from the city and he wanted to be the first to see him on the road. He spat on his hand and ran it through his dark hair to smooth it down.

He enjoyed being up away from the chores and cares of his life. The slaves below rarely looked up as they passed from one part of the estate buildings to another and it was a peculiar feeling to watch and yet be unobserved: a moment of privacy and quiet. Somewhere, his mother would be looking for him to carry a basket for her to collect fruit, or Tubruk would be looking for someone to wax and oil the leather harness of the horses and oxen, or a thousand other little tasks. Somehow, the thought of all those things he was not doing raised his spirits. They couldn’t find him and he was in his own little place, watching the road to Rome.

He saw the dust trail and stood up on the gatepost. He wasn’t sure. The rider was still far away, but there weren’t too many estates that could be reached from their road and the chances were good.

After another few minutes he was able to see the man on the horse clearly and let out a whoop, scrambling to the ground in a rush of arms and legs. The gate itself was heavy, but Gaius threw his weight against it and it creaked open enough for him to squeeze through and run off down the road to meet his father.

His child’s sandals slapped against the hard ground and he pumped his arms enthusiastically as he raced towards the approaching figure. His father had been gone for a full month and Gaius wanted to show him how much he had grown in the time. Everyone said so.

‘Tata!’ he called and his father heard and reined in as the boy ran up to him. He looked tired and dusty, but Gaius saw the beginnings of a smile crease against the blue eyes.

‘Is this a beggar, or a small bandit, I see on the road?’ his father said, reaching out an arm to lift his son to the saddle.

Gaius laughed as he was swung into the air and gripped his father’s back as the horse began a slower walk up to the estate walls.

‘You are taller than when I saw you last,’ his father said, his voice light.

‘A little. Tubruk says I am growing like corn.’

His father nodded in response and there was a friendly silence between them that lasted until they reached the gates. Gaius slid off the horse’s back and heaved the gate wide enough for his father to enter the estate.

‘Will you be home for long this time?’

His father dismounted and ruffled his hair, ruining the spit-smoothness he’d worked at.

‘A few days, perhaps a week. I wish it was more, but there is always work to be done for the Republic.’ He handed the reins to his son. ‘Take old Mercury here to the stables and rub him down properly. I’ll see you again after I have inspected the staff and spoken to your mother.’

Gaius’ open expression tightened at the mention of Aurelia and his father noticed. He sighed and put his hand on his son’s shoulder, making him meet his gaze.

‘I want to spend more time away from the city, lad, but what I do is important to me. Do you understand the word “Republic”?’

Gaius nodded and his father looked sceptical.

‘I doubt it. Few enough of my fellow senators seem to. We live an idea, a system of government that allows everyone to have a voice, even the common man. Do you realise how rare that is? Every other little country I have known has a king or a chief running it. He gives land to his friends and takes money from those who fall out with him. It is like having a child loose with a sword.

‘In Rome, we have the rule of law. It is not yet perfect or even as fair as I would like, but it tries to be and that is what I devote my life to. It is worth my life – and yours too when the time comes.’

‘I miss you, though,’ Gaius replied, knowing it was selfish.

His father’s gaze hardened slightly, then he reached out to ruffle Gaius’ hair once more.

‘And I miss you too. Your knees are filthy and that tunic is more suitable for a street child, but I miss you too. Go and clean yourself up – but only after you have rubbed Mercury down.’

He watched his son trudge away, leading the horse, and smiled ruefully. He was a little taller, Tubruk was right.

In the stables, Gaius rubbed the flanks of his father’s horse, smoothing away sweat and dust and thinking over his father’s words. The idea of a republic sounded very fine, but being a king was clearly more exciting.

Whenever Gaius’ father Julius had been away for a long absence, Aurelia insisted on a formal meal in the long triclinium. The two boys would sit on children’s stools next to the long couches, on which Aurelia and her husband would recline barefoot, with the food served on low tables by the household slaves.

Gaius and Marcus hated the meals. They were forbidden to chatter and sat in painful silence through each course, allowing the table servants only a quick rub of their fingers between dipping them into the food. Although their appetites were large, Gaius and Marcus had learned not to offend Aurelia by eating too quickly and so were forced to chew and swallow as slowly as the adults while the evening shadows lengthened.

Bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Gaius felt hot and uncomfortable with his parents. His father had put aside the informality of their meeting on the road and now talked with his wife as if the two boys did not exist. Gaius watched his mother closely when he could, looking for the trembling that would signal one of her fits. At first, they had terrified him and left him sobbing, but after years an emotional callousness had grown, and occasionally he even hoped for the trembling so that he and Marcus would be sent from the table.

He tried to listen and be interested in the conversation, but it was all about developments in the laws and city ordinances. His father never seemed to come home with exciting stories of executions or famous street villains.

‘You have too much faith in the people, Julius,’ Aurelia was saying. ‘They need looking after as a child needs a father. Some have wit and intelligence, I agree, but most have to be protected …’ She trailed off and silence fell.

Julius looked up and Gaius saw a sadness come into his face, making him look away, embarrassed, as if he had witnessed an intimacy.

‘Relia?’

Gaius heard his father’s voice and looked back at his mother, who lay like a statue, her eyes focused on some distant scene. Her hand trembled and suddenly her face twisted like a child’s. The tremor that began in her hand spread to her whole body and she twisted in spasm, one arm sweeping bowls from the low table. Her voice erupted violently from her throat, a torrent of screeching sound that made the boys wince backwards.

Julius rose smoothly from his seat and took his wife in his arms.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded and Gaius and Marcus went out with the slaves, leaving behind them the man holding the twisting figure.

The following morning, Gaius was woken by Tubruk shaking his shoulder.

‘Get up, lad. Your mother wants to see you.’

Gaius groaned, almost to himself, but Tubruk heard.

‘She is always quiet after a … bad night.’

Gaius paused as he pulled clothes on. He looked up at the old gladiator.

‘Sometimes, I hate her.’

Tubruk sighed gently.

‘I wish you could have known her as she was before the sickness began. She used to sing to herself all the time and the house was always happy. You have to think that your mother is still there, but can’t get out to you. She does love you, you know.’

Gaius nodded and smoothed his hair down carelessly.

‘Has my father gone back to the city?’ he asked, knowing the answer. His father hated to feel helpless.

‘He left at dawn,’ Tubruk replied.

Without another word, Gaius followed him through the cool corridors to his mother’s rooms.

She sat upright in bed, her face freshly washed and her long hair braided behind her. Her skin was pale, but she smiled as Gaius entered and he was able to smile back.

‘Come closer, Gaius. I am sorry if I scared you last night.’

He came into her arms and let her hold him, feeling nothing. How could he tell her he wasn’t scared any more? He had seen it too many times, each worse than the last. Some part of him knew that she would get worse and worse, that she was already leaving him. But he could not think of that – better to keep it inside, to smile and hug her and walk away untouched.

‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked as she released him.

‘Chores with Marcus,’ he replied.

She nodded and seemed to forget him. He waited for a few seconds and when there was no further response turned and walked from the room.

When the tiny space in her thoughts faded and she focused again on the room, it was empty.

Marcus met him at the gates, carrying a bird net. He looked into his friend’s eyes and made his tone light and cheerful.

‘I feel lucky today. We’ll catch a hawk – two hawks. We’ll train them and they’ll sit on our shoulders, attacking on our command. Suetonius will run when he sees us.’

Gaius chuckled and cleared his mind of thoughts of his mother. He missed his father already, but the day was going to be a long one and there was always something to do in the woods. He doubted Marcus’ idea of hawk-catching would work, but he would go along with it until the day was over and all the paths had been walked.

The green gloom almost made them miss the raven that sat on a low branch, not far from the sunlit fields. Marcus froze as he saw it first and pressed a hand against Gaius’ chest.

‘Look at the size of it!’ he whispered, unwrapping his bird net.

They crouched down and crept forward, watched with interest by the bird. Even for a raven it was large and it spread heavy black wings as they approached, before almost hopping to the next tree with one lazy flap.

‘You circle around,’ Marcus whispered, his voice excited. He backed this up with circling motions of his fingers and Gaius grinned at him, slipping into the undergrowth to one side. He crept around in a large circle, trying to keep the tree in sight while checking the path for dry twigs or rustling leaves.

When Gaius emerged on the far side, he saw the raven had changed tree again, this time to a long trunk that had fallen years before. The gentle slope of the trunk was easy to climb and Marcus had already begun to inch up it towards the bird, at the same time trying to keep the net free for throwing.

Gaius padded closer to the base of the tree. ‘Why doesn’t it fly away?’ he thought, looking up at the raven. It cocked its large head to one side and opened its wings again. Both boys froze until the bird seemed to relax, then Marcus levered himself upwards again, legs dangling on each side of the thick trunk.

Marcus was only feet from the bird when he thought it would fly off again. It hopped about on the trunk and branches, seemingly unafraid. He unfolded the net, a web of rough twine usually used for holding onions in the estate kitchens. In Marcus’ hands, it had instantly become the fearsome instrument of a bird-catcher.

Holding his breath, he threw it and the raven took off with a scream of indignation. It flapped its wings once again and landed in the slender branches of a young sapling near Gaius, who ran at it without thinking.

As Marcus scrambled down, Gaius shoved at the sapling and felt the whole thing give with a sudden crack, pinning the bird in the leaves and branches on the ground. With Gaius pressing it all down, Marcus was able to reach in and hold the heavy bird, gripped tightly in his two hands. He raised it triumphantly and then hung on desperately as the raven struggled to escape.

‘Help me! He’s strong,’ Marcus shouted and Gaius added his own hands to the struggling bundle. Suddenly an agonising pain shot through him. The beak was long and curved like a spear of black wood. It jabbed at his hand, catching and gripping the piece of soft flesh between thumb and first finger.

Gaius yelped. ‘Get it off. It’s got my hand, Marcus.’ The pain was excruciating and they panicked together, with Marcus fighting to hold his grip while Gaius tried to lever the vicious beak off his skin.

‘I can’t get it off, Marcus.’

‘You’ll have to pull it,’ Marcus replied grimly, his face red with the effort of holding the enraged bird.

‘I can’t, it’s like a knife. Let it go.’

‘I’m not letting it go. This raven is ours. We caught it in the wild, like hunters.’

Gaius groaned with pain.

‘It caught us, more like.’ His fingers waved in agony and the raven let go without warning, trying to snap at one of them. Gaius gasped in relief and backed off hurriedly, holding his hands against his groin and doubling over.

‘He’s a fighter, anyway,’ Marcus said with a grin, shifting his grip so the searching head couldn’t find his own flesh. ‘We’ll take him home and train him. Ravens are intelligent, I’ve heard. He’ll learn tricks and come with us when we go to the Campus Martius.’

‘He needs a name. Something war-like,’ Gaius replied, in between sucking his torn skin.

‘What’s the name of that god who goes round as a raven or carries one?’

‘I don’t know, one of the Greek ones, I think. Zeus?’

‘That’s an owl, I think. Someone has an owl.’

‘I don’t remember one with a raven, but Zeus is a good name for him.’

They smiled at each other and the raven went quiet, looking around him with apparent calmness.

‘Zeus it is then.’

They walked back over the fields to the estate with the bird held firmly in Marcus’ grasp.

‘We’ll have to find somewhere to hide him,’ he said. ‘Your mother doesn’t like us catching animals. You remember when she found out about the fox?’

Gaius winced, looking at the ground. ‘There’s an empty chicken coop next to the stables. We could put him in there. What do ravens eat?’

‘Meat, I think. They scavenge battlefields, unless that’s crows. We can get a few scraps from the kitchens and see what he takes, anyway. That won’t be a problem.’

‘We’ll have to tie twine to his legs for the training, otherwise he’ll fly off,’ Gaius said, thoughtfully.

Tubruk was talking to three carpenters who were to repair part of the estate roof. He spotted the boys as they walked into the estate yard and motioned them over to him. They looked at each other, wondering if they could run, but Tubruk wouldn’t let them get more than a few paces, for all his apparent inattention as he had turned back to the workers.

‘I’m not giving Zeus up,’ Marcus whispered harshly.

Gaius could only nod as they approached the group of men.

‘I’ll come along in a few minutes,’ Tubruk instructed as the men walked to their tasks. ‘Take the tiles off the section until I get there.’

He turned to the boys. ‘What’s this? A raven. Must be a sick one if you caught it.’

‘We trapped him in the woods. Followed him and brought him down,’ Marcus said, his voice defiant.

Tubruk smiled as if he understood and reached out to stroke the bird’s long beak. Its energy seemed to have gone and it panted almost like a dog, revealing a slender tongue between the hard blades.

‘Poor thing,’ Tubruk muttered. ‘Looks terrified. What are you going to do with him?’

‘His name’s Zeus. We’re going to train him as a pet, like a hawk.’

Tubruk shook his head once, slowly. ‘You can’t train a wild bird, boys. A hawk is raised from a chick by an expert and even they stay wild. The best trainer can lose one every now and then if it flies too far from him. Zeus is fully grown. If you keep him, he’ll die.’

‘We can use one of the old chicken coops,’ Gaius insisted. ‘There’s nothing in there now. We’ll feed him and fly him on a string.’

Tubruk snorted. ‘Do you know what a wild bird does if you keep him locked up? He can’t stand walls around him. Especially a tiny space like one of the chicken coops. It will break his spirit and, day by day, he will pull his own feathers out in misery. He won’t eat, he’ll just hurt himself until he dies. Zeus here will choose death over captivity. The kindest thing you can do for him is to let him go. I don’t think you could have caught him unless he was sick, so he might be dying anyway, but at least let him spend his last days in the woods and the air, where he belongs.’

‘But …’ Marcus fell silent, looking at the raven.

‘Come on,’ Tubruk said. ‘Let’s go out into the fields and watch him fly.’

Glumly, the boys looked at each other and followed him back out of the gates. Together, they stood gazing down the hill.

‘Set him free, boy,’ Tubruk said and something in his voice made them both look at him.

Marcus raised and opened his hands and Zeus heaved himself into the air, spreading large black wings and fighting for height. He screamed frustration at them until he was just a dot in the sky over the woods. Then they saw him descend and disappear.

Tubruk reached out and held the necks of the two boys in his rough hands.

‘A noble act. Now there are a number of chores to do and I couldn’t find you earlier, so they’ve piled up waiting for your attention. Inside.’

He steered the boys through the gate into the courtyard, taking a last look over the fields towards the woods before he followed them.

CHAPTER THREE

That summer saw the start of the boys’ formal education. From the beginning, they were both treated equally, with Marcus also receiving the training necessary to run a complex estate, albeit a minor one. In addition to continuing the formal Latin that had been drummed into them since birth, they were taught about famous battles and tactics as well as how to manage men and handle money and debts. When Suetonius left to be an officer in an African legion the following year, both Gaius and Marcus had begun to learn Greek rhetoric and the skills of debate that they would need if, as young senators later on, they ever chose to prosecute or defend a citizen on a matter of law.

Although the three hundred members of the Senate met only twice each lunar month, Gaius’ father Julius remained in Rome for longer and longer periods, as the Republic struggled to deal with new colonies and the swiftly growing wealth and power. For months, the only adults Gaius and Marcus would see were Aurelia and the tutors, who arrived at the main house at dawn and left with the sun sinking behind them and denarii jingling in their pockets. Tubruk was always there too, a friendly presence who stood no nonsense from the boys. Before Suetonius had left, the old gladiator had walked the five miles to the main house of the neighbouring estate and waited eleven hours, from dawn to dusk, to be admitted to see the eldest son of the house. He didn’t tell Gaius what had transpired, but had returned with a smile and ruffled Gaius’ hair with his big hand before going down to the stables to see to the new mares as they came into season.

Of all the tutors, Gaius and Marcus enjoyed the hours with Vepax the best. He was a young Greek, tall and thin in his toga. He always arrived at the estate on foot and carefully counted the coins he earned before walking back to the city. They met with him for two hours each week in a small room Gaius’ father had set aside for the lessons. It was a bare place, with a stone-flagged floor and unadorned walls. With the other tutors, droning through the verses of Homer and Latin grammar, the two boys often fidgeted on the wooden benches, or drifted in concentration until the tutor noticed and brought them back with sharp smacks from the cane. Most were strict and it was difficult to get away with much with only the two of them to take up the master’s attention. One time, Marcus had used his stylus to draw a picture of a pig with a tutor’s beard and face. He had been caught trying to show it to Gaius and had to hold out his hand for the stick, suffering miserably through three sharp blows.

Vepax didn’t carry a cane. All he ever had with him was a heavy cloth bag full of clay tablets and figures, some blue and some red to show different sides. By the appointed hour, he would have cleared the benches to one side of the room and set out his figures to represent some famous battle of the past. After a year of this, their first task was to recognise the structure and name the generals involved. They knew Vepax would not limit himself to Roman battles; sometimes the tiny horse and legionary figures were representing Parthia or ancient Greece or Carthage. Knowing Vepax was Greek himself, the boys had pushed the young man to show them the battles of Alexander, thrilled by the legends and what he had achieved at such a young age. At first, Vepax had been reluctant, not wanting to be seen to favour his own history, but he had allowed himself to be persuaded and showed them every major battle where records and maps survived. For the Greek wars, Vepax never opened a book, placing and moving each piece from memory.

He told the boys the names of the generals and the key players in each conflict as well as the history and politics when they had a direct bearing on the day. He made the little clay pieces come alive for Marcus and Gaius, and every time it came to the end of the two hours they would look longingly at them as he packed them away in his bags, slowly and carefully.

One day, as they arrived, they found most of the little room covered in the clay characters. A huge battle had been set out and Gaius counted the blue characters quickly, then the red, multiplying it in his head as he had been taught by the arithmetic tutor.

‘Tell me what you see,’ Vepax said quietly to Gaius.

‘Two forces, one of more than fifty thousand, the other nearly forty. The red is … the red is Roman, judging by the heavy infantry placed to the front in legion squares. They are supported by cavalry on the right and left wings, but they are matched by the blue cavalry facing them. There are slingers and spearmen on the blue side, but I can’t see any archers, so missile attacks will be over a very short range. They seem roughly matched. It should be a long and difficult battle.’

Vepax nodded. ‘The red side is indeed Roman, well-disciplined veterans of many battles. What if I told you the blues were a mixed group, made up of Gauls, Spaniards, Numidians and Carthaginians? Would that make a difference to the outcome?’

Marcus’ eyes gleamed with interest. ‘It would mean we were looking at Hannibal’s forces. But where are his famous elephants? Didn’t you have elephants in your bag?’ Marcus looked hopefully over at the limp cloth sack.

‘It is Hannibal the Romans were facing, but by this battle, his elephants had died. He managed to find more later and they were terrifying at the charge, but here he had to make do without them. He is outnumbered by two legions. His force is mixed where the Roman one is unified. What other factors might affect the outcome?’

‘The land,’ Gaius cried. ‘Is he on a hill? His cavalry could smash …’

Vepax waved a hand gently.

‘The battle took place on a plain. The weather was cool and clear. Hannibal should have lost. Would you like to see how he won?’

Gaius stared at the massed pieces. Everything was against the blue forces. He looked up.

‘Can we move the pieces as you explain?’

Vepax smiled. ‘Of course. Today I will need both of you to make the battle move as it did once before. Take the Roman side, Gaius. Marcus and I will take Hannibal’s force.’

Smiling, the three faced each other over the ranks of figures.

‘The battle of Cannae, one hundred and twenty-six years ago. Every man who fought in the battle is dust, every sword rusted away, but the lessons are still there to be learned.’

Vepax must have brought every clay soldier and horse he had to form this battle, Gaius realised. Even with each piece representing a five hundred, they took up most of the available room.

‘Gaius, you are Aemilius Paulus and Terentius Varro, experienced Roman commanders. Line by line you will advance straight at the enemy, allowing no deviation and no slackness in discipline. Your infantry is superb and should do well against the ranks of foreign swordsmen.’

Thoughtfully, Gaius began moving his infantry forward, group by group.

‘Support with your cavalry, Gaius. They must not be left behind or you could be flanked.’

Nodding, Gaius brought the small clay horses up to engage the heavy cavalry Hannibal commanded.

‘Marcus. Our infantry must hold. We will advance to meet them, and our cavalry will engage theirs on the wings, holding them.’

Heads bowed, all three moved figures in silence until the armies had shifted together, face to face. Gaius and Marcus imagined the snorts of the horses and the war cries splitting the air.

‘And now, men die,’ Vepax murmured. ‘Our infantry begin to buckle in the centre as they meet the best-trained enemy they have ever faced.’ His hands flew out and switched figure after figure to new positions, urging the boys along as they went.

On the floor in front of them, the Roman legions pushed back Hannibal’s centre, which buckled before them, close to rout.

‘They cannot hold,’ Gaius whispered, as he saw the great crescent bow that grew deeper as the legions forced themselves forward. He paused and looked over the whole field. The cavalry were stationary, held in bloody conflict with the enemy. His mouth dropped as Marcus and Vepax continued to move pieces and suddenly the plan was clear to him.

‘I would not go further in,’ he said and Vepax’s head came up with a quizzical expression.

‘So soon, Gaius? You have seen a danger that neither Paulus nor Varro saw until it was too late. Move your men forward, the battle must be played out.’ He was clearly enjoying himself, but Gaius felt a touch of irritation at having to follow through moves that would lead to the destruction of his armies.

The legions marched through the Carthaginian forces and the enemy let them in, falling back quickly and without haste, losing as few men as possible to the advancing line. Hannibal’s forces were moving from the back of the field to the sides, swelling the trap, and, after what Vepax said was only a couple of hours, the entire Roman force was submerged in the enemy on three sides, which slowly closed behind them until they were caught in a box of Hannibal’s making. The Roman cavalry were still held by equally skilled forces and the final scene needed little explanation to reveal the horror of it.

‘Most of the Romans could not fight, trapped as they were in the middle of their own close formations. Hannibal’s men killed all day long, tightening the trap until there was no one left alive. It was annihilation on a scale rarely seen before or since. Most battles leave many alive, at least those who run away, but these Romans were surrounded on all sides and had nowhere to flee to.’

The silence stretched for long moments as the two boys fixed the details in their minds and imaginations.

‘Our time is up today, boys. Next week I will show you what the Romans learned from this defeat and others at the hands of Hannibal. Although they were unimaginative here, they brought in a new commander, known for his innovation and daring. He met Hannibal at the battle of Zama fourteen years later and the outcome was very different.’

‘What was his name?’ Marcus asked excitedly.

‘He had more than one. His given name was Publius Scipio, but because of the battles he won against Carthage he was known as Scipio Africanus.’

As Gaius approached his tenth birthday, he was growing into an athletic, well-coordinated lad. He could handle any of the horses, even the difficult ones that required a brutal hand. They seemed to calm at his touch and respond to him. Only one refused to let him remain in the saddle and Gaius had been thrown eleven times when Tubruk sold the beast before the struggle killed one or the other of them.

To some extent, Tubruk controlled the purse of the estate while Gaius’ father was away. He could decide where the profits from grain and livestock would be best spent, using his judgement. It was a great trust and a rare one. It wasn’t up to Tubruk, however, to engage specialist fighters to teach the boys the art of war. That was the decision of the father – as was every other aspect of their upbringing. Under Roman law, Gaius’ father could even have had the boys strangled or sold into slavery if they displeased him. His power in his household was absolute and his goodwill was not to be risked.

Julius returned home for his son’s birthday feast. Tubruk attended him as he bathed away the dust of the journey in the mineral pool. Despite being ten years older than Tubruk, the years sat well on his sun-dark frame as he eased through the water. Steam rose in wisps as a sudden rush of fresh hot water erupted from a pipe into the placid waters of the bath. Tubruk noted the signs of health to himself and was pleased. In silence, he waited for Julius to finish the slow immersion and rest on the submerged marble steps near the inflow pipe, where the water was shallow and warmest.

Julius lay back against the coldness of the pool ledges and raised an eyebrow at Tubruk. ‘Report,’ he said and closed his eyes.

Tubruk stood stiffly and recited the profits and losses of the previous month. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall and spoke fluently of minute problems and successes without once referring to notes. At last, he came to the end and waited in silence. After a moment, the blue eyes of the only man who’d ever employed him without owning him opened once again and fixed him with a look that had not been melted by the heat of the pool.

‘How is my wife?’

Tubruk kept his face impassive. Was there a point in telling this man that Aurelia had worsened still further? She had been beautiful once, before childbirth had left her close to death for months. Ever since Gaius had come into the world, she had seemed unsteady on her feet, and no longer filled the house with laughter and flowers that she would pick herself out in the far fields.

‘Lucius attends her well, but she is no better … I have had to keep the boys away some days, when the mood has come on her.’

Julius’ face hardened and a heat-fattened vein in his neck started twitching with the load of angry blood.

‘Can the doctors do nothing? They take my aureus pieces without a qualm, but she worsens every time I see her!’

Tubruk pressed his lips together in an expression of regret. Some things must simply be borne, he knew. The whip falls and hurts and you must quietly wait for it to fall no more.

Sometimes she would tear her clothes into rags and sit huddled in a corner until hunger drove her out of her private rooms. Other days, she would be almost the woman he had met and loved when he first came to the estate, but given to long periods of distraction. She would be discussing a crop and suddenly, as if another voice had spoken, she would tilt her head to listen, and you might as well have left the room for all she remembered you.

Another rush of hot water disturbed the slow-dripping silence and Julius sighed like escaping steam.

‘They say the Greeks have much learning in the area of medicine. Hire one of those and dismiss the fools who do her so little good. If any of them claim that only their skills have kept her from being even worse, have him flogged and dumped on the road back to the city. Try a midwife. Women sometimes understand themselves better than we do – they have so many ailments that men do not.’

The blue eyes closed again and it was like a door shutting on an oven. Without the personality, the submerged frame could have been any other Roman. He held himself like a soldier and thin white lines marked the scars of old actions. He was not a man to be crossed and Tubruk knew he had a ferocious reputation in the Senate. He kept his interests small, but guarded those interests fiercely. As a result, the powermongers were not troubled by him and were too lazy to challenge the areas where he was strong. It kept the estate wealthy and they would be able to employ the most expensive foreign doctors that Tubruk could find. Wasted money, he was sure, but what was money for if not to use it when you saw the need?

‘I want to start a vineyard on the southern reaches. The soil there is perfect for a good red.’

They talked over the business of the estate and, again, Tubruk took no notes, nor felt the need after years of reporting and discussing. Two hours after he had entered, Julius smiled at last.

‘You have done well. We prosper and stay strong.’

Tubruk nodded and smiled back. In all the talk, not once had Julius asked after his own health or happiness. They both knew that serious problems would be mentioned and small problems dealt with alone. It was a relationship of trust, not between equals, but between an employer and one whose competence he respected. Tubruk was no longer a slave, but he was a freedman and could never have the total confidence of those born free.

‘There is another matter, a more personal one,’ Julius continued. ‘It is time to train my son in warfare. I have been distracted from my duty as a father to some extent, but there is no greater exercise to a man’s talents than the upbringing of his son. I want to be proud of him and I worry that my absences, which are likely to get worse, will be the breaking of the boy.’

Tubruk nodded, pleased at the words. ‘There are many experts in the city, trainers of boys and the young men of wealthy families.’

‘No. I know of them and some have been recommended to me. I have even inspected the products of this training, visiting city villas to see the young generation. I was not impressed, Tubruk. I saw young men infected with this new philosophical learning, where too much emphasis is placed on improving the mind and not enough on the body and the heart. What good is the ability to play with logic if your fainting soul shrinks away from hardship? No, the fashions in Rome will produce only weaklings, with few exceptions, as I see it. I want Gaius trained by people on whom I can depend – you, Tubruk. I’d trust no other with such a serious task.’

Tubruk rubbed his chin, looking troubled.

‘I cannot teach the skills I learned as a soldier and gladiator, sir. I know what I know, but I don’t know how to pass it on.’

Julius frowned in annoyance, but didn’t press it. Tubruk never spoke lightly.

‘Then spend time making him fit and hard as stone. Have him run and ride for hours each day, over and over until he is fit to represent me. We will find others to teach him how to kill and command men in battle.’

‘What about the other lad, sir?’

‘Marcus? What about him?’

‘Will we train him as well?’

Julius frowned further and he stared off into the past for a few seconds.

‘Yes. I promised his father when he died. His mother was never fit to have the boy, it was her running away that practically killed the old man. She was always too young for him. The last I heard of her, she was little better than a party whore in one of the inner districts, so he stays in my house. He and Gaius are still friends, I take it?’

‘Like twin stalks of corn. They’re always in trouble.’

‘No more. They will learn discipline from now on.’

‘I will see to it that they do.’

Gaius and Marcus listened outside the door. Gaius’ eyes were bright with excitement at what he’d heard. He grinned as he turned to Marcus and dropped the smile as he saw his friend’s pale face and set mouth.

‘What’s wrong, Marc?’

‘He said my mother’s a whore,’ came the hissing reply. Marcus’ eyes glinted dangerously and Gaius choked back his first joking reply.

‘He said he’d heard it – just a rumour. I’m sure she isn’t.’

‘They told me she was dead, like my father. She ran away and left me.’ Marcus stood and his eyes filled with tears. ‘I hope she is a whore. I hope she’s a slave and dying of lung-rot.’ He spun round and ran away, arms and legs flailing in loose misery.

Gaius sighed and rejected the idea of going after him. Marcus would probably go down to the stables and sit in the straw and the shadows for a few hours. If he was followed too soon, there would be angry words and maybe blows. If he was left, it would all have gone with time, the change of mood coming without warning, as his quick thoughts settled elsewhere.

It was his nature and there was no changing it. Gaius pressed his head again to the crack between the door and the frame that allowed him to hear the two men talk of his future.

‘… unchained for the first time, so they say. It should be a mighty spectacle. All of Rome will be there. Not all the gladiators will be indentured slaves – some are freedmen who have been lured back with gold coins. Renius will be there, so the gossips say.’

‘Renius – he must be ancient by now! He was fighting when I was a young man myself,’ Julius muttered in disbelief.

‘Perhaps he needs the money. Some of the men live too richly for their purses, if you understand me. Fame would allow him large debts, but everything has to be paid back in the end.’

‘Perhaps he could be hired to teach Gaius – he used to take pupils, I remember. It has been so long, though. I can’t believe he’ll be fighting again. You will get four tickets then, my interest is definitely aroused. The boys will enjoy a trip into the city proper.’

‘Good – though let us wait until after the lions have finished with ancient Renius before we offer him employment. He should be cheap if he is bleeding a little,’ Tubruk said wryly.

‘Cheaper still if he’s dead. I’d hate to see him go out. He was unstoppable when I was young. I saw him fight in exhibitions against four or five men. One time they even blindfolded him against two. He cut them down in two blows.’

‘I saw him prepare for those matches. The cloth he used allowed in enough light to see the outlines of shapes. That was all the edge he needed. After all, his opponents thought he was blind.’

‘Take a big purse for hiring trainers. The circus will be the place to find them, but I will want your eye for the sound of limb and honour.’

‘I am, as always, your man, sir. I will send a message tonight to collect the tickets on the estate purse. If there is nothing else?’

‘Only my thanks. I know how skilfully you keep this place afloat. While my senatorial colleagues fret at how their wealth is eroded, I can be calm and smile at their discomfort.’ He stood and shook hands in the wrist grip that all legionaries learned.

Tubruk was pleased to note the strength still in the hand. The old bull had a few years in him yet.

Gaius scrambled away from the door and ran down to see Marcus in the stables. Before he had gone more than a little way, he paused and leaned against a cool, white wall. What if he was still angry? No, surely the prospect of circus tickets – with unchained lions no less! – surely this would be enough to burn away his sorrow. With renewed enthusiasm and the sun on his back, he charged down the slopes to the outbuildings of teak and lime plaster that housed the estate’s supply of workhorses and oxen. Somewhere, he heard his mother’s voice calling his name, but he ignored it, as he would a bird’s shrill scream. It was a sound that washed over him and left him untouched.

The two boys found the body of the raven close to where they had first seen it, near the edge of the woods on the estate. It lay in the damp leaves, stiff and dark, and it was Marcus who saw it first, his depression and anger lifting with the find.

‘Zeus,’ he whispered. ‘Tubruk said he was sick.’ He crouched by the track and reached out a hand to stroke the still glossy feathers. Gaius crouched with him. The chill of the woods seemed to get through to both of them at the same time and Gaius shivered slightly.

‘Ravens are bad omens, remember,’ he murmured.

‘Not Zeus. He was just looking for a place to die.’

On an impulse, Marcus picked up the body again, holding it in his hands as he had before. The contrast saddened both of them. All the fight was gone and now the head lay limply, as if held only by skin. The beak hung open and the eyes were shrivelled, hollow pits. Marcus continued to stroke the feathers with his thumb.

‘We should cremate him – give him an honourable funeral,’ said Gaius. ‘I could run back to the kitchens and fetch an oil lamp. We could build a pyre for him and pour some of the oil over it. It would be a good send-off for him.’

Marcus nodded and placed Zeus carefully on the ground.

‘He was a fighter. He deserves something more than just being left to rot. There’s a lot of dry wood around here. I’ll stay to make the pyre.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Gaius replied, turning to run. ‘Think of some prayers or something.’

He sprinted back to the estate buildings and Marcus was left alone with the bird. He felt a strange solemnity come upon him, as if he was performing a religious rite. Slowly and carefully, he gathered dry sticks and built them into a square, starting with thicker branches that were long dead and building on layers of twigs and dry leaves. It seemed right not to rush.

The woods were quiet as Gaius returned. He too was walking slowly, shielding the small flame of an oily wick where it protruded from an old kitchen lamp. He found Marcus sitting on the dry path, with the black body of Zeus lying on a neat pile of dead wood.

‘I’ll have to keep the flame going while I pour the oil, so it could flare up quickly. We’d better say the prayers now.’

As the evening darkened, the flickering yellow light of the lamp seemed to grow in strength, lighting their faces as they stood by the small corpse.

‘Jupiter, head of all the gods, let this one fly again in the underworld. He was a fighter and he died free,’ Marcus said, his voice steady and low.

Gaius readied the oil for pouring. He held the wick clear, avoiding the little flame and poured on the oil, drenching the bird and the wood in its slipperiness. Then he touched the flame to the pyre.

For long seconds, nothing happened except for a faint sizzling, but then an answering flame spread and blazed with a sickly light. The boys stood and Gaius placed the lamp on the path. They watched with interest as the feathers caught and burned with a terrible stink. The flames flickered over the body and fat smoked and sputtered in the fire. They waited patiently.

‘We could gather the ashes at the end and bury them, or spread them around in the woods or the stream,’ Gaius whispered.

Marcus nodded in silence.

To help the fire, Gaius poured on the rest of the oil from the lamp, extinguishing its small light. Flames grew again and most of the feathers had been burned away, except for those around the head and beak, which seemed obstinate.

Finally, the last of the oil burned to nothing and the fire sank to glowing embers.

‘I think we’ve cooked him,’ whispered Gaius. ‘The fire wasn’t hot enough.’

Marcus took a long stick and poked at the body, now covered in wood ash but still recognisably the raven. The stick knocked the smoking thing right out of the ashes and Marcus spent a few moments trying to roll it back in without success.

‘This is hopeless. Where’s the dignity in this?’ he said angrily.

‘Look, we can’t do any more. Let’s just cover him in leaves.’

The two boys set about gathering armfuls and soon the scorched raven was hidden from view. They were silent as they walked back to the estate, but the reverent mood was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

The circus was arranged by Cornelius Sulla, a rising young man in the ranks of Roman society. The king of Mauretania had entertained the young senator while he commanded the Second Alaudae legion in Africa. To please him, King Bocchus sent a hundred lions and twenty of his best spearmen to the capital. With these as a core, Sulla had put together a programme for five days of trials and excitement.

It was to be the largest circus ever arranged in Rome and Cornelius Sulla had his reputation and status assured by the achievement. There were even calls raised in Senate for there to be a more permanent structure to hold the games. The wooden benches bolted and pegged together for great events were unsatisfactory and really too small for the sort of crowds that wanted to see lions from the dark, unknown continent. Plans for a vast circular amphitheatre capable of holding water and staging sea battles were put forward, but the cost was huge and they were vetoed by the people’s tribunes as a matter of course.

Gaius and Marcus trotted behind the two older men. Since Gaius’ mother had become unwell, the boys were rarely allowed into the city proper any more, as she fretted and rocked in misery at the thought of what could happen to her son in the vicious streets. The noise of the crowd was like a blow and their eyes were bright with interest.

Most of the Senate would travel to the games in carriages, pulled or carried by slaves and horses. Gaius’ father scorned this and chose to walk through the crowds. That said, the imposing figure of Tubruk beside him, fully armed as he was, kept the plebeians from shoving too rudely.

The mud of the narrow streets had been churned into a stinking broth by the huge throng and after only a short time their legs were spattered almost to the knees by filth, their sandals covered. Every shop heaved with people as they passed and there was always a crowd ahead and a mob behind pushing them on. Occasionally, Gaius’ father would take side streets when the roads were blocked completely by shopkeepers’ carts carrying their wares around the city. These were packed with the poor, and beggars sat in doorways, blind and maimed, with their hands outstretched. The brick buildings loomed over them, five and six storeys high, and, once, Tubruk put a hand out to hold Marcus back as a bucket of slops was poured out of an open window into the street below.

Gaius’ father looked grim, but walked on without stopping, his sense of direction bringing them through the dark maze back onto the main streets to the circus. The noise of the city intensified as they grew close, with the shouted cries of hot-food sellers competing with the hammering of coppersmiths and bawling, screaming children who hung, snot-nosed, on their mothers’ hips.

On every street corner, jugglers and conjurors, clowns and snake charmers performed for thrown coins. That day, the pickings were slim, despite the huge crowds. Why waste your money on things you could see every day when the amphitheatre was open?

‘Stay close to us,’ Tubruk said, bringing the boys’ attention back from the colours, smells and noise. He laughed at their wide-mouthed expressions. ‘I remember the first time I saw a circus – the Vespia, where I was to fight my first battle, untrained and slow, just a slave with a sword.’

‘You won, though,’ Julius replied, smiling as they walked.

‘My stomach was playing me up, so I was in a terrible mood.’

Both men laughed.

‘I’d hate to face a lion,’ Tubruk continued. ‘I’ve seen a couple on the loose in Africa. They move like horses at the charge when they want to, but with fangs and claws like iron nails.’

‘They have a hundred of the beasts and two shows a day for five days, so we should see ten of them against a selection of fighters. I am looking forward to seeing these black spearmen in action. It will be interesting to see if they can match our javelin throwers for accuracy.’

They walked under the entrance arch and paused at a series of wooden tubs filled with water. For a small coin, they had the mud and smell scrubbed from their legs and sandals. It was good to be clean again. With the help of an attendant, they found the seats reserved for them by one of the estate slaves, who’d travelled in the previous evening to await their arrival. Once they were seated, the slave stood to walk the miles back to the estate. Tubruk passed him another coin to buy food for the journey and the man smiled cheerfully, pleased to be away from the backbreaking labour of the fields for once.

All around them sat the members of the patrician families and their slaves. Although there were only three hundred representatives in the Senate, there must have been close to a thousand others. Rome’s lawmakers had taken the day off for the first battles of the five-day run. The sand was raked smooth in the vast pit; the wooden stands filled with thirty thousand of the classes of Rome. The morning heat built and built into a wall of discomfort, largely ignored by the people.

‘Where are the fighters, Father?’ Gaius asked, searching for signs of lions or cages.

‘They are in that barn building over there. You see where the gates are? There.’

He opened a folded programme, purchased from a slave as they went in.

‘The organiser of the games will welcome us and probably thank Cornelius Sulla. We will all cheer for Sulla’s cleverness in making such a spectacle possible. Then there are four gladiatorial combats, to first blood only. One will follow that is to the death. Renius will give a demonstration of some sort and then the lions will roam “the landscapes of their Africa”, whatever that means. Should be an impressive show.’

‘Have you ever seen a lion?’

‘Once, in the zoo. I have never fought one, though. Tubruk says they are fearsome in battle.’

The amphitheatre fell quiet as the gates opened and a man walked out dressed in a toga so white it almost glowed.

‘He looks like a god,’ Marcus whispered.

Tubruk leaned over to the boy. ‘Don’t forget they bleach the cloth with human urine. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.’

Marcus looked at Tubruk in surprise for a moment, wondering if a joke had been made of some kind. Then he forgot about it as he tried to hear the voice of the man who had strode to the centre of the sand. He had a trained voice, and the bowl of the amphitheatre acted as a perfect reflector. Nonetheless, part of his announcement was lost as people shuffled or whispered to their friends and were shushed.

‘… welcome that is due … African beasts … Cornelius Sulla!’

The last was said in crescendo and the audience cheered dutifully, more enthusiastically than Julius or Tubruk had been expecting. Gaius heard the words of the old gladiator as he leaned in close to his father.

‘He may be a man to watch, this one.’

‘Or to watch out for,’ his father replied with a meaningful look.

Gaius strained to see the man who rose from his seat and bowed. He too wore a simple toga, with an embroidered hem of gold. He was sitting close enough for Gaius to see this really was a man who looked like a god. He had a strong, handsome face and golden skin. He waved and sat down, smiling at the pleasure of the crowds.

Everyone settled back for the main excitement, conversations springing up all around. Politics and finance were discussed. Cases being argued in law were raked and chewed over by the patricians. They were still the ultimate power in Rome and therefore the world. True, the people’s tribunes, with their right to veto agreements, had taken some of the edge off their authority, but they still had the power of life and death over most of the citizens of Rome.

The first pair of fighters entered wearing tunics of blue and black. Neither was heavily armoured, as this was a display of speed and skill rather than savagery. Men did die in these contests, but it was rare. After a salute to the organiser and sponsor of the games, they began to move, short swords held rigid and shields moving in hypnotic rhythms.

‘Who will win, Tubruk?’ Gaius’ father suddenly snapped.

‘The smaller, in the blue. His footwork is excellent.’

Julius summoned one of the runners for the circus betting groups and gave over a gold aureus coin, receiving a tiny blue plaque in return. Less than a minute later, the smaller man side-stepped an over-extended lunge and drew his knife lightly over the other’s stomach as he stepped through. Blood spilled as over the lip of a cup and the audience erupted with cheers and curses. Julius had earned two aurei for the one he’d wagered and he pocketed the profit cheerfully. For each match that followed, he would ask Tubruk who would win as they began to feint and move. The odds sank after the start, of course, but Tubruk’s eye was infallible that day. By the fourth match, all nearby spectators were craning to catch what Tubruk said and then shouting for the betting slaves to take their money.

Tubruk was enjoying himself.

‘This next one is to the death. The odds favour the Corinthian fighter, Alexandros. He has never been stopped, but his opponent, from the south of Italy, is also fearful and has never been beaten to first blood. I cannot choose between them at this point.’

‘Let me know as soon as you can. I have ten aurei ready for the wager – all our winnings and my original stakes. Your eye is perfect today.’

Julius summoned the betting slave and told him to stand close. No one else in the area wanted to bet, as they all felt the luck of the moment and were content to wait for the signal from Tubruk. They watched him, some with held breath, poised for the first signal.

Gaius and Marcus looked at the crowd.

‘They are a greedy lot, these Romans,’ Gaius whispered and they grinned at each other.

The gates opened again and Alexandros and Enzo entered. The Roman, Enzo, wore a standard set of mail covering his right arm from hand to neck and a brass helmet above the darker iron scales. He carried a red shield in his left. His only other garments were a loincloth and wrappings of linen around his feet and ankles. He had a powerful physique and carried few scars, although one puckered line marked his left forearm from wrist to elbow. He bowed to Cornelius Sulla and saluted the crowd first, before the foreigner.

Alexandros moved well, balanced and assured as he came to the middle of the amphitheatre. He was identically dressed, although his shield was stained blue.

‘They are not easy to tell apart,’ Gaius said. ‘In the armour, they could be brothers.’

His father snorted. ‘Except for the blood in them. The Greek is not the same as the Italian. He has different and false gods. He believes things that no decent Roman would ever stand for.’ He spoke without turning his head, intent on the men below.

‘But will you bet on such a man?’ Gaius continued.

‘I will if Tubruk thinks he will win,’ came the response, accompanied by a smile.

The contest would begin with the sounding of a ram’s horn. It was held in copper jaws in the first row of seats and a short bearded man was waiting for his own signal to set his lips to it. The two gladiators stepped close to each other and the horn sound wailed out across the sand.

Before Gaius could tell whether the sound had stopped, the crowd was roaring and the two men were hammering blows at each other. In the first few seconds, strike after strike landed, some cutting, some sliding from steel made suddenly slippery with bright blood.

‘Tubruk?’ came his father’s voice.

Their area of the stands was torn between watching the fantastic display of savagery and getting in on the bet.

Tubruk frowned, his chin on his bunched fist.

‘Not yet. I cannot tell. They are too even.’

The two men broke apart for a moment, unable to keep up the pace of the first minute. Both were bleeding and both were spattered with dust sticking to their sweat.

Alexandros rammed his blue shield up under the other’s guard, breaking his rhythm and balance. His sword arm came up and over, looking for a high wound. The Italian scrambled back without dignity to escape the blow and his shield fell in the dust as he did so. The crowd hooted and jeered, embarrassed by their man. He rose again and attacked, perhaps stung by the comments of his countrymen.

‘Tubruk?’ Julius laid his hand on the man’s arm. The fight could be over in seconds and if there was an obvious advantage to one of the fighters, the betting would cease.

‘Not yet. Not … yet …’ Tubruk was a study in concentration.

On the sand, the area around the fighters was speckled darkly where their blood had dripped. Both paced to the left and then the right, then rushed in and cut and sliced, ducked and blocked, punched and tried to trip the other. Alexandros caught the Italian’s sword on his shield. It was partially destroyed in the force of the blow and the blade was trapped by the softer metal of the blue rectangle. Like the other, it too was wrenched to the sand and both men faced each other sideways on, moving like crabs so that their arm-mail would protect them. The swords were nicked and blunted and the exertions in the raging Roman heat were beginning to tell on their strength.

‘Put it all on the Greek, quickly,’ Tubruk spoke.

The betting slave looked for approval to the owner behind him. Odds were whispered and the bets went on, with much of the crowd taking a slice.

‘Five to one against on Alexandros – could have been a lot better if we’d gone earlier,’ Julius muttered, as he watched the two fighters below.

Tubruk said nothing.

One of the gladiators lunged and recovered too fast for the other. The sword whipped back and into his side, causing a gout of blood to rush. The riposte was viciously fast and sliced through a major leg muscle. A leg buckled and as the man went down, his opponent hacked into his neck, over and over, until he was thumping at a corpse. He lay in the mixing blood, as it was sucked away by the dry sand and his chest heaved with the pain and exertion.

‘Who won?’ Gaius asked frantically. Without the shields it wasn’t clear, and a murmur went around the seats as the question was repeated over and over. Who had won?

‘I think the Greek is dead,’ the betting slave said.

His master thought it was the Roman, but until the victor rose and removed his helmet, no one could be sure.

‘What happens if they both die?’ Marcus asked.

‘All bets are off,’ replied the owner and financier of the betting slave. Presumably he had a lot of money riding on the outcome as well. Certainly he looked as tense as anyone there.

For maybe a minute, the surviving gladiator lay exhausted, his blood spilling. The crowd grew louder, calling on him to rise and take off the helmet. Slowly, in obvious pain, he grasped his sword and pushed himself up on it. Standing, he swayed slightly and reached down to take a handful of sand. He rubbed the sand into his wound, watching as it fell away in soft red clumps. His fingers too were bloody as he raised them to remove the helmet.

Alexandros the Greek stood and smiled, his face pale with loss of blood. The crowd threw abuse at the swaying figure. Coins glittered in the sun as they were thrown, not to reward, but to hurt. With curses, money was exchanged all around the amphitheatre and the gladiator was ignored as he sank to his knees again and had to be helped out by slaves.

Tubruk watched him go, his face unreadable.

‘Is he a man to see about training?’ Julius asked, ebullient as his winnings were counted into a pouch.

‘No – he won’t last out the week, I should think. Anyway, there was little schooling in his technique, just good speed and reflexes.’

‘For a Greek,’ said Marcus, trying to join in.

‘Yes, good reflexes for a Greek,’ Tubruk replied, his mind far away.

While the sand was being raked clean, the crowd continued with their business, although Gaius and Marcus could see one or two spectators re-enacting the gladiators’ blows with shouts and mock cries of pain. As they waited, the boys saw Julius tap Tubruk on his arm, bringing to his attention a pair of men approaching through the rows. Both seemed slightly out of place at the circus, with their togas of rough wool and their skins unadorned by metal jewellery.

Julius stood with Tubruk and the boys copied them. Gaius’ father put out his hand and greeted the first to reach them, who bowed his head slightly on contact.

‘Greetings, my friends. Please take a seat. This is my son and another boy in my care. I’m sure they can spend a few minutes buying food?’

Tubruk handed a coin to both of them and the message was clear. Reluctantly, they moved off between the rows and joined a queue at a food stall. They watched as the four men bent their heads close and talked, their voices lost in the crowd.

After a few minutes, as Marcus was buying oranges, Gaius saw the two newcomers thank his father and take his hand again. Then each moved over to Tubruk, who put coins in their hands as they left.

Marcus had bought an orange for each of them and when they’d returned to their seats he handed them out.

‘Who were those men, Father?’ Gaius asked, intrigued.

‘Clients of mine. I have a few bound to me in the city,’ Julius replied, skinning his orange neatly.

‘But what do they do? I have never seen them before.’

Julius turned to his son, registering the interest. He smiled.

‘They are useful men. They vote for candidates I support, or guard me in dangerous areas. They carry messages for me, or … a thousand other small things. In return, they get six denarii a day, each man.’

Marcus whistled. ‘That must add up to a fortune.’

Julius transferred his attention to Marcus, who dropped his gaze and fiddled with the skin of his orange.

‘Money well spent. In this city, it is good to have men I can call on quickly, for any sudden task. Rich members of the Senate may have hundreds of clients. It is part of our system.’

‘Can you trust these clients of yours?’ Gaius broke in.

Julius grunted. ‘Not with anything worth more than six denarii a day.’

Renius entered without announcement. One moment, the crowd were chatting amongst themselves with the dirty sand ring empty, and the next a small door opened and a man walked out of it. At first, he wasn’t noticed, then people pointed and began to stand.

‘Why are they cheering so loudly?’ Marcus asked, squinting at the lone figure standing in the burning sun.

‘Because he has come back one more time. Now you will be able to say you saw Renius fight when you have children of your own,’ Tubruk replied, smiling.

Everyone around them seemed lit up by the spectacle. A chant began and swelled: ‘Ren-i-us … Ren-i-us.’ The noise drowned out all the shuffling of feet and rustling clothing. The only sound in the world was his name.

He raised his sword in salute. Even from a distance, it was clear that age had not yet taken a good twisting grip on him.

‘Looks good for sixty. Belly’s not flat, though. Look at that wide belt,’ Tubruk muttered almost to himself. ‘You’ve let yourself go a little, you silly old fool.’

As the old man received the plaudits of the crowd, a single file of fighting slaves entered the sandy ring. Each wore a cloth around his loins that allowed free movement and carried a short gladius. No shields or armour could be seen. The Roman crowd fell quiet as the men formed a diamond with Renius at the centre. There was a moment of stillness and then the animal enclosure opened.

Even before the cage was dragged out onto the sand, the short, hacking roars could be heard. The crowd whispered in anticipation. There were three lions pacing the cage as it was dragged out by sweating slaves. Through the bars they were obscene shapes; huge humped shoulders, head and jaws tapering back to hindquarters almost as an afterthought. They were created to crush out life with massive jaws. They swiped with their paws in unfocused rage as the cage was jarred and finally came to rest.

Slaves lifted hammers aloft to knock out the wooden pegs that held the front section of the cage. The crowd licked dry lips. The hammers fell, and the iron lattice dropped onto the sand, an echo clearly heard in the silence. One by one, the great cats moved out of the cage, revealing a speed and sureness of step that was frightening.

The largest roared defiance at the group of men that faced it across the sand. When they made no move, it began to pace up and down outside the cage, watching them all the while. Its companions roared and circled and it settled back onto its haunches.

Without a signal, without a warning, it ran at the men, who shrank back visibly. This was death coming for them.

Renius could be heard barking out commands. The front of the diamond, three brave men, met the charge, swords ready. At the last moment, the lion took off in a rushing leap and smashed two of the slaves from their feet, striking with a paw on each chest. Neither moved, as their chests were shards and daggers of bone. The third man swung and hit the heavy mane, doing little damage. The jaws closed on his arm in a snap like the strike of a snake. He screamed and carried on screaming as he staggered away, one wrist holding the pumping red remains of the other. A sword scraped along the lion’s ribs and another cut a hamstring so that the rear quarters went suddenly limp. This served only to enrage the beast and it snapped at itself in red confusion. Renius growled a command and the others stepped back to allow him the kill.

As he landed the fatal blow, the other two lions attacked. One caught the head of the wounded man who had wandered away. A quick crack of the jaws and it was over. That lion settled down with the corpse, ignoring the other slaves as it bit into the soft abdomen and began to feed. It was quickly killed, speared on three blades in the mouth and chest.

Renius met the charge of the last to his left. His protecting slave was tumbled by the strike and over him came the snapping rage that was the male cat. Its paws were striking and great dark claws stood out like spear points, straining to pierce and tear. Renius balanced himself and struck into the chest. A wound opened with a rush of sticky dark blood, but the blade skittered off the breastbone and Renius was struck by a shoulder, only luck letting the jaws snap where he had been. He rolled and came up well, still with sword in hand. As the beast checked and turned back on him, he was ready and sent his blade into the armpit and the bursting heart. The strength went out of it in the instant, as if the steel had lanced a boil. It lay and bled into the sand, still aware and panting, but become pitiful. A soft moan came from deep within the bloody chest as Renius approached, drawing a dagger from his belt. Reddish saliva dribbled onto the sand as the torn lungs strained to fill with air.

Renius spoke softly to the beast, but the words could not be heard in the stands. He lay a hand on the mane and patted it absently, as he would a favourite hound. Then he slipped the blade into the throat and it was over.

The crowd seemed to draw breath for the first time in hours and then laughed at the release of tension. Four men were dead on the sand, but Renius, the old killer, still stood, looking exhausted. They began to chant his name, but he bowed quickly and left the ring, striding to the shadowed door and into darkness.

‘Get in quickly, Tubruk. You know my highest price. A year, mind – a full year of service.’

Tubruk disappeared into the crowds and the boys were left to make polite conversation with Julius. However, without Tubruk to act as a catalyst, the conversation died quickly. Julius loved his son, but had never enjoyed talking to the young. They prattled and knew nothing of decorum and self-restraint.

‘He will be a hard teacher, if his reputation is accurate. He was once without equal in the empire, but Tubruk tells the stories better than I.’

The boys nodded eagerly and determined to press Tubruk for the details as soon as they had the opportunity.

The seasons had turned towards autumn on the estate before the boys saw Renius again, dismounting from a gelding in the stone yard of the stables. It was a mark of his status that he could ride like an officer or a member of the Senate. Both of them were in the hay barn adjoining, and had been jumping off the high bales onto the loose straw. Covered in hay and dust, they were not fit to be seen and peered out at the visitor from a corner. He glanced around as Tubruk came to meet him, taking the reins.

‘You will be received as soon as you are refreshed from your journey.’

‘I have ridden less than five miles. I am neither dirty nor sweating like an animal. Take me in now, or I’ll find the way myself,’ snapped the old soldier, frowning.

‘I see you have lost none of your charm and lightness of manner since you worked with me.’

Renius didn’t smile and for a second the boys expected a blow, or a violent retort.

‘I see you have not yet learned manners to your elders. I expect better.’

‘Everyone is younger than you. Yes, I can see how you would be set in your ways.’

Renius seemed to freeze for a second, slowly blinking. ‘Do you wish me to draw my sword?’

Tubruk was still, and Marcus and Gaius noticed for the first time that he too wore his old gladius in a scabbard.

‘I wish you only to remember that I am in charge of the running of the estate and that I am a free man, like yourself. Our agreement benefits us both; there are no favours being done here.’

Renius smiled then. ‘You are correct. Lead on then to the master of the house. I would like to meet the man who has such interesting types working for him.’

As they left, Gaius and Marcus looked at each other, eyes aglow with excitement.

‘He will be a hard taskmaster, but will quickly become impressed at the talent he has on his hands …’ Marcus whispered.

‘He will realise that we will be his last great work, before he drops dead,’ Gaius continued, caught up in the idea.

‘I will be the greatest swordsman in the land, aided by the fact that I have stretched my arms every night since I was a baby,’ Marcus went on.

‘The fighting monkey, they will call you!’ Gaius declared in awe.

Marcus threw hay at his face and they grabbed each other with mock ferocity, rolling around for a second until Gaius ended up on top, sitting heavily on his friend’s chest.

‘I will be the slightly better swordsman, too modest to embarrass you in front of the ladies.’

He struck a proud pose and Marcus shoved him off into the straw again. They sat panting and lost in dreams for a moment.

At length, Marcus spoke: ‘In truth, you will run this estate, like your father. I have nothing and you know my mother is a whore … no, don’t say anything. We both heard your father say it. I have no inheritance save my name and that is stained. I can only see a bright future in the army, where at least my birth is noble enough to allow me high position. Having Renius as my trainer will help us both, but me most of all.’

‘You will always be my friend, you know. Nothing can come between us.’ Gaius spoke clearly, looking him in the eye.

‘We will find our paths together.’

They both nodded and gripped hands for a second in the pact. As they let go, Tubruk’s familiar bulk appeared as he stuck his head into the hayloft.

‘Get yourselves cleaned up. Once Renius has finished with your father, he’ll want some sort of inspection.’

They stood slowly, nervousness obvious in their movements.

‘Is he cruel?’ Gaius asked.

Tubruk didn’t smile.

‘Yes, he is cruel. He is the hardest man I have ever known. He wins battles because the other men feel pain and are frightened of death and dismemberment. He is more like a sword than a man and he will make you both as hard as himself. You will probably never thank him – you will hate him, but what he gives you will save your lives more than once.’

Gaius looked at him questioningly. ‘Did you know him before?’

Tubruk laughed, a short bark with no humour. ‘I should say so. He trained me for the ring, when I was a slave.’

His eyes flashed in the sun as he turned and he was gone.

Renius stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He frowned at the seated Julius.

‘No. If anyone interferes, I will leave on that hour. You want your son and the whore’s whelp to be made into soldiers. I know how to do that. I have been doing it, one way or another, all my life. Sometimes they only learn as the enemy charges, sometimes they never learn, and I have left a few of those in shallow foreign graves.’

‘Tubruk will want to discuss their progress with you. His judgement is usually first-rate. He was, after all, trained by you,’ Julius said, still trying to regain the initiative he felt he had lost.

This man was an overwhelming force. From the moment he entered the room, he had dominated the conversation. Instead of setting out the manner of his son’s teaching, as he had intended, Julius found himself on the defensive, answering questions about his estate and training facilities. He knew better now what he did not have than what he did.

‘They are very young, and …’

‘Any older would be too late. Oh, you can take a man of twenty and make him a competent soldier, fit and hard. A child, though, can be fashioned into a thing of metal, unbreakable. Some would say you have already left it too late, that proper training should commence at five years. I am of the opinion that ten is the optimum to ensure the proper development of muscle and lung capacity. Earlier can break their spirits; later and their spirits are too firmly in the wrong courses.’

‘I agree, to some ext—’

‘Are you the real father of the whore’s boy?’ Renius spoke curtly, but quietly, as if inquiring after the weather.

‘What? Gods, no! I –’

‘Good. That would have been a complication. I accept the year contract then. My word is given. Get the boys out into the stable yard for inspection in five minutes. They saw me arrive so they should be ready. I will report to you quarterly in this room. If you cannot make the appointment, be so good as to let me know. Good day.’

He turned on his heel and strode out. Behind him, Julius blew air out of puffed cheeks in a mixture of amazement and contentment.

‘Could be just what I wanted,’ he said, and smiled for the first time that morning.

CHAPTER FIVE

The first thing they were told was that they would get a good night’s sleep. For eight hours, from before midnight to dawn, they were left alone. At all other times they were being taught, or toughened, or cramming food into their mouths in hasty, snatched breaks of only minutes.

Marcus had had the excitement knocked out of him on that first day, when Renius took his chin in his leathery hand and peered at him.

‘Weak-spirited, like his mother was.’

He’d said no more at the time, but Marcus burned with the humiliating thought that the old soldier he wanted so much to like him might have seen his mother in the city. From the first moment, his desire to please Renius became a source of shame to him. He knew he had to excel at the training, but not in such a way that the old bastard would approve.

Renius was easy to hate. From the first, he called Gaius by his name, while only referring to Marcus as the boy, or the ‘whore’s boy’. Gaius could see it was deliberate, some attempt to use their hatred as a tool to improve them. Yet he could not help but feel annoyance as his friend was humbled over and over again.

A stream ran through the estate, carrying cold water down to the sea. One month after his arrival, they had been taken down to the water before noon. Renius had simply motioned to a dark pool.

‘Get in,’ he said.

They’d looked at each other and shrugged.

The cold was numbing from the first moments.

‘Stay there until I come back for you,’ was the command called over his shoulder as Renius walked back up to the house, where he ate a light lunch and bathed, before sleeping through the hot afternoon.

Marcus felt the cold much more than his friend. After only a couple of hours, he was blue around the face and unable to speak for shivering. As the afternoon wore on, his legs went numb and the muscles of his face and neck ached from shivering. They talked with difficulty, anything to take their minds off the cold. The shadows moved and the talk died. Gaius was nowhere near as uncomfortable as his friend. His limbs had gone numb long before, but breathing was still easy, whereas Marcus was sipping small breaths.

The afternoon cooled unnoticed outside the eternal chill of the shaded section of fast-flowing water. Marcus rested with his head leaning to one side or the other, with an eye half-submerged and slowly blinking, seeing nothing. His mind could drift until his nose was covered, when he would splutter and raise himself straight again. Then he would dip once more, as the pain worsened. They had not spoken for a long time. It had become a private battle, but not against each other. They would stay until they were called for, until Renius came back and ordered them to climb out.

As the day fled, they both knew that they could not climb out. Even if Renius appeared at that moment and congratulated them, he would have to drag them out himself, getting wet and muddy in the process if the gods were watching at all.

Marcus slipped in and out of waking, coming back with a sudden start and realising he had somehow drifted away from the cold and the darkness. He wondered then if he would die in the river.

In one of those dreaming dozes, he felt warmth and heard the welcoming crackle of a good log fire. An old man prodded the burning wood with his toe, smiling at the sparks. He turned and seemed to notice the boy watching him, white and lost.

‘Come closer to the warm, boy, I’ll not hurt ye.’

The old man’s face carried the wrinkles and dirt of decades of labour and worry. It was scarred and seamed like a stitched purse. The hands were covered in rope veins that shifted under the skin as the swollen knuckles moved. He was dressed like a travelling man, with patched clothes and a dark-red cloth wrapping his throat.

‘What do we have here? A mudfish! Rare for these parts, but good eating on one, they say. You could cut a leg off and feed us both. I’d stop the bleeding, boy, I’m not without tricks.’

Huge eyebrows bristled and raised in interest at the thought. The eyes glittered and the mouth opened to reveal soft gums, wet and puckered. The man patted his pockets and the shadows copied his movements, flapping on dark-yellow walls that were lit only by the flames.

‘Hold still, boy, I have a knife with a saw edge for you …’ A hand like rough stone was pressed over his whole face, suddenly larger than a hand had any right to be.

The old man’s breath was warm on his ear, smelling foully of rotting teeth.

He awoke choking and heaving dryly. His stomach was empty and the moon had risen. Gaius was beside him still, his face barely above the black glass water, head nodding in and out of the darkness.

It was enough. If the choice was to fail or to die, then he would fail and not mind the consequences. Tactically, that was the better choice. Sometimes, it is better to retreat and marshal your forces. That was what the old man wanted them to know. He wanted them to give up and was probably waiting somewhere nearby, waiting for them to learn this most important of lessons.

Marcus didn’t remember the dream, except for the fear of being smothered, which he still felt. His body seemed to have lost its familiar shape and just sat, heavy and waterlogged beneath the surface. He had become some sort of soft-skinned, bottom-dwelling fish. He concentrated and his mouth hung slackly, dribbling back water as cold as himself. He swayed forward and brought up his arm to hold a root. It was the first time a limb had cleared the water in eleven hours. He felt the cold of death on him and had no regrets. True, Gaius was still there, but they would have different strengths. Marcus would not die to please some poxed-up old gladiator.

He slithered out, an inch at a time, mud plastering his face and chest as he dragged himself to the bank. His bloated stomach did seem buoyant in the water, as if filled from within. The sensation as his full weight finally came to bear on the hard ground was one of ecstasy. He lay and began to shudder in spasmodic fits of retching. Yellow bile trickled weakly out of his lips and mixed with the black mud. The night was quiet and he felt as if he’d just crawled out of the grave.

Dawn found him still there and a shadow blocking the pale sun. Renius stood there and frowned, not at Marcus, but at the tiny pale figure of the boy still in the water, eyes closed and lips blue. As Marcus watched him, he saw a sudden spasm of worry cross the iron face.

‘Boy!’ snapped the voice they had already come to loathe. ‘Gaius!’

The figure in the water lolled in the moving current, but there was no response. A muscle in Renius’ jaw clenched and the old soldier stepped up to his thighs into the pool, reaching down and scooping up the ten-year-old like a puppy over his shoulder. The eyes opened with the sudden movement, but there was no focus. Marcus rose as the old man strode away with his burden, obviously heading back to the house. He tottered after, muscles protesting.

Behind them, Tubruk stood in the shadows of the opposite bank, still hidden from sight by the foliage as he had been all night. His eyes were narrowed and as cold as the river.

Renius seemed to be fuelled by a constant anger. After months of training, the boys had not seen him smile except in mockery. On bad days, he rubbed his neck as he snapped at them and gave the impression that his temper was cracking every second. He was worst in the midday sun, when his skin would mottle with irritation at the slightest mistake.

‘Hold the stone straight in front!’ he barked at Marcus and Gaius as they sweated in the heat. The task that afternoon was to stand with arms outstretched in front, with a rock the size of a fist held in their hands. It had been easy at first.

Gaius’ shoulders were aching and his arms felt loose. He tried to tense the muscles, but they seemed out of his control. Perspiring, he watched the stone drop by a hand’s width and felt a stripe of pain over his stomach as Renius struck with a short whip. His arms trembled and muscles shuddered under the pain. He concentrated on the rock and bit his lip.

‘You will not let it fall. You will welcome the pain. You will not let it fall.’

Renius’ voice was a harsh chant as he paced around the boys. This was the fourth time they had raised the stones and each time was harder. He barely allowed them a minute to rest their aching arms before the order to raise came again.

‘Cease,’ Renius said, watching to see they controlled the descent, his whip held ready. Marcus was breathing heavily and Renius curled his lip.

‘There will come a time when you think you can’t stand the pain any more and men’s lives will depend on it. You could be holding a rope others are climbing, or walking forty miles in full kit to rescue comrades. Are you listening?’

The boys nodded, trying not to pant with exhaustion, just pleased he was talking instead of ordering the stones up again.

‘I have seen men walk themselves to death, falling onto the road with their legs still twitching and trying to lift them. They were buried with honour.

‘I have seen men of my legion keep rank and move in formation, holding their guts in with one hand. They were buried with honour.’ He paused to consider his words, rubbing the back of his neck as though he had been stung.

‘There will be times when you want to simply sit down, when you want to give up. When your body tells you it is done and your spirit is weak.

‘These are false. Savages and the beasts of the field break, but we go on.

‘Do you think you are finished now? Are your arms hurting you? I tell you that you will raise that rock another dozen times this hour and you will hold it. And another dozen if you let one fall below a hand’s width.’

A slave girl was washing dust from a wall at the side of the courtyard. She never looked at the boys, though occasionally she jumped slightly as the old gladiator barked a command. Gaius saw she looked exhausted herself, but he had noticed she was attractive, with long dark hair and a loose slave shift. Her face was delicate, with a pair of dark eyes and a full mouth pressed into a line by the concentration of her work. He thought her name was Alexandria.

As Renius spoke, she bent low to dip the cloth in the bucket and paused to wash the dirt from the material. Her shift gaped as she pressed the cloth into the water and Gaius could see the smooth skin of her neck running down to the soft curves of her breasts. He thought he could see right down to the skin of her stomach and imagined her nipples gently grazing against the rough cloth as she moved.

In that moment, Renius was forgotten, despite the pain in his arms.

The old man stopped speaking and turned on his heel to see what was distracting the boys from their lesson. He growled as he saw the slave and crossed to her with three quick strides, taking her arm in a cruel grip that made her cry out. His voice was a bellow.

‘I am teaching these children a lesson that will save their lives and you are flashing your paps at them like a cheap whore!’

The girl cowered from his anger, pulling as far as she could reach from the held wrist.

‘I …’ she stammered, seeming dazed, but Renius swore and took her by the hair. She winced in pain and he swung her to face the boys.

‘I don’t care if there are a thousand of these behind my back. I am teaching you to concentrate!’

In one brutal move, he flicked her legs away with a sweep of his foot and she fell. Still holding her hair, Renius raised his whip in his other hand and brought it down sharply, in sequence with his words.

‘You will not distract these boys while I teach.’

The girl was crying as Renius let her go. She crawled a couple of paces, then came up to a crouch and ran from the yard, sobbing.

Marcus and Gaius looked dumbfounded at Renius as he turned back to them. His expression was murderous.

‘Close your mouths, boys. This was never a game. I will make you good enough and hard enough to serve the Republic after I am gone. I will not allow weakness of any kind. Now raise the stones and hold them until I say to cease.’

Once again, the boys raised their arms, not even daring to exchange glances.

That evening, when the estate was quiet and Renius had departed for the city, Gaius delayed his usual exhausted collapse into sleep to visit the slave quarters. He felt guilty being there and kept an eye out for Tubruk’s shadow, though he couldn’t quite have explained why.

The household slaves slept under the same roof as the family, in a wing of simple rooms. It was not a world he knew and he felt nervous as he walked along the darkening corridors, wondering whether he should knock at doors, or call her name, if it really was Alexandria.

He found her sitting on a low ledge outside an open door. She seemed lost in thought and he cleared his throat gently as he recognised her. She scrambled to her feet in fright and then held herself still, looking at the floor. She had cleaned the dust of the day from her skin and it was smooth and pale in the evening light. Her hair was tied back with a scrap of cloth and her eyes were wide with darkness.

‘Is your name Alexandria?’ he said quietly.

She nodded.

‘I came to say sorry for today. I was watching you at your chores and Renius thought you were distracting us.’

She stood perfectly still in front of him and kept her gaze on the floor at his feet. The silence stretched for a moment and he blushed, unsure how to continue.

‘Look, I am sorry. He was cruel.’

Still, she said nothing. Her thoughts were pained, but this was the son of the house. ‘I am a slave,’ she longed to say. ‘Every day is pain and humiliation. You have nothing to say to me.’

Gaius waited for a few more moments and then walked away, wishing he hadn’t come.

Alexandria watched him leave, watched the confident walk and the developing strength that Renius was bringing out. He would be as vicious as that old gladiator when he was older. He was free and Roman. His compassion came from his youth and that was fast being burned away in the training yard. Her face was hot with the anger she had not dared show. It was a small victory not to have talked to him, but she cherished it.

Renius reported their progress at the end of each quarter-year. On the evening before the appointed day, Gaius’ father would return from his lodgings in the capital and receive Tubruk’s summary of the estate’s wealth. He would see the boys and spend a few minutes extra with his son. The following day, he would see Renius at dawn and the boys would sleep in, grateful for the slight break in their routine.

The first report had been frustratingly short.

‘They have made a beginning. Both have some spirit,’ Renius had stated flatly.

After a long pause, Julius realised that there was to be no further comment.

‘They are obedient?’ he asked, wondering at the lack of information. For this he’d paid so much gold?

‘Of course,’ Renius replied, his expression baffled.

‘They er … they show promise?’ Julius battled on, refusing to allow this conversation to go the way of the last one, but again feeling as if he addressed one of his old tutors instead of a man in his employ.

‘A beginning has been made. This work is not accomplished quickly.’

‘Nothing of value ever is,’ Julius replied quietly.

They looked at each other calmly for a moment and both nodded. The interview was at an end. The old warrior shook hands with a brief touch of dry skin in a quick, hard grip and left. Julius remained standing, gazing at the door that closed behind his exit.

Tubruk thought the training methods were dangerous and had mentioned an incident where the boys could have drowned without supervision. Julius grimaced. He knew that to mention the worry to Renius would be to sever their agreement. Preventing the old murderer from going too far would rest with the estate manager.

Sighing, he sat down and thought about the problems he faced in Rome. Cornelius Sulla had continued to rise in power, bringing some towns in the south of the country into the Roman fold and away from their merchant controllers. What was the name of that last? Pompeii, some sort of mountain town. Sulla kept his name in the mind of the vacuous public with such small triumphs. He commanded a group of senators with a web of lies, bribery and flattery. They were all young and brought a shudder to the old soldier as he thought of some of them. If this was what Rome was coming to, in his lifetime!

Instead of taking the business of empire seriously, they seemed to live only for sordid pleasures of the most dubious kinds, worshipping at the temple of Aphrodite and calling themselves the ‘New Romans’. There were few things that still caused outrage in the temples of the Capitol, but this new group seemed intent on finding the limits and breaking them, one by one. One of the people’s tribunes had been found murdered, one who opposed Sulla whenever possible. This would not have been too remarkable in itself; he had been found in a pool, made red by a swiftly opened vein in his leg, a not uncommon mode of death. The problem was that his children too had been found killed, which looked like a warning to others. There were no clues and no witnesses. It was unlikely the murderer would ever be found, but before another tribune could be elected, Sulla had forced through a resolution that gave a general greater autonomy in the field. He had argued the need himself and was eloquent and passionate in his persuasion. The Senate had voted and his power had grown a little more, while the power of the Republic was nibbled away.

Julius had so far managed to stay neutral, but as he was related by marriage to another of the power players, his wife’s brother Marius, he knew eventually that sides would have to be chosen. A wise man could see the changes coming, but it saddened him that the equalities of the Republic were felt as chains by more and more of the hotheads in Senate. Marius too felt that a powerful man could use the law rather than obey it. Already, he had proven this by making a mockery of the system used to elect consuls. Roman law said that a consul could only be elected once by the Senate and must then step down from the position. Marius had recently secured his third election with martial victories against the Cimbri tribes and the Teutones, whom he had smashed with the Primigenia legion. He was still a lion of the emerging Rome, and Julius would have to find the protection of his shadow if Cornelius Sulla continued to grow in power.

Favours would be owed and some of his autonomy would be lost if he threw his colours into the camp of Marius, but it might be the only wise choice. He wished he could consult his wife and listen to her quick mind dissect the problem as she had used to. Always, she could see an angle on a problem, or a point of view that no one else could see. He missed her wry smile and the way she would press her palms against his eyes when he was tired, bringing a wonderful coolness and peace …

He moved quietly through the corridors to Aurelia’s rooms and paused outside the door, listening to her long slow breaths, barely audible in the silence.

Carefully, he entered the room and crossed over to the sleeping figure, kissing her lightly on the brow. She didn’t stir and he sat by the bed, watching her.

Asleep, she seemed the woman he remembered. At any moment, she could wake and her eyes would fill with intelligence and wit. She would laugh to see him sitting there in the shadows and pull back the covers, inviting him in to the warmth of her.

‘Who can I turn to, my love?’ he whispered. ‘Who should I support and trust to safeguard the city and the Republic? I think your brother Marius cares as little for the idea as Sulla himself.’ He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble.

‘Where does safety lie for my wife and my son? Do I throw in my house to the wolf or the snake?’

Silence answered him and he shook his head slowly. He rose and kissed Aurelia, imagining just for one moment more that, if her eyes opened, someone he knew would be looking out. Then he left quietly, shutting the door softly behind him.

When Tubruk walked his watch that evening, the last of the candles had guttered out and the rooms were dark. Julius still sat in his chair, but his eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell slowly, with a soft whistle of air from his nose. Tubruk nodded to himself, pleased he was getting some rest from worry.

The following morning, Julius ate with the two boys, a small breaking of the fast with bread, fruit and a warm tisane to counter the dawn chill. The depressive thoughts of the day before had been put aside and he sat straight, his gaze clear.

‘You look healthy and strong,’ he said to the pair of them. ‘Renius is turning you into young men.’

They grinned at each other for a second.

‘Renius says we will soon be fit enough for battle training. We have shown we can stand heat and cold and have begun to find our strengths and weaknesses. All this is internal, which he says is the foundation for external skill.’ Gaius spoke with animation, his hands moving slightly with his words.

Both boys were clearly growing in confidence and Julius felt a pang for a moment that he was not able to see more of their growth. Looking at his son, he wondered if he would come home to a stranger one day.

‘You are my son. Renius has trained many, but never a son of mine. You will surprise him, I think.’ Julius looked at Gaius’ incredulous expression, knowing the boy was not used to praise or admiration.

‘I will try to. Marcus will surprise him too, I expect.’

Julius did not look at the other boy at the table, although he felt his eyes. As if he was not present, he answered, wanting the point to be remembered and annoyed at Gaius’ attempt to bring his friend into the conversation.

‘Marcus is not my son. You carry my name and my reputation with you. You alone.’

Gaius bowed his head, embarrassed and unable to hold his father’s strangely compelling gaze. ‘Yes, Father,’ he muttered and continued to eat.

Sometimes, he wished there were other children, brothers or sisters to play with and to carry the burden of his father’s hopes. Of course, he would not give up the estate to them, that was his alone and always had been, but occasionally he felt the pressure as an uncomfortable weight. His mother especially, when she was quiet and placid, would croon to him that he was all the children she had been allowed, one perfect example of life. She often told him that she would have liked daughters to dress and pass on her wisdom to, but the fever that had struck her at his birth had taken that chance away.

Renius came into the warm kitchen. He wore open sandals with a red soldier’s tunic and short leggings that ended on his calves, stretched tight over almost obscenely large muscles, the legacy of life as an infantryman in the legions. Despite his age, he seemed to burn with health and vitality. He halted in front of the table, his back straight and his eyes bright and interested.

‘With your permission, sir, the sun is rising and the boys must run five miles before it clears the hills.’

Julius nodded and the two boys stood quickly, waiting for his dismissal.

‘Go – train hard,’ he said, smiling. His son looked eager, the other – there was something else there in those dark eyes and brows. Anger? No, it was gone. The pair raced off and the two men were once again left alone. Julius indicated the table.

‘I hear you are intending to begin battle school with them soon.’

‘They are not strong enough yet; they may not be this year, but I am not just a fitness instructor to them, after all.’

‘Have you given any thought to continuing their training after the year contract is up?’ Julius asked, hoping his casual manner masked his interest.

‘I will retire to the country next year. Nothing is likely to change that.’

‘Then these two will be your last students – your last legacy to Rome,’ Julius replied.

Renius froze for a second and Julius let no trace of his emotions betray themselves on his face.

‘It is something to think about,’ Renius said at last, before turning on his heel and going into the grey dawn light.

Julius grinned wolfishly behind him.

CHAPTER SIX

‘As officers, you will ride to the battle, but fighting from horseback is not our chief strength. Although we use cavalry for quick, smashing attacks, it is the footmen of the twenty-eight legions that break the enemy. Every man of the one hundred and fifty thousand legionaries we have in the field at any given moment of any day can walk thirty miles in full armour, carrying a pack that is a third his own weight. He can then fight the enemy, without weakness and without complaint.’

Renius eyed the two boys who stood in the heat of the noon sun, returned from a run and trying to control their breathing. More than three years he had given them, the last he would ever teach. There was so much more for them to learn! He paced around them as he spoke, snapping the words out.

‘It is not the luck of the gods that has given the countries of the world into the palms of Rome. It is not the weakness of the foreign tribes that leads them to throw themselves onto our swords in battle. It is our strength, greater and deeper than anything they can bring to the field. That is our first tactic. Before our men even reach the battle, they will be unbreakable in their strength and their morale. More, they will have a discipline that the armies of the world can blood themselves against without effect.

‘Each man will know that his brothers at his side will have to be killed to leave him. That makes him stronger than the most heroic charge, or the vain screams of savage tribes. We walk to battle. We stand and they die.’

Gaius’ breathing slowed and his lungs ceased to clamour for oxygen. In the three years since Renius had first arrived at his father’s villa, he had grown in height and strength. Approaching fourteen years of age, he was showing signs of the man he would one day be.

Burned the colour of light oak by the Roman sun, he stood easily, his frame slim and athletic, with powerful shoulders and legs. He could run for hours round the hills and still find reserves for a burst of speed as his father’s estate came into view again.

Marcus too had undergone changes, both physically and in his spirit. The innocent happiness of the boy he had been came and went in flashes now. Renius had taught him to guard his emotions and his responses. He had been taught this with the whip and without kindness of any kind for three long years. He too had well-developed shoulders, tapering down into lightning-fast fists that Gaius could not match any more. Inside him, the desire to stand on his own, without help from his line or the patronage of others, was like a slow acid in his stomach.

As Renius watched, both boys became calm and stood to attention, watching him warily. It was not unknown for him to suddenly strike at an exposed stomach, testing, always testing for weakness.

‘Gladii, gentlemen – fetch your swords.’

Silently, they turned away and collected the short swords from pegs on the training yard wall. Heavy leather belts were buckled around their waists, with a leather ‘frog’ attached, a holder for the sword. The scabbard slid snugly into the frog, tightly held by lacing so that it would remain immobile if the blade was suddenly drawn.

Properly attired, they returned to the attention position, waiting for the next order.

‘Gaius, you observe. I will use the boy to make a simple point.’ Renius loosened his shoulders with a crack and grinned as Marcus slowly drew the gladius.

‘First position, boy. Stand like a soldier, if you can remember how.’

Marcus relaxed into the first position, legs shoulder-width apart, body slightly turned from full frontal, sword held at waist height, ready to strike for the groin, stomach or throat, the three main areas of attack. Groin and neck were favourites as a deep cut there would mean the opponent bled to death in seconds.

Renius shifted his weight and Marcus’ point wavered to follow the movement.

‘Slashing the air again? If you do that, I’ll see it and pattern you. I only need one opening to cut your throat out, one blow. Let me guess which way you’re going to shift your weight and I’ll cut you in two.’ He began to circle Marcus, who remained relaxed, his eyebrows raised over a face blank of expression. Renius continued to talk.

‘You want to kill me, don’t you, boy? I can feel your hatred. I can feel it like good wine in my stomach. It cheers me up, boy, can you believe that?’

Marcus attacked in a sudden move, without warning, without signal. It had taken hundreds of hours of drill for him to eliminate all his ‘tells’, his telegraphing tensions of muscle that gave away his intentions. No matter how fast he was, a good opponent would gut him if he signalled his thoughts before each move.

Renius was not there when the stabbing lunge ended. His gladius pressed up against Marcus’ throat.

‘Again. You were slow and clumsy as usual. If you weren’t faster than Gaius, you’d be the worst I’d ever seen.’

Marcus gaped and, in a split second, the sun-warmed gladius was pressed against his inner thigh, by the big pulsing vein that carried his life.

Renius shook his head in disgust.

‘Never listen to your opponent. Gaius is observing, you are fighting. You concentrate on how I am moving, not the words I speak, which are simply to distract you. Again.’

They circled in the shadows of the yard.

‘Your mother was clumsy in bed at first.’ Renius’ sword snaked out as he spoke and was snapped aside with a bell ring of metal. Marcus stepped in and pressed his blade against the leathery old skin of Renius’ throat. His expression was cold and unforgiving.

‘Predictable,’ Marcus muttered, glaring into the cold blue eyes, nettled nonetheless.

He felt a pressure and looked down to see a dagger held in Renius’ left hand, touching him lightly on the stomach. Renius grinned.

‘Many men will hate you enough to take you with them. They are the most dangerous of all. They can run right onto your sword and blind you with their thumbs. I’ve seen that done by a woman to one of my men.’

‘Why did she hate him so much?’ Marcus asked as he took a pace away, sword still ready to defend.

‘The victors will always be hated. It is the price we pay. If they love you, they will do what you want, but when they want to do it. If they fear you, they will do your will, but when you want them to. So, is it better to be loved or feared?’

‘Both,’ Gaius said, seriously.

Renius smiled. ‘You mean adored and respected, which is the impossible trick if you are occupying lands that are only yours by right of strength and blood. Life is never a simple problem from question to answer. There are always many answers.’

The two boys looked baffled and Renius snorted in irritation.

‘I will show you what discipline means. I will show you what you have already learned. Put your swords away and stand back to attention.’

The old gladiator looked the pair over with a critical eye. Without warning, the noon bell sounded and he frowned, his manner changing in an instant. His voice lost the snap of the tutor and, for once, was low and quiet.

‘There are food riots in the city, did you know that? Great gangs that destroy property and stream away like rats when someone is brave enough to draw a sword on them. I should be there, not playing games with children. I have taught you for two years longer than my original agreement. You are not ready, but I will not waste any more of my evening years on you. Today is your last lesson.’ He stepped over to Gaius, who stared resolutely ahead.

‘Your father should have met me here and heard my report. The fact that he is late for the first time in three years tells me what?’

Gaius cleared his dry throat. ‘The riots in Rome are worse than you believed.’

‘Yes. Your father will not be here to see this last lesson. A pity. If he is dead and I kill you, who will inherit the estate?’

Gaius blinked in confusion. The man’s words seemed to jar with his reasonable tone. It was as if he were ordering a new tunic.

‘My uncle Marius, although he is with the Primigenia legion – the First-Born. He will not be expecting –’

‘A good standard, the Primigenia, did well in Egypt. My bill will be sent to him. Now I will indulge you as the current master of the estate, in your father’s absence. When you are ready, you will face me for real, not a practice, not to first blood, but an attack such as you might face if you were walking the streets of Rome today, among the rioters.

‘I will fight fairly, and if you kill me you may consider yourself to have graduated from my tutelage.’

‘Why kill us after all the time you have –’ Marcus spluttered, breaking discipline to speak without permission.

‘You have to face death at some point. I cannot continue to train you and there is a last lesson to be learned about fear and anger.’

For a moment, Renius looked unsure of himself, but then his head straightened and the ‘snapping turtle’, as the slaves called him, was back, his intensity and energy overpowering.

‘You are my last pupils. My reputation as I go into retirement hangs on your sorry necks. I will not let you go improperly trained, so that my name is blackened by your deeds. My name is something I have spent my life protecting. It is too late to consider losing it now.’

‘We would not embarrass you,’ Marcus muttered, almost to himself.

Renius rounded on him. ‘Your every stroke embarrasses me. You hack like a butcher attacking a bull carcass in a rage. You cannot control your temper. You fall for the simplest trap as the blood drains from your head! And YOU!’ He turned to Gaius, who had begun to grin. ‘You cannot keep your thoughts from your groin long enough to make a Roman of you. Nobilitas? My blood runs cold at the thought of boys like you carrying on my heritage, my city, my people.’

Gaius dropped the grin at the reference to the slave girl that Renius had whipped in front of them for distracting the boys. It still shamed him and a slow anger began to grow as the tirade continued.

‘Gaius, you may choose which of you will duel first. Your first tactical decision!’ Renius turned and strode away onto the fighting square laid out in mosaic on the training ground. He stretched his leg muscles behind them, seemingly oblivious to their dumbstruck gazes.

‘He has gone mad,’ Marcus whispered. ‘He’ll kill us both.’

‘He is still playing games,’ Gaius said grimly. ‘Like with the river. I’m going to take him. I think I can do it. I’m certainly not going to refuse the challenge. If this is how I show him that he has taught me well, then so be it. I will thank him in his own blood.’

Marcus looked at his friend and saw his resolution. He knew that, as much as he didn’t want either of them to fight Renius, it was he who had the better chance. Neither could win outright, but only Marcus had the speed to take the old man with him into the void.

‘Gaius,’ he murmured. ‘Let me go first.’

Gaius looked him in the eye, as if to gauge his thoughts.

‘Not this time. You are my friend. I do not want to see him kill you.’

‘Nor I you. Yet I am the fastest of us – I have a better chance.’

Gaius loosened his shoulders and smiled tightly. ‘He is only an old man, Marcus. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Alone, Gaius took up his position.

Renius watched him through eyes narrowed against the sun.

‘Why did you choose to fight first?’

Gaius shrugged. ‘All lives end. I chose to. That is enough.’

‘Aye, it is. Begin, boy. Let’s see if you have learned anything.’

Gently, smoothly, they began to move around each other, gladii held out and flat-bladed, catching the sun.

Renius feinted with a sudden shift of a shoulder. Gaius read the feint and forced the old man back a step, with a lunge. The blades clashed and the battle began. They struck and parried, came together in a twist of heaving muscle and the old warrior threw the young boy backwards, sprawling in the dust.

For once, Renius didn’t mock him, his face remaining impassive. Gaius rose slowly, balanced. He could not win with strength.

He took two quick steps forward and brought the blade up in a neat slice, breaking past the defence and cutting deeply into the mahogany skin of Renius’ chest.

The old man grunted in surprise as the boy pressed the attack without pause, cut after cut. Each was parried with tiny shifts of weight and movements of the blade. The boy would clearly tire himself in the sun, ready for the butcher’s knife.

Sweat poured into Gaius’ eyes. He felt desperate, unable to think of new moves that might work against this hard-eyed thing of wood that read and parried him so easily. He flailed and missed and, as he overbalanced, Renius extended his right arm, sinking the blade into the exposed lower abdomen.

Gaius felt his strength go. His legs seemed weak sticks and folded beyond his control under him, rubbery and painless. Blood spattered the dust, but the colours had gone from the courtyard, replaced by the thump of his heartbeat and flashes in his eyes.

Renius looked down and Gaius could see his eyes shine with moisture. Was the old man crying?

‘Not … good … enough,’ the old gladiator spat. Renius stepped forward, his eyes full of pain.

The brightness of the sun was blocked by a dark bar of shadow as Marcus slid his sword under the sagging throat skin of the old warrior. One step behind Renius, he could see the old man stiffen in surprise.

‘Forgotten me?’ It would be the work of a single thought to pull the blade back sharply and end the vicious old man, but Marcus had glanced at the body of his friend and knew the life was pouring out of him. He allowed the rage to build inside him for a moment and the chance for a quick death disappeared as Renius stepped smoothly away and brought up his bloody sword again. His face was stone, but his eyes shone.

Marcus began his attack, in past the guard and out before the old man had a chance to move. If he had been trying for a fatal blow, it would have landed, as the old man held immobile, his face rigid with tension. As it was, the blow was simply a loosener and the life in the old man came back with a rush.

‘Can’t you even kill me when I hold still for the strike?’ Renius snapped as he began to circle again, keeping his right side to Marcus.

‘You were always a fool – you have a fool’s pride,’ Marcus almost growled at him, forced to pay attention to this man as his friend died in the heat, alone.

He attacked again, his thought become deeds, no reflection or decision, simply blows and moves, unstoppable. Red mouths opened on the old body and Marcus could hear the spatter of blood on the dust like spring rain.

Renius had no time to speak again. He defended desperately, his face showing shock for a second before settling into his gladiatorial mask. Marcus moved with extraordinary grace and balance, too fast to counter, a warrior born.

Again and again, the old man only knew he had stopped a blow when he heard the clash of metal as his body moved and reacted without conscious thought. His mind seemed detached from the fight.

His thoughts spoke in a dry voice: ‘I am an old fool. This one may be the best I have trained, but I have killed the other – that was a mortal blow.’

His left arm hung, flapping obscene and loose, the shoulder muscle sliced. The pain was like a hammer and he felt sudden exhaustion slam into him, like the years catching up with him at last. The boy had never been this fast before, it was as if the sight of his friend dying had opened doors within him.

Renius felt his strength desert him in one despairing sigh. He had seen so many at this point where the spirit cannot take the flesh further. He warded off the battered blade of the gladius without energy, batting it away for what he knew would be the last time.

‘Cease, or I will drop you where you stand,’ came a new voice, quiet, but carrying somehow through the courtyard and house.

Marcus didn’t pause. He had been trained not to react to taunts and no one was taking this kill from him. He tensed his shoulders to drive in the iron blade.

‘This bow will kill you, boy. Put the sword down.’

Renius looked Marcus in the eyes, seeing madness there for a moment. He knew the lad would kill him and then the light was gone and control had come back.

Even with the heat of his own blood warming his limbs, the yard seemed cold to the old man as he watched Marcus glide backwards out of range and then turn to look at the newcomer. Renius had rarely been so certain of his own death to come.

There was a bow, with a glinting arrowhead. An old man, older than Renius, held the bow without a shiver of muscle, despite the obvious heft of the draw. He wore a rough brown robe and a smile that stretched over only a few teeth.

‘No one has to die here today. I would know. Put the weapon away and let me summon doctors and cool drinks for you.’

Reality came back to Marcus in a rush. The gladius dropped from his hand as he spoke.

‘Gaius, my friend, is injured. He may die. He needs help.’

Renius sank onto one knee, unable to stand. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and the red stain widened around him as his head bowed. Marcus walked past him without a downward glance, over to where Gaius lay.

‘His appendix has been ruptured, I see,’ the old man said over his shoulder.

‘Then he is dead. When the appendix swells, it is always fatal. Our doctors cannot remove the swollen thing.’

‘I have done it, once before. Summon the slaves of the house to bear this boy inside. Fetch me bandages and heated water.’

‘Are you a healer?’ Marcus asked, searching the man’s eyes for hope.

‘I have picked up a few things on my travels. It is not over yet.’ Their eyes met.

Marcus looked away, nodding to himself. He trusted the stranger, but could not have said why.

Renius slid onto his back, his chest barely moving. He looked like what he was, a frail old brown stick of a man, made hard but brittle in the Roman sun. As Marcus’ gaze fell on him, he tried to rise, shuddering with weakness.

Marcus felt a hand press down on his shoulder, interrupting his rage as it grew again. Tubruk stood beside him, his face black with anger. Marcus could feel the ex-gladiator’s hand shake slightly.

‘Relax, boy. There’ll be no more fighting. I have sent for Lucius and your mother’s doctor.’

‘You saw?’ Marcus stammered.

Tubruk tightened his grip.

‘The end of it. I hoped you would kill him,’ he said grimly, looking over to where Renius bled. Tubruk’s expression was hard as he turned back to the newcomer.

‘Who are you, ancient? A poacher? This is a private estate.’

The old man stood slowly and met Tubruk’s eyes.

‘Just a traveller, a wanderer,’ he said.

‘Will he die?’ Marcus interrupted.

‘Not today, I think,’ the old man replied. ‘It would not be right after I have arrived – am I not a guest of the house now?’

Marcus blinked in confusion, trying to weigh the reasonable sound of the words with the still swirling pain and rage inside him.

‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said.

‘I am Cabera,’ the old man said, softly. ‘Peace now. I will help you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gaius lifted into consciousness, woken by angry voices in the room. His head pounded and he felt weak in every bone. Pain from below his waist heaved in great waves, with answering throbs at pulse points on his body. His mouth was dry and he could not speak or keep his eyes open. The darkness was soft and red and he tried to go back under, not yet willing to join the conscious struggle again.

‘I have removed the perforated appendix, and tied off the severed vessels. He has lost a great deal of blood, which will take time to be replenished, but he is young and strong.’ A stranger’s voice – one of the estate doctors? Gaius didn’t know or care. As long as he wasn’t going to die, they should just leave him alone to get well.

‘My wife’s doctor says you are a charlatan.’ His father’s voice, no give in it.

‘He would not operate on such a wound – so you have lost nothing, yes? I have removed the appendix once before, it is not a fatal operation. The only problem is the onset of fever, which he must fight on his own.’

‘I was taught that it was always fatal. The appendix swells and bursts. It cannot be removed as you might cut off a finger.’ His father sounded tired, Gaius thought.

‘Nevertheless, I have done so. I have also bandaged the older man. He too will recover, although he will never fight again, with the damage to his left shoulder. All will live here. You should sleep.’

Gaius heard footsteps cross his room and felt the warm, dry skin of his father’s palm on his damp forehead.

‘He is my only child; how can I sleep, Cabera? Would you sleep if it was your child?’

‘I would sleep like a baby. We have done all that we can. I will continue to watch over him, but you must get your rest.’ The other voice seemed kind, but not the rounded tones of the physicians that tended his mother. There was a trace of a strange accent, a mellifluous rhythm as he spoke.

Gaius sank into sleep again as if he held a dark weight on his chest. The voices continued on the edge of hearing, slipping in and out of fever dreams.

‘Why have you not closed the wound with stitches? I’ve seen a lot of battle wounds, but we close them and bind them …’

‘This is why the Greek dislikes my methods. The wound must have a drain for the pus that will fill it as the fever strengthens. If I closed it tight, the pus would have nowhere to go and poison his flesh. Then he would surely die, as most do. This could save him.’

‘If he dies, I will cut your own appendix out myself.’

There was a cackle and a few words in a strange language that echoed in Gaius’ dreams.

‘You would have a job finding it. Here is the scar from when my father removed mine many years ago – with the drain.’

Gaius’ father spoke with finality: ‘I will trust your judgement then. You have my thanks and more if he lives.’

Gaius woke as a cool hand touched his forehead. He looked into blue eyes, bright in skin the colour of walnut wood.

‘My name is Cabera, Gaius. It is good to meet you at last and at such a moment in your life. I have been travelling for thousands of your miles. It is enough to make me believe in the gods to have arrived here when I was needed. No?’

Gaius couldn’t respond. His tongue was thick and solid in his mouth. As if reading his thoughts, the old man reached over and brought a shallow bowl of water to his lips.

‘Drink a little. The fever is burning the moisture from your body.’

The few drops slid into his mouth and loosened the gummy saliva that had gathered there. Gaius coughed and his eyes closed again. Cabera looked down at the boy and sighed for a moment. He checked that there was no one around and then placed his bony old hands over the wound, around the thin wood tube that still dribbled sluggish fluid.

A warmth came from his hands that Gaius could feel even in his dreams. He felt tendrils of heat spread up into his chest and settle into his lungs, clearing away fluid.

The heat built until it was almost painful and then Cabera took his hands away and sat still, his breathing suddenly harsh and broken.

Gaius opened his eyes again. He still felt too weak to move, but the feeling of liquid moving inside him had gone. He could breathe again.

‘What did you do?’ he murmured.

‘Helped a little, yes? You needed a little help, even after all my skills as a surgeon.’ The old face was deeply lined with exhaustion, but his eyes still shone out from the dark creases. The hand was pressed against his forehead again.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

The old man shrugged. ‘I am still working on an answer to that. I have been a beggar and the chief of a village. I think of myself as a seeker after truths, with a new truth for each place I reach.’

‘Can you help my mother?’ Gaius kept his eyes closed, but he could hear the soft sigh that came from the man.

‘No, Gaius. Her problem is in her mind, or the soul, perhaps. I can help a little with physical hurt, but nothing more. It is much simpler. I am sorry. Sleep now, lad. Sleep is the real healer, not I.’

Darkness came, as if ordered.

When he woke again, Renius was sitting on the bed, his face unreadable as always. As Gaius opened his eyes, he took in the changed appearance of his teacher. His left shoulder was heavily bound close to the body and there was a pallor under the sun-darkened skin.

‘How are you, lad? I can’t tell you how good it is to see you getting better. That old tribesman must be a miracle worker.’ The voice at least was the same, curt and hard.

‘I think he may be, yes. I’m surprised to see you here after almost killing me,’ Gaius murmured, feeling his heart pump faster as the memories came fresh. He felt sweat break out on his forehead.

‘I did not mean to cut you badly. It was a mistake. I am sorry.’ The old man looked into his eyes for forgiveness and found it there waiting for him.

‘Don’t be sorry. I am alive and you are alive. Even you make mistakes.’

‘When I thought I’d killed you …’ There was pain in the old face.

Gaius struggled to sit up and found, to his surprise, that his strength was growing.

‘You did not kill me. I will always be proud to say it was you who trained me. Let there be no more words on this. It is done.’

For a second Gaius was struck by the ridiculousness of a thirteen-year-old boy comforting the old gladiator, but the words came easily as he realised he felt a genuine affection for this man, especially now he could see him as a man and not a perfect warrior, cut from some strange stone.

‘Is my father still here?’ he asked, hoping he would be.

Renius shook his head. ‘He had to return to the city, though he sat by your bed for the first few days, until we were sure you were on the mend. The riots grow worse and Sulla’s legion has been recalled to establish order.’

Gaius nodded and held out his clenched hand before him.

‘I would like to be there, to see the legion come through the gates.’

Renius smiled at the young man’s enthusiasm.

‘Not this time, I think, but you will see more of the city when you are well again. Tubruk is outside. Are you strong enough to see him?’

‘I feel much better, almost normal. How long has it been?’

‘A week. Cabera gave you herbs to keep you asleep. Even so, you’ve healed incredibly quickly, and I’ve seen a lot of wounds. That old man calls himself a seer. I think he does have a little magic about him, that one. I’ll call Tubruk.’

As Renius rose, Gaius put out his hand. ‘Will you be staying on?’

Renius smiled, but shook his head. ‘The training is over. I am retiring to my own little villa, to grow old in peace.’

Gaius hesitated for a second. ‘Do you … have a family?’

‘I had one, once, but they are long gone. I will spend my evenings with the other old men, telling lies and drinking good red wine. I will keep an eye on your life, though. Cabera says you are someone special, and I don’t believe that old devil is wrong very often.’

‘Thank you,’ Gaius said, unable to put into words what the gladiator had given him.

Renius nodded and took his hand and wrist in a firm grip. Then he was gone and the room felt suddenly empty.

Tubruk filled the doorway and smiled a slow smile. ‘You look better. There is colour in your cheeks.’

Gaius grinned at him, beginning to feel like his old self again. ‘I feel stronger. I have been lucky.’

‘No such thing. Cabera’s responsible. He is an amazing man. He must be eighty, but when your mother’s latest doctor complained about how you were treated, Cabera took him outside and gave him a hiding. I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. He has a lot of strength in those skinny arms and a fast right cross as well. You should have seen it.’ He chuckled at the memory, then his face became sober.

‘Your mother wanted to see you, but we thought it would … distress her too much until you were well. I’ll bring her in tomorrow.’

‘Now would be all right. I am not too tired.’

‘No. You are still weak and Cabera says you shouldn’t be overworked with visitors.’

Gaius’ face showed mock surprise at Tubruk taking advice from anyone.

Tubruk smiled again. ‘Well, as I said, he is an amazing man and, after what he managed with you, what he says goes, as far as your care is concerned. I only let Renius in here because he was leaving today.’

‘I am glad you did. I would not have liked to leave unfinished business.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t take his head off,’ Gaius said cheerfully.

‘I thought about it, but accidents happen in training. He just went too far, that’s all. For what it’s worth, he’s proud of both of you. I think the old bastard developed a liking for you, probably for your stubbornness – you’re as bad as he is, I think.’

‘How is Marcus?’ Gaius asked.

‘Itching to get in here, of course. You might try to convince him it wasn’t his fault. He says he should have forced you to let him fight first, but …’

‘It was my decision and I don’t regret it. I lived, after all.’

Tubruk snorted. ‘Don’t become overconfident. It makes a man believe in the power of prayer to see you survive a wound like that. If it wasn’t for Cabera, you would not have survived it. You do owe him your life. Your father has been trying to get him to accept some sort of reward, but he won’t take anything except his keep. I still don’t really know why he is here. He seems to believe … that we are moved by the gods like we throw dice, and they wanted him to see the glorious city of Rome before he was too old.’ The bluff freedman looked perplexed and Gaius thought that it wouldn’t help to mention his strange memory of the heat from Cabera’s hands. That would keep, no doubt.

‘I will get some soup brought in. Would you like some fresh bread with it?’

Gaius’ stomach agreed wholeheartedly and Tubruk left, smiling once again.

Renius gained the saddle of his gelding with difficulty. His left arm felt useless, the pain more than the simple ache of healing gashes he had known so many times before.

He was pleased there were no servants or slaves around to see his clumsiness. The great estate house seemed deserted.

At last, he was able to grip the body of the horse with his legs, allowing his muscles to support their weight. Even with evening coming on, he would make it back to the city before complete darkness. He sighed at the thought. What was there, really, for him now? He would sell his town house, although the prices had dropped during the rioting. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the streets were quiet again. With Sulla leading his legion into the city, there would be executions and public floggings, but order would eventually be restored. It had happened before. The Romans did not like war on their doorstep. They thrilled to hear of broken armies of barbarians, but no one enjoyed the brutality of martial law, with a curfew and the scarcity of food that would inevitably …

He heard a sound behind him and his thoughts were interrupted.

Marcus stood watching him, his face calm. ‘I came to wish you goodbye.’

Almost unconsciously, Renius noticed the developed shoulders and the easy way of standing the boy had. He would make a name for himself in some future the old warrior would not be there to see.

A shiver touched him at the thought. No one lives for ever, not an Alexander, not a Scipio or a Hannibal, not even a Renius.

‘I am glad Gaius is healing,’ Renius replied, clearly.

‘I know. I did not come to be angry at you, but to apologise,’ Marcus replied, looking at the sand at his feet.

Renius raised his eyebrows.

Marcus took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry I did not kill you, you twisted, evil bastard. If our paths ever cross in later years, I will take your throat out.’

Renius swayed in the saddle, as if the words were blows. He could feel the hatred and it cheered him up immensely. Laughter threatened to overcome him as the little cockerel made its threats, but he realised he could give a last gift to his pupil, if he chose his words carefully.

‘Such hatred will kill you, boy. And then you won’t be there to protect Gaius.’

‘I will always be there for him.’

‘No. Not until you can keep your temper. You will die in some brawl in a stinking bar room, unless you can find calm in yourself. You would have killed me, yes; at my age, my stamina melts faster than I care to admit. But if we had met when I was young, I would have cut through you faster than corn falls to the knife. Remember that the next time you meet a young man with a reputation to make.’ Renius grinned then and it was like seeing the teeth of a shark, lips sliding back over a cruel expression.

‘He may get the chance sooner than you think,’ Cabera said, coming out of the shadows.

‘What? You were listening, you old devil?’ Renius said, still smiling, although his expression eased at the sight of the healer, whom he had come to respect.

‘Look to the city. You will not be going anywhere tonight, I think,’ Cabera continued, his expression serious.

Both Marcus and Renius turned to look out over the hills. Although Rome was hidden by the rise of the land, an orange glow grew brighter as they watched in horror.

‘Jupiter’s balls – they’ve set the city on fire!’ Renius spat. His beloved city.

For a moment, he thought of spurring the horse away, knowing his place should be in the streets. Men knew his face, he could help restore order. A cool hand touched his ankle and he looked down into the face of old Cabera.

‘I see the future occasionally. If you go there now, you will be dead by dawn. This is truth.’

Renius shifted his weight and the gelding clopped its hooves on the sand, feeling his emotions.

‘And if I stay?’ he snapped.

Cabera shrugged. ‘You may die here too. The slaves will be coming to loot this place. We don’t have long now.’

Marcus gaped at the words. There were close to five hundred slaves on the estate. If they all went wild, there would be butchery. Without another word, he ran back into the buildings, shouting for Tubruk to raise the alarm.

‘Would you like a hand dismounting from that fine gelding?’ asked Cabera, his eyes wide and innocent.

Renius grimaced, suddenly able to muster his usual anger despite the cheerful old man.

‘The gods don’t tell us what is going to happen,’ he said.

Cabera smiled wistfully. ‘I used to believe that. When I was young and arrogant I used to think I could somehow read people, see their true selves and guess at what they would do. It was years before I was humble enough to know it could not be me. It isn’t like glancing through a clear window. I just look at you and towards the city and I feel death. Why not? Many men have talents that could almost be magic to those without them. Think of it like that if it makes you more comfortable. Come on. You will be needed here tonight.’

Renius snorted. ‘I suppose you have made a lot of money with this talent of yours?’

‘Once or twice I have, but money does not stay with me. It steals out into the hands of wine merchants and loose women and gamblers. All I have is my experiences, but they are worth more than coin.’

After a few moments of thought, Renius accepted the helping hand and was not surprised to find it steady and strong, not after seeing those skinny shoulders pull the heavy bow in the training yard.

‘You will have to hold my scabbard for me, old man. I will be all right when my sword is out.’ He began to lead the horse back into the stables, stroking its nose and murmuring that they would ride later, when all the excitement was over. He paused for a moment.

‘You can see the future?’

Cabera grinned and hopped from one foot to the other, amused.

‘You want to know if you will live or die here, yes?’ he chattered. ‘That is what everyone asks.’

Renius found his usual sourness coming back in force.

‘No. I don’t think I do want to know that. Keep it to yourself, magician.’ He led the horse away without looking back, his shoulders showing his irritation.

When he had gone, Cabera’s face filled with grief. He liked the man and was pleased to find that a sort of decency still resided in his heart, despite the fame and money he had won in his life.

‘Perhaps I should have let you go and wither with the other old men, my friend,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You might even have found happiness somewhere. Yet if you had left, the boys would have been surely killed, so this is a sin I can live with, I think.’ His eyes were bleak as he turned to the great gates of the estate outer wall and began to push them closed. He wondered if he too would die in this foreign land, unknown in his own. He wondered if his father’s spirit was close by and watching and decided that it probably wasn’t. His father at least had the sense not to sit in the cave and wait for the bear to come home.

Galloping hoof-beats sounded in the distance. Cabera held the main gate open as he watched the approaching figure. Was it the first of the attackers, or a messenger from Rome? He cursed his vision that allowed him such fragmentary glimpses into the future, and never anything that involved himself. Here he was holding the door for the rider, so he had had no warning. The clearest visions were those in which he wasn’t involved at all, which was probably meant to be a lesson from the gods – one rather wasted on him, on the whole. He had found that he could not live life as an observer.

A tail of dark dust followed the figure, barely showing in the gloom of the gathering twilight.

‘Hold the gate!’ a voice commanded.

Cabera raised an eyebrow. What did the man think he was doing?

Gaius’ father Julius came thundering through the opening. His face was red and his rich clothes were stained with soot.

‘Rome is on fire,’ he said as he jumped to the ground. ‘But they will not get my home.’ In that moment, he recognised Cabera and patted his shoulder in greeting.

‘How is my son?’

‘Doing well. I am …’ Cabera tailed off, as the vigorous older version of Gaius strode away to organise the defences. Tubruk’s name echoed around the internal corridors of the estate.

Cabera looked puzzled for a moment. The visions had changed a little – the man was a force of nature and might just be enough to tip the balance in their favour.

His mind went blank again as he heard the shouts rise in the fields. Muttering in frustration, Cabera climbed the steps up to the estate wall, to use his eyes where his internal vision had failed.

Darkness filled every horizon, but Cabera could see pinpoint pricks of light moving in the fields, meeting and multiplying like fireflies. Each would be a lamp or a torch held by angry slaves, their blood warmed by the heat of the sky over the capital. They were already marching towards the great estate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

All the house servants and slaves stayed loyal. Lucius the estate doctor unwrapped his bandages and materials, spreading vicious-looking metal tools on a piece of cloth on one of the wide kitchen tables. He collared two of the kitchen boys as they were grabbing cleavers to help in the battle.

‘You two stay with me. You’ll get your fill of cutting and blood right here.’ They were reluctant, but Lucius was more of an old family friend and his word had always been law to them before. The lawlessness that was rife in Rome had not yet spread to the estate.

Outside, Renius had everyone in the yard. Grimly, he counted them. Twenty-nine men and seventeen women.

‘How many of you have been in the army?’ his voice rapped.

Six or seven hands rose.

‘You men have priority for swords. The rest of you go and find anything that will cut or crush. Run!’

The last word shocked the frightened men and women out of their lethargy and they scattered. Those who had already found weapons remained, their faces dark and full of fear.

Renius walked up to one of them, a short, fat cook with an enormous cleaver resting on his shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

‘Caecilius,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll tell my children I fought with you when this is over.’

‘That you will. We don’t have to break a full assault. The attackers are out for easy targets to rape and rob. I mean to make this estate a little too hard to crack for them to bother with. How’s your nerve?’

‘Good, sir. I’m used to killing pigs and calves, so I won’t faint at a drop or two of blood.’

‘This is a little different. These pigs have swords and clubs. Don’t hesitate. Throat and groin. Find something to block a blow – some sort of shield.’

‘Yes, sir, directly.’

The man attempted to salute and Renius forced himself to smile, biting back his temper at the sloppy manners. He watched the fat figure run away into the buildings and wiped the first beads of sweat from his brow. Strange that such men as that should understand loyalty where so many others threw it aside at the first hint of freedom. He shrugged. Some men would always be animals and others would be … men.

Marcus walked out into the yard, his sword out of its scabbard. He was smiling.

‘Would you like me to stand near you, Renius? Cover your left side for you?’

‘If I wanted help, puppy, I’d ask you. Until that time, take yourself to the gate and keep a lookout. Call me when you can see numbers.’

Marcus snapped off a salute, much crisper than that of the cook, yet held a little too long. Renius could sense his insolence and considered breaking the boy’s mouth for him. No, right now, he needed that stupid confidence of youth. He’d learn soon enough what killing was like.

As the men returned, he sent them to positions along the walls. They were far too few, but he believed what he had said to Caecilius. The outbuildings would be burned, no doubt; the granaries would probably go and the animals would be slaughtered, but the main complex would not be worth the deaths it would take. An army could take it in minutes, he knew – but these were slaves, drunk on stolen wine and freedom that would vanish again with the morning sun. One strong man with a good sword arm and a ruthless temperament could handle a mob.

There was no sign yet of Julius or Cabera. No doubt the former was putting on his breastplate and greaves, the full uniform. But where had the old healer got to? That bow of his would be a useful asset in the first few minutes of bloodshed.

The noise of the men on the walls was like a flock of geese, cackling in excited nervousness.

‘Silence!’ Renius snapped. ‘The next man to speak will get back down here and face me.’

In the sudden absence of chatter, they could again hear the screams and yells of the slaves in the fields.

‘We need to listen to what is going on outside. Keep silent and stretch a few muscles. Keep a distance from the next man along, so you can swing without cutting his head off.’

The men shuffled apart from the little knots that had formed out of a need for contact. The fear was in all their eyes. Renius cursed to himself. Ten good men from his old legion and he could hold this place until dawn. These were children with sticks and knives. He took a deep breath as he tried to find words to encourage them. Even the iron legions had needed speeches to fire their blood and they were confident of their skills.

‘There is nowhere to run to. If the mob breaks past you, everyone in this house will die. That is your responsibility. You must not leave your position – we are stretched thinly enough as it is. The wall is four feet wide – one long pace. Learn it – if you take more than one step back, you will fall.’

He watched as the men shuffled around on the wall, checking the width for themselves. His face hardened.

‘I will keep fighters in the courtyard to deal with any that get over the wall. Do not look down, even if you see your friends being killed before you.’

Cabera came out of the buildings, his bow restrung in his hand.

‘This is how you inspire them? Your empire is built on this sort of speech?’ he muttered.

Renius frowned at him. ‘I have never lost a battle. Not with my legion, not in the arena. I have never had a man run or break under my command. If you run, you will pass me, and I will not run.’

‘I won’t run,’ Marcus said clearly, into the silence.

Renius met his eyes, seeing a touch of the madness he had witnessed before.

‘Nor will I, Renius,’ said another.

The others all nodded and murmured that they would sooner die, but still the faces of a few were puckered in terror.

‘Your children, your brothers, your fathers will ask you if you did. Be sure you can look them all in the eye.’

Heads nodded and shoulders lifted a little straighter.

‘Better,’ Cabera muttered again.

Julius moved easily through the open door onto the courtyard. His breastplate and leggings were oiled and smooth. His short scabbard swung as he walked. His face was a brutal mask, as an obvious rage burned inside. The men on the wall turned away from him, looking out over the fields.

‘I will take the heads of every man from my estate not within these walls,’ he growled.

Cabera shook his head quickly, not wanting to disagree with the man while those on the wall were listening.

‘Sir,’ he whispered. ‘They all have friends outside. Good men and women who are trapped, or unable to fight through to you. Such a threat hurts their morale.’

‘It pleases me. Every man outside these walls will be killed and I will pile their heads inside the gates! This is my home and Rome is my city. We will cut out the filth that burn the houses and scatter them on the wind! Do you hear me, little man?’ His internal fury built into incandescent rage. Renius and Cabera stared at him as he climbed up the corner steps and walked the length of the wall, shouting orders and noting sloppiness.

‘For a man in politics, he has an unusual approach to a problem,’ Cabera said quietly.

‘Rome is full of men like him. That, my friend, is why we have an empire, not empty speeches.’ Renius smiled his shark smile and walked over to where the women waited in a quietly murmuring group.

‘What can we do?’ asked a slave girl. He recognised her as the one he had whipped so many months ago, for distracting the boys in their training. Her name was Alexandria, it came back to him.While the others shrank from his gaze, as befitted the rank of slaves of the house, she held his eyes and waited for his answer.

‘Fetch some knives. If anyone gets past the wall, you must fall on them and keep stabbing until they are dead.’

A gasp came from a couple of the older women, and one looked a little sick.

‘Do you want to be raped and killed? Gods, woman, I am not asking you to stand on the wall, just to protect our backs. There are too few men to bring some down to protect you as well!’ He had no patience with their softness. Good for bed, but when you had to depend on one … Gods!

Alexandria nodded. ‘Knives. The spare wood axe is in the stable, unless someone has it. Go and search for some, Susanna. Quickly now.’

A matronly type, still looking pale, trotted off on the errand.

‘Can we carry water, arrows? Fire? Is there anything else we can do?’

‘Nothing,’ Renius snapped, losing patience. ‘Just make sure you kill anyone that lands in the yard. Put a knife in their throat before they can regain their feet. It’s a ten-foot fall, there’ll be a moment of weakness when you must strike.’

‘We won’t let you down, sir,’ Alexandria replied.

He held her gaze for a second longer, noting the flash of hate that broke through the calm demeanour. He seemed to have more enemies in this place than outside the walls!

‘See you don’t,’ he said curtly and turned on his heel.

The cook had returned with a large metal plate strapped to his chest. His enthusiasm was embarrassing, but Renius clapped him on the shoulder as he went to join the others.

Tubruk was standing with Cabera, holding a strung bow in his large hands.

‘Old Lucius is a fine shot with a bow, but he’s in the kitchens setting up for the wounded,’ he said, his face grim.

‘Get him out here. He can climb down later, when he’s done the job,’ Renius replied, without looking at him. He was scanning the walls, noting the positions, looking for failing nerves. They couldn’t hold against a proper attack, so he prayed to his household god that the slaves outside couldn’t mount one.

‘Will the slaves have bows?’ he asked Tubruk.

‘One or two small ones for hares, perhaps. There’s not a decent bow on the estate except for this – and Cabera’s.’

‘Good. Otherwise, they could pick us all off. We’ll have to light the torches in the yard soon, to give them light to kill by. It will silhouette the men, but they can’t fight in the dark, not this lot.’

‘They may surprise you, Renius. Your name has a lot of power still. Remember the crowds at the games? Every man here will have a story for all the generations of his family to come, if he survives.’

Renius snorted. ‘You’d better get to the wall, there’s a space on the far side.’

Tubruk shook his head. ‘The others have accepted you as leader, I know. Even Julius will listen to you once his temper calms down. I will stay by Marcus, to protect him. With your permission?’

Renius stared at him. Would nothing work properly? Fat cooks, girls with knives, arrogant children? And now his orders were to be ignored just before a fight? His right fist lifted in a smashing uppercut that seemed to lift Tubruk up and backwards. He hit the dust unmoving and Renius ignored him, turning to Cabera.

‘When he awakes, tell him the boy can look after himself. I know. Tell him to take his place or I will kill him.’

Cabera smiled, his eyes wide, but the old man’s face was like winter. In the distance, there was a sudden clamour of metal beating on metal. Sound rose in a wave and chants filled the black night. The torches were lit just as the first few slaves reached the estate wall. Behind them were hundreds from Rome, burning everything in their path.

CHAPTER NINE

It very nearly ended before it had begun. As Renius had thought, the wild-looking slaves that streamed up to the estate walls had little idea of how to overcome armed defenders and milled around, shouting and screaming. Although it was a perfect opportunity for bowmen, Renius had shaken his head at Cabera and Lucius, who watched with arrows ready and cold eyes. There was still a chance the slaves would look for easier targets, and a few arrows might fan their rage into white-hot desperation.

‘Open the gates!’ someone shouted from the mass of torchbearers. In the flickering light, it could have been a festival if it were not for the brutal expressions of the attackers. Renius watched them, weighing options. More and more came from the rear. Clearly there were already more than a small estate could support. Rogue slaves from Rome swelled the ranks with nothing to lose, bringing hate and violence where reason might have won the day. Those at the front were pushed forward and Renius raised his arm, ready to have his two lonely archers send the first shafts into the crowd. They could hardly miss at this range.

A man stepped forward. He was heavily muscled and sported a thick black beard that made him look like a barbarian. Probably, only days previously, he had been meekly carrying rocks in a quarry, or training horses for some indulgent master. Now his chest was splashed with someone else’s blood and his face was a sneer of hate, his eyes glimmering in the flames of his torch.

‘You on the walls. You are slaves like us. Kill those who call themselves your betters. Kill them all and we will welcome you as friends.’

Renius dropped his arm and Cabera put a feathered shaft through the man’s throat.

In the moment of silence, Renius roared at the crowd of slaves: ‘That is what you will get from me. I am Renius and you will not pass here. Go home and wait for justice!’

‘Justice like that?’ came a scream of rage. Another man ran to the walls and jumped for the high ledge. The moment had arrived and suddenly the crowd howled and came forward in a rush.

Few had swords. Most were armed, like the defenders, with whatever they could find. Some had no weapons except their frenzied rage and Renius dispatched the first of these with a slick blow to his neck, ignoring the quivering fingers that scrabbled at his breastplate. All along the line, screams rose above the crash of metal on metal and metal into flesh. Renius could see Cabera drop his bow and raise a wicked-looking short knife, with which he stabbed and leapt away, letting the bodies fall back on their fellows. The old man stamped on fingers that gained easier and easier holds on the wall as the bodies of the dead served as props for new attackers.

Renius grew slightly light-headed and knew his shoulder had torn again, feeling the sudden warmth from the bandages accompanied by a blistering pain. He set his teeth against it and slammed his gladius into a man’s stomach, almost losing the weapon in the slimy grip of his guts as he toppled backwards. Another took his place and another and Renius could not see an end to them. He took a blow from a length of timber that left him dazed for a second. He staggered back, reeling, trying to find the energy to lift the sword to meet the next one. His muscles ached and the exhaustion he had felt fighting Marcus came back to hit him once again.

‘I am too old for this,’ he muttered, spitting blood over his chin. There was a movement to his left and he swung to meet it, too slowly. It was Marcus, grinning at him. He was covered in blood and looked like a demon from the ancient myths.

‘I am a little worried about the speed of my low guard. I wonder if you could observe it for me? Let me know where the trouble is?’

As he spoke, he shoulder-barged a man as he tried to straighten. The man fell badly, toppling backwards onto his head with a yell.

‘I told you not to leave your position,’ Renius gasped, trying not to show his weakness.

‘You were going to be killed. That honour is mine – not to be given away lightly to motherless scum like these, I think!’ He nodded over to the other side of the gate, where the man Caecilius, known to most simply as Cook, was grinning hugely, cutting around him with abandon.

‘Come pigs, come cattle. I will cut you to pieces.’ Underneath the fat there must have been muscle, for he waved the enormous cleaver as if it were made of light wood.

‘Cook is holding them without me. In fact, he is having the time of his life,’ Marcus went on cheerfully.

Three men breasted the wall at once, leaping from the pile of bodies that was now half as high as the top. The first swung a sword at Marcus, who slid his own into the man’s chest from the side, letting the wild lunge carry the man onto the cobbles of the yard below. The second he dispatched with a reverse cut that caught the man at eye-level, cutting into meat and bone. He died instantly.

The third whooped with pleasure as he closed on Renius. He knew the old man for who he was and in his mind was already telling the story to friends as Renius brought his sword up under his guard, ripping into his chest.

Renius let the man fall, and the sword slid clear. His left arm was hurting again, but this time it was a deep ache. His chest pulsed with pain and he groaned.

‘Are you hurt?’ Marcus asked, without taking his eyes off the wall.

‘No. Get back to your post,’ Renius snapped, his face suddenly grey.

Marcus looked at him for a long moment. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer,’ he said softly. More men surged over the wall and his sword danced, licking from one throat to the next unstoppably.

Gaius’ father barely noticed those who fell beneath his sword. He fought as he had been trained: thrust, guard, reverse. The bodies piled most thickly at the foot of the gate and a little voice was telling him they should have broken by now. They were only slaves. They did not have to pass this wall. Why didn’t they break? He would have the wall raised to the height of three men when this was over.

It seemed as if they threw themselves onto his sword, which wetted itself in their blood, drenching the wall and gates with the gushing fluids, drenching him. His shoulders ached, his arm was leaden. Only his legs were still strong beneath him. They must break soon and look for easier targets, surely? Thrust, guard and reverse. He was locked in the legionary’s rhythm of death, but more and more were climbing the piles of flesh to get into the estate. His sword had lost its edge on bone and blades and his first cut only scraped a man leaping at him. A dagger punctured the hard muscle of his stomach and he grunted in agony, whipping his sword through the man’s jaw and dropping him.

Alexandria stood in the yard, in a pool of darkness. The other women were crying softly to themselves. One was praying. She could see Renius was exhausted and was disappointed when the boy Marcus stepped in to save him. She wondered why he had done it and widened her eyes at the contrast between them. On the one side, the grizzled warrior, veteran of a thousand conflicts, slow and in pain. On the other, Marcus was a smooth-moving murderer, smiling as he brought death to the slaves that met his sword. It did not matter if they had swords or clubs. He made them look clumsy and then took away their strength in a slice or a blow. One man clearly didn’t realise he was dying. His blood poured from his chest, but he still kept hacking away with a broken spear shaft, his face manic.

Curious, Alexandria strained to see the man’s face, and she caught the stricken moment when he felt the pain and saw the darkness coming.

All her life she had heard stories of men’s strength and glory and they seemed to hang over this butchery like golden ghosts, not quite fitting the reality. She looked for moments of comradeship, of bravery in the face of death, but, down in the shadows, she could not see it.

The cook was enjoying the fight, that was obvious. He had begun to sing some vulgar song about a market day and pretty maids, thumping out the chorus with more volume than tune, as he buried his cleaver in skulls and necks. Men fell from his blade and his song grew more raucous as they dropped.

On her left, one of the defenders fell into the yard from the walkway. He made no attempt to protect himself from the impact and his head smashed on the hard stone with a wet sound. Alexandria shuddered and grabbed the shoulder of another woman in the darkness. Whoever it was, was sobbing quietly to herself, but there was no time for that.

‘Quickly – they’ll be coming through the gap!’ she hissed, pulling the other along with her, not trusting herself to do the job alone.

As they moved, there was another crunching thud from a different section of the wall. Screams of triumph sounded. A man scrambled down, hanging for a moment, before letting go and falling the last couple of feet.

He spun, a wild, bloody nightmare, and as his eyes lit up at the lack of defenders, Alexandria rammed her blade up into his heart. Life escaped him with a sigh and another man hit the cobbles nearby. The snap of his ankle was audible even over the baying from outside the walls. The matronly Susanna, usually so careful over the exact setting of the master’s table at banquets, slipped a skinning knife across his throat and walked away from him as he shuddered and spasmed behind her.

Alexandria looked up at the bright ring of torches above. At least they had light! How awful it was to die in the dark.

‘More torches here!’ she yelled, hoping that someone would answer.

Hands grabbed her from behind and her head was wrenched to one side. She tensed for the agony that would come, but the weight on her shoulders fell away suddenly and she turned to see Susanna, her knife hand freshly covered in red wetness.

‘Keep your spirits up, love. The night’s not over yet.’ Susanna smiled and the moment of panic passed for Alexandria. She checked the yard with the others and barely winced when another defender fell, this time screaming as he hit the yard. Three men came through the gap he had left this time, with two more visible as they struggled up over the slippery bodies.

All the women drew their knives and the torchlight caught the blades, even down in the yard’s blackness. Before the men’s eyes could adjust to the gloom, the women were on them, gripping and stabbing.

Gaius came awake with a start. His mother Aurelia sat by the bed, holding a damp cloth. Its touch had awakened him and, as he looked at her, she pressed it to his forehead, crooning gently to herself. In the distance, he could hear screams and the clear sounds of battle. How had he remained asleep? Cabera had given him a warm drink as the evening darkened. There must have been something in it.

‘What is going on, Mother? I can hear fighting!’

Aurelia smiled at him sadly.

‘Shhh, my darling. You must not excite yourself. Your life is slipping away and I have come to make your last hours peaceful.’

Gaius blanched a little. No, he felt weak, but sound.

‘I am not dying. I am getting better. Now, what is happening in the yard? I should get out there!’

‘Shhh, shhh. I know they said you were getting better, but I also know they lie to me. Now be still and I will cool your brow for you.’

Gaius looked at her in disbelief. All his life, this shambling idiot had been coming to the fore, dragging away the lively, quick-witted woman he missed. He winced in anticipation of the screaming fit that would follow a wrong word from him.

‘I want to feel the night air on my skin, Mother. One last time. Please leave so that I may dress.’

‘Of course, my darling. I’ll go back to my rooms now that I have said goodbye to you, my perfect son.’ She giggled for a moment and sighed as if she carried a great weight.

‘Your father is out there getting himself killed instead of looking after me. He has never looked after me properly. We have not made love in years now.’

Gaius didn’t know what to say. He sat up and closed his eyes against the weakness. He couldn’t even hold his hand in a fist, but he had to know what was going on. Gods, why wasn’t there someone around? Were they all out there? Tubruk?

‘Please leave, Mother. I must dress. I want to sit outside in my last moments.’

‘I understand, my love. Goodbye.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she kissed his forehead and then the little room was empty again.

For a moment, he was tempted simply to fall back on the pillows. His head felt thick and heavy and he guessed the drug Cabera had given him would have kept him under till morning if his mother hadn’t had one of her ideas. Slowly, he swung his legs out and pressed his feet against the floor. Weak. Clothes. One thing at a time.

Tubruk knew they couldn’t hold much longer. He ran himself ragged trying to cover a gap where two other men had once stood beside him. Again and again, he spun barely in time to meet the attack of those who were creeping up on him as he killed those in front. His breath came in wheezing gasps and, for all his skill, he knew death was close.

Why would they not break? Damn all the gods to hell, they must break! He cursed himself for not arranging for some sort of fallback position, but there really was none. The walls were the only defence the estate had and these trembled on the brink of being completely overwhelmed.

He slipped in blood and went down badly, the air rushing out of him. A dagger punched into his side and a dirty bare foot tried to crush his face, pressing his head down. He bit it and distantly heard someone scream. He made it to one knee too late to stop two scrambling figures dropping down into the yard. He hoped the women could handle them. Gingerly he felt his side and winced at the trickle of blood, watching it for air bubbles. There were none and he could still breathe; though the air tasted like hot tin and blood.

For a few moments, no one came at him and he was able to look around the walls. Of the original twenty-nine, there were fewer than fifteen left. They had worked miracles up on the wall, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

Julius fought on, despairing as his strength flowed from his wounds. He pulled the dagger out of his flesh with a groan and instantly lost it in the chest of the next man to face him. His breath was burning his throat and he looked into the yard, seeing his son come out. He smiled and the pride felt as if it would burst his chest. Another blade entered him, shoved down into the gap between his breastplate and his neck, deep into his lung. He spat blood and buried his gladius into the attacker without seeing or knowing his face. His arms dropped away and the sword fell from his grasp, clattering on the stones of the courtyard below. He could only watch as the rest came on.

Tubruk saw Julius collapse under a mass of bodies that spilled past him over the narrow walkway and down into the dark. He cried out his grief and rage, knowing he couldn’t reach him in time. Renius was still on his feet, but only Marcus’ care kept the old warrior from death, and even that blinding whirl of blades was faltering as Marcus bled from wounds, his life dribbling away in a score of gashes.

Gaius climbed up beside Tubruk, his face white from the effort of dragging himself up the steps to the wall. His gladius was out and he swung it as he reached the top, cutting into a man levering himself up over the dark bodies. Tubruk slid his blade into the man’s ribs as Gaius swayed, but still the slave wouldn’t die. He flailed with a dagger and cut Gaius across the face. Gaius hammered another blow at his neck and then the life was gone. More faces appeared, shouting and cursing as they struggled onto the slippery stones.

‘Your father, Gaius.’

‘I know.’ Gaius’ sword arm came up without a quiver to block a spear, relic of some old battle. He stepped inside its reach and took out the man’s throat in a spray of bloody wetness. Tubruk charged two more, making one drop over the edge, but falling to his knees in the sticky mess of the floor as he did so. Gaius cut the next down as he reversed his blade to plunge it into Tubruk. Then he staggered back a pace, his face white under the blood, his knees buckling. They waited together for the next one up to the edge.

The night suddenly became brighter as the feed barns were set alight and still no new attacker came to end it for him.

‘One more,’ Tubruk swore through bloody lips. ‘I can take one more with me. You should go down, you’re not fit to fight.’

Gaius ignored him, his mouth a grim line. They waited, but no one came. Tubruk edged closer to the outer wall and looked over, at the mangled limbs and broken carcasses that were piled beneath the ledge, sprawled in slippery gore and glassy expressions. There was no one there waiting for him with a dagger, no one at all.

The light from the burning barns silhouetted leaping figures as they capered around in the darkness. Tubruk began to chuckle to himself, wincing as his lips split again.

‘They’ve found the wine store,’ he said and the laughter could not be stopped, despite the wrenching pain it brought.

‘They are leaving!’ Marcus growled, amazed. He hawked and spat blood at the floor, wondering vaguely if it was his own. He turned and grinned at Renius, seeing how he sat slumped, propped against two carcasses. The old warrior just looked at him, and for a moment Marcus began to remember his acid dislike.

‘I …’ He paused and took two quick steps to the old man. He was dying, that was obvious. Marcus pressed a hand made black with blood and dirt onto Renius’ chest, feeling the heart flutter and miss. ‘Cabera! Over here, quickly,’ he shouted.

Renius closed his eyes against the noise and the pain.

Alexandria panted as if she was in labour. She was exhausted and covered in blood, which she had never imagined would be as sticky and foul as it actually was. They never mentioned this in the stories either. The stuff was slippery for a few moments, then gummed up your hands, making every surface tacky to the touch. She waited for the next one to drop into the yard, walking around almost drunkenly, her knife held in a stiff arm by her side.

She stumbled over a body and realised it was Susanna. She would never cut a goose again, or put fresh rushes down in the kitchens, or feed scraps to stray puppies on her shopping trips in Rome. This last thought brought clear-water tears that ran through the mud and stink. Alexandria kept walking, kept the patrol going, but no new enemies appeared, landing in the yard like crows. No one came, but still she staggered on, unable to stop. Two hours to dawn and she could still hear screaming in the fields.

‘Stay on the walls! No man leaves his post until dawn,’ Tubruk bellowed around the yard. ‘They could still be back.’

He didn’t think they would, though. The wine store held the best part of a thousand wax-sealed amphorae. Even if the slaves smashed a few, there should still be enough to keep them happy until sun-up.

After that final command was given, he wanted to climb down himself to cross quickly to where Julius lay among the dead, but someone had to hold the place.

‘Go to your father, lad.’

Gaius nodded once and descended, bracing himself against the wall for support. The pain was agonising. He could feel that the operation incision had ripped open, and touching the area left his fingers red and glistening. As he dragged himself back up the stone steps to the defenders’ positions, his wounds tore at his will, but he held on.

‘Are you dead, Father?’ he whispered as he looked down at the body. There could be no answer.

‘Hold your positions, lads. It’s over for now,’ Tubruk’s voice snapped across the yard.

Alexandria heard the news and dropped the knife onto the cobbles. Her wrists were being held by another slave girl from the kitchens, saying something to her. She could not make out the words over the screaming of the wounded, suddenly breaking into what she had thought was silence.

‘I have been in silence and darkness for ever,’ she thought. ‘I have seen hell.’

Who was she again? The lines had blurred somewhere in the evening, as she killed slaves who wanted freedom as much as she did. The weight of it all bore her down to the ground and she began to sob.

Tubruk could not resist any longer. He limped down from his place on the wall and up again to where Julius lay. He and Gaius looked down at the body without words.

Gaius tried to feel the reality of the man’s death. He could not. What lay on the floor was a broken thing, torn and gashed, in spreading pools of a liquid that looked more like oil than blood in the torchlight. His father’s presence was gone.

He spun round suddenly, his hand coming up to ward something off.

‘There was someone next to me. I could feel someone standing there, looking down with me,’ he began to babble.

‘That would be him, all right. This is a night for ghosts.’

The feeling had gone, though, and Gaius shivered, his mouth set tight against a grief that would drown him.

‘Leave me, Tubruk. And thank you.’

Tubruk nodded, his eyes dark shadows as he limped down the steps into the yard. Wearily, he climbed back up to his old place on the wall and looked over each body he’d cut down, trying to remember the details of each death. He could recognise only a few and he soon gave that up and sat against a post, with his sword between his legs, watching the waning flicker of fire from the fields and waiting for the dawn.

Cabera placed his own palms over Renius’ heart.

‘This is his time, I think. The walls inside him are thin and old. Some are leaking blood where there should be none.’

‘You healed Gaius. You can heal him.’

‘He is an old man, lad. He was already weak and I …’ Cabera paused as he felt a hot blade touch his back. Slowly and carefully, he turned his head to look at Marcus. There was nothing to reassure him in the grim expression.

‘He lives. Do your work, or I’ll kill just one more today.’

At the words, Cabera could feel a shift and different futures came into play, like gambling chips slotting into position with a silent click. His eyes widened, but he said nothing as he began to summon his energies for the healing. What a strange young man who had the power to bend the futures around him! Surely he had come to the right place in history. This was indeed a time of flux and change, without the usual order and safe progression.

He pulled an iron needle from the hem of his robe and threaded it neatly and quickly. He worked with care, sewing the bloody lips of slashed flesh together, remembering what it was to be young, when anything seemed possible. As Marcus watched, Cabera pressed his brown hands against Renius’ chest and massaged the heart. He felt it quicken and stifled an exclamation as life came flooding back into the old body. He held his position for a long time, until the etched pain eased from Renius’ expression and he looked as if he were merely asleep. As Cabera rose to his feet, swaying with exhaustion, he nodded to himself as if a point had been confirmed.

‘The gods are strange players, Marcus. They never tell us all their plans. You were right. He will see a few more dawns and sunsets before the end.’

CHAPTER TEN

The fields were deserted by the time the sun came over the horizon. Those who had broken into the wine store were no doubt lying amongst the corn, still in the deep slumber of drunkenness. Gaius looked out over the wall to see sluggish smoke rising from the blackened ground. Scorched trees stood stark and bare, and the winter grain still smouldered in the skeletal wrecks of the feed barns.

It was a strangely peaceful scene, with even the morning birds silent. The violence and emotions of the night before were somehow distant when you were able to look out across the fields. Gaius rubbed his face for a moment, then turned to walk down the steps into the courtyard.

Brown stains spattered every white wall and surface. Pools of blood congealed in corners and obscene smears showed where the bodies had already been shifted, dragged outside the gates to be taken to pits when carts could be arranged. The defenders were laid out on clean cloths in cool rooms, their limbs arranged for dignity. The others were simply thrown onto a growing pile where arms and legs stuck out at angles. Gaius watched the work, and in the background heard the screams of the wounded as they were stitched or made ready for amputation.

He burned with anger and had nowhere to unleash it. He had been locked away for safety while everyone he loved risked their lives and while his father had given his in defence of his family and the estate. True, he had still been weak from the operation, his scabs barely healed, but to be denied the chance to help his father! There were no words, and when Cabera had come to him to offer sympathy Gaius ignored him until he went away. He sat exhausted and trickled dust through his fingers, remembering Tubruk’s words years before and understanding them at last. His land.

A slave approached, one whose name Gaius did not know, but who bore wounds that showed he had been part of the defence.

‘The dead are all outside the gates, master. Shall we find carts for them?’

It was the first time any man had addressed him as anything but his own name. Gaius hardened his expression so as not to reveal his surprise. His mind was full of pain and his voice sounded as if from a deep pit.

‘Bring lamp oil. I’ll burn them where they lie.’

The slave ducked his head in acknowledgement and ran for the oil. Gaius walked outside the gates and looked on the ungainly mass of death. It was a grisly sight, but he could find no sympathy in him. Each one there had chosen this end when they had attacked the estate.

He doused the pile in oil, sloshing it over the flesh and faces, into open mouths and unblinking eyes. Then he lit it and found he couldn’t watch the corpses burn after all. The smoke brought back a memory of the raven he and Marcus had caught and he called a slave over to him.

‘Fetch barrels from the stores and keep it burning until they are ash,’ he said grimly. He went back inside as the heat built and the smell followed him like an accusing finger.

He found Tubruk lying on his side and biting onto a piece of leather as Cabera probed a dagger wound in his stomach in the great kitchen. Gaius watched for a while, but no words were exchanged. He moved on, finding the cook sitting on a step with a bloody cleaver still in his hand. Gaius knew his father would have had words of encouragement for the man, who looked desolate and lost. He himself could not summon up anything except cold anger and stepped over the figure, who stared off into space as if Gaius wasn’t there. Then he stopped. If his father would have done it, then so would he.

‘I saw you fight on the wall,’ he said to the cook, his voice strong and firm at last.

The man nodded and seemed to gather himself. He struggled to stand.

‘I did, master. I killed a great number, but I lost count after a while.’

‘Well, I’ve just burned one hundred and forty-nine bodies, so it must have been many,’ Gaius said, trying to smile.

‘Yes. No one got past me. I have never known such luck. I was touched by the gods, I think. We all were.’

‘Did you see my father die?’

The cook stood and raised an arm as if to put it on the boy’s shoulder. At the last moment, he thought better of it and turned the gesture into a wave of regret.

‘I did. He took a great many with him and many before. There were piles around him at the end. He was a brave man and a good one.’

Gaius felt his calm waver at the kind thought and his jaw clenched. When he had overcome his surge of sorrow, he spoke graciously: ‘He would be proud of you, I know. You were singing when I caught a glimpse of you.’

To his surprise, the man blushed deeply.

‘Yes. I enjoyed the fight. I know there was blood and death all around, but everything was simple, you see. Anyone I could see was to be killed. I like things to be clear.’

‘I understand,’ Gaius said, forcing a bleak smile. ‘Rest now. The kitchens are open and soup will be brought around soon.’

‘The kitchens! And I am here! I must go, master, or the soup will be fit for nothing.’

Gaius nodded and the man bolted off, leaving his enormous cleaver resting against the step, forgotten. Gaius sighed. He wished his own life was that simple, to be able to take on and cast off roles without regret.

Lost in thought as he was, he didn’t notice the man’s return until he spoke.

‘Your father would be proud of you too, I think. Tubruk says you saved him when he was exhausted at the end, and with you injured as well. I would be proud if my son were as strong.’

Tears came unbidden to Gaius’ eyes and he turned away so the other would not see them. This was not the time to be breaking apart, not when the estate was in a shambles and the winter feed all burned. He tried to busy himself with the details, but he felt helpless and alone and the tears came more strongly, as his mind touched again and again on his loss, like a bird pecking at weeping sores.

‘Ho there!’ came a voice from outside the main gate.

Gaius heard the cheerful tone and composed himself. He was the head of the estate, a son of Rome and his father, and he would not embarrass the old man’s memory. He walked the steps to the top of the wall, barely aware of the phantom images that came rushing at him. Those were all from the dark. In the sun the shadows had little reality.

At the top, he looked down on the bronze helmet of a slim officer on a fine gelding that pawed the ground restlessly as it waited. The officer was accompanied by a contubernium of ten legionaries. Each man appeared alert and smartly turned out. The officer looked up and nodded to Gaius. He was around forty, tanned and fit-looking.

‘We saw your smoke. Came to investigate in case it was more of the slaves on the rampage. I see you’ve had trouble here. My name is Titus Priscus. I am a centurion with Sulla’s legion, who have just blessed the city with their presence. My men are ranging the countryside hereabouts, on clean-up and execution detail. May I speak to the master of the estate?’

‘That would be me,’ Gaius said. ‘Open the gates,’ he called below.

Those words achieved what all the marauders of the night before could not and the heavy gates were pulled open, allowing the men entry.

‘Looks like you had it rough out here,’ Titus said, all trace of cheerfulness gone from his voice and manner. ‘I should have known from the pile of bodies, but … did you lose many of your own?’

‘Some. We held the walls. How is the city?’ Gaius was at a loss as to what to say to the man. Was he meant to make polite conversation?

Titus dismounted and gave the reins to one of his men.

‘Still there, sir, although hundreds of wooden houses went up and there are a few thousand dead in the streets. Order has been restored for the moment, though I can’t say it would be safe to stroll out after dark. At the moment, we’re rounding up all the slaves we can find and crucifying one in ten to make an example – Sulla’s orders – on all the estates near Rome.’

‘Make it one in three if they’re on my land. I’ll replace them when things have settled. I don’t like the thought of letting anyone who fought against me last night go without punishment.’

The centurion looked at him for a second, unsure.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but are you able to give that order? You’ll excuse me checking, but, in the circumstances, is there anyone to back you?’

For a second, anger flared in Gaius, but then he remembered what he must look like to the man. There had been no opportunity to clean himself up after Lucius and Cabera had restitched and rebandaged his wounds. He was dirty and bloodstained and unnaturally pale. He didn’t know that his blue eyes were also rimmed with red from the oily smoke and crying and that only something in his manner kept a seasoned soldier like Titus from cuffing the boy for his insolence. There was something, though, and Titus couldn’t have said exactly what it was. Just a feeling that this young man was not someone to cross lightly.

‘I would do the same in your position. I will fetch my estate manager, if the doctor is finished with him.’ Gaius turned away without another word.

It would have been politeness to offer the men refreshment, but Gaius was annoyed that he had to summon Tubruk to establish his bona fides. He left them waiting.

Tubruk was at least clean and dressed in good, dark clothing. His wounds and bandages were all concealed under his woollen tunic and bracae – leather trousers. He smiled as he saw the legionaries. The world was turning the right way up again.

‘Are you the only ones in this area?’ he asked without preamble or explanation.

‘Er, no, but …’ Titus began.

‘Good.’ Tubruk turned to Gaius. ‘Sir, I suggest you have these men send out a message that they will be delayed. We need men to get the estate back in order.’

Gaius kept his face as straight as Tubruk’s, ignoring Titus’ expression.

‘Good point, Tubruk. Sulla has sent them to help the outlying estates, after all. There is much work to be done.’

Titus tried again. ‘Here, now look …’

Tubruk noticed him once more. ‘I suggest you take the message yourself. These others look fit enough for a little hard labour. Sulla won’t want you to abandon us to our wreckage, I’m sure.’

The two men faced each other and Titus sighed, reaching up to remove his helmet.

‘Never let it be said that I shirked a job of work,’ he muttered. Turning to one of the legionaries, he jerked his head back to the fields. ‘Get back out and join up with the other units. Spread the word that I’ll be held up here for a few hours. Any slaves you find – tell them one in three, all right?’

The man nodded cheerfully and took off.

Titus began to unbuckle his breastplate. ‘Right, where do you want my lads to start?’

‘You handle this, Tubruk. I’ll go and check on the others.’ Gaius turned away, showing his appreciation with a quick grip of the other’s shoulder as he left. What he wanted to do was to go for a long walk in the woods by himself, or sit by the river pool and settle his thoughts. That would come later, though, after he had seen and spoken with every man and woman who had fought for his family the night before. His father would have done the same.

As he passed the stables, he heard a pulsing sob from the darkness within. He paused, unsure whether he should intrude. There was so much grief in the air, as well as inside him. Those who had fallen had friends and relatives who had not expected to begin this day alone. He stood for a moment longer, still smelling the oily stink of the bodies he had fired. Then he went into the cool shadow of the stalls. Whoever it was, their grief was now his responsibility, their burdens were his to share. That was what his father had understood and why the estate had prospered for so long.

His eyes adjusted slowly after the morning glare and he peered into each stall to find the source of the sounds. Only two held horses and they snickered gently to him as he reached and stroked their soft muzzles. His foot scraped against a pebble and the sobbing ceased on the instant, as if someone was holding their breath. Gaius waited, as still as Renius had taught him to stand, until he heard the sigh of released air and knew where the person was.

In the dirty straw, Alexandria sat with her knees tight against her chin and her back to the far stone wall. She looked up as he came into sight and he saw that the dirt on her face was streaked with tears. She was close to his own age, maybe a year older, he recalled. The memory of her being flogged by Renius came into his mind with a stab of guilt.

He sighed. He had no words for her. He crossed the short distance and sat against the wall next to her, taking care to leave space between them as he leaned back so that she would not be threatened. The silence was calm and the smells and feel of the stables had always been a comforting place to Gaius. When he was very young, he too had escaped here to hide from his troubles or from punishment to come. He sat, lost in memory for a while, and it didn’t seem awkward between them, though nothing was said. The only sounds were the horses’ movements and the occasional sob that still escaped Alexandria.

‘Your father was a good man,’ she whispered at last.

He wondered how many times he would hear the phrase before the day was over and whether he could stand it. He nodded mutely.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to her, feeling rather than seeing her head come up to look at him. He knew she’d killed, had seen her covered in blood down in the yard as he’d come out the night before. He thought he understood why she was crying and had meant to try and comfort her, but the words unlocked a rush of sorrow in him and his eyes filled with tears. His face twisted in pain as he bowed his head to his chest.

Alexandria looked at him in astonishment, her eyes wide. Before she had time to think, she had reached over to him and they were holding each other in the darkness, a blot of private grief while the world went on in the sun outside. She stroked his hair with one hand and whispered comfort to him as he apologised over and over, to her, his father, to the dead, to those he had burned.

When he was spent, she began to release him, but in the last fragment of time before he was too far she pressed her lips lightly on his, feeling him start slightly. She pulled away, hugging her knees tightly and, unseen in the shadows, her face burned. She felt his eyes on her, but couldn’t meet them.

‘Why did you …?’ he muttered, his voice hoarse and swollen from crying.

‘I don’t know. I just wondered what it would be like.’

‘What was it like?’ he replied, his voice strengthening with amusement.

‘Terrible. Someone will have to teach you to kiss.’

He looked at her, bemused. Moments before, he had been drowning in a sorrow that would not diminish or wane in him. Now he was noticing that beneath the dirt and wisps of straw and smell of blood – beneath her own sadness – there was a rare girl.

‘I have the rest of the day to learn,’ he said quietly, the words stumbling out past nervous blockages in his throat.

She shook her head. ‘I have work to do. I should be back in the kitchen.’

In a smooth movement, she rose from her crouch and left the stall, as if she was going to walk right away without another word. Then she paused and looked at him.

‘Thank you for coming to find me,’ she said and walked out into the sunlight.

Gaius watched her go. He wondered if she had realised he had never kissed a girl before. He could still feel a light pressure on his lips as if she had marked him. Surely she hadn’t meant terrible? He saw again the stiff way she had carried herself as she left the stables. She was like a bird with a broken wing, but she would heal with time and space and friends. He realised he would as well.

Marcus and Tubruk were laughing at something Cabera had said, as Gaius came into the room. At the sight of him, they all fell silent.

‘I came … to thank you. For doing what you did on the walls,’ Gaius began.

Marcus cut him off, stepping closer and grabbing his hand. ‘You never need to thank me for anything. I owe more than I could ever pay to your father. I was sorry to hear he fell at the last.’

‘We came through. My mother lives, I live. He would do it again if offered the chance, I know. You took some wounds?’

‘Towards the end. Nothing serious, though. I was untouchable. Cabera says I will be a great fighter.’ Marcus broke into a grin.

‘Unless he gets himself killed, of course. That would slow him down a little,’ Cabera muttered, busying himself with applying wax to the wood of his bow.

‘How is Renius?’ Gaius asked.

Both seemed to pause for a second at the question. Marcus looked evasive. There was something odd there, Gaius thought.

‘He’ll live, but it will be a long time before he’s ever fit again,’ Marcus said. ‘At his age an infection would be the end of him, but Cabera says he’ll make it.’

‘He will,’ Cabera said firmly.

Gaius sighed and sat down. ‘What happens now? I’m too young to take my father’s place, to represent his interests in Rome. In truth, I would not be happy running only the estate, but I never had time to learn about the rest of his affairs. I don’t know who looked after his wealth, or where the deeds to the land are.’ He turned to Tubruk. ‘I know you are familiar with some of it and I would trust you to control the capital until I am older, but what do I do now? Continue to hire tutors for Marcus and myself? Life seems suddenly vague; without direction, for the first time.’

Cabera stopped polishing at this outburst.

‘Everyone feels this at some time. Did you think I planned to be here when I was a young boy? Life has a way of taking twists and turns you did not expect. I would not have it any other way, for all the pain it brings. Too much of the future is already set, it is good that we cannot know every detail or life would become a grey, dull sort of death.’

‘You will have to learn fast, that is all,’ Marcus continued, his face alight with enthusiasm.

‘With Rome as it is? Who will teach me? This is not a time of peace and plenty, where my lack of political skill can be overlooked. My father was always very clear about that. He said Rome was full of wolves.’

Tubruk nodded grimly. ‘I will do what I can, but already some will be looking at which estates have been weakened and might be bought cheaply. This is not the time to be defenceless.’

‘But I don’t know enough to protect us!’ Gaius went on. ‘The Senate could take everything I own if I don’t pay taxes, for example, but how do I pay? Where is the money and where do I take it and how much should I pay? Where are the names of my father’s clients? You see?’

‘Be calm,’ Cabera said, beginning the slow strokes along the wood of his bow again. ‘Think instead. Let us begin with what you do have and not what you don’t know.’

Gaius took a deep breath and once again wished his father were there to be the rock of certainty in his life.

‘I have you, Tubruk. You know the estate, but not the other dealings. None of us know anything about politics or the realities of the Senate.’

He looked again at Cabera and Marcus. ‘I have you two and I have Renius on hand, but none of us have even entered the Senate chambers and my father’s allies are strangers to us.’

‘Concentrate on what we have, otherwise you will despair. So far you have named some very capable people. Armies have been started with less. What else?’

‘My mother and her brother Marius, but my father always said he was the biggest wolf of them all.’

‘We need a big wolf right now, though. Someone who knows the politics. He is your blood, you must go and see him,’ Marcus said quietly.

‘I don’t know if I can trust him,’ Gaius said, his expression bleak.

‘He will not desert your mother. He must help you to keep control of the estate, if only for her,’ Tubruk declared.

Gaius agreed slowly.

‘True. He has a place in Rome I could visit. There is no one else to help, so it must be him. He is a stranger to me, though. Since my mother began her sickness, he has rarely been to the estate.’

‘That will not matter. He will not turn you away,’ Cabera said peacefully, eyeing the shine he had wrought in the bow.

Marcus looked sharply at the old man. ‘You seem very sure,’ he said.

Cabera shrugged. ‘Nothing is sure in this world.’

‘Then it is settled. I will send a messenger before me and visit my uncle,’ Gaius said, something of his gloom lifting.

‘I will come with you,’ Marcus said quickly. ‘You are still recovering from your wounds and Rome is not a safe place at the moment, you know.’

Gaius smiled properly for the first time that day.

Cabera muttered, as if to himself, ‘I came to this land to see Rome, you know. I have lived in high mountain villages and met tribes thought lost to antiquity on my travels. I believed I had seen everything, but all the time people told me I had to visit Rome before I died. I said to them, “This lake is true beauty”, and they would reply, “You should see Rome.” They say it is a wondrous place, the centre of the world, yet I have never stepped inside its walls.’

Both boys smiled at the old man’s transparent subterfuge.

‘Of course you will come. I consider you a friend of the house. You will always be welcome anywhere I am, on my honour,’ Gaius replied, his tone formal, as if repeating an oath.

Cabera laid the bow aside and stood with his hand outstretched. Gaius took it firmly.

‘You too will always be welcome at my home fires,’ Cabera said. ‘I like the climate around here, and the people. I think my travels will wait for a little while.’

Gaius released the grip, his expression thoughtful.

‘I will need good friends around me if I am to survive my first year of politics. My father described it as walking barefoot in a nest of vipers.’

‘He seems to have had a colourful turn of phrase, and not a high opinion of his colleagues,’ Cabera said, giving out a dry chuckle. ‘We will tread lightly and stamp on the occasional head as it becomes necessary.’

All four smiled and felt the strength that comes from such a friendship, despite the difference in age and background.

‘I would like to take Alexandria with us,’ Gaius added suddenly.

‘Oh, yes? The pretty one?’ Marcus replied, his face lighting up.

Gaius felt his cheeks grow red and hoped it wasn’t obvious. Judging by the expressions of the others, it was.

‘You will have to introduce me to this girl,’ Cabera said.

‘Renius whipped her, you know, for distracting us at practice,’ Marcus continued.

Cabera tutted to himself. ‘He can be charmless. Beautiful women are a joy in life …’

‘Look, I …’ Gaius began.

‘Yes, I’m sure you want her simply to hold the horses or something. You Romans have such a way with women, it is a wonder your race has survived.’

Gaius left the room after a while, leaving laughter behind him.

Gaius knocked at the door of the room where Renius lay. He was alone for the moment, although Lucius was nearby and had just been in to check the wounds and stitches. It was dark in the room and at first Gaius thought the old man was asleep.

He turned to leave rather than disturb the rest he must need, but a whispering voice stopped him.

‘Gaius? I thought it was you.’

‘Renius. I wanted to thank you.’ Gaius approached the bed and drew up a chair beside the figure. The eyes were open and clear and Gaius blinked as he took in the features. It must have been the dim light, but Renius looked younger. Surely not, yet there was no denying that some of the deep-seam wrinkles had lessened and a few black hairs could be seen at the temples, almost invisible in the light, but standing out against the white bristles.

‘You look … well,’ Gaius managed.

Renius gave a short, hard chuckle. ‘Cabera healed me and it has worked wonders. He was more surprised than anyone, said I must have a destiny or something, to be so affected by him. In truth, I feel strong, although my left arm is still useless. Lucius wanted to take it off, rather than have it flapping around. I … may let him, when the rest of me has healed.’

Gaius absorbed this in silence, fighting back painful memories.

‘So much has happened in such a short time,’ he said. ‘I am glad you are still here.’

‘I couldn’t save your father. I was too far away and finished myself. Cabera said he died instantly, with a blade in his heart. Most likely, he wouldn’t even have known it.’

‘It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. I know he would have wanted to be on that wall. I would have wanted it too, but I was left in my room, and …’

‘You got out though, didn’t you? I’m glad you did, as it turned out. Tubruk says you saved him right at the end, like a … reserve force.’ The old man smiled and coughed for a while. Gaius waited patiently until the fit was over.

‘It was my order to leave you out of it. You were too weak for hours of fighting and your father agreed with me. He wanted you safe. Still, I’m glad you got out for the end of it.’

‘So am I. I fought with Renius!’ Gaius said, his eyes brimming with tears, though he smiled.

‘I always fight with Renius,’ muttered the old man. ‘It isn’t that much to sing about.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The dawn light was cold and grey; the skies clear over the estate lands. Horns sounded low and mournful, drowning the cheerful birdsong that seemed so inappropriate for a day marking the passing of a life. The house was stripped of ornament save for a cypress branch over the main gate to warn priests of Jupiter not to enter while the body was still inside.

Three times the horns moaned and finally the people chanted, ‘Conclamatum est’ – the sadness has been sounded. The grounds inside the gates were filled with mourners from the city, dressed in rough wool togas, unwashed and unshaven to show their grief.

Gaius stood by the gates with Tubruk and Marcus and watched as his father’s body was brought out feet first and laid gently in the open carriage that would take him to the funeral pyre. The crowd waited, heads bowed in prayer or thought as Gaius walked stiffly to the body.

He looked down into the face he had known and loved all his life and tried to remember it when the eyes could open and the strong hand reach out to grip his shoulder or ruffle his hair. Those same hands lay still at his sides, the skin clean and shining with oil. The wounds from the defence of the walls were covered by the folds of his toga, but there was nothing of life there. No rise and fall of breath; the skin looked wrong, too pale. He wondered if it would be cold to the touch, but could not reach out.

‘Goodbye, my father,’ he whispered and almost faltered as grief swelled in him. The crowd watched and he steadied himself. No shame in front of the old man. Some of them would be friends, unknown to him, but some would be carrion birds, come to judge his weakness for themselves. He felt a spike of anger at this and was able to smother the sadness. He reached out and took his father’s hand, bowing his head. The skin felt like cloth, rough and cool under his grip.

‘Conclamatum est,’ he said aloud and the crowd murmured the words again.

He stood back and watched in silence as his mother approached the man who had been her husband. He could see her shaking under her dirty wool cloak. Her hair had not been tended by slaves and stood out in wild disarray. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hand trembled as she touched his father for the last time. Gaius tensed, and begged inside that she would complete the ritual without disgrace. Standing so close, he alone could hear the words she said as she bent low over the face of his father.

‘Why have you left me alone, my love? Who will now make me laugh when I am sad and hold me in the darkness? This is not what we dreamed. You promised me you would always be there when I am tired and angry with the world.’

She began to sob in heaves and Tubruk signalled to the nurse he’d hired for her. As with the doctors, she had brought no physical improvement, but Aurelia seemed to draw comfort from the Roman matron, perhaps simply from female companionship. It was enough for Tubruk to keep her on, and he nodded as she took Aurelia’s arm gently and led her away into the darkened house.

Gaius breathed out slowly, suddenly aware of the crowd again. Tears came into his eyes and were ignored as they brimmed and held against his lashes.

Tubruk approached and spoke quietly to him. ‘She will be all right,’ he said, but they both knew it wasn’t true.

One by one, the other mourners came to pay their respects to the body and more than a few spoke to Gaius afterwards, praising his father and pressing him to contact them in the city.

‘He was always straight with me, even when profit lay the other way,’ said one grey-haired man in a rough toga. ‘He owned a fifth part of my shops in the city and lent me the money to buy them. He was one of the rare ones you could trust with anything and he was always fair.’

Gaius gripped his hand strongly. ‘Thank you. Tubruk will make arrangements to discuss the future with you.’

The man nodded. ‘If he is watching me, I want him to see me being straight with his son. I owe him that and more.’

Others followed and Gaius was proud to see the genuine sadness his father had left behind. There was a world in Rome that the son had never seen, but his father had been a decent man and that mattered to him, that the city was a little poorer because his father would no longer walk the streets.

One man was dressed in a clean toga of good white wool, standing out in the crowd of mourners. He did not pause at the carriage, but came straight to Gaius.

‘I am here for Marius the consul. He is away from the city, but wanted to send me to let you know your father will not be forgotten by him.’

Gaius thanked him politely, his mind working furiously. ‘Send the message that I will call on Consul Marius when he is next in the city.’

The man nodded. ‘Your uncle will receive you warmly, I am sure. He will be at his town house three weeks from today. I will let him know.’ The messenger made his way back through the crowd and out of the gates and Gaius watched him go.

Marcus moved to his shoulder, his voice low. ‘Already you are not so alone as you were,’ he said.

Gaius thought of his mother’s words. ‘No. He has set my standard and I will meet it. I will not be a lesser man when I lie there and my son greets those who knew me. I swear it.’

Into the dawn silence came the low voices of the praeficae women, singing softly the same phrases of loss over and over. It was a mournful sound and the world was filled with it as the horses pulled the carriage with his father out of the gates in slow time, with the people falling in behind, heads bowed.

In only a few minutes the courtyard was empty again and Gaius waited for Tubruk, who had gone inside to check on Aurelia.

‘Are you coming?’ Gaius asked him as he returned.

Tubruk shook his head. ‘I will stay to serve your mother. I don’t want her alone at this time.’

Tears came again into Gaius’ eyes and he reached out for the older man’s arm.

‘Close the gates behind me, Tubruk. I don’t think I can do it.’

‘You must. Your father is gone to the tomb and you must follow, but first the gates must be shut by the new master. It is not my place to take yours. Close up the estate for mourning and go and light the funeral pyre. These are your last tasks before I will call you master. Go now.’

Words would not come from his throat and Gaius turned away, pulling the heavy gates shut behind him. The funeral procession had not gone far with their measured step and he walked after them slowly, his back straight and his heart aching.

The crematorium was outside the city, near the family tomb. For decades, burials within the walls of Rome had been forbidden as the city filled every scrap of available space with buildings. Gaius watched in silence as his father’s body was laid on a high pyre that hid him from view in the centre of it. The wood and straw were soaked with perfumed oils and the odour of flowers hung heavily in the air as the praeficae changed their dirge to one of hope and rebirth. Gaius was brought a sputtering torch by the man who had prepared his father’s body for the funeral. He had the dark eyes and calm face of a man used to death and grief and Gaius thanked him with distant politeness.

Gaius approached the pyre and felt the gaze of all the mourners on him. He would show them no public weakness, he vowed to himself. Rome and his father watched to see if he would falter, but he would not.

Close, the smell of the perfumes was almost overpowering. Gaius reached out with a silver coin and opened his father’s loose mouth, pressing the metal against the dry coolness of the tongue. It would pay the ferryman, Charon, and his father would reach the quiet lands beyond. He closed the mouth gently and stood back, pressing the smoking torch against the oily straw stuffed between the branches at the base of the pyre. A memory of the smell of burning feathers slipped into his mind and was gone before he could identify it.

The fire grew quickly, with popping twigs and a crackle that was loud against the soft songs of the praeficae. Gaius stepped back from the heat as his face reddened and held the torch limply in his hand. It was the end of childhood while he was yet a child. The city called him and he did not feel ready. The Senate called him and he was terrified. But he would not fail his father’s memory and would meet the challenges as they came. In three weeks, he would leave the estate and enter Rome as a citizen, a member of the nobilitas.

At last, he wept.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Rome – the largest city in the world,’ Marcus said, shaking his head in wonder as they passed into the vast paved expanse of the forum. Great bronze statues gazed down on the small group as they walked their horses through the bustling pedestrians.

‘You don’t realise how big everything is until you get up close,’ Cabera replied, his usual confidence muted. The pyramids of Egypt seemed larger in his memory, but the people there looked always to the past with their tombs. Here, the great structures were for the living and he felt the optimism of it.

Alexandria too seemed awed, though in part it was at how much everything had changed in the five years since Gaius’ father had bought her to work in his kitchens. She wondered if the man who had owned her mother was somewhere still in the city and shuddered as she recalled his face, remembering how he had treated them. Her mother had never been free and died a slave after a fever struck her and several others in the slave pens beneath one of the sale houses. Such plagues were fairly common and the big slave auctions were accustomed to passing over a few bodies each month, accepting a few coins for them from the ash-makers. She remembered, though, and the waxen stillness of her mother still pressed against her arms in dreams. She shuddered again and shook her head as if to clear it.

‘I will not die a slave,’ she thought to herself, and Cabera turned to look at her, almost as if he had heard the thought. He nodded and winked and she smiled at him. She had liked him from the first. He was another who didn’t quite fit, wherever he found himself.

‘I will learn useful skills and make things to sell and buy myself free,’ she thought, knowing the glory of the forum was affecting her and not caring. Who wouldn’t dream in such a place that looked as if it had been built by gods? You could see how to make a hut, just by looking at it, but who could imagine these columns being raised? Everything was bright and untouched by the filth she remembered, narrow dirty streets and ugly men hiring her mother by the hour, with the money going to the owner of the house.

There were no beggars or whores in the forum, only well-dressed, clean men and women, buying, selling, eating, drinking, arguing politics and money. On each side, the eye was filled with gargantuan temples in rich stone; huge columns with their head and feet gilded; great arches erected for military triumphs. Truly, this was the beating heart of empire. Each of them could feel it. There was a confidence here, an arrogance. While most of the world scrubbed in the dirt still, these people had power and astonishing wealth.

The only sign of the recent troubles was the grim presence of legionaries standing to attention at every corner, watching the crowds with cold eyes.

‘It is meant to make a man feel small,’ Renius muttered.

‘But it does not!’ Cabera continued, gaping around him. ‘It makes me feel proud that man can build this. What a race are we!’

Alexandria nodded silently. It showed that anything could be achieved; even, perhaps, freedom.

Small boys advertised their master’s wares from hundreds of tiny shops along the edges; barbers, carpenters, butchers, stonemasons, gold and silver jewellers, potters, mosaic makers, rug weavers, the list was endless, the colours and noises a blur.

‘That is the temple of Jupiter, on the Capitoline hill. We will come back and make a sacrifice when we have seen your uncle Marius,’ Tubruk said, relaxed and smiling in the morning sun. He was leading the group and raised his arm to halt them.

‘Wait. That man’s path will cross ours. He is a senior magistrate and must not be hindered.’

The others drew up and halted.

‘How do you know who he is?’ Marcus asked.

‘Do you see the man beside him? He is a lictor, a special attendant. Do you see that bundle on his shoulder? Those are wooden rods for scourging and a small axe for beheading. If the magistrate was bumped by one of our horses, say, he could order a death on the spot. He needs neither witnesses nor laws to apply. Best to avoid them completely, if we can.’

In silence, they all watched the man and his attendant as they crossed the plaza, seemingly unaware of the attention.

‘A dangerous place for the ignorant,’ Cabera whispered.

‘Everywhere is, in my experience,’ Renius grunted from the back.

Past the forum, they entered lesser streets that abandoned the straight lines of the main ones. Here, there were fewer names on the intersections. The houses were often four or even five storeys high and Cabera, in particular, gaped at these.

‘The view they must have! Are they very expensive, these top houses?’

‘Apartments, they are called, and no, they are the cheapest. They have no running water at that height and are in great danger from fire. If one starts on the bottom floor, those at the top rarely get out. You see how the windows are so small? That is to keep out the sun and rain, but it also means you can’t jump from them.’

They wound their way through the heavy stepping stones that crossed the sunken roads at intervals. Without these, the fastidious pedestrians would have had to step down into the slippery muck left by horses and donkeys. The wheels of carts had to be set a regulation width apart so that they could cross in the gaps and Cabera nodded to himself as he watched the process.

‘This is a well-planned city,’ he said. ‘I have never seen another like it.’

Tubruk laughed. ‘There is no other like it. They say Carthage was of similar beauty, but we destroyed that more than fifty years ago, sowing the land with salt so that it could never again rise in opposition to us.’

‘You speak almost as if a city is a living thing,’ Cabera replied.

‘Is it not? You can feel the life here. I could feel her welcoming me as I came through the gate. This is my home, as no other house can be.’

Gaius too could feel the life around him. Although he had never lived within the walls, it was his home as it was Tubruk’s – maybe more so as he was nobilitas, born free and of the greatest people in the world. ‘My people built this,’ he thought. ‘My ancestors put their hands on these stones and walked these streets. My father may have stood at that corner and my mother could have grown up in one of the gardens I can glimpse off the main street.’

His grip on the reins relaxed and Cabera looked at him and smiled, sensing the change of mood.

‘We are nearly there,’ Tubruk said. ‘At least Marius’ house is well away from the smell of dung in the streets. I don’t miss that, I can assure you.’

They turned off the busy road and walked the horses up a steep hill and a quieter, cleaner street.

‘These are the houses of the rich and powerful. They have estates in the country but mansions here, where they entertain and plot for more power and even more wealth,’ Tubruk continued, his voice blank enough of emotion to make Gaius glance at him. The houses were sealed from the public gaze by iron gates, taller than a man. Each was numbered and entered by a small door for those on foot. Tubruk explained that this was only the least part; the buildings went back and back, from private baths to stables to great courtyards, all hidden from the vulgar plebeians.

‘They set great store by privacy in Rome,’ Tubruk said. ‘Perhaps it is part of living in a city. Certainly, if you were just to drop in to a country estate you would be unlikely to cause offence, but here you must make appointments and announce yourself and wait and wait until they are ready to receive you. This is the one. I will tell the gatekeeper we have arrived.’

‘I’ll leave you here then,’ Renius said. ‘I must go to my own house and see if it has been damaged in the rioting.’

‘Do not forget the curfew. Be inside as the sun sets, my friend. They are still killing everyone left on the streets after dark.’

Renius nodded. ‘I’ll watch out.’

He turned his horse away and Gaius reached out to put a hand on his good right arm.

‘You’re not leaving? I thought …’

‘I must check my house. I need to think alone for a while. I don’t feel ready to settle down with the other old men, not any more. I will be back tomorrow dawn to see you and … well, tomorrow dawn it is.’ He smiled and rode away.

As he trotted down the hill, Gaius noted again the darkness of his hair and the energy that filled the man’s frame. He turned and looked at Cabera, who shrugged.

‘Gatekeeper!’ Tubruk shouted. ‘Attend to us.’

After the heat of the Roman streets, the cool stone corridors that led into the house grounds were a welcome relief. The horses and bags had been whisked away and the five visitors were taken into the first building, beckoned on by an elderly slave.

They stopped at a door of gold wood and the slave opened it, gesturing inside.

‘You will find all you need, Master Gaius. Consul Marius has given you leave to wash and change after your journey. You are not expected to appear before him until sunset, three hours from now, when you will dine. Shall I show your companions the way to the servants’ rooms?’

‘No. They will stay with me.’

‘As you wish, master. Shall I take the girl to the slave quarters?’

Gaius nodded slowly, thinking.

‘Treat her with kindness. She is a friend of my house.’

‘Of course, sir,’ replied the man, motioning to Alexandria.

She flashed a glance at Gaius and the expression was unreadable in her dark eyes.

Without another word, the quiet little man left, his sandals making no noise on the stone floor. The others looked at one another, each taking some form of comfort from the company of friends.

‘I think she likes me, that one,’ Marcus mused to himself.

Gaius looked at him in surprise and Marcus shrugged. ‘Lovely legs, as well.’ He went in to their quarters, chuckling, leaving Gaius stupefied behind him.

Cabera whistled softly as he entered the room. The ceiling was forty feet from the mosaic floor, a series of brass rafters that crossed and recrossed the space. The walls were painted in the dark reds and oranges that they had seen so often since entering the city, but the floor was the thing that caught the attention, even before they looked up at the vault of a roof. It was a series of circles, gripping a marble fountain in the middle of the huge room. Each circle contained running figures, racing to catch the one in front and frozen in the attempt. The outer circles were figures from the markets, carrying their wares, then, as the eye followed the circles inwards, different aspects of society could be seen. There were the slaves, the magistrates, the members of the Senate, legionaries, doctors. One circle contained only kings, naked except for their crowns. The innermost ring, forming a belt around the actual fountain, contained pictures of the gods and they alone were still. They stood looking up at all the running hordes that sprinted around but could never leap from one circle to another.

Gaius walked across the rings to the fountain and drank, using a cup that rested on the marble edge. In truth, he was tired and, impressed as he was by the beauty of the room, the most important fact was that no food or couches were included in the splendour. The others followed him through an arch into the next room.

‘This is more like it,’ Marcus said cheerfully. A polished table was laid with food: meat, bread, eggs, vegetables and fish. Fruit was piled in bowls of gold. Soft couches stood around invitingly, but another door led onwards and Gaius could not resist looking.

The third room had a deep pool in the centre. The water steamed invitingly and bare wooden benches lined the walls, piled high with soft white cloths. Robes hung from stands by the water and four male slaves stood by low tables, ready to give massage if needed.

‘Excellent,’ Tubruk said. ‘Your uncle is a fine host, Gaius. I am for a bath first, before I eat.’ As he spoke, he began to pull off his clothes. One of the slaves walked to him and held out an arm for the garments as they were removed. When Tubruk was naked, the slave disappeared with them out of the only door. A few moments later, another entered and took up his place at the tables.

Tubruk lowered himself completely into the water, holding his breath as he slid below the surface and relaxing every muscle in the heat. By the time he surfaced, Gaius and Marcus had scrambled out of their garments, flung them at another slave and plunged into the opposite end, naked and laughing.

A slave held his arm out for Cabera’s clothes and the old man frowned at him. Then he sighed and began stripping the robe from his skinny body.

‘Always new experiences,’ he said as he eased into the water, wincing.

‘Shoulders, lad,’ Tubruk called to one of the attendants.

The man nodded and knelt at the side of the pool, pressing his thumbs into Tubruk’s muscles, unknotting the stresses that had been there since the slave attack on the estate.

‘Good,’ Tubruk sighed and he began to doze, lulled by the heat.

Marcus was first out onto the massage table, lying on the smooth cloth and steaming in the colder air. The nearest slave detached some instruments from his belt, almost like a set of long brass keys. He poured warm olive oil on liberally and then began to scrape Marcus’ wet skin, as if he was skinning a fish, working the dirt of the journey off the surface and wiping a surprising amount of black filth onto a cloth at his waist. Then he rubbed the skin dry and poured a little more oil on for the massage, beginning great sweeping strokes along the spine.

Marcus groaned with satisfaction. ‘Gaius, I think I’m going to like it here,’ he muttered through slack lips.

Gaius lay in the water and let his mind drift free. Marius might not want to have the two boys around. He had no children of his own and the gods knew it was a difficult time for the Republic. All the fragile freedoms his father had loved were coming under threat with soldiers on every corner. As consul, Marius was one of the two most powerful men in the city, but, with Sulla’s legion on the streets, his power became a fiction, his life at Sulla’s whim. Yet how could Gaius protect his father’s interests without his uncle’s help? He had to be introduced to the Senate, sponsored by another. He could not just take his father’s old place; they would throw him out and that would be the end of everything. Surely the blood tie to his mother would be worth a little help, but Gaius could not be sure. Marius was the golden general who had dropped in on his sister occasionally when Gaius was small. But the visits had become fewer and fewer as her illness progressed and it had been years since the last visit.

‘Gaius?’ Marcus’ voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Come and have a massage. You’re thinking too much again.’

Gaius grinned at his friend and rose from the water. It did not occur to him to be embarrassed at his nakedness. No one was.

‘Cabera? Ever had a massage?’ he asked as he passed the old man, whose eyes were drooping.

‘No, but I’ll try anything once,’ Cabera replied, wading towards the steps.

‘You’re in the right city then,’ Tubruk chuckled, eyes closed.

Clean and cool in fresh clothes and with the edge taken off their hunger, the four were escorted to Marius at sundown. As a slave, Alexandria did not accompany them, and for a moment Gaius was disappointed. When she was with them, he hardly knew what to say to her, but when she was gone his mind filled with clever pieces of wit that he could never quite remember to say later. He had not brought up the kiss in the stables with her and wondered if she thought of it as often as he did. He cleared his mind of her, knowing he had to be sharp and focused to meet a consul of Rome.

A portly slave stopped them outside the door to the chamber and fussed with their clothing, producing a carved ivory comb to pull Marcus’ curls back into place and straightening Tubruk’s jacket. As the fleshy fingers approached Cabera, the old man’s hands shot out and slapped them away.

‘Don’t touch!’ he snapped waspishly.

The slave’s face remained blank and he carried on improving the others. At last he was satisfied, although he permitted himself a frown at Cabera.

‘The master and mistress are present this evening. Bow first to the master as you present yourselves and keep your eyes on the floor as you bow. Then bow to Mistress Metella, an inch or two less deep. If your barbarian slave requires it, he can knock his head on the floor a few times as well.’

Cabera opened his mouth to retort, but the slave turned away and pushed the doors open.

Gaius entered first and saw a beautiful room with a garden in the centre, open to the sky. Around the rectangle of the garden was a walkway, with other rooms leading off it. Columns of white stone held the overhang of roof and the walls were painted with scenes from Roman history: the victories of Scipio, the conquest of Greece. Marius and his wife Metella stood to receive their guests and Gaius forced a smile onto his face, suddenly feeling very young and very awkward.

As he approached, he could see the man sizing him up and wondered what conclusions he was drawing. For his own part, Marius was an impressive figure. General of a hundred campaigns, he wore a loose toga that left his right arm and shoulder bare, revealing massive musculature and a dark weave of hair on the chest and forearms. He wore no jewellery or adornment of any kind, as if such things were unnecessary to a man of his stature. He stood straight and radiated strength and will. His face was stern and dark-brown eyes glared out from under heavy brows. Every feature revealed the city of his birth. His arms were clasped behind him and he said nothing as Gaius approached and bowed.

Metella had once been a beauty, but time and worry had clawed at her face, lines of some nameless grief gripping her skin with an old woman’s talons. She seemed tense, the cords of sinew on her neck standing out. Her hands quivered slightly as she looked at him. She wore a simple dress of red cloth, complemented with earrings and bracelets of bright gold.

‘My sister’s son is always welcome in my house,’ Marius said, his voice filling the space.

Gaius almost sagged with relief, but held himself firm.

Marcus came up beside him and bowed smoothly. Metella locked eyes with him and the quivering in her hands increased. Gaius caught Marius’ sideways glance of worry at her as she stepped forward.

‘Such beautiful boys,’ she said, holding out her hands. Bemused, they took one each. ‘What you have suffered in the uprising! What you have seen!’

She put a hand to Marcus’ cheek. ‘You will be safe here, do you understand? Our home is your home, for as long as you want.’

Marcus put his hand up to cover hers and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ He seemed more comfortable with the strange woman than Gaius was. Her intensity reminded him too painfully of his own mother.

‘Perhaps you could check on the arrangements for the meal, my dear, while I discuss business with the boys,’ Marius boomed cheerfully from behind them.

She nodded and left, with a backward glance at Marcus.

Marius cleared his throat.

‘I think my wife likes you,’ he said. ‘The gods have not blessed us with children of our own and I think you will bring her comfort.’

His gaze passed over them.

‘Tubruk – I see you are still the concerned guardian. I heard you fought well in the defence of my sister’s house.’

‘I did my duty, sir. It was not enough in the end.’

‘The son lives, and his mother. Julius would say that was enough,’ Marius replied. At this, his eyes returned to Gaius.

‘I can see your father’s face in yours. I am sorry for his leaving. I cannot say we were truly friends, but we had respect for each other, which is more honest than many friendships. I could not attend his funeral, but he was in my thoughts and prayers.’

Gaius felt the beginnings of liking for this man. Perhaps that is his talent, warned an inner voice. Perhaps that is why he has been elected so many times. He is a man whom others follow.

‘Thank you. He always spoke well of you,’ he replied out loud.

Marius laughed, a short bark.

‘I doubt it. How is your mother, is she … the same?’

‘Much the same, sir. The doctors despair.’

Marius nodded, his face betraying nothing. ‘You must call me uncle from now on, I think. Yes. Uncle suits me well. And you, who is this?’ Once again, his eyes and focus had switched without warning, this time to Cabera, who looked back impassively.

‘He is a priest and healer, my adviser. Cabera is his name,’ Gaius replied.

‘Where are you from, Cabera? Those are not Roman features.’

‘The distant east, sir. My home is not known in Rome.’

‘Try me. I have travelled far with my legion in my lifetime.’ Marius did not blink, his gaze was relentless.

Cabera didn’t seem perturbed by it.

‘A hill village a thousand miles east of Aegyptus. I left it as a boy and the name is lost to me. I too have travelled far since then.’

The flame gaze snapped away as Marius lost interest. He looked again at the two boys.

‘My house is your home from now on. I presume Tubruk will be returning to your estate?’

Gaius nodded.

‘Good. I will arrange your entrance to the Senate as soon as I have sorted out a few problems of my own. Do you know Sulla?’

Gaius was painfully aware that he was being assessed. ‘He controls Rome at present.’

Marius frowned, but Gaius went on: ‘His legion patrols the streets and that gives him a great deal of influence.’

‘You are correct. I see living on a farm hasn’t kept you completely away from the affairs of the city. Come and sit down. Do you drink wine? No? Then this is as good a time as any to learn.’

As they sat on couches around the food-laden table, Marius bowed his head and began to pray aloud: ‘Great Mars. Grant that I make the right decisions in the difficult days to come.’ He straightened and grinned at them, motioning for a slave to pour wine.

‘Your father could have been a great general, if he had wanted,’ Marius said. ‘He had the sharpest mind I have ever encountered, but chose to keep his interests small. He did not understand the reality of power – that a strong man can be above the rules and laws of his neighbours.’

‘He set great stock by the laws of Rome,’ Gaius replied, after a moment’s thought.

‘Yes. It was his one failing. Do you know how many times I have been elected consul?’

‘Three,’ Marcus put in.

‘Yet the law only allows one term. I shall be elected again and again until I grow tired of the game. I am a dangerous man to refuse, you see. It comes down to that, for all the laws and regulations that are so dear to the old men of the Senate. My legion is loyal to me and me alone. I abolished the land qualification to join, so many of them owe their only livelihood to me. True, some of them are the scrapings of the gutters of Rome, but loyal and strong despite their origins and birth.

‘Five thousand men would tear this city apart if I were assassinated, so I walk the streets in safety. They know what will happen if I die, do you see?

‘If they can’t kill me, they have to accommodate me, except that Sulla has finally come into the game, with a legion of his own, loyal only to him. I can’t kill him and he can’t kill me, so we growl at each other across the Senate floor and wait for a weakness. At present, he has the advantage. His men are in the streets as you say, whereas mine are camped outside the walls. Stalemate. Do you play latrunculi? I have a board here.’

This last question was to Gaius, who blinked and shook his head.

‘I will teach you. Sulla is a master, and so am I. It is a good game for generals. The idea is to kill the enemy king, or to remove his power so that he is helpless and must surrender.’

A soldier entered in full, shining uniform. He saluted with a stiff right arm.

‘General. The men you requested have arrived. They entered the city from different directions and gathered here.’

‘Excellent! You see, Gaius, another move in the game is upon us. Fifty of my men are with me in my home. Unless Sulla has spies on every gate, he will not know they have entered the city. If he guesses my intentions, there will be a century from his legion waiting outside at daybreak, but all life is a gamble, yes?’

He addressed the guard.

‘We will leave at dawn. Make sure my slaves look after the men. I will come along in a while.’

The soldier saluted again and left.

‘What are you going to do?’ Marcus asked, feeling completely out of his depth.

Marius rose and flexed his shoulders. He called a slave over and told him to prepare his uniform, ready for dawn.

‘Have you ever seen a Triumph?’

‘No. I don’t think there has been one for a few years,’ Gaius replied.

‘It is the right of every general who has captured new lands: to march his legion through the streets of his beloved capital city and receive the love of the crowd and the thanks of the Senate.

‘I have captured vast tracts of lush farming land in northern Africa, like Scipio before me. Yet a Triumph has been denied me by Sulla, who has the Senate under his thumb at the moment. He says the city has seen too much upheaval, but that is not the reason. What is his reason?’

‘He does not want your men in the city, under any pretext,’ Gaius said quickly.

‘Good, so what must I do?’

‘Bring them in anyway?’ Gaius hazarded.

Marius froze. ‘No. This is my beloved capital city. It has never had a hostile force enter its gates. I will not be the first. That is blind force, which is always chancy. No, I am going to ask! Dawn is in six hours. I suggest you get a little sleep, gentlemen. Just let one of the slaves know when you want to be taken to your rooms. Good night.’ He chuckled and strode off, leaving the four of them alone.

‘He …’ Cabera began, but Tubruk held up a warning finger, motioning with his eyes at the slaves who stood by so unobtrusively.

‘Life will not be dull here,’ he said quietly.

Both Marcus and Gaius nodded and grinned at each other.

‘I’d like to see him “ask”,’ Marcus said.

Tubruk shook his head quickly. ‘Too dangerous. There will certainly be bloodshed, and I have not brought you to Rome to see you killed the first day! If I had known Marius planned something of this sort, I would have delayed.’

Gaius put a hand on the man’s arm. ‘You have been a good protector, Tubruk, but I too want to see this. We will not be refused in this.’

His voice was quiet, but Tubruk stared as if Gaius had shouted. Then he relaxed.

‘Your father was never this foolhardy, but if you are set, and Marius agrees, I will come along to watch your back, as I have always done. Cabera?’

‘Where else would I go? I still wander the same path as you.’

Tubruk nodded. ‘Dawn then. I suggest you rise at least an hour or two before daybreak, for stretching exercises and a light breakfast.’ He rose and bowed to Gaius. ‘Sir?’

‘You may leave, Tubruk,’ Gaius said, his face straight.

Tubruk left.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, but Gaius ignored him. They were not in private and could not enjoy the casual relationship of the estate. Kin or not, Marius’ house was not a place to relax. Tubruk had reminded them of this in his formal style.

Marcus and Cabera departed soon after, leaving Gaius to his thoughts. He lay back on a couch and stared at the night stars over the open garden.

He felt his eyes fill. His father was gone and he was stuck with strangers. Everything was new and different and overwhelming. Every word had to be considered before it left his mouth, every decision had to be judged. It was exhausting and, not for the first time, he wished he were a child again, without responsibility. He had always been able to turn to others when he made mistakes, but who could he turn to now? He wondered if his father or Tubruk had ever felt as lost as he did. It didn’t seem possible that they knew the same fears. Perhaps everyone had them, but hid their worries from others.

When he was calm again, he rose in the darkness and walked silently out of the room, barely admitting his destination to himself. The corridors were silent and seemed deserted, but he had walked only a few paces before a guard stepped towards him and spoke.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Gaius started. Of course Marius would have guards around his house and gardens.

‘I brought a slave in with me today. I would like to check on her before I sleep.’

‘I understand, sir,’ the guard replied, with a small smile. ‘I’ll show you the way to the slave quarters.’

Gaius gritted his teeth. He knew what the man was thinking, but speaking again would only worsen his suspicions. He followed in silence until they came to a heavy door at the end of the passage. The soldier knocked quietly and they waited for only a few moments before it opened.

A senior female glared at the guard. Her hair was greying and her face quickly set into disapproving lines, clearly a common expression with her.

‘What do you want, Thomas? Lucy is asleep and I’ve told you before …’

‘It’s not for me. This young man is Marius’ nephew. He brought a girl in with him today?’

The woman’s manner changed as she perceived Gaius, who was shaking his head in painful silence, wondering how public things were going to get.

‘Alexandria, wasn’t it? Beautiful girl. My name is Carla. I’ll show you to her room. Most of the slaves are asleep by now, so tread quietly, if you please.’ She beckoned for Gaius to follow and he did so, neck and back stiff with embarrassment. He could feel Thomas’ eyes on his back before the door closed gently behind him.

This part of Marius’ house was plain but clean. A long corridor was lined with closed doors and there were small candles in holders along the walls at intervals. Only a few were lit, but enough light was shed for Gaius to see where they were going.

Carla’s voice was lowered to a harsh whisper as she turned to him.

‘Most of the slaves sleep in a few large rooms, but your girl was put in one of her own, that we keep for favoured ones. You said to treat her kindly, is that true?’

Gaius blushed. He had forgotten the interest that Marius’ slaves would take in Alexandria and himself. It would be all over the house by the morning that he had visited her in the night.

They turned a final corner and Gaius froze in astonishment. The final door of the corridor was open and, against the low light from within, he could see Alexandria standing there, beautiful in the flickering candlelight. She alone would have caused him to take a quick breath, but there was someone with her, leaning against the wall in the shadows.

Carla darted forward and they both recognised Marcus at the same time. For his part, he seemed just as surprised to see them.

‘How did you get in here?’ Carla asked, her voice strained.

Marcus blinked.

‘I crept about the place. I didn’t want to wake everyone up,’ he answered.

Gaius looked at Alexandria and his chest tightened with jealousy. She looked annoyed, but the glint in her eyes only heightened her tousled appearance. Her voice was curt.

‘As you can both see, I am fine and quite comfortable. Slaves have to be up before dawn, so I would like to go to sleep, unless you want to bring Cabera or Tubruk along as well?’

Marcus and Gaius looked on her with surprised expressions. She really seemed quite angry.

‘No? Then good night.’ She nodded to them, her mouth firm, and gently closed the door.

Carla stood with her mouth open in astonishment. She wasn’t sure how to start apologising.

‘What are you doing here, Marcus?’ Gaius demanded, keeping his voice low.

‘Same thing as you. I thought she might be lonely. I didn’t know you were going to make it a social occasion, did I?’

Doors were opening along the corridor and a low female voice called, ‘Everything all right, Carla?’

‘Yes, dear. Thank you,’ Carla hissed back. ‘Look. She’s gone to bed. I suggest you two follow her example before the whole house turns out to see what’s happening.’

Grim-faced, they nodded and walked back down the corridor together, leaving Carla with her hand over her mouth to stop her laughing before they were out of earshot. She nearly made it.

As Alexandria had predicted, the house of Marius came suddenly alive a good two hours before dawn. The kitchen ovens were lit, the windows opened, torches placed along the walls until the sun rose. Slaves bustled around, carrying trays of food and towels for the soldiers. The silence of the dark hours was broken by coarse laughter and shouts. Gaius and Marcus were awake at the first sounds, with Tubruk only a little behind them. Cabera refused to get up.

‘Why would I want to? I will just throw on my robe and walk to the gates! Two more hours till dawn sounds good to me.’

‘You can wash and have breakfast,’ Marcus said, his eyes lively.

‘I washed yesterday and I don’t eat much before noon. Now go away.’

Marcus retreated and joined the others as they ate a little bread and honey, washed down with a hot, spiced wine that filled their bellies with warmth. They had not spoken of the events of the night before and both could feel a small tension between them and silences in the spaces they would usually have filled with light talk.

Finally, Gaius took a deep breath.

‘If she likes you, I will stay out of it,’ he said, each word pronounced clearly.

‘Very decent of you,’ Marcus replied, smiling. He drained his cup of hot wine and walked out of the room, smoothing his hair with one hand.

Tubruk glanced at Gaius’ expression and barked out a laugh before following.

Looking fresh and rested, Marius strode back into the garden rooms with the clatter of iron-soled sandals on stone. He seemed even bigger in the general’s uniform, an unstoppable figure. Marcus found himself watching the walk for weaknesses, as he had learned to watch any opponent. Did he dip a once-injured shoulder or favour a slightly weaker knee? There was nothing. This was a man who had never been close to death, who had never known despair. Though he had no children, a single weakness. Marcus wondered if it was Marius or his wife who was barren. The gods were known to be capricious, but what a jest to give so much to a man yet leave him unable to pass it on.

Marius wore a chestplate of bronze and a long red cloak over his shoulders. He had a simple legionary’s gladius strapped to his waist, though Marcus noted the silver handle that set it apart from common blades. His brown legs were mostly bare under a leather kilt. He moved well, uncommonly well for a man of his age. His eyes glittered with some excitement or anticipation.

‘Good to see you all up and about. You’ll be marching with my men?’ His voice was deep and steady, with no trace of nerves.

Gaius smiled, pleased not to have had to ask.

‘We all are, with your permission … Uncle.’

Marius nodded his head at the word.

‘Of course, but stay well back. This is a dangerous morning’s entertainment, no matter how it turns out. One thing – you don’t know the city and, if we do become separated, this house may no longer be safe. Seek out Valcinus at the public baths. They will be shut until noon, but he’ll let you in if you mention my name. All set?’

Marcus, Gaius and Tubruk looked at each other, dazed at the speed of events. At least two of them were a little excited at the same time. They fell in behind Marius as he strode out to the yard where his men waited patiently.

Cabera joined them at the last minute. His eyes were as sharp as ever, but white stubble showed on his cheeks and chin. Marcus grinned at him and received a scowl as reply. They stood near the back of the group of men and Gaius took in the countenances of the soldiers around him. Brown-skinned and dark-haired to a man, they carried rectangular shields strapped to their left arms. On the brass face of each shield was the simple crest of the house of Marius – three arrows crossing each other. In that moment, Gaius understood what Marius had been explaining. These were Roman soldiers who would fight in defence of their city, but their loyalty was to the crest they carried.

All was silent as they waited for the great gates to swing open. Metella appeared out of the shadows and kissed Marius, who responded with enthusiasm, grasping a buttock. His men regarded this impassively, not sharing his lively mood. Then she turned and kissed Gaius and Marcus. To their surprise, they could see tears shine in her eyes.

‘You come back safe to me. I will wait for you all.’

Gaius looked around for Alexandria. He had a vague notion that he could tell her of his noble decision to make way for Marcus. He hoped that she would be touched by his sacrifice and scorn Marcus’ affections. Unfortunately, he could not see her anywhere, and then the gates opened and there was no more time.

Gaius and Marcus fell in with Tubruk and Cabera as the soldiers of Marius clattered out onto the dawn streets of Rome.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Under normal circumstances, the streets of Rome would have been empty at dawn, with the majority of the people waking in the late morning and continuing business up to midnight. With the curfew in force, the rhythm of the day had changed and the shops were opening as Marius and his men marched out.

The general led the soldiers, his step easy and sure. Shouts of warning went up from passers-by and Gaius could see people duck back into doorways as they spotted the armed men. After the recent riots, no one was in the mood to stand and watch the procession as it wound its way down the hill to the city forum where the Senate had its buildings.

At first, the main roads emptied as the early-rising workers stood well back for the soldiers. Gaius could feel their eyes on them and heard angry mutters. One word was repeated from hard faces: ‘Scelus!’ – a crime for soldiers to be on the streets. The dawn was damp and cold and he shivered slightly. Marcus too looked grim in the grey light and he nodded as their eyes met, his hand on the hilt of his gladius. The tension was heightened by the clatter and crash as the men moved. Gaius had not realised how noisy fifty soldiers could be, but in the narrow streets the clank of iron-shod sandals echoed back and forth. Windows opened in the high apartments as they passed and someone shouted angrily, but they marched on.

‘Sulla will cut your eyes out!’ one man howled before slamming his door shut.

Marius’ men ignored the taunts and the crowd gathering behind them, drawn by the excitement and danger into a swelling mob.

Up ahead, a legionary carrying Sulla’s mark on his shield turned at the noise and froze. They marched towards him and Gaius could feel the sudden excitement as every eye fixed on the lone man. He chose discretion over valour and set off at a trot, disappearing around a corner. A man at the front with Marius leaned forward as if to follow, but the general put a hand against his chest.

‘Let him go. He’ll tell them I’m coming.’ His voice carried back through the ranks and Gaius marvelled at his calmness. No one else spoke and they continued, feet crashing down in time.

Cabera looked behind them and blanched as he saw the streets filling with followers. There was nowhere to retreat; a crowd was dogging their footsteps, their eyes bright with excitement, calling and hooting to each other. Cabera reached into his robe and brought forth a small blue stone on a thong, kissing it and mumbling a short prayer. Tubruk looked at the old man and put a hand out to his shoulder, gripping it briefly.

By the time they reached the great expanse of the forum, the crowd had spread to fill parallel roads and spilled out behind and around them. Gaius could feel the nervousness of the men he walked behind and saw their muscles tense as they loosened their swords in the scabbards, ready for action. He swallowed and found his throat dry. His heart beat quickly and he felt light-headed.

As if in mockery of the mood, the sun chose the moment they entered the forum to break from behind the morning mists, lighting the statues and temples on one side with gold. Gaius could see the steps of the Senate building ahead and licked suddenly dry lips as white-robed figures came out from the darkness and stood waiting for them. He counted four of Sulla’s legionaries on the steps, hands on swords. Others would be on their way.

Hundreds of people were filling the forum from every direction, and jeers and calls could be heard echoing in the nearby streets. They all watched Marius and his men and they left an avenue to the Senate, knowing his destination without having to be told. Gaius clenched his teeth. There were so many people! They showed no sign of fear or awe and pointed, shouted, jostled and shoved each other for a better view. Gaius was beginning to regret having asked to accompany the soldiers.

At the foot of the steps, Marius halted his men and took one pace forward. The crowd pushed in around them, filling every space. The air smelled of sweat and spiced food. Thirty wide steps led up to the doors of the debating chamber. Nine senators stood on them.

Gaius recognised the face of Sulla, standing on the highest step. He stared straight at Marius without expression, his face like a mask. His hands were held behind his back, as if he was about to begin a lecture. His four legionaries had taken up position on the lowest step and Gaius could see that they at least were nervous of what would happen next.

Responsive to some invisible cue, the swelling crowd fell silent, broken here and there by mutters and curses as people struggled for better positions.

‘You all know me,’ Marius bellowed. His voice carried far in the silence. ‘I am Marius, general, consul, citizen. Here, before the Senate, I claim my right to hold a Triumph, recognising the new lands my legion has conquered in Africa.’

The crowd pressed closer and one or two came to blows, sharp yelps breaking the tension of the moment. They pressed against the soldiers and two had to raise their arms and shove figures back into the mass, with more angry shouts in response. Gaius could feel the ugly mood of the crowd. They had gathered as they did when the games were on, to see death and violence and be entertained.

Gaius noticed that the other senators looked to Sulla to respond. As the only other consul, it was his word that carried the authority of the city.

He took two steps down, closer to the soldiers. His face reddened with anger, but his words were quiet.

‘This is unlawful. Tell your men to disperse. Come inside and we will discuss this when the full Senate has convened. You know the law, Marius.’

Those in the crowd who could hear him cheered this, while others shouted vulgarities, knowing they were protected from being seen by the churning mass of people.

‘I do know the law! I know that a general has the right to demand a Triumph. I make that demand. Do you deny me?’ Marius too had taken a step forward and the crowd surged with him, pushing and shoving, spilling onto the Senate steps between the two men.

‘Vappa! Cunnus!’ They screamed abuse at the soldiers who rebuffed them and Marius turned to the front row of his fifty. His eyes were cold and black.

‘Enough. Make room for your general,’ he said, his voice grim.

The front ten men drew their swords and cut down the nearest members of the crowd. In seconds, gashed bodies spat blood over the marble steps. They did not stop, killing with a cold intensity, men and women falling before them. A wail went up as the crowd tried to back away, but those at the rear could not see what was happening and continued to push forward. Every man of the fifty soldiers drew his gladius and cut around him, careless of who fell under the blade.

It must have been only a few seconds from start to finish, but it seemed hours to Gaius and Marcus who could only watch in horror as the ranks of the crowd were sliced down like wheat. The bodies littered the forum and the crowd was suddenly fighting to get away, the message having finally got through. A few more seconds and there was a great ring around Marius and his men, growing wider as citizens and slaves alike ran from the red swords.

Not a word had been said. Blades were wiped on the dead and resheathed. The men returned to their positions and Marius looked up at the senators again.

The stones of the forum were slicked wet with blood. The other men on the steps had gone pale, taking involuntary paces backwards away from the slaughter. Only Sulla had held firm and his lips twisted into a bitter grimace as the stench of fresh blood and opened bowels came to him.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment, as if only they were in the forum. The moment stretched and Marius raised his hand as if to give another command to his waiting men.

‘One month from today,’ Sulla snapped. ‘Hold your Triumph, General, but remember you have made an enemy today. Savour the moments of joy that are due to you.’

Marius inclined his head.

‘My thanks, Sulla, for your wisdom.’

He turned his back on the senators and called the turn, walking through the ranks to take up position at the front again. The crowd held back, but anger was on every bitter face.

‘Forward,’ came the bellow and, once again, the crash of iron on stone was heard as the half-century followed their general out of the plaza.

Gaius shook his head in wonderment at Tubruk and Marcus, saying nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a century of Sulla’s men enter the plaza from a side street, each man running with his sword out and in hand. He tensed and would have shouted a warning, but caught Tubruk’s shake of the head.

Behind them, Sulla had raised his hand to halt his men and they stood to attention, watching Marius leave with angry expressions. As Gaius reached the edge of the forum, he saw Sulla make a circle with his right hand in the air.

‘A little too close in timing for my liking,’ Tubruk whispered.

Marius snorted up ahead, overhearing. He strode forward, his voice carrying back.

‘Close formation in the streets, men. This is not over yet.’

The soldiers drew into a tightly packed unit. Marius looked back over his shoulder.

‘Watch the side streets. Sulla will not let us get clean away if he can help it. Keep your wits about you and your swords loose.’

Gaius felt dazed, carried along by events beyond his control. This was the safety of his uncle’s shadow? He walked along with the others, hemmed in by legionaries.

A short, barking scream sounded from behind and Gaius whirled, almost knocked off his feet by the soldier behind him. One of the men was lying on the cobbles, in the filth of the road. Blood pooled around him and Gaius caught a glimpse of three men stabbing and cutting in a frenzy.

‘Don’t look,’ Tubruk warned, turning Gaius forward with gentle pressure on his shoulder.

‘But the man! Shouldn’t we stop?’ Gaius shouted, astonished.

‘If we stop, we’ll all die. Sulla has unleashed his dogs.’

Gaius glanced into a side street as they passed and saw a group of men with daggers drawn, running towards them. By their bearing, they were legionaries, but without uniforms. Gaius drew his sword almost at one with all the others. His heart began to pound again and he felt sweat break out on his forehead.

‘Hold your nerve! We stop for nothing,’ Marius shouted back, his neck and back muscles rigid.

The knife men attacked the back row again as it passed, one of them going down with a gladius in his ribs before the others bore their man down onto the ground. He yelled in fear as his sword was wrenched from his grasp and then the yell was cut suddenly short.

As they marched on, Gaius could hear hoots of triumph from behind. He sneaked a look back and wished he hadn’t as the attackers raised a bloody head and howled like animals. The men around him swore viciously and one of them suddenly stopped, raising his sword.

‘Come on, Vegus, we’re nearly there,’ another urged him, but he shook off the hands on his shoulders and spat at the ground.

‘He was my friend,’ he muttered and broke rank, racing back towards the bloody group. Gaius tried to watch what happened. He could hear the cry as they saw him coming, but then men seemed to pour out of the alleyways and he was torn apart without a sound.

‘Steady,’ Marius shouted, and Gaius could hear the anger in the voice, the first touch of it he’d seen in the man. ‘Steady,’ he called again.

Marcus took a dagger from the man on his right and drifted back through the ranks. He was in the last row of three when they passed the dark mouth of an alleyway and four others sprang, their knives held to kill. Marcus ducked and took the weight of an attacker as they crashed together in a violent embrace. He pulled his knife across the throat he saw so close to his own and blinked as the blood spurted out over him. He used the body to block another thrust and then threw it at the remaining attackers. As it landed, the men went down to swift, punching stabs from the three legionaries, who then rejoined the ranks without a word. One of them clapped a hand on Marcus’ shoulder and Marcus grinned at him. He ghosted up through the ranks again and arrived at Gaius’ side, panting slightly. Gaius clasped the back of his neck for a second.

Then the gates were opening in front of them and they were safe, holding formation until the last man was through into the courtyard.

As the gates closed, Gaius went back to look down the hill they’d walked together. It was deserted, not a face showed. Rome seemed as quiet and orderly as ever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Marius almost glowed with pleasure and energy as he walked amongst his men, clapping his hands to shoulders and laughing. They grinned wryly, like schoolboys being congratulated by a tutor.

‘We’ve done it, boys!’ Marius shouted. ‘We’ll show this city a day to remember a month from today.’ They cheered him and he called for wine and refreshments, summoning every slave of his home to treat the men like kings.

‘Anything they want!’ he bellowed. Wine cups of gold and silver were pressed into the rough hands of every man back in through the gates, Gaius and Marcus included. Dark purple wine sloshed and gurgled as it was poured from clay jugs. Alexandria was with the other slaves and smiled at both Marcus and Gaius. Gaius nodded to her, but Marcus winked as she passed him.

Tubruk sniffed his wine and chuckled. ‘The best.’

Marius held his cup high, his expression sombre. Silence fell after a few seconds.

‘To those who didn’t make it today, who died for us. Tagoe, Luca and Vegus. Good men all.’

‘Good men all!’ Every voice echoed his in a guttural chorus, and the cups were tipped back and held out for refills from the waiting slaves.

‘He knew their names,’ Gaius whispered to Tubruk, who brought his head close to reply.

‘He knows all their names,’ he muttered. ‘That is why he is a good general. That is why they love him. He could tell you some of the history of every man here and a good portion of the legion outside Rome as well. Oh, you can call it a trick if you like, a cheap way to impress the men who serve. I know that’s what he would say, if you asked him.’ He paused to look at the general as he caught a huge and husky soldier in a headlock and walked through the crowd with him. The man bellowed, but didn’t struggle. He bore it as it was meant.

‘They’re his children, I think. You can see how much he loves them. That big man could probably tear Marius’ arms off if he wanted. On another day, he’d put a dagger in a man for looking at him with a squint in the noonday sun. But Marius can lead him around by the head and he laughs. I’m not sure you can train a man into that skill – I think it’s born into you, or not. You don’t even need to have it to be a good general.

‘These men would follow Sulla, if they were in his legion. They’d fight for him and hold formation and die for him. But they love Marius, so they can’t be bribed or bought and in battle they will not ever run, not to the last man. Not while he’s watching, anyway. There used to be a land qualification to be in the legions, but Marius abolished it. Now anyone can make a career fighting for Rome, at least for him. Half these men wouldn’t have made it into the army before Marius had his law passed by the Senate. They owe him a great deal.’

The men began to walk out of the entrance square, off to be bathed and massaged by the prettiest female slaves on the grounds. Several beauties had taken arms and were already gasping and exclaiming at stories of battle prowess. When Marius let go of the big legionary’s head, he immediately called a girl over, a slim brunette with kohl-dark eyes. The big man took one look and grinned like a wolf, gathering her up into his arms. The echoes of her laughter came back off the brick walls as he trotted into the main buildings.

One young soldier dropped a powerfully muscled arm onto Alexandria’s shoulder and said something to her. Marcus came up behind the man quickly.

‘Not this girl, friend. She’s not from this house.’

The soldier looked at him and took in the boy’s bearing and determined expression. He shrugged and called to another slave girl as she passed by. Gaius stood watching the exchange and when Alexandria caught his eye, her face filled with anger. She turned her back on Marcus and strode into the cool interior of the garden rooms.

Marcus turned to his friend. He had noticed her expression and his own was thoughtful.

‘Why was she so annoyed?’ Gaius said, exasperated. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she wanted to go with that big ox. You saved her.’

Marcus nodded. ‘That may be the problem. Perhaps she didn’t want me to. Perhaps she wanted you to save her.’

‘Oh.’ Gaius’ face lit up. ‘Really?’

Marius staggered over to Gaius and his friends, still laughing, his hair plastered to his forehead with wine emptied over him. His eyes were shining with pleasure. He took Gaius by both shoulders.

‘Well, lad? How was your first taste of Rome?’

Gaius grinned back at him. You couldn’t help it. The man’s emotions were infectious. When he frowned, dark clouds of fear and anger followed him around and touched all who met him. When he smiled, you wanted to smile. You wanted to be one of his men. Gaius could feel the power of the man and for the first time wondered if he could ever command that kind of loyalty himself.

‘It was frightening, but exciting as well,’ he replied, unable to stop his lips smiling.

‘Good! Some don’t feel it, you know. They just add up supply figures and calculate how many men it would take to hold a ravine. They just don’t feel the excitement.’

He looked over at Marcus, Tubruk and Cabera.

‘Get drunk if you like, have a woman if you can find one by now. We’ll do no work today and no one can leave until it’s dark after that trouble we had. Tomorrow, we’ll start planning how to bring five thousand men fifty miles and all the way through Rome. Do you know anything about supply?’

Both Marcus and Gaius shook their heads.

‘You’ll learn. The best army in the world is lost without food and water, boys. That’s the thing to know. Everything else falls into place. My home is your home, remember. I’m going to sit in the fountain and get drunk.’ He collected three unopened jugs of wine from the remaining male slaves and walked away – a man with a mission.

Tubruk watched him leave the courtyard with a wry smile.

‘Once, in North Africa, on the eve of a battle against a savage tribe, they say Marius walked alone into the enemy camp carrying a jug of wine in each hand. Remember, this was the camp of seven thousand of the most brutal warriors the legion had encountered. He drank all night with the chief of the tribe, despite not understanding a word of each other’s language. They toasted life and the future and courage. Then the next morning he staggered back to his own lines.’

‘What happened next?’ Marcus said.

‘They wiped out the tribe to the last man. What would you expect?’ Tubruk laughed.

‘Why didn’t the chief kill him?’ Marcus continued.

‘I suppose he liked him. Most people do.’

Metella came into the courtyard and held out her hands to Gaius and Marcus, smiling.

‘I’m glad you are safely returned to us. I want you both to think of this house as a place of peace and refuge for you.’

She gazed into Marcus’ eyes and he looked back calmly. ‘Is it true you grew up without a mother?’

Marcus blushed a little, wondering how much Marius had told her. He nodded and Metella gave a little gasp.

‘You poor boy. I would have brought you to me earlier if I had known.’

Marcus was wondering if she knew what the legionaries were getting up to with her female slaves. She didn’t seem to fit into the bluff world of Marius and his legion. He wondered what his own mother was like, and for the first time considered trying to find her. Marius would probably know, but it was not a question he wished to ask the man. Perhaps Tubruk would tell him before he returned to the estate.

Metella took her hand away from his and reached up to brush his cheek.

‘You have had a rough time of it, but that is all over now.’

Slowly, he touched her hand with his and it was as if they had reached some private understanding. Suddenly her eyes glistened with tears and she turned and walked away along the cloisters.

Marcus looked at Gaius and shrugged.

‘You have a friend there,’ Tubruk said, watching her retreating figure. ‘She has taken a liking to you.’

‘I’m a bit old to need a mother,’ Marcus muttered.

‘Possibly, but she’s not too old to need a son.’

At noon, there was a commotion at the house gates. Some of the legionaries turned out with swords drawn in case it was a reprisal for the morning’s work. Gaius and Marcus rushed to the courtyard with the rest and then stopped and gaped.

Renius was there, draped through the metal poles and singing a drunken dirge. He used the crossbar of the gate to steady himself, but his tunic was soaked with wine and specks of vomit. A guard stepped up to the bars and spoke to him as Gaius and Marcus came up, Tubruk just behind them.

Suddenly, Renius reached up to the man’s hair and pulled his head into the metal with a clang. Unconscious, the soldier fell away and the others began to shout in anger.

‘Let him in and kill him!’ yelled one man, but another said it could be a trap of Sulla’s to make them open the gates. This gave them all pause and it was Gaius and Marcus who approached the gates next.

‘Can we help you?’ Marcus said, raising his eyebrows in polite inquiry.

Renius mumbled angrily, ‘I’ll stick my sword up you, whore’s boy.’

Marcus started to laugh.

‘Open the gates,’ Gaius called to the other guard. ‘It’s Renius – he’s with me.’

The guard ignored him as if he had not spoken, making it clear that Gaius could not give orders in that house. As Gaius stepped towards the gate, a legionary took a pace to stand in front of him, shaking his head slowly.

Marcus sidled over to the gate and said a few quiet words to the guard there.

The man was in the middle of replying when Marcus butted him savagely, knocking him down into the dust. Ignoring the guard as he flailed and tried to get up, Marcus ran back the big bolts that held the door secure and opened it.

Renius fell into the yard and lay flat, his good arm twitching. Marcus chuckled and began to close the gate when he heard the smooth metallic sound of a knife coming from a sheath. He spun and was just in time to block a thrust from the furious guard with his forearm. With his left hand, he backhanded the man across the mouth and sent him sprawling again. Marcus shut the gate.

Two more of the men ran up to grab him, but a voice called, ‘Hold!’ and everyone froze for a second. Marius walked into the courtyard, showing no effects from the wine he had been putting away steadily for two hours. As he approached, the two men kept their eyes on Marcus, who looked calmly back at them.

‘Gods! What is going on in my house?’ Marius came up and put a heavy hand on the shoulder of one of the men facing Marcus.

‘Renius is here,’ Gaius said. ‘He came with us from the estate.’

Marius looked down at the sprawling figure, peacefully asleep on the stones.

‘He never got drunk when he was a gladiator. I can see why if this is how it affects him. What happened to you?’ The last question was addressed to the guard who had resumed his post. His mouth and nose were bloody and his eyes sparked with indignation, but he knew better than to complain to Marius.

‘Caught myself in the face with the gate when I was opening it,’ he said slowly.

‘Damned careless of you, Fulvio. You should have let my nephew help you with it.’

The message was clear. The man nodded and wiped a little of the blood away with his hand.

‘Glad we’ve cleared that up. Now, you and you’ – he pointed a stiff finger at Gaius and Marcus – ‘come with me to my study. We need to discuss a couple of things.’

He waited until Gaius and Marcus had walked in front of him before falling in behind. Over his shoulder, he called, ‘Get that old man somewhere to sleep it off and keep that damned gate shut.’

Marcus caught the eye of the legionaries nearby and found they were all grinning, whether in malice or genuine amusement, he couldn’t say.

Marius opened the door of his study and let the two go through into a room lined with maps on every wall, showing Africa and the empire and Rome herself. He closed the door quietly and then turned to face them. His eyes were cold and Gaius felt a momentary pang of fear as the man focused his dark gaze on him.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ Marius spat from between clenched teeth.

Gaius opened his mouth to say he was letting Renius in when he thought better of it.

‘I’m sorry. I should have waited for you.’

Marius banged his heavy fist on the desk.

‘I suppose you realise that if Sulla had had twenty picked men in the street waiting for just such an opportunity, we would most likely be dead by now?’

Gaius blushed miserably.

Marius swivelled to face Marcus. ‘And you. Why did you attack Fulvio?’

‘Gaius gave the order to open the gates. The man ignored him. I made it happen.’

There was no give in Marcus. He looked up at the older man and met his gaze unflinchingly.

The general raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

‘You expected him, a veteran of thirty conflicts, to take orders from a beardless boy of fourteen?’

‘I … didn’t think about it.’ For the first time, Marcus looked unsure of himself and the general turned back to Gaius.

‘If I back you in this, I will lose some of the respect of the men. They all know you made a mistake and will be waiting to see what I do about it.’

Gaius’ heart sank.

‘There is a way out of this, but it will cost you both dearly. Fulvio is the boxing champion of his century. He lost a lot of face today when you clipped him, Marcus. I dare say he would be willing to take part in a friendly fight, just to clear the air. Otherwise, he may well put a knife in you when I am not around to step in.’

‘He’ll kill me,’ Marcus said quietly.

‘Not in a friendly match. We won’t use the iron gloves, because of your tender age, just goatskin ones to protect your hands. Have you been trained at all?’

The boys murmured that they had, thinking of Renius.

Marius turned to Gaius again.

‘Of course, win or lose, if your friend shows courage, the men will love him and I can’t have my nephew in his shadow, do you understand?’

Gaius nodded, guessing what was coming.

‘I’ll put you in against one of the others. They’re all champions at some skill or other, which is why I chose them for the escort duty to the Senate. You’ll both take a beating, but if you handle yourselves well enough the incident will be forgotten and you may even gain a bit of standing with my men. They are the scum of the gutters, most of them; they fear nothing and have respect only for strength. Oh, I can just order them back to duties and do nothing, letting you hide in the shadow of my authority, but that won’t do, d’you see?’

Their faces were bleak, and he snorted suddenly.

‘Smile, boys. You might as well. There is no other way out of this, so why not spit in old Jupiter’s eye while you’re at it?’

They looked at each other, and both grinned.

Marius laughed again.

‘You’ll do. Two hours. I’ll tell the men and announce the opponents. That’ll give Renius time to sober up a little. I should think he would want to see this. By all the gods, I want to see this! Dismissed!’

Gaius and Marcus walked slowly back to their rooms. Their initial levity had faded, leaving a sick churning in both their stomachs at what was to come.

‘Hey! Do you realise I put a century boxing champion on his back? I am damn well going to try and win this match. If I can hit him once, I can knock him out. One good strike is all it takes.’

‘But this time he’ll be expecting it,’ Gaius replied morosely. ‘I’ll probably get that big ape Marius was leading around by the head earlier; that would be just the sort of joke he likes.’

‘Big men are slow. You’re fast with the cross, but you’ll have to stay out of range. All these soldiers are heavy and that means they can hit harder than we can. Keep moving your feet and wear them down.’

‘We’re going to be murdered,’ Gaius replied.

‘Yes, I think we probably are.’

Tubruk was calmly accepting when he heard the news back at their rooms.

‘I expected something like it. Marius loves contests and is forever staging them between his own men and those of the other legions. This is just his style – a bit of cheering and a deal of blood and everything is forgotten and forgiven.

‘Thankfully, you haven’t drunk more than a cup or two of wine. Come on, two hours is not long to get you warmed up and ready. You’d better spar for a while in one of the training rooms. Get a slave to direct you to one and I’ll find you as soon as I have some gloves. One thing – don’t let Marius down. Especially you, Gaius. You’re his kin, you have to put on a good show.’

‘I understand,’ Gaius replied grimly.

‘Then get going. I’ll have some of the slaves throw ice water on Renius – from a distance so that he doesn’t go berserk.’

‘What happened with him? Why was he drunk so early in the day?’ Gaius asked, curiously.

‘I don’t know. Concentrate on one thing at a time. You’ll have a chance to speak to Renius this evening. Now go!’

While the rest of Rome slept through the heat of the afternoon, the men from the First-Born legion gathered in the largest training room, lining the walls, laughing, chatting and sipping cool beer and fruit juices. After the fights, Marius had promised them a ten-course feast of good food and wine, and the mood was relaxed and cheerful. Tubruk stood with Marcus and Gaius, loosening the shoulders of one then the other. Cabera sat on a stool, his face inscrutable.

‘They are both right-handed,’ Tubruk said quietly. ‘Fulvio you know; the other, Decidus, is a javelin champion. He has very strong shoulders, though he doesn’t look fast. Stay away from them, make them come to you.’

Marcus and Gaius nodded. Both were a little pale under their tanned skin.

‘Remember, the idea is to stay upright long enough to show you have nerve. If you go down early, get up. I’ll stop it if you’re in real trouble, but Marius won’t like that, so I will have to be careful.’ He put a hand on each of their shoulders.

‘Both of you have skill and courage and wind. Renius is watching. Don’t let us down.’

Both boys glanced over to where Renius sat, his useless arm strapped to his belt. His hair was still damp and murder glinted from his expression.

Cheering began as Marius entered. He held up his hands for quiet and it came quickly.

‘I expect each man to do his best, but know that my money will be on my nephew and his friend. Two bets, twenty-five aurei on each. Do I have any takers?’

For a moment, the silence held. Fifty gold pieces was a huge bet for a private fight, but who could resist? The gathered men emptied their pouches and some left for their rooms to fetch more coins. After a while, the money was there and Marius added his own pouch so that one hundred gold pieces were held in his great hand, enough to buy a smallholding, or a warhorse and full armour and weapons.

‘Will you hold the bag for us, Renius?’ Marius asked.

‘I will,’ he replied, his tone solemn and formal. He seemed to have thrown off most of the effects of drink, but Gaius noticed he did not try to rise and waited until the money was brought to him.

Fulvio and Decidus entered the training hall to more cheering from the men. There was now no question where their support lay.

Both men were wearing only a tight-fitting cloth wrapped around their groins and upper thighs, held by a wide belt. Decidus had the sort of shoulders and physique usually seen on the statues of the forum. Gaius watched him closely, but there were no obvious weaknesses. Fulvio did not wave to the crowd. His nose was bound with a strip of cloth tied at the back of his head and his lips were swollen and angry-looking.

Gaius nudged Marcus. ‘Looks like you broke his nose with that butt earlier on. He’ll be expecting you to hit it again, you realise. Wait for a good opportunity.’

Marcus nodded, engrossed as Gaius had been with his study of the man and his movements.

Marius raised his hands again to be heard over the lively soldiers.

‘Marcus and Fulvio will fight the first bout. No time limits, but a round ends when one man has a knee or more on the ground. When one is unable to rise, the bout is over and the other will begin. Come to your marks.’

Fulvio and Marcus came to stand on either side of the general.

‘When the horn is blown, you begin. Good luck.’

Marius walked sedately to the sidelines with the men and signalled to one to sound the horn usually used in battle. A hush fell and the blare resonated as a pure note.

Marcus loosened his shoulders, rocked his head from side to side and stepped forward. He held his hands high as he had been taught by Renius, but Fulvio kept his fists relaxed, his arms only slightly bent. He swayed as Marcus jabbed with his left and the blows went by harmlessly. One fist shot out and thumped into Marcus’ chest, over the heart. He gasped in pain and backed away, then set his teeth and came in again. He launched a fast jab followed immediately by a straight right, but, again, Fulvio moved out of the way with a single step and hammered the same spot with his gloved right hand. Marcus felt the air explode out of him with the pain.

The men had begun cheering and only Gaius, Tubruk and Cabera cheered for the younger fighter. Fulvio was smiling and Marcus began to think. The man was fast and difficult to hit. At present, Marcus was doing all the work, winning nothing for his efforts. He growled in rage and surged forward, his right arm cocked. He saw Fulvio steady himself and then pulled up suddenly, letting the blow that should have knocked him out go past his chin. Marcus punched fast and hard at Fulvio’s nose and was gratified at the crunch of bones he felt. At that second, a cross caught him on the side of his head and he went down hard on the wooden floor, dazed and winded.

He panted as he came up onto one knee and looked up at Fulvio standing a couple of paces away. Blood streamed from his nose again and he looked murderous.

Marcus got up into a flurry of blows. He tried to stay away and fend off the worst of them, but Fulvio was all over him, thumping fists into his stomach and kidneys from all angles, chopping him to pieces, and when the pain made him hunch, catching Marcus with swift uppercuts to the head, rocking him back. He fell again and lay there, his chest heaving painfully. He tasted blood in his mouth and his left eye was swelling shut under the assault of Fulvio’s straight right.

This time he rose and took three quick steps backwards to give him time to compose himself. Fulvio came with him remorselessly, moving his head and body from side to side as he looked for the best place to hit. The man resembled a snake about to bite and Marcus knew the next time he went down he was unlikely to get up. Anger flooded him and he ducked the first punch on sheer reflexes, batting the follow-through away with his arm. He felt Fulvio’s forearm slide under his fingers and suddenly gripped the wrist. His right fist came into the man’s stomach with all the power of his shoulders behind it and he was rewarded with a slight whoosh of pain.

Still holding the arm, he tried to repeat the punch, but Fulvio brought his left over and clipped him hard on the jaw. The world went black and he fell down, barely feeling the hard, wooden boards underneath him. His legs seemed to have lost all strength and he could only manage to get himself up onto all fours, panting like a beast.

Fulvio waved a glove at him to get up, still unsatisfied. Marcus looked down at the floor and wondered if he should. Blood dribbled from between his lips and he watched it spatter into a small pool.

Ah well, he thought. One more try.

This time Fulvio didn’t rush him. He was grinning again and beckoned with his hands for Marcus to come on. Marcus tightened his jaw. He was going to put the man on his back one more time if it killed him. He imagined each of Fulvio’s fists held a dagger, so that any contact would mean death. He felt his spirits rise. He knew how to fight with swords and knives, so why was this so different? He let himself sway a little, wanting Fulvio to come in. Most of his knife training had revolved around counter-strikes and he wanted the boxer to throw another punch. Fulvio quickly lost patience and came in fast, fists bobbing.

Marcus watched the fists and when one exploded towards him, he blocked, lifting it with his forearm and counter-punched into Fulvio’s abdomen. Fulvio grunted and the left came over the top again in reflex, but this time Marcus dropped his head and the blow skidded over him, leaving Fulvio open for a split second. Marcus hammered everything into a straight left stopper, wishing it were his right. Fulvio’s head rocked back and, when it came level, the right was ready and Marcus smacked it into the boxer’s broken nose again. Fulvio took a sudden seat and fresh blood poured from his battered nose.

Before Marcus could feel any pleasure, the man leapt up and poured out a string of blows, seeming to move twice as fast as he had before. Marcus went down after the first two and caught two more as he fell. This time he didn’t get up and didn’t hear the cheers or the horn as Marius nodded to end the match.

Fulvio raised his hands in triumph and Marius ruefully signalled the first fifty of the hundred gold coins to be given back to the men. They gathered together in a momentary huddle and then, when silence had fallen, one of them offered the bag back to Marius.

‘We’ll let the win ride for the next one, sir, if you’re willing,’ he said.

Marius grimaced in mock horror, but nodded and said he would cover the bet. The men cheered again.

Marcus woke up as Tubruk threw a cup of wine in his face.

‘Did I win?’ he said through smashed lips.

Tubruk chuckled and wiped some of the blood and wine off his face.

‘Not even close, but you were still astonishing. You shouldn’t have been able to touch him.’

‘Touched him properly though,’ he mumbled, smiling and wincing as his lips cracked. ‘Knocked him on his arse.’

Marcus looked around for somewhere to spit and, finding nothing handy, swallowed a gummy mixture of phlegm and blood.

Every part of him hurt, worse than it had when he’d been tied up by Suetonius years before. He wondered if he’d be as good-looking when he’d healed, but his thoughts were interrupted by Fulvio coming over, taking off his gloves as he walked.

‘Good fight. I had three gold pieces on me, myself. You’re very fast – in a few years, you could be seriously dangerous.’

Marcus nodded and put out his hand. Fulvio looked at it and then shook it briefly and walked back to the men, who cheered him all over again.

‘Take the cloth and keep dabbing as the blood drips,’ Tubruk continued cheerfully. ‘You’ll need stitches over your eye. We’ll have to cut it to get the swelling down as well.’

‘Not yet. I’ll watch Gaius first.’

‘Of course.’ Tubruk walked away, still chuckling, and Marcus squinted at him through his one good eye.

Gaius clenched his fists and waited for Tubruk to reach him. His opponent had already taken the floor and was limbering up, stretching his muscular shoulders and legs.

‘He’s a big brute,’ he muttered as Tubruk came alongside.

‘True, but he’s not a boxer. You have a reasonable chance against this one, as long as you don’t get in the way of one of his big punches. He’ll put you out like snuffing a candle if he catches you. Stay back and use your feet to move around him.’

Gaius looked at him quizzically. ‘Anything else?’

‘If you can, punch him in the testicles. He’ll watch for it, but it isn’t strictly speaking against the rules.’

‘Tubruk, you do not have the heart of a decent man.’

‘No, I have the heart of a slave and a gladiator. I have two gold pieces on you for this one and I want to win.’

‘Did you bet on Marcus?’ he asked.

‘Of course not. Unlike Marius, I don’t throw money away.’

Marius came to the centre and signalled for silence once again.

‘After that disappointing loss, the money rides on the next bout. Decidus and Gaius, take your marks. Same rules. When you hear the horn, begin.’ He waited until both stood eyeing each other and walked to the wall, folding his great arms over his chest.

As the horn sounded, Gaius stepped in and slammed his fist up into Decidus’ throat. The bigger man gave out a choked groan and raised both his hands to his neck, in agony. Gaius threw a scything uppercut that caught Decidus on the chin. He went down onto his knees and then toppled forward, his eyes glassy and blank. Gaius walked slowly back to his stool and sat down. He smiled silently and Renius, watching, remembered the same smile on a younger boy’s face as he’d lifted him from the icy waters of a river pool. Renius nodded sharply in approval, his eyes bright, but Gaius did not see it.

The silence roared for a second, then the men released the breath they’d been holding and a rabble of voices broke out – mostly questions and spiced with a few choice swearwords as they realised the bets were all lost.

Marius walked over to the prostrate figure and felt his neck for a second. Silence fell again. Finally, he nodded.

‘His heart beats. He’ll live. Should have kept his chin down.’

The men gave a half-hearted cheer for the winner, though their spirits weren’t really in it.

Marius addressed the crowd, grinning.

‘If you have an appetite, there’s a feast waiting for you in the dining hall. We’ll make a night of it, for tomorrow it’s back to planning and work.’

Decidus was revived and taken out, shaking his head groggily. The rest trooped after him, leaving Marcus and Gaius alone with the general. Renius never left his seat and Cabera stayed back as well, his face alive with interest.

‘Well, boys, you’ve made me a lot of money today!’ Marius boomed, starting to laugh. He had to lean against a wall for support as the laughter shook his frame.

‘Their faces! Two beardless boys and one puts Fulvio on his backside …’ The laughter overtook him and he wiped his eyes as they streamed over his red face.

Renius stood up, swaying a little. He walked over to Marcus and Gaius and clapped a hand on each shoulder.

‘You’ve started making your names,’ he said quietly.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On the night before the Triumph the First-Born camp was anything but peaceful. Gaius sat around one of the campfires and sharpened a dagger that had belonged to his father. All around, the fires and noise of seven thousand soldiers and camp followers made the darkness busy and cheerful. They were camped in open country, less than five miles from the gates of the city. For the last week, armour had been polished, leather waxed, tears in cloth stitched. Horses were groomed until they shone like chestnuts. Marching drills had become tense affairs; mistakes were not tolerated and no one wanted to be left behind when they marched into Rome.

The men were all proud of Marius and themselves. There was no false modesty in the camp; they knew they and he deserved the honour.

Gaius stopped sharpening as Marcus came into the firelight and took a seat on a bench. Gaius looked into the flames and didn’t smile.

‘What’s the word?’ he said, angrily, without turning his head.

‘I leave at dawn tomorrow,’ Marcus replied. He too looked into the fire as he continued speaking. ‘This is for the best, you know. Marius has written a letter for me to take to my new century. Would you like to see it?’

Gaius nodded and Marcus passed a scroll over to him. He read:

I recommend this young man to you, Carac. He will make a first-rate soldier in a few years. He has a good mind and excellent reflexes. He was trained by Renius, who will accompany him to your camp. Give him responsibility as soon as he has proved he can handle it. He is a friend of my house.

Marius. Primigenia.

‘Fine words. I wish you luck,’ Gaius said bitterly as he finished, passing back the scroll.

Marcus snorted. ‘More than just fine words! Your uncle has given me my ticket into another legion. You don’t understand what this means to me. Of course I would like to stay with you, but you will be learning politics in the Senate, then taking a high post in the army and the temples. I own nothing except my skills and my wits and the equipment Marius has given me. Without his patronage, I would be pushed to get a post as a temple guard! With it, I have a chance to make something of myself. Do you grudge it of me?’

Gaius turned to him, his anger surprising Marcus.

‘I know it’s what you have to do, I just never saw myself tackling Rome alone. I always expected you to be with me. That is what friendship means.’

Marcus gripped his arm tightly.

‘You will always be my greatest friend. If ever you need me to be at your side, then call and I will come to you. You remember the pact before we came to the city? We look out for each other and we can trust each other completely. That is my oath and I have never broken it.’

Gaius did not look at him and Marcus let his hand fall away.

‘You can have Alexandria,’ Marcus said, attempting a noble expression.

Gaius gasped. ‘A parting gift? What a generous friend you are! You are too ugly for her, as she told me only yesterday. She only likes your company for the contrast. You make her look more beautiful when your monkey face is around.’

Marcus nodded cheerfully. ‘She does seem to want me only for sex. Perhaps you can read poetry to her while I run her through the positions.’

Gaius took a quick breath of indignation, then smiled slowly at his friend.

‘With you gone, I will be the one showing her the positions.’ He chuckled to himself at this, hiding his thoughts. What positions? He could only think of two.

‘You will be like a bullock after me, with all the practice I have been getting. Marius is a generous man.’

Gaius looked at his friend, trying to judge how much of his boasting was just that. He knew Marcus had proved a favourite with the slave girls of Marius’ house and was rarely to be found in his own room after dark. As for himself, he didn’t know what he felt. Sometimes he wanted Alexandria so much it hurt him and other times he wanted to be chasing the girls along the corridors as Marcus did. He did know that if he ever tried to force her as a slave, he would lose all that he found precious. A silver coin would buy him that kind of union. The idea that Marcus might have already enjoyed what he wanted made his blood thump in irritation.

Marcus broke in on these thoughts, his voice low. ‘You will need friends when you are older, men you can trust. We’ve both seen what sort of power your uncle has and I think both of us would like a taste of it.’

Gaius nodded.

‘Then what good will I be to you as a penniless son of a city whore? I can make my name and fortune in my new legion and then we can make real plans for the future.’

‘I understand. I remember our oath and I will stick to it.’ Gaius was silent for a moment, then shook his head to clear it of thoughts of Alexandria. ‘Where will you be stationed?’

‘I’m with the Fourth Macedonia, so Renius and I are going to Greece – the home of civilisation, they say. I’m looking forward to seeing alien lands. I have heard that the women run races without clothes on, you know. Makes the mind bulge a bit. Not just the mind, either.’ He laughed and Gaius smiled sickly, still thinking of Alexandria. Would she have given herself to him?

‘I’m glad Renius is your escort. It’ll do him good to take his mind off his troubles for a while.’

Marcus grimaced. ‘True, though he won’t be the best of company. He’s been out of sorts ever since he turned up drunk at your uncle’s, but I can understand why.’

‘If the slaves had burned my house down, I’d be a bit lost as well. They even took his savings, you know. Had them under the floor, he said, but they must have been found by looters. That was not a glorious chapter in our history, slaves stealing an old man’s savings. Mind you, he’s not really an old man any more, is he?’

Marcus looked sideways at him. They had never discussed it, but Gaius hadn’t seemed to need telling.

‘Cabera?’ Gaius said, catching his eye.

Marcus nodded.

‘I thought so; he did something similar for me, when I was wounded. He is certainly a useful man to have around.’

‘I am glad he’s staying with you. He has faith in your future. He should be able to keep you alive until I can come back, covered in glory and draped with beautiful women, all of whom will be the winners of foot-races.’

‘I might not recognise you underneath all that glory and those women.’

‘I’ll be the same. I’m sorry I’ll miss the Triumph tomorrow. It should really be something special. You know he has had silver coins printed with his face? He’s going to throw them to the crowds in the streets.’

Gaius laughed. ‘Typical of my uncle. He likes to be recognised. He enjoys fame more than winning battles, I think. He’s already paying the men with those coins so the money gets spread around Rome even faster. It should annoy Sulla at least, which is probably what he really wants.’

Cabera and Renius came out of the darkness and took up the spaces on Marcus’ bench.

‘There you are!’ Renius said. ‘I was beginning to think I couldn’t find you to say goodbye.’

Gaius noted again the fresh strength of the man. He looked no more than forty, or a well-preserved forty-five. His grip was like a trap as he put out his hand and Gaius took it.

‘We’ll all meet again,’ Cabera said.

They looked at him.

He held his palms up and smiled. ‘It’s not a prophecy, but I feel it. We haven’t finished our paths yet.’

‘I’m glad you’re staying, at least. With Tubruk back at the estate and these two off to Greece, I would be all on my own here,’ Gaius said, smiling a little shyly.

‘You look after him, you old scoundrel,’ Renius said. ‘I didn’t go to all the trouble of training him to hear he’s been kicked by a horse. Keep him away from bad women and too much drink.’ He turned to Gaius and held up a finger. ‘Train every day. Your father never let himself become soft and neither should you if you are to be of any use to our city.’

‘I will. What are you going to do when you have delivered Marcus?’

Renius’ face darkened for a second.

‘I don’t know. I don’t have the funds to retire any more, so we’ll see … It is in the hands of the gods as always.’

For a moment, they all looked a little sad. Nothing ever stayed the same.

‘Come on,’ he continued, gruffly. ‘Time for sleep. Dawn can’t be more than a few hours away and we all have a long day ahead of us.’

They shook hands in silence for the last time and returned to their tents.

When Gaius awoke the following morning, Marcus and Renius were gone.

By him, folded carefully, was the toga virilis, a man’s garment. He looked at it for a long time, trying to recall Tubruk’s lessons on the correct way to wear one. A boy’s tunic was so much simpler, and the low toga hem would become dirty very quickly. The message was clear in its simplicity: a man did not climb trees and throw himself through muddy rivers. Boyish pursuits were to be put behind him.

In daylight, the large ten-man tents could be seen stretching into the distance, the orderly lines showing the discipline of the men and their general. Marius had spent most of the month mapping out a six-mile route along the streets that ended, as before, at the Senate steps. The filth had been scrubbed from the stones of the roads, but they were still narrow, winding courses and the legion could get only six men or three horses across. There were going to be just under eleven hundred rows of soldiers, horses and equipment. After a lot of argument with his engineers, Marius had agreed to leave his siege weapons at the camp – there was just no way to get them around the tight corners. The estimate was that it would take three hours to complete the march and that was without hold-ups or mistakes of any kind.

By the time Gaius had washed, dressed and eaten, the sun was clear of the horizon and the great shining mass of soldiers was in position and almost ready to march. Gaius had been told to dress in a full toga and sandals and to leave his weapons in the camp. After so long carrying a legionary’s tools, he felt a little defenceless without them, but obeyed.

Marius himself would be riding on a throne set atop a flat open carriage, pulled by a team of six horses. He would wear a purple toga, a colour that could only be worn by a general at the head of a Triumph. The dye was incredibly expensive, gathered from rare seashells and distilled. It was a garment to wear only once, and the colour of the ancient kings of Rome.

As he passed under the city gates, a slave would raise a gilded laurel wreath above his head and hold it there for the rest of the journey. Four words had to be whispered throughout the Triumph, cheerfully ignored by Marius: ‘Remember thou art mortal.’

The carriage had been put together by the legion engineers, made to fit perfectly between the street stepping stones. The heavy wooden wheels were shod with an iron band and the axles freshly greased. The main body had been gilded and shone in the morning sun as if made of pure gold.

As Gaius approached, the general was inspecting his troops, his expression serious. He spoke to many of the men and they answered him without moving their gaze from the middle distance.

At last, the general seemed satisfied and climbed up onto the carriage.

‘The people of our city will not forget this day. The sight of you will inspire the children to join the forces that keep us all safe. Foreign ambassadors will watch us and be cautious in their dealings with Rome, with the vision of our ranks always in their minds. Merchants will watch us and know there is something more in the world than making money. Women will watch us and compare their little husbands to the best of Rome! See your reflections in the eyes as we pass. You will give the people something more than bread and coin today; you will give them glory.’

The men cheered at the last and Gaius found himself cheering as well. He walked to the throned carriage and Marius saw him.

‘Where shall I stand, Uncle?’ he asked.

‘Up here, lad. Stand at my right shoulder, so that they will know you are beloved of my house.’

Gaius grinned and clambered on, taking position. He could see into the far distance from his new height and felt a thrill of anticipation.

Marius dropped his arm and horns sounded, echoing down the line to the far back. The legionaries took their first step on the hard-packed soil.

On each side of the great gold carriage, Gaius recognised faces from the first bloody trip to the Senate. Even on a day of rejoicing, Marius had his hand-picked men with him. Only a fool would risk a thrown knife with the legion in the streets; they would destroy the city in rage – but Marius had warned his men that there were always fools, and there were no smiles in the ranks.

‘To be alive on such a day is a precious gift of the gods,’ Marius said, his voice carrying.

Gaius nodded and rested his hand on the throne.

‘There are six hundred thousand people in the city and not one of them will be tending his business today. They have already begun lining the streets and buying seats at windows to cheer us through. The roads are strewn with fresh rushes, a carpet for us to walk on for each step of the six miles. Only the forum is being kept clear so that we can halt the whole five thousand in one block there. I shall sacrifice a bull to Jupiter and a boar to Minerva and then you and I, Gaius, we will walk into the Senate to attend our first vote.’

‘What is the vote about?’ Gaius asked.

Marius laughed. ‘A simple matter of officially accepting you into the ranks of the nobilitas and adulthood. In truth, it is only a formality. You have the right through your father, or, indeed, my sponsorship would do it. Remember, this city was built and is maintained on talent. There are the old houses, the pure-bloods; Sulla himself is from one such. But other men are there because they have dragged themselves up to power, as I have. We respect strength and cherish what is good for the city, regardless of the parentage.’

‘Are your supporters from the new men?’ Gaius asked.

Marius shook his head. ‘Strangely enough, no. They are often too wary of being seen to side with one of their own. Many of them support Sulla, but those who follow me are as often high-born as they are new wolves in the fold. The people’s tribunes make a great show of being untouched by politics and take each vote as they find it, although they can always be depended on to vote for cheaper corn or more rights for the slaves. With their veto, they can never be ignored.’

‘Could they prevent my acceptance then?’

Marius chuckled. ‘Take off the worried look. They do not vote in internal matters, such as new members, only in city policy. Even if they did, it would be a brave man to vote against me with my legion standing thousands deep in the forum outside. Sulla and I are consuls – the supreme commanders of all the military might of Rome. We lead the Senate, not the other way around.’ He smiled complacently and called for wine, having the full cup handed to him.

‘What happens if you disagree with the Senate, or with Sulla?’ Gaius asked.

Marius snorted into his wine cup.

‘All too common. The people elect the Senate to make and enforce the laws – and to build the empire. They also elect the other, more senior posts: aediles, praetors and consuls. Sulla and I are here because the people voted for us and the Senate do not forget that. If we disagree, a consul may forbid any piece of legislation and its passage stops immediately. Sulla or I have only to say, “Veto” – I forbid it – as the speeches begin and that is the end for that year. We can also block each other in this way, although that does not happen often.’

‘But how does the Senate control the consuls?’ Gaius pressed, interested.

Marius took a deep draught of the wine and patted his stomach, smiling.

‘They could vote against me, even remove me from office in theory. In practice, my supporters and clients would prevent any such vote going through, so for the whole year, a consul is almost untouchable in power.’

‘You said a consul was only elected for one year and has to step down,’ Gaius said.

‘The law bends for strong men, Gaius. Each year, the Senate clamours for an exception to be made and I should be re-elected. I am good for Rome, you see – and they know it.’

Gaius felt pleased at the quiet conversation, or as quiet as the general ever managed, at least. He understood why his father had been wary of the man. Marius was like summer lightning – it was impossible to tell what he would strike next – but he had the city in the palm of his hand for the moment and Gaius had discovered that was where he too wanted to be: at the centre of things.

They could hear the roar of Rome long before they reached the gates. The sound was like the sea, a formless, crashing wave that engulfed them as they halted at the border tower. City guards approached the golden carriage and Marius stood to receive them. They too were polished and perfectly turned out and they had a formal air.

‘Give your name and state your business,’ one said.

‘Marius, general of the First-Born. I am here. I will hold a Triumph on the streets of Rome.’

The man flushed a little and Marius grinned.

‘You may enter the city,’ the guard said, stepping back and waving the gate open.

Marius leaned close to Gaius as he sat down again.

‘Protocol says I have to ask permission, but this is too fine a day to be polite to guards who couldn’t cut it in the legions. Take us in.’ He signalled and again the horns blew all down the line. The gates opened and the crowd peered around, roaring in excitement. The noise crashed out at the legion and Marius’ driver had to snap the reins sharply to make the horses move on.

The First-Born entered Rome.

‘You must get out of bed now if you want to be ready in time to see the Triumph! Everyone says it will be glorious and your father and mother are already dressed and with their attendants while you lie and drowse!’

Cornelia opened her eyes and stretched, careless of the covers falling away from her golden skin. Her nurse, Clodia, busied herself with the window hangings, parting them to air the room and letting sunshine spill in.

‘Look, the sun is high and you are not even dressed. It is shameless to find you without clothes. What if I was a male, or your father?’

‘He wouldn’t dare come in. He knows I don’t bother with nightclothes when it’s hot.’

Still yawning, Cornelia rose naked from her bed and stretched like a cat, arching her back and pressing her fists into the air. Clodia crossed to the bedroom door and dropped the locking bar in case someone looked in.

‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a dip in the bath before you dress,’ Clodia said, affection spoiling the attempt at a stern tone.

Cornelia nodded and padded through to the bathing room. The water steamed, reminding her that the rest of the house had been up and working since the first moments of dawn. She felt vaguely guilty, but that dissolved in the soothing heat as she swung a leg over the side and climbed in, sighing. It was a luxury she enjoyed, preferring not to wait until the formal bathing session later in the day.

Clodia bustled in after her, carrying an armful of warm linen. She was never still, a woman of immense energy. To a stranger, there was nothing in her dress or manner to indicate her slavery. Even the jewels she wore were real and she chose her clothes from a sumptuous wardrobe.

‘Hurry! Dry yourself with these and put on this mamillare.’

Cornelia groaned. ‘It binds me too tightly to wear on hot days.’

‘It will keep your breasts from hanging like empty bags in a few years.’ Clodia snorted. ‘You’ll be pleased enough to have worn it then. Up! Out of that water, you lazy thing. There’s a glass of water on the side to clean your mouth.’

As Cornelia dabbed her body dry, Clodia laid out her robes and opened a series of small silver boxes of paint and oils.

‘On with this,’ she said, dropping a long white tunic over Cornelia’s outstretched arms. The girl shrugged herself into it and sat at the single table, propping up an oval bronze mirror to see herself.

‘I would like my hair to be curled,’ she said wistfully, holding a lock of it in her fingers. It was a dark gold, but straight for all its thickness.

‘Wouldn’t suit you, Lia. And there’s no time today. I should think your mother is already finished with her ornatrix and will be waiting for us. Simple, understated beauty is what we’re after today.’

‘A little ochre on the lips and cheeks then, unless you want to paint me with that stinking white lead?’

Clodia blew air out of her lips in irritation.

‘It will be a few years before you need to conceal your complexion. What are you now, seventeen?’

‘You know I am, you were drunk at the feast,’ Cornelia replied with a smile, holding still while the colour was applied.

‘I was merry, dear, just as everybody else was. There is nothing wrong with a little drink in moderation, I have always said.’ Clodia nodded to herself as she rubbed in the colours.

‘Now a little powdered antimony around the eyes to make men think they are dark and mysterious and we can start on the hair. Don’t touch it! Hands to yourself, remember, in case you smudge.’

Swiftly and dextrously, Clodia parted the dark-gold hair and gathered it into a chignon at the back, revealing the slender length of Cornelia’s neck. She looked at the face in the mirror and smiled at the effect.

‘Why your father hasn’t found a man for you, I will never know. You’re certainly attractive enough.’

‘He said he’d let me choose and I haven’t found anyone to like yet,’ Cornelia replied, touching the pins in her hair.

Clodia tutted to herself. ‘Your father is a good man, but tradition is important. He should find you a young man with good prospects and you should have a house of your own to run. I think you will enjoy that, somehow.’

‘I’ll take you with me when that happens. I’d miss you if I didn’t, like … a dress that is a bit old and out of fashion but still comfortable, you know?’

‘How beautifully you put your affection for me, my dear,’ Clodia replied, buffeting Cornelia’s head with her hand as she turned away to pick up the robe.

It was a great square of gold cloth that hung down to Cornelia’s knees. It had to be artfully arranged for the best effect, but Clodia had been doing it for years and knew Cornelia’s tastes in the cut and style.

‘It is beautiful – but heavy,’ Cornelia muttered.

‘So are men, dear, as you will find out,’ Clodia replied with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Now run to your parents. We must be early enough to have a good place to watch the Triumph. We’re going to the house of one of your father’s friends.’

‘Oh, Father, you should have lived to see this,’ Gaius whispered as they passed into the streets. The way ahead was dark green, with every spot of stone covered by rushes. The people too wore their best and brightest clothes, a surging throng of colour and noise. Hands were held out and hot, envious eyes watched them. The shops were all boarded shut, as Marius had said. It seemed the whole city had turned out for a holiday to see the great general. Gaius was astonished at the numbers and the enthusiasm. Did they not remember these same soldiers cutting themselves room on the forum only a month before? Marius had said they respected only strength and the proof was in their cheers, booming and echoing in the narrow streets. Gaius glanced to his right into a window and saw a woman of some beauty throwing flowers at him. He caught one and the crowd roared again in appreciation.

Not a soul pushed onto the road, despite the lack of soldiers or guards along the edge. The lesson of the last time had clearly been learned and it was as if there was an invisible barrier holding them back. Even the hard-faced men of Marius’ own guard were grinning as they marched.

Marius sat like a god. He placed his massive hands on the arms of the golden throne and smiled at the crowd. The slave behind him raised the garland of gilded laurel over his head and the shadow fell on his features. Every eye followed his progress. His horses were trained for the battlefield and ignored the yelling people, even when some of the more daring landed flowers around their necks as well.

Gaius stood at the great man’s shoulder as the ride went on and the pride he felt lifted his soul. Would his father have appreciated this? The answer was probably not and Gaius felt a pang of sorrow at that. Marius was right: just to be alive on this day was to touch the gods. He knew he would never forget it and could see in the eyes of the people that they too would store away the moments to warm them in the dark winters of years yet to pass.

Halfway along the route, Gaius saw Tubruk standing on a corner. As their eyes met, Gaius could feel all the history between them. Tubruk raised his arm in a salute and Gaius returned it. The men around Tubruk turned to look at him and wonder at his connection. He nodded as they passed and Gaius nodded back, swallowing down the catch in his throat. He was drunk with emotion and gripped the back of the throne to keep from swaying in the tide of cheering.

Marius gave a signal to two of his men and they climbed onto the carriage, holding soft leather bags. Hands were plunged into the dark recesses and came up glinting with fistfuls of silver coins. Marius’ image went flying over the crowd and they screamed his name as they scrabbled for the metal in his wake. Marius too reached in and his fingers emerged dripping pieces of silver, spraying the coins high with a gesture and laughing as they fell and the crowd dipped to pick up the gifts. He smiled at their pleasure and they blessed him.

From a low window, Cornelia looked out over the bobbing mass of people, pleased to be clear of the crowds. She felt a thrill as Marius drew close on his throne and cheered with the rest. He was a handsome general and the city loved heroes.

There was a young man next to him, too young to be a legionary. Cornelia strained forward to get a better look. He was smiling and his eyes flashed blue as he laughed at something Marius said.

The procession came abreast of where Cornelia and her family watched. She saw coins go flying and the people rush to grab the pieces of silver. Her father, Cinna, sniffed at this.

‘Waste of money. Rome loves a frugal general,’ he said waspishly.

Cornelia ignored him, her gaze on Marius’ companion. He was attractive and healthy-looking, but there was something else about him, about the way he held himself. There was an inner confidence and, as Clodia often said, there was nothing in the world so attractive as confidence.

‘Every mother in Rome will be after that young cockerel for their daughters,’ Clodia whispered at her elbow.

Cornelia blushed and Clodia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and pleasure.

The Triumph passed on for another two hours, but for Cornelia it was wasted time.

The colours and faces had blurred together, the men were heavily draped in flowers and the sun had reached noon by the time they began the entry to the forum. Marius signalled to his driver to put the carriage at the front, by the Senate steps. The space echoed as the hooves struck the stone slabs and the noise of the streets was slowly left behind. For the first time, Gaius could see Sulla’s soldiers guarding the entrances to the plaza and the boiling mass of the crowds beyond.

It was almost peaceful after the colourful riot of the trip into the centre.

‘Stop her here,’ Marius said, and stood from the throne to watch his men come in. They were well drilled and formed tidy ranks, layer on layer from the furthest corner to the Senate steps, until the forum was full of the shining rows of his soldiers. No human voice could carry to every man so a horn gave the order to stand to attention and they crashed their feet together and down, making thunder. Marius smiled with pride. He gripped Gaius’ shoulder.

‘Remember this. This is why we slog through battlefields a thousand miles from home.’

‘I could never forget today,’ Gaius replied honestly and the grip tightened for a moment before letting go.

Marius walked to where a white bull was held steady by four of his men. A great black-bristled boar was similarly held, but snorted and chafed against the ropes.

Marius accepted a taper and lit the incense in a golden bowl. His men bowed their heads and he stepped forward with his dagger, speaking softly as he cut the two throats.

‘Bring us all through war and pestilence, safe home to our city,’ he said. He wiped the blade on the skin of the bull as it sank to its knees, bawling its fear and pain. Sheathing the dagger, he put an arm around Gaius’ shoulder and together they walked up the wide white steps of the Senate building.

It was the seat of power in all the world. Columns that could not be girdled by three large men holding their arms outstretched supported a sloping roof that was itself mounted with distant statues. Bronze doors that dwarfed even Marius stood closed at the top of the steps. Made of interlocking panels, they looked as if they were designed to stand against an army, but as the pair ascended, the doors opened silently, pulled from within. Marius nodded and Gaius swallowed his awe.

‘Come, lad, let us go and meet our masters. It would not do to keep the Senate waiting.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Marcus wondered at the tight expression on Renius’ face as they travelled the road to the sea. From dawn until late in the afternoon, they had trotted and walked the stone surface without a word. He was hungry and desperately thirsty, but would not admit it. He had decided at noon that if Renius wanted to do the whole trip to the docks without stopping, then he would not give up first.

Finally, when the smell of dead fish and seaweed soured the clean country air, Renius pulled up and, to his surprise, Marcus noticed the man was pale.

‘I want to break off here, to see a friend of mine. You can go on to the docks and get a room there. There’s an inn …’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Marcus said, shortly.

Renius’ jaw tightened and he muttered, ‘As you please,’ before turning off the main road onto a lesser track.

Mystified, Marcus followed him as the track wound through woods for miles. He didn’t ask where they were going, just kept his sword loose in his scabbard in case there were bandits hidden in the foliage. Not that a sword would be much use against a bow, he noted.

The sun, where it could be seen at all through the canopy, had dropped down towards the horizon when they rode into a small village. There were no more than twenty small houses, but the place had a well-kept air to it. Chickens were penned and goats tethered outside most dwellings and Marcus felt no sense of danger. Renius dismounted.

‘Are you coming in?’ he said, as he walked to a door.

Marcus nodded, and tied the two horses to a post. Renius was inside by the time he was done and he frowned, resting a hand on his dagger as he went in. It was a little dark inside, lit only by a candle and a small fire in the hearth, but Marcus could see Renius hugging an ancient old man with his one good arm.

‘This is my brother, Primus. Primus, this is the lad I mentioned, travelling with me to Greece.’

The man must have been eighty years old, but he had a firm grip.

‘My brother has written about your progress and the other one, Gaius. He doesn’t like anyone, but I think he dislikes you two less than most people.’

Marcus grunted.

‘Take a seat, boy. We have a long night ahead of us.’ He went over to his small wood fire and placed a long metal poker in its fiery heart.

‘What is happening?’ Marcus asked.

Renius sighed. ‘My brother was a surgeon. He is going to take my arm off.’

Marcus felt a sick horror come over him as he realised what he was going to see. Guilt too flushed his face. He hoped Renius wouldn’t mention how he had been injured. To cover his embarrassment, he spoke quickly. ‘Lucius or Cabera could have done it, I’m sure.’

Renius silenced him with a raised hand.

‘Many people could do the job, but Primus was … is the best.’

Primus cackled, revealing a mouth with very few teeth.

‘My little brother used to chop people up and I would stitch them back together,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let us have a light for this.’ He turned to an oil lamp and lit it from a candle. When he turned back, he squinted at Renius.

‘I know my eyes are not what they were, but did you dye your hair?’

Renius flushed. ‘I do not want to be told your eyes are failing before you start cutting me, Primus. I am ageing well, that is all.’

‘Damned well,’ Primus agreed.

He emptied a leather satchel of tools onto a table surface and gestured to his brother to sit down. Looking at the saws and needles, Marcus wished he had taken the advice and gone on to the docks, but it was too late. Renius sat and sweat dripped from his forehead. Primus gave him a bottle of brown liquid and he raised it, taking great swallows.

‘You, boy, get that rope and tie him to the chair. I don’t want him thrashing around and breaking my furniture.’

Feeling sick, Marcus took the lengths of rope, noting with a quiet horror that they were all stained with ancient blood. He busied himself with the knots and tried not to think about it.

After a few minutes, Renius was immobile and Primus poured the last of the brown liquid into his throat.

‘That’s all I have, I’m afraid. It will take the edge off, but not much.’

‘Just get on with it,’ Renius growled through clenched teeth.

Primus raised a thick piece of leather to his mouth and told him to bite it.

‘It will save your teeth, at least.’

He turned to Marcus. ‘You hold the arm still. It will make the sawing quicker.’ He placed Marcus’ hands on the corded bicep and checked the ropes held the wrist and elbow securely. He slid a vicious-looking blade from his pack and held it up to the light, squinting at the edge.

‘I will cut a circle around the bone, then another below it to give the saws room. We will take out a ring of flesh, saw the bone and cauterise the leaks. It must be fast, or he will bleed to death. I will leave enough skin to fold over the stump, then it must be bound securely. He must not touch it for the first week, then he should rub in an ointment I will give you each morning and night. I have no leather cup for the stump, you will have to make or buy one yourself.’

Marcus swallowed nervously.

Primus plunged his fingers into the muscles and nerves of the useless arm, feeling around. After a minute, he tutted to himself, his face sad.

‘It is as you said. There is no feeling at all. The muscles are cut and beginning to waste. Was it a fight?’

Involuntarily, Marcus glanced up at Renius. The eyes above the bared teeth were manic and he looked away. ‘A training accident,’ he said softly, his voice muffled by the leather strap.

Primus nodded and pressed the blade to the skin. Renius tensed and Marcus gripped the arm.

With deft, sure strokes, Primus cut deep, stopping only to dab at the wound with a piece of cloth to remove obscuring gouts of blood. Marcus felt his stomach heave, but Renius’ brother seemed completely relaxed, blowing air between his teeth in something close to a little tune. White bone sheathed in a pink curtain appeared and Primus grunted in satisfaction. After only a few seconds, he had reached the bone all the way around and begun the second cut.

Renius looked down at the gory hands of his brother and his lip curled into a bitter grimace. After that, he stared at the wall, his jaw clenched. A slight tremble of his breathing was the only sign of his fear.

Blood spilled over Marcus’ hands, the chair, the floor, everything. There were lakes of it inside Renius and it was all coming out, shining and wet. The second ring was gouged out leaving great flaps of hanging skin. Primus notched and sliced, removing the dark lumps of meat and dropping them carelessly on the floor.

‘Don’t worry about the mess. I have two dogs that will love this when I let them in.’

Marcus turned his head away and vomited helplessly. Primus tutted and rearranged the hands that held the arm. A white spike of bone was visible a hand’s breadth up from the elbow.

Renius had begun to breathe in hard blasts from his nose and Primus pressed a hand against his brother’s neck, feeling for the pulse.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he muttered.

Renius nodded, unblinking.

Primus stood up and wiped his hands on a cloth. He looked his brother in the eyes and grimaced at what he found there.

‘This is the hard part. You will feel the pain when I cut the bone and the vibration is very unpleasant. I will be as fast as I can. Hold him very still. For two minutes, you must be like a rock. No more of this puking, understand?’

Marcus took deep breaths, miserably, and Primus brought out a thin-bladed saw, set in a wooden handle like a kitchen knife.

‘Ready?’

They both muttered assent and Primus set the blade and began to cut, his elbow moving back and forth almost in a blur.

Renius went rigid and his whole body rose against the ropes holding him. Marcus gripped as if his life depended on it, and winced whenever the blood made his fingers slip and the saw snagged.

Without warning, the arm came free, leaning sideways and away from Renius. Renius looked down at it and grunted in anger. Primus wiped his hands and pressed a wad of cloth into the wound. He gestured to Marcus to hold it in place and fetched the iron bar that had been heating in the fire. The tip glowed and Marcus winced in anticipation.

When the cloth was removed, Primus worked quickly, stabbing the tip into every spot of welling blood. Each contact sizzled and the stench was horrible. Marcus dry-heaved onto the floor, a line of sticky yellow bile connecting him with it.

‘Put this back in the fire, quickly. I will hold the cloth while it heats again.’

Marcus staggered upright and took the bar, jamming it back into the flames. Renius’ head lolled on his shoulders and the leather strip fell from his slack mouth.

Primus kept holding the cloth, then removing it to watch the blood come. He swore viciously.

‘I’ve missed half the pipes at least. Used to be, I could hit each one with one go, but I haven’t done this in a few years. It has to be done right, or the wound will poison itself. Is the iron ready yet?’

Marcus withdrew it, but the point was still black. ‘No. Will he be all right?’

‘Not if I can’t seal the wound, no. Get outside and fetch some wood to build up the fire.’

Marcus was thankful for the excuse and left quickly, taking great gulps of sweet air as he stood outside. It was almost dark – gods, how long had they been in there? He noticed a couple of large hounds tied to a wall around the side, asleep. He shuddered and gathered heavy chunks of wood from the pile near them. They woke at his approach and growled softly, but didn’t get up. Without looking at them, he went back inside, dumping two billets onto the flames.

‘Bring me the iron as soon as the tip is red,’ Primus muttered, pressing the wad of cloth hard against the stump.

Marcus avoided looking at the detached arm. It seemed wrong, away from a body, and his stomach heaved in a series of quick spasms before he had the sense to gaze back at the flames.

Once more the bar had to be reheated before Primus was finally satisfied. Marcus knew he would never be able to forget the fsss sound of the burning and repressed a shudder as he helped bind the stump in clean cloth bandages. Together, they lifted Renius onto a pallet bed in another room and Marcus sat on the edge, wiping the sweat out of his eyes and thankful it was over.

‘What happens to … that?’ He gestured towards the arm that was still tied to the chair.

Primus shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem right to give the whole thing to my dogs. I’ll probably bury it somewhere in the woods. It would only rot and smell if I didn’t, but a lot of men ask for them. There are so many memories wrapped up in a hand. I mean, those fingers have held women and patted children. It is a lot to lose; but my brother is strong. I hope strong enough even for this.’

‘Our ship leaves in four days, on the best tide,’ Marcus said, weakly.

Primus scratched his chin. ‘He can sit a horse. He will be weak for a few days, but he’s as strong as a bull. The problems will be with balance. He will have to retrain, almost from scratch. How long is the sea trip?’

‘A month, with good winds,’ Marcus replied.

‘Use the time. Practise with him every day. Of all men, my brother will not enjoy being less than capable.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Marius paused at the inner doors of the Senate chamber.

‘You are not allowed to enter until you are officially accepted as a citizen, and then only as my guest for the day. I will propose you and make a short speech on your behalf. It is a formality. Wait until I return and show you where you may sit.’

Gaius nodded calmly and stood back as Marius rapped on the doors and walked through them as they opened. He was left alone in the outer chamber and paced up and down it for a while.

After twenty minutes, he began to fret at the delay and wandered over to the open outer doors, looking down onto the massed soldiers in the forum. They were an impressive sight, standing rigidly to attention despite the heat of the day. From the height of the Senate doors and with the open plaza ahead of him, Gaius had a good view of the bustling city beyond. He was lost in his inspection of this when he heard the creak of hinges from the inner doors and Marius stepped out.

‘Welcome to the nobilitas, Gaius. You are a citizen of Rome and your father would be proud. Sit next to me and listen to the matters of the day. You will find them interesting, I suspect.’

Gaius followed and met the eyes of the senators as they watched him enter. One or two nodded to him and he wondered if they had known his father, memorising faces in case he had a chance to speak to them later on. He glanced around the hall, trying not to stare. The world listened to what these few had to say.

The arrangement was very like the circus in miniature, he thought, as he took the seat Marius indicated. Five stepped tiers of seating curled around a central space where one speaker at a time could address the others. Gaius remembered from his tutors that the rostrum was made from the prow of a Carthaginian warship and was fascinated to imagine its history.

The seats were built into the curving rows, with dark wooden arms protruding where they were not obscured by seated men. Everyone wore white togas and sandals and the effect was of a working room, a place that crackled with energy. Most of the men had white hair, but a few were young and physically commanding. Several of the senators were standing and he guessed this was to show they wanted to raise a point or add to the debate at hand. Sulla himself stood at the centre of it all, talking about taxation and corn. He smiled at Gaius when he saw the young man looking over at him and Gaius felt the power of it. Here was another like Marius, he judged on the instant, but was there room in Rome for two of that kind? Sulla looked as he had when Gaius had seen him at the games. He was dressed in a simple white toga, belted with a band of red. His hair was oiled and gleamed in dark-gold curls. He glowed with health and vitality and seemed completely relaxed. As Gaius took his seat next to his uncle, Sulla coughed into his hand, delicately.

‘I think, given the more serious business of the day, that this taxation debate can be postponed until next week. Are there any objections?’ Those who were standing sat down, looking unperturbed. Sulla smiled again, revealing even, white teeth.

‘I welcome the new citizen and offer the hope of the Senate that he will serve the city as well as his father did.’ There was a murmur of approval and Gaius dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.

‘However, our formal welcome must also be put aside for the moment. I have received grave news of a threat to the city this very morning.’ He paused and waited patiently for the senators to stop talking. ‘To the east, a Greek general, Mithridates, has overrun a garrison of ours in Asia Minor. He may have as many as eight thousand men in rebellion. They have apparently become aware of the overstretched state of our current fighting forces and are gambling on our being too weak to regain the territory. However, if we do not act to repel him, we risk his army growing in strength and threatening the security of our Greek possessions.’

Several senators rose to their feet and shouted arguments began on the benches. Sulla held his hands up for quiet.

‘A decision must be made here. The legions already in Greece are committed to controlling the unstable borders. They do not have the men to break this new threat. We cannot leave the city defenceless, especially after the most recent riots, but it is of equal importance that we send a legion to meet the man in the field. Greece is watching to see how we will respond – it must be with speed and fury.’

Heads nodded in violent agreement. Rome had not been built on caution and compromise. Gaius looked at Marius in sudden thought. The general sat with his hands clenched in front of him and his face was tight and cold.

‘Marius and I command a legion each. We are months closer than any other from the north. The decision I put to the vote is which of the two should take ship to meet the enemy army.’

He flashed a look at Marius and, for the first time, Gaius could see the bright malice in his eyes. Marius rose to his feet and the chamber hushed. Those standing sat to allow the first response to the other consul. Marius put his hands behind his back and Gaius could see the whiteness of his knuckles.

‘I find no fault with Sulla’s proposed course of action. The situation is clear: our forces must be split to defend Rome and our foreign dominions. I must ask him whether he will volunteer to be the one to banish the invader.’

All eyes turned to Sulla.

‘I will trust the judgement of the Senate on this. I am a servant of Rome. My personal wishes do not come into it.’

Marius smiled tightly and the tension could be felt in the air between them.

‘I concur,’ Marius said clearly, and took his seat.

Sulla looked relieved and cast his gaze around the vaulted room.

‘Then it is a simple choice. I will say the name of each legion and those who believe that is the one to fight Mithridates will stand up and be counted. The rest will stand when they hear the second name. No man may abstain in such a vote on the security of the city. Are we all agreed?’

The three hundred senators murmured their assent solemnly and Sulla smiled. Gaius felt fear touch him. Sulla paused for a long moment, clearly enjoying the tension. At last he spoke one word into the silence.

‘First-Born.’

Marius placed his hand on Gaius’ shoulder. ‘You may not vote today, lad.’

Gaius remained on his seat, craning around him to see how many would stand. Marius looked levelly at Sulla, as if the matter were of no importance to him. It seemed that all around them men were getting up and Gaius knew his uncle had lost. Then the noises stopped and no more men stood. He looked down at the handsome consul standing at the centre and could see Sulla’s face change from relaxed pleasure to disbelief, then fury. He made the count and had it checked by two others until they agreed.

‘One hundred and twenty-one in favour of the First-Born dealing with the invader.’

He bit his lip, his expression brutal for a second. His gaze fastened on Marius, who shrugged and looked away. The standing men sat.

‘Second Alaudae,’ Sulla whispered, his voice carrying on the well-crafted acoustics of the hall. Again, men stood, and Gaius could see it was a majority. Whatever plan Sulla had attempted had failed and Gaius saw him wave the senators to their seats without allowing the count to be properly finished and recorded. Visibly, he gathered himself and when he spoke he was again the charming young man Gaius had seen when he entered.

‘The Senate has spoken and I am the servant of the Senate,’ he said formally. ‘I trust Marius will use the city barracks for his own men in my absence?’

‘I will,’ said Marius, his face calm and still.

Sulla went on: ‘With the support of our forces in Asia Minor, I do not see this as a long campaign. I will return to Rome as soon as I have crushed Mithridates. Then we will decide the future of this city.’ He said the last looking straight at Marius and the message was clear.

‘I will have my men vacate the barracks this evening. If there is no further business? Good day to you all.’ Sulla left the chamber, with a group of his supporters falling in behind him. The pressure disappeared in the room and suddenly everyone was speaking, chuckling or looking thoughtfully at each other.

Marius stood and immediately there was quiet.

‘Thank you for your trust, gentlemen. I will guard this city well against all comers.’ Gaius noted that Sulla could well be one of those Marius would guard against, when he returned.

Senators crowded around his uncle, a few shaking his hand in open congratulation. Marius pulled Gaius to him with one hand and reached out with the other to take the shoulder of a scrawny man, who smiled at them both.

‘Crassus, this is my nephew, Gaius. You would not believe it to look at him, but Crassus here is probably the richest man in Rome.’

The man had a long, thin neck and his head bobbed at the end of it, with warm brown eyes twinkling in a mass of tiny wrinkles.

‘I have been blessed by the gods, it is true. I also have two beautiful daughters.’

Marius chuckled. ‘One is tolerably attractive, Crassus, but the other takes after her father.’

Internally, Gaius winced at this, but Crassus didn’t seem to mind at all. He laughed ruefully.

‘That is true, she is a little bony. I will have to give her a large dowry to tempt the young men of Rome.’ He faced Gaius and put out his hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, young man. Will you be a general like your uncle?’

‘I will,’ Gaius said seriously.

Crassus smiled. ‘Then you will need money. Come to me when you need a backer?’

Gaius took the offered hand, gripping it briefly before Crassus moved away into the crowd.

Marius leaned over to him and muttered in his ear, ‘Well done. He has been a loyal friend to me and he has incredible wealth. I will arrange for you to visit his estate, it is astonishing in its opulence. Now, there is one other I want you to meet. Come with me.’

Gaius followed him through the knots of senators as they talked over the events of the day and Sulla’s humiliation. Gaius noted that Marius shook hands with every man who met his eye, saying a few words of congratulation, asking after families and absent friends. He left each group smiling.

Across the other side of the Senate hall, a group of three men were talking quietly, stopping as soon as Marius and Gaius approached.

‘This is the man, Gaius,’ Marius said cheerfully. ‘Gnaeus Pompey, who is described by his supporters as the best field general Rome has at present – when I am ill, or out of the country.’

Pompey shook hands with them both, smiling affably. Unlike the spare Crassus, he was a little overweight, but he was as tall as Marius and carried it well, creating an impression of solid bulk. Gaius guessed him to be no more than thirty, which made his military status very impressive.

‘There is no possibility about it, Marius,’ Pompey replied. ‘Truly I am wondrous in the field of battle. Strong men weep at the beauty of my manoeuvres.’

Marius laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

Pompey looked Gaius up and down. ‘A younger version of you, old fox?’ he said to Marius.

‘What else could he be, with my blood in his veins?’

Pompey clasped his hands behind his back.

‘Your uncle has taken a terrible risk today, by pushing Sulla out of Rome. What did you think of it?’

Marius began to reply, but Pompey held up a hand.

‘Let him speak, old fox. Let me see if he has anything to him.’

Gaius answered without hesitation, the words coming surprisingly easily.

‘It is a dangerous move to offend Sulla, but my uncle enjoys gambles of this kind. Sulla is the servant of the city and will fight well against this foreign king. When he returns, he will have to make an accommodation with my uncle. Perhaps we can extend the barracks so that both legions can protect the city.’

Pompey blinked and turned to Marius. ‘Is he a fool?’

Marius chuckled. ‘No. He just doesn’t know if I trust you or not. I suspect he has already guessed my plans.’

‘What will your uncle do when Sulla returns?’ Pompey whispered, close to Gaius’ ear.

Gaius looked around, but there was no one close enough to overhear, except for the three Marius obviously trusted.

‘He will close the gates. If Sulla tries to force an entry, the Senate will have to declare him an enemy of Rome. He will have to either begin a siege or retreat. I suspect he will put himself at Marius’ command, as any general in the field might do to the consul of Rome.’

Pompey agreed, unblinking. ‘A dangerous path, Marius, as I said. I cannot support you openly, but I will do my best for you in private. Congratulations on your triumphal march. You looked splendid.’ He gestured to the two with him and they walked away.

Gaius began to speak again, but Marius shook his head.

‘Let us go outside, the air is thick with intrigue in here.’ They moved towards the doors and, outside, Marius put a finger to his lips to stop Gaius’ questions. ‘Not here. There are too many listeners.’

Gaius glanced around and saw that some of Sulla’s senators were close, staring over with undisguised hostility. He followed Marius out into the forum, taking a seat on the stone steps away from where they could be overheard. Nearby, the First-Born still stood to attention, looking invincible in their shining armour. It was a peculiar feeling to be in the presence of thousands and yet to sit relaxed with his uncle on the very steps of the Senate.

Gaius could not hold it in any longer.

‘How did you swing the vote against Sulla?’

Marius began to laugh and wiped his forehead free of sudden perspiration.

‘Planning, my lad. I knew of the landing of Mithridates almost as soon as it happened, days before Sulla heard. I used the oldest lever in the world to persuade the waverers in the Senate to vote for me and, even then, it was closer than I would have liked. It cost me a fortune, but from tomorrow morning I have control of Rome.’

‘He will be back, though,’ Gaius warned.

Marius snorted. ‘In six months or longer, perhaps. He could be killed on the battlefield, he could even lose to Mithridates; I have heard he is a canny general. Even if Sulla beats him in double time and finds fair sea winds to Greece and back, I will have months to prepare. He will leave as easily as he likes, but I tell you now, he won’t get back in without a fight.’

Gaius shook his head in disbelief at this confirmation of his thoughts.

‘What happens now? Do we go back to your house?’

Marius smiled a little sadly in response. ‘No. I had to sell it for the bribes – Sulla was already bribing them, you see, and I had to double his offers in most cases. It took everything I own, except my horse, my sword and my armour. I may be the first penniless general Rome has ever had.’ He laughed quietly.

‘If you had lost the vote, you would have lost everything!’ Gaius whispered, shocked by the stakes.

‘But I did not lose! I have Rome and my legion stands in front of us.’

‘What would you have done if you had lost, though?’

Marius blew air through his lips in disdain. ‘I would have left to fight Mithridates, of course. Am I not a servant of the city? Mind you, it would have taken a brave man to accept my bribe and still vote against me with my legion waiting just outside, wouldn’t it? We must be thankful that the Senate value gold as much as they do. They think of new horses and slaves, but they have never been poor as I was poor. I value gold only for what it brings me and this is where it has put me down – on these steps, with the greatest city in the world at my back. Cheer up, lad, this is a day for celebration, not regrets.’

‘No, it’s not that. I was just thinking that Marcus and Renius are heading east to join the Fourth Macedonia. There’s a fair chance they will meet this Mithridates coming the other way.’

‘I hope not. Those two would have that Greek for breakfast and I want Sulla to have something to do when he gets there.’

Gaius laughed and they stood up together. Marius looked at his legion and Gaius could feel the joy and pride burning out of him.

‘This has been a good day. You have met the men of power in the city and I have been loved by the people and backed by the Senate. By the way, that slave girl of yours, the pretty one? I’d sell her if I were you. It’s one thing to tumble a girl a few times, but you seem to be sweet on her and that will lead to trouble.’

Gaius looked away, biting his lip. Were there no secrets?

Marius continued blithely, unaware of his companion’s discomfort.

‘Have you even tried her yet? No? Maybe that will get her out of your system. I know a few good houses here if you want to get a little experience in first. Just ask when you’re ready.’

Gaius did not reply, his cheeks hot.

Marius stood and looked with obvious pride at the Primigenia legion ranked before them.

‘Shall we march the men over to the city barracks, lad? I think they could do with a good meal and a decent night’s sleep after all this marching and standing in the sun.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Marcus looked out onto the Mediterranean Sea and breathed in the warm air, heavy with salt. After a week at sea, boredom had set in. He knew every inch of the small trading vessel and had even helped in the hold, counting amphorae of thick oil and ebony planking transported from Africa. For a while, his interest had been kindled by the hundreds of rats below the decks and he spent two days crawling to their nests in the darkness, armed with a dagger and a marble paperweight stolen from the captain’s cabin. After throwing dozens of the little bodies overboard, they had learned to recognise his smell or his careful tread, retreating into crevices deep in the wood of the ship the moment he set foot on the ladder below.

He sighed and watched the sunset, still awed by the colours of the sinking sun out at sea. As a passenger, he could have stayed in his cabin for the whole journey, as Renius seemed determined to do, but the tiny, cramped space offered nothing in terms of amusement and Marcus had quickly come to use it only to sleep.

The captain had allowed him to stand watch and he had even tried his hand at controlling the two great steering oars at the back, or what he had learned to call the stern, but his interest soon paled.

‘Another couple of weeks of this will kill me,’ he muttered to himself, using his knife to cut his initials into the wooden rail. A scuffling noise sounded behind him, but he didn’t turn, just smiled and kept watching the sunset. There was silence and then another noise, the sort a small body might make if it was shifting for comfort.

Marcus spun and launched his knife underarm, as Renius had once taught him. It thudded into the mast and quivered. There was a squeak of terror and a flash of dirty white feet in the darkness as something scuttled deeper into shadow, trying too hard to be silent.

Marcus strolled over to the knife and freed it with a wrench. Sliding it back into the waist sheath, he squinted into the blackness.

‘Come out, Peppis, I know you’re in there,’ he called. He heard a sniff. ‘I wouldn’t have hit you with the knife, it was just a joke. Honestly.’

Slowly, a skeletal little boy emerged from behind some sacking. He was filthy almost beyond belief and his eyes were wide with fear.

‘I was just watching you,’ Peppis said, nervously.

Marcus looked more closely at him, noticing a small crust of dried blood under his nose and a purple bruise over one eye.

‘Have the men been beating you again?’ he said, trying to make his voice friendly.

‘A little, but it was my fault. I tripped on a rope and pulled a knot undone. I didn’t mean to but Firstmate said he would teach me to be clumsy. I’m already clumsy, though, so I said I didn’t need no teaching and then he knocked me about.’ He sniffed again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a silvery trail.

‘Why don’t you run away at a port?’ Marcus asked.

Peppis puffed his chest out as far as it would go, revealing his ribs like white sticks under his skin.

‘Not me. I’m going to be a sailor when I’m older. I’m learning all the time, just by watching the men. I can tie ever so many knots now. I could have retied that rope today if Firstmate woulda let me, but he didn’t know that.’

‘Do you want me to have a word with the … first mate? Tell him to stop the beatings?’

Peppis turned even paler and shook his head. ‘He’d kill me if you do, maybe this trip or maybe on the way back. He’s always saying if I can’t learn to be a sailor, he’ll put me over the side some night when I’m sleeping. That’s why I don’t sleep in my bunk, but out here on the decks. I move around a lot so he won’t know where to find me if he thinks it’s time.’

Marcus sighed. He felt sorry for the little boy, but there was no simple answer to his problems. Even if the first mate were quietly put over the side himself, Peppis would be tortured by the others. They all took part and the first time Marcus had mentioned it to Renius, the old gladiator had laughed and said there was one like him on every ship of the sea. Even so, it galled Marcus to have the boy hurt. He had never forgotten what it was like to be at the mercy of bullies like Suetonius and he knew that if he had built the wolf trap, and not Gaius, he would have dropped rocks in and crushed the older boy. He sighed again and stood up, stretching tired muscles.

Where would he have ended up if Gaius’ parents hadn’t looked after him and brought him up? He could very easily have stowed away on a trade ship and have been in just the sort of horrible position Peppis found himself. He would never have been trained to fight or defend himself and lack of food would have made him weak and sickly.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you won’t let me help you with the sailors, at least let me share my food with you. I don’t eat much anyway and I’ve been sending some of it back, especially in rough water. All right? You stay there and I’ll bring you something.’

Peppis nodded silently and, a little cheered, Marcus went below decks to his cramped cabin to fetch the cheese and bread left for him earlier. In truth, he was hungry, but he could go without and the little boy was practically starved to death.

Leaving Peppis to chew on the food, Marcus wandered back to the steering oars, knowing that the first mate took a turn about midnight. Like Peppis, he’d never heard the man’s real name. Everyone called him by his station and he seemed to do his job well enough, keeping the crew in line with a hard hand. The little ship Lucidae had a reputation for honest dealing too, with very little of the cargo ever going missing on voyages. Other ships had to write off such small losses to keep their crews happy, but not the owners of the Lucidae.

Marcus brightened as he saw the man had already taken his place, holding one of the two great rudders steady against the currents and chatting in a low voice to his partner on the other.

‘A fine evening,’ he said, as he came close.

Firstmate grunted and nodded. He had to be polite to paying passengers, but bare civility was all he would offer. He was a powerfully built man and held the rudder with only one arm, while his companion threw his weight and both shoulders into the task of holding his steady. The other man said nothing and Marcus recognised him as one of the crew, tall and long-armed with a shaven skull. He gazed steadfastly ahead, engrossed in his task and the feel of the wood in his hands.

‘I’d like to buy one of the crew as a slave. Who should I talk to?’ Marcus said, keeping his voice amiable.

Firstmate blinked in surprise, and two gazes rested on the young Roman.

‘We’re free men,’ the other said, his voice showing his distaste.

Marcus looked disconcerted. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean one of you, of course. I meant the boy Peppis. He’s not on the crew lists. I checked, so I thought he might be available for sale. I need a boy to carry my sword and …’

‘I’ve seen you on the decks,’ the first mate rumbled from deep in his chest. ‘You were making angry faces when we were giving him his lessons. I reckon you’re one of those soft city lads who thinks we’re too hard on the ship boys. Either that or you want him in your bed. Which is it?’

Marcus smiled slowly, revealing his teeth.

‘Oh dear. That sounds like an insult, my friend. You’d better let that rudder go, so I can give you a lesson myself.’

The first mate opened his mouth to retort and Marcus hit it. For a while, the Lucidae wandered off course over the dark sea.

Renius woke him by shaking him roughly.

‘Wake up! The captain wants to see you.’

Marcus groaned. His face and upper body were a mass of heavy bruises. Renius whistled softly as he stood up and, wincing, began to dress. Using his tongue, he found a loose tooth and pulled out the water pot under his bed to spit bloody phlegm into it.

With the part of his mind that was active, he was pleased to notice that Renius was wearing his iron breastplate and had his sword strapped on. The stump of his arm was bound with clean bandages and the depression that had kept him in his cabin for the first weeks seemed to have disappeared. When Marcus had pulled on his tunic and wrapped a cloak against the cold morning breeze, Renius held the door open.

‘Someone beat the first mate into the ground last night, and another man with him,’ Renius said, cheerfully.

Marcus put his hand up to his face and felt a ridge of split skin on his cheek.

‘Did he say who did it?’ he muttered.

‘He says he was jumped from behind, in the dark. He has a broken shoulder, you know.’ Renius had definitely lost his depression, but Marcus decided that the new, chuckling Renius was not really an improvement.

The captain was a Greek named Epides. He was a short, energetic man with a beard that looked as if it was pasted on, without a troublesome hair out of place on his face. He stood up as Marcus and Renius entered and rested his hands on his desk, which was held to the floor against the rocking of the ship with heavy iron manacles. Each finger had a valuable stone set into gold on it and they glittered with every movement. The rest of the room was simple, as befitted a working trader. There was no luxury and nowhere to look but the man himself, who glared at both of them.

‘Let’s not try the protestations of innocence,’ he said. ‘My first mate has a broken shoulder and collarbone and you did it.’

Marcus tried to speak, but the captain interrupted.

‘He won’t identify you, Zeus himself knows why. If he did, I’d have you flogged raw on the decks. As it is, you will take up his duties for the remainder of this trip and I will be sending a letter to your legion commander about the sort of ill-disciplined lout he is taking on. You are hereby signed on as crew for this voyage, as is my right as captain of Lucidae. If I discover you are shirking your duties in any way, I will flog you. Do you understand?’

Marcus again began to answer, but this time Renius stopped him, speaking quietly and reasonably.

‘Captain. When the lad accepted his position in the Fourth Macedonia, he became, from that moment, a member of that legion. As you are in a difficult position, he will volunteer to replace the first mate until we make land in Greece. However, it will be I who makes sure he does not shirk his duties. If he is flogged by your order, I will come up here and rip your heart out. Do we understand each other?’ His voice remained calm, almost friendly, right to the end.

Epides paled slightly and raised a hand to smooth his beard in a nervous gesture.

‘Just make sure he does the job. Now get out and report to the second mate for work.’

Renius looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly, turning to the door and allowing Marcus to walk through first before following.

Left alone, Epides sank into his chair and dipped a hand into a bowl of rosewater, dabbing it onto his neck. Then he composed himself and smiled grimly as he gathered his writing materials. For a while, he mused over the clever, sharp retorts he should have made. Threatened by Renius, by all the gods! When he returned home, the story he would tell would include the blistering ripostes, but, at the actual moment, something naked and violent in the man’s eyes had stopped his mouth.

The second mate was a dour man from northern Italy called Parus. He said very little as Marcus and Renius reported to him, just outlined the daily tasks for a first mate of a trader, ending with the stint on the rudder at around midnight.

‘Won’t seem right, calling you first mate, with him still below decks.’

‘I’ll be doing his job for him. You’ll call me by his name while I’m doing it,’ Marcus replied.

The man stiffened. ‘What are you, sixteen? The men won’t like it either,’ he said.

‘Seventeen,’ Marcus lied smoothly. ‘The men will get used to it. Maybe we’d better see them now.’

‘Have you sailed before?’ Parus asked.

‘First trip, but you tell me what needs doing and I’ll get it done. All right?’

Puffing out his cheeks in obvious disgust, Parus nodded. ‘I’ll get the men on deck.’

‘I’ll get the men on deck, First Mate,’ Marcus said clearly through his swollen lips. His eyes glinted dangerously and Parus wondered how he’d beaten Firstmate in a fight and why the man wouldn’t identify him to the captain when any fool could see who it had been.

‘First Mate,’ he agreed sullenly and left them.

Marcus turned to Renius, who was looking askance at him.

‘What are you thinking?’ Marcus asked.

‘I’m thinking you’d better watch your back, or you won’t ever see Greece,’ Renius replied seriously.

All the crew who weren’t actively working gathered on the small deck. Marcus counted fifteen sailors, with another five on the rudders and sail rigging around.

Parus cleared his throat for their attention.

‘Since Firstmate’s arm is broken, the captain says the job belongs to this one for the rest of the trip. Get back to work.’

The men turned to go and Marcus took a step forward, furious.

‘Stay where you are,’ he bellowed, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. He had their attention for a moment and he didn’t intend to waste it.

‘Now you all know I broke Firstmate’s arm, so I’m not going to deny it. We had a difference of opinion and we fought over it, that’s the end of the story. I don’t know why he hasn’t told the captain who it was, but I respect him a bit more for it. I’ll do his job as best I’m able, but I’m no sailor and you know that too. You work with me and I won’t mind if you tell me when I’m wrong. But if you tell me I’m wrong, you’d better be right. Fair enough?’

There was a mutter from the assembled men.

‘If you’re no sailor, you ain’t going to know what you’re doing. What use is a farmer on a trade ship?’ called a heavily tattooed sailor. He was sneering and Marcus responded quickly, colouring in anger.

‘First thing is for me to walk the ship and speak to each one of you. You tell me exactly what your job is and I’ll do it. If I can’t do it, I’ll go back to the captain and tell him I’m not up to the job. Anyone object?’

There was silence. A few of them looked interested at the challenge, but most faces were bluntly hostile. Marcus clenched his jaw and felt the loose tooth grate.

He pulled his dagger from his belt and held it up. It was a well-crafted weapon, given to him by Marius as a parting gift. Not lavishly decorated, it was nonetheless an expensive piece, with a bronze wire handle.

‘If any man can do something I can’t do, I will give him this, presented to me by General Marius of the Primigenia. Dismissed.’

This time, there was much more interest in the faces, and a number of the sailors looked at the blade he still held as they went back to their tasks.

Marcus turned to Renius and the gladiator shook his head slowly in disbelief.

‘Gods, you’re green. That’s too good a blade to throw away,’ he said.

‘I won’t lose it. If I have to prove myself to the crew, that’s what I’ll do. I’m fit enough. How hard can these jobs be?’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Marcus clung to the mast crosspiece with a knuckle-whitening grip. At this, the highest point of the Lucidae, it seemed as if he was swinging with the mast from one horizon to the other. The sea below was spattered grey with choppy white waves, no danger to the sturdy little vessel. His stomach heaved and every part of him responded with discomfort. All his bruises had stiffened by noon and now he found it hard to turn his head to the right without pain sending black and white spots into his vision.

Above him, barefoot and standing without support on the spar, was a sailor, the first to try to win the dagger. The man grinned without malice, but the challenge was clear – Marcus had to join him and risk falling into the sea, or, worse, onto the deck far below.

‘These masts didn’t look so tall from below,’ Marcus grunted through clenched teeth.

The sailor walked over to him, perfectly balanced and adjusting his weight all the time to the roll and pitch of the ship.

‘Tall enough to kill you. Firstmate could walk the spar though, so I think you’ll just have to make your choice.’

He waited patiently, occasionally checking knots and ropes for tautness out of habit. Marcus gritted his teeth and heaved himself over the crosspiece, resting his unruly stomach on it. He could see the other men below and noted that a few of the faces were turned upwards to see him succeed, or perhaps to be sure of getting out of the way if he fell – he didn’t know.

The tip of the mast, festooned with ropes, lay within his reach and he grabbed it and used it to pull himself up enough to get one foot on the cross-spar. The other leg hung below and for a few moments he used its swing to steady himself. Another grunt of effort against his tortured muscles and he was crouching on the spar, gripping the mast-tip with both hands, his knees almost higher than his chin. He watched the horizon move and suddenly felt as if the ship was still and the world spun around him. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes, which helped only a little.

‘Come on now,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good balance you’ve got.’

His hands shook as he released the mast, using the muscles in his legs to counteract the great swing. Then he uncrouched like an old man, ready to grab at the mast again as soon as he felt his balance fail. He brought himself up from a low bow to a round-shouldered standing position, his eyes fixed on the mast. He flexed his knees a little and began to adjust to the movement through the air.

‘There isn’t much wind, of course,’ the sailor said equably. ‘I’ve been up here in a storm trying to tie down a ripped sail. This is nothing.’

Marcus suppressed a retort. He didn’t want to anger a man who could stand so comfortably with his arms folded, sixty feet above the deck. He looked at him, his eyes leaving the mast for the first time since he reached that height.

The sailor nodded. ‘You have to walk the length. From your end to mine. Then you can go down. If your nerve goes, just hand me the dagger before you climb down. It won’t be too easy to get if you hit the planks.’

This was more like the sort of thing Marcus understood. The man was trying to make him nervous and achieved the opposite. He knew he could trust his reflexes. If he fell there would be time to grab something. He would just ignore the height and the movement and take the risk. He stood up fully and shuffled back to the edge, leaning forward as the mast seemed determined to take him down as far as the sea for a moment before coming upright and over again. Then he found himself looking down a mountain slope, blocked only by the relaxed sailor.

‘Right,’ he said, holding his arms out for balance. ‘Right.’

He began to shuffle, never taking the soles of his bare feet from the wood. He knew the sailor could walk along it with careless ease, but he wasn’t going to try to match years of experience in a few breathtaking steps. He inched along and his confidence grew mightily, until he was almost enjoying the swing, leaning into and away from it and chuckling at the movement.

The sailor looked unperturbed as Marcus reached him.

‘Is that it?’ Marcus asked.

The man shook his head. ‘To the end I said. There’s a good three feet to go yet.’

Marcus looked at him in annoyance. ‘You’re in my way, man!’ Surely he wasn’t expected to get round him on a piece of wood no wider than his thigh?

‘I’ll see you down there then,’ the man said and stepped off the crosspiece.

Marcus gaped as the figure shot past him. In the same moment as he saw the hand gripping the spar and the face grinning up at him, he lost balance and swayed in panic, suddenly knowing he would be smashed onto the deck. More faces below swam into his vision. They all seemed to be looking up, pale blurs and pointing fingers.

Marcus waved his arms frantically and arched back and forth in whip-like spasms as he fought to save himself. Then he steadied and concentrated on the spar, ignoring the drop below and trying to find the rhythm of muscle he had so enjoyed only moments before.

‘You nearly went there,’ the sailor said, still casually hanging from the spar by one arm, seemingly oblivious to the drop. It had been a clever trick and had nearly worked. Chuckling and shaking his head, the man started to reach out to a rope when Marcus trod on the fingers that were wrapped around the crosspiece.

‘Hey!’ the man shouted, but Marcus ignored him, putting all his weight on his heel as he shifted with the movement of the Lucidae. Suddenly, he was enjoying it again and took a deep, cleansing breath. The fingers squirmed beneath him and there was an edge of panic in the sailor’s voice as he found he couldn’t quite reach the nearest rope, even bringing his legs up. With his hand free, he would have swung and released without any difficulty, but, held fast, he could only dangle and shout curses.

Without warning, Marcus moved his foot to take the last step to the end of the spar and was cheered by the scrambling sounds below him as the sailor, caught by surprise, slid and gripped furiously to save himself. Marcus looked down and saw the angry stare as the sailor began to climb back up to the crosspiece. There was murder in his expression and Marcus moved quickly to sit down in the centre of the spar, gripping the mast-top firmly between his thighs. Still feeling unsafe, he wrapped his left leg around the mast below to hold himself steady. He took out Marius’ dagger and began to whittle his initials into the wood at the very top.

The sailor almost sprang onto the crosspiece and stood at the end, glaring. Marcus ignored him, but he could practically hear the train of thought as the man realised he had no weapons and that his superior balance was cancelled by the firm grip Marcus had on the mast. To get close enough to shove Marcus off, he would have to risk getting the dagger in his throat. The seconds ticked by.

‘All right, then. You keep the knife. Time to get down.’

‘You first,’ Marcus said, without looking up.

He listened to the dwindling sounds of the sailor’s descent and finished carving his initials into the hard wood. In all, he was disappointed. If he carried on making enemies at this rate, there really would be a knife in the dark one night.

Diplomacy was, he decided, a lot harder than it looked.

Renius was not around to congratulate him on his safe return from the high rigging, so Marcus continued his round of the ship on his own. After the initial excitement at the thought of winning the dagger, the stares he received were either uninterested or openly malevolent. Marcus clasped his hands behind his back to stop the involuntary shaking that had hit them as his feet touched the safe wood of the deck. He nodded to every glance as if it was a word of greeting and, to his surprise, one or two nodded back, perhaps only from habit, but it reassured him a little.

One sailor, his long hair tied back with a strip of blue cloth, was clearly trying to meet Marcus’ eye. He seemed friendly enough, so Marcus stopped.

‘What do you do here?’ he asked, a little warily.

‘Come to the stern … First Mate,’ said the man and strode off, gesturing him to follow. Marcus walked with him to stand by the two steering oars.

‘My name’s Crixus. I do a lot of things when they needs doing, but my special job is to free the rudders when they get fouled. It could be weed, but it’s usually fishing nets.’

‘How do you free them?’

Marcus could guess at the answer, but he asked anyway, trying to sound light and cheerfully interested. He had never been a strong swimmer, but this man’s chest expanded to ridiculous proportions when he took a breath.

‘You should find it easy after your little walk on the mast. I just dive off the side, swim down to the rudders and use my knife to cut off whatever is fouling them.’

‘That sounds like a dangerous job,’ Marcus replied, pleased at the easy grin he received in return.

‘It is, if there are sharks down there. They follow Lucidae, see, in case we throw any scraps off.’

Marcus rubbed his chin, trying to remember what a shark was.

‘Big are they, these sharks?’

Crixus nodded with energy. ‘Gods, yes. Some of them could swallow a man whole! One washed up near my village once and it had half a man inside. Bit him in two, it must have done.’

Marcus looked at him and thought he had another one trying to scare him off.

‘What do you do when you meet these sharks down there then?’ he said.

Crixus laughed. ‘You punch them on the nose. It puts them off having you for a meal.’

‘Right,’ Marcus said dubiously, looking into the dark, cold waters. He wondered if he should put this one off until the following day. The climb down from the mast-top had loosened most of his muscles, but every movement still made him wince and the weather wasn’t warm enough to make swimming attractive.

He looked at Crixus and could see the man expected him to refuse. Inwardly, he sighed. Nothing was working out the way he’d intended.

‘There isn’t anything fouling the rudders today, is there?’ he said and Crixus’ smile widened as he thought Marcus was trying to find excuses not to try it.

‘Not in clear sea, no. Just scrape a barnacle off the bottom of one – it’s a shell, a little animal that attaches to ships. Bring one back and I’ll buy you a drink. Come back empty-handed and that pretty little blade belongs to me, all right?’

Marcus agreed reluctantly and began to remove his tunic and sandals, leaving him standing in just the undercloth that protected his modesty. Under Crixus’ amused eye, he began to stretch his legs, using the wooden rail as a brace. He took his time, knowing from Crixus’ enthusiasm that the man thought he’d never manage it.

Finally, he was loose and ready. Taking his knife, he stepped up onto the flat wooden section around the stern, readying himself for the dive. It was a good twenty feet, even in such a low-slung vessel as the Lucidae, which fairly wallowed in the water. He tensed, trying to remember the few dives he had managed on a trip to a lake with Gaius’ parents when he was eight or nine. Hands together.

‘You’d better put this on,’ Crixus interrupted his thoughts. The man was holding the tar-sealed end of a slim rope. ‘It goes around your waist to stop you being left behind by Lucidae. She doesn’t look fast, but you couldn’t catch her by swimming.’

‘Thanks,’ Marcus said suspiciously, wondering if Crixus had meant to let him dive without it, changing his mind at the last moment. He tied the rope securely and looked at the cold water below, scythed into plough lines by the rudders. A thought struck him.

‘Where’s the other end?’

Crixus had the grace to look embarrassed and confirmed Marcus’ earlier suspicions. Mutely, he pointed to where the rope was made fast and Marcus nodded, returning to his inspection of the waves.

Then he dived, turning slightly in the air to hit the grey water with a hard smacking sound.

Marcus held his breath as he plunged under the surface, jerking as the rope stopped his descent. He could still feel movement as the ship started to tow him. He fought to reach the surface and gasped in relief as he broke through the waves near the rudders.

He could see their dark flanks cutting the waves and tried to find a handhold on the slippery surface above the waterline. It was impossible and he found he had to swim strongly just to stay near them. As soon as he slowed his hands and legs, he drifted out until the rope was taut again.

The cold was cramping his muscles and Marcus realised he had only a short time before he was useless in the water. Gripping his dagger tightly in his right fist, he gulped breath and dived below, using his hands to guide him down the slippery green underside of the nearest rudder.

At the base, his lungs were bursting. He was able to hold himself for a few seconds while his fingers scrabbled around in the slime, but he could feel nothing that felt like the sort of shell Crixus had told him to expect. Cursing, he kicked his legs back to the surface. As he couldn’t hold the rudders to rest, he felt his strength slipping away.

He pulled in another breath and disappeared down into the darkness once more.

Crixus felt the presence of the old gladiator before he saw him reach his side and look down at the quivering rope in the water between the rudders. When he met the man’s eyes, Crixus could see grey anger and took a step back in reaction.

‘What are you doing?’ Renius asked quietly.

‘He’s checking the rudders and cutting off barnacles,’ Crixus replied.

Renius’ lip twisted with distaste. Even with one arm, he radiated violence, standing utterly still. Crixus noticed the gladius strapped to his belt and wiped his hands on his ragged cloth leggings. Together, they watched Marcus surface and go under three more times. His arms flapped aimlessly in the water below and both men could hear his exhausted coughing.

‘Bring him up now. Before he drowns himself,’ Renius said.

Crixus nodded quickly and began to haul in the rope, hand over hand. Renius didn’t offer to help him, but standing with his hand resting on the gladius hilt seemed enough encouragement.

Crixus was sweating heavily by the time Marcus reached the deck level. He hung almost limp in the rope, his limbs too tired to control.

As if he was loading a bale of cloth, Crixus pulled him over the edge and rolled him face up on the deck, eyes closed and panting. Crixus smiled as he saw the dagger was still in one hand and reached for it. There was a quick sound behind him and he froze as Renius brought his sword into the line of sight.

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Taking the dagger! He … he had to bring a shell back …’ the man stammered.

‘Check his other hand,’ Renius said.

Marcus could barely hear him through the water sounds in his ears and the pain in his chest and limbs, but he opened his left fist and in it, surrounded by scratches and cuts, was a round shell with its live occupant glistening wetly inside.

Crixus’ jaw dropped and Renius waved him away with his sword.

‘Get that second mate to gather the men … Parus, his name was. This has gone far enough.’

Crixus looked at the sword and the man’s expression and didn’t argue.

Renius crouched at Marcus’ side and sheathed his sword. Reaching over, he slapped Marcus’ white face a few times, bringing a little colour back. Marcus coughed wretchedly.

‘I thought you’d stop when you nearly fell off the spar. What you think you are proving, I don’t know. Stay here and rest while I deal with the men.’

Marcus tried to say something, but Renius shook his head.

‘Don’t argue. I’ve been dealing with men like these all my life.’

Without another word, he stood and walked to where the crew had gathered, taking a position where they could all see him. He spoke through teeth held tightly together, but his voice carried to all of them.

‘His mistake was expecting to be treated with honour by scum like you. Now I don’t have the inclination to win your trust or your respect. I’ll give you a simple choice from this moment. You do your jobs well. You work hard and stand your watches and keep everything tight until we make port. I have killed more men than I can count and I will gut any man who does not obey me in this. Now be men! If anyone wants to make pretty words to argue with me, let him take up a sword and gather his friends and come against me all at once.’

His voice rose to a bellow. ‘Don’t walk away from me here and plot in corners like old ladies in the sun! Speak now, fight now, for if you don’t and I find whispers later, I will crack your heads open for you, I swear it!’

He glared around at them and the men looked at their feet. No one spoke, but Renius said nothing. The silence went on and on, growing painful. No one moved, they stood like statues on the decks. At last, he took a breath and snarled at them.

‘Not a single one of you with courage enough to take on an old man with one arm? Then get back to your work and work well, for I’ll be watching each one of you and I won’t give warnings.’

He walked through them and they parted, standing mutely aside. Crixus looked at Parus and he shrugged slightly, stepping back with the rest. The Lucidae sailed on serenely through the cold sea.

Renius sagged against the cabin door as it closed behind him. He could feel his armpits were damp with sweat and cursed under his breath. He was not used to bluffing men into obedience, but his balance was terrible and he knew he was still weak. He wanted to sleep, but could not until he had finished his exercises. Sighing, he drew his gladius and went through the strokes he had been taught half a century before, faster and faster until the blade hit the roof of the small space and wedged. Renius swore in anger and the men near his door heard him and looked at each other with wide eyes.

That night, Marcus was standing at the prow on his own, looking out at the moonlit waves and feeling miserable. His efforts of the day had earned him nothing and having to have Renius clear up his failure felt like a metal weight in his chest.

He heard low voices behind him and swung to see black figures coming around the raised cabins. He recognised Crixus and Parus, and the man from the high rigging, whose name he did not know. He steadied himself for the blows, knowing he couldn’t take them all, but Crixus held out a leather cup of some dark liquid. He was smiling slightly, not sure Marcus wouldn’t dash it out of his hand.

‘Here. I promised you a drink if you picked up a shell and I keep my promises.’

Marcus took the cup and the three men relaxed visibly, coming over to lean against the side and look out over the black water as it passed below them. All three had similar cups and Crixus filled them from a soft leather bag that gurgled when he shifted its weight under his arm.

Marcus could smell the bitter liquid as he raised it to his mouth. He had never tasted anything stronger than wine before and took a deep gulp before he realised that whatever it was stung the cuts on his lips and gums. In reflex, just to clear his mouth, he swallowed and immediately choked as fire burst in his stomach. He fought for breath and Parus reached out an arm and thumped his back, his face expressionless.

‘Does you good, that stuff,’ Crixus said, chuckling.

‘Does you good, First Mate,’ Marcus replied through his spluttering.

Crixus smiled. ‘I like you, lad. I really do,’ he said, refilling his own cup. ‘Mind you, that friend of yours, Renius, now he is a truly evil bastard.’

They all nodded and peacefully went back to watching the sea and the sky.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Marcus viewed the busy port with mixed feelings as it grew before him. The Lucidae manoeuvred nimbly through the ancient stones that marked the edge of the wild sea and the calm lake of the harbour itself. A host of ships accompanied them and they had had to stand off from the harbour for most of the morning until a harassed pilot took a boat out to guide them in.

At first, Marcus had thought nothing of the month at sea, considering it with as much interest as he might consider a walk from one town to another. Only the destination had been important in his mind. Now though, he knew the name of each one of the small crew and had felt their acceptance after that night spent drinking on the prow. Even the return of Firstmate to light duties hadn’t spoiled things with the men. Firstmate, it seemed, bore no grudges and even seemed proud of him, as if his acceptance by the crew was in some way his doing.

Peppis had never stopped sleeping in corners on the decks at night, but he had filled out a little with the food Marcus saved for him and the beatings had stopped by some unseen signal amongst the men. The little boy had become a much more cheerful character and might one day be a sailor, as he hoped.

To some extent, Marcus envied the boy; it was freedom of a kind. These men would see all the ports of the known world while he marched over foreign fields under the baking sun, carrying Rome always with him.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to sift apart all the strange scents on the sea breeze. Jasmine and olive oil were strong, but there was also the smell of a mass of people again – sweat and excrement. He sighed and jumped as a hand clapped onto his shoulders.

‘It will feel good to get land under our heels again,’ Renius said, staring with him into the harbour town. ‘We’ll hire horses to take us east to the legion and find your century to get you sworn in.’

Marcus nodded in silence and Renius caught his mood. ‘Only memories stay the same, lad. Everything else changes. When you see Rome again, you’ll hardly know it and all the people you loved will be different. There’s no stopping it, it’s the most natural thing in the world.’

Seeing Marcus wasn’t cheered, he went on.

‘This civilisation was ancient when Rome was young. It’s an alien place to a Roman and you’ll have to watch their ideas of soft living don’t spoil you. There are savage tribes that raid across the border in Illyria, though, so you’ll see your share of action. That got your interest, did it?’ He laughed, a short bark. ‘I suppose you thought it would be all drill and standing in the sun? Marius is a good judge, lad. He’s sent you to one of the hardest posts in the empire. Even the Greeks don’t bend the knee without a good deal of thought and Macedonia is where Alexander was born. This is just the place to put a bit of strength into your steel.’

Together they watched as the Lucidae eased against the dockside and ropes were thrown and tied down. In a short while, the little trader was tethered securely and Marcus almost felt sorry for her sudden loss of freedom. Epides came out on deck dressed in a chiton, a traditional Greek tunic worn at knee length. He glittered with jewellery and his hair shone with oil in the sun. He saw the two passengers standing at the side waiting to disembark and walked over to them.

‘I have grave news, gentlemen. A Greek army has risen in the north and we could not put in at Dyrrhachium as planned. This is Oricum, about a hundred miles to the south.’

Renius tensed. ‘What? You were paid to put us down in the north, so that we could join the lad’s legion, I …’

‘It was not a possibility, as I said,’ the captain replied, smiling. ‘The flag codes were quite clear as we neared Dyrrhachium. That is why we have been following the coast south. I could not risk the Lucidae with a rebel army drunk on broken Roman garrisons. The safety of the ship was at stake.’

Renius grabbed Epides by his chiton, lifting him up to his toes.

‘Damn you, man. There’s a bloody great mountain between here and Macedonia, as you are well aware. That is another month of hard travel for us and great expense, which is your responsibility!’

Epides struggled, his face purpling in rage.

‘Take your hands off me! How dare you accost me on my own ship? I’ll call the harbour guards and have you hanged, you arrogant –’

Renius shifted his grip to a ruby on a heavy gold chain around Epides’ neck. With a savage jerk, he broke the links and tucked it away into his belt pouch. Epides began stuttering with incoherent anger and Renius shoved him away, turning to Marcus as the man fell sprawling onto the deck.

‘Right. Let’s get off. At least we can afford to buy supplies for the trip when I sell the chain.’

When he saw Marcus’ gaze flick behind him, Renius spun and drew his sword in one motion. Epides was lunging with a jewelled dagger, his face contorted.

Renius swayed inside the blow clumsily and ripped his gladius up into the man’s smooth-shaven chest. He withdrew the blade and ran it over the chiton in quick wipes as Epides fell to the deck, writhing.

‘Drunk on broken garrisons, was it?’ he muttered, struggling to sheathe the sword. ‘Damn this scabbard – won’t stay still …’

Marcus stood stunned at the quick death and the nearby members of the crew gaped at the suddenly violent scene. Renius nodded to them as the gladius slid home.

‘Get the ramps down. We have a long journey ahead of us.’

A section in the side was opened and plank gangways were put down to allow the cargo to be unloaded. Marcus shook his head in silent disbelief. He checked his belongings for the last time and patted his sides, feeling again the loss of the dagger he’d given to Firstmate the previous evening. He knew it was the right thing to do somehow, and the smiles of the crew as the man showed it around told him he had made the right choice. There were no smiles now and he wished he’d kept it.

He pulled his pack onto his shoulders and helped Renius with his.

‘Let’s see what Greece has to offer,’ he said.

Renius grinned at his sudden change in mood, walking past the twisted body of Epides without looking down. They left the Lucidae without a backward glance.

The ground moved alarmingly under his feet and Marcus swayed uncertainly for a few moments before the habit of years re-established itself.

‘Wait!’ a voice called behind them. They turned to see Peppis coming down the ramp in a flurry of arms and legs. He pulled up breathlessly and they waited for him to calm enough to speak.

‘Take me with you, sir,’ he said, looking beseechingly at Marcus, who blinked in surprise.

‘I thought you wanted to grow up to be a sailor,’ he said.

‘Not any more. I want to be a fighter, a legionary like you and Renius,’ Peppis said, the words rushing out of him. ‘I want to defend the empire from savage hordes.’

Marcus looked at Renius. ‘Have you been talking to the boy?’

‘I told him a few stories, yes. Many boys dream of being in the legions. It is a good life for a man,’ Renius replied without embarrassment.

Peppis saw Marcus waver and pressed on. ‘You’ll need a servant, someone to carry your sword and look after your horse. Please don’t send me back.’

Marcus shrugged his pack from his shoulders and handed it to the boy, who beamed at him.

‘Right. Carry this. Do you know how to look after a horse?’

Peppis shook his head, still beaming.

‘Then you will learn.’

‘I will. I will be the best servant you ever had,’ the boy replied, his arms wrapped around the pack.

‘At least the captain can’t object,’ Marcus said.

‘No. I didn’t like the man,’ Renius replied gruffly. ‘Ask someone where the nearest stables are. We’ll move on before dark.’

The stables, the travellers’ resting house, the people themselves were a peculiar mixture to Marcus. He could see Rome in a thousand small touches, not least the serious-faced legionaries who marched the streets in pairs, looking out for trouble. Yet at every step he would see something new and alien. A pretty girl walking with her guards would speak to them in a string of soft gibberish that they seemed to understand. A temple near the stables was built of pure white marble as at home, but the statues were odd, close to the ones he knew, but with different faces cut into the stone. Beards were much in evidence, perfumed with sweet oils and curled, but the strangest things he saw were on the walls of a temple devoted to healing the sick.

Half- and full-size limbs, perfectly formed in plaster or stone, hung on the outer walls from hooks. A child’s leg, bent at the knee, shared the space with the model of a woman’s hand and nearby there was a miniature soldier made from reddish marble, beautiful in its detail.

‘What are those?’ Marcus had asked Renius as they passed.

‘Just a custom,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘If the goddess heals you, you have a cast of the limb made and presented to her. It helps to bring in more people for the temple, I should think. They don’t heal anyone without a little gold first, so the models are like a sign for a shop. This isn’t Rome, lad. They are not like us when you get down to it.’

‘You don’t like them?’

‘I respect what they achieved, but they live too much in the glories of the past. They are a proud people, Marcus, but not proud enough to take our foot off their necks. They like to think of us as barbarians and the high-bred ones will pretend you don’t exist, but what good is thousands of years of art if you can’t defend yourself? The first thing men must learn is to be strong. Without strength, anything else you have or make can be taken from you. Remember that, lad.’

At least the stables were like stables anywhere. The smell brought a sudden pang of homesickness to Marcus and he wondered how Tubruk fared on the estate, and how Gaius was handling the dangers of the capital.

Renius patted the flank of a sturdy-looking stallion. He ran his hands down its legs and checked the mouth carefully. Peppis watched him and mimicked his action, patting legs and checking tendons with a serious frown on his face.

‘How much for this one?’ Renius asked the owner, who stood with two bodyguards. The man had none of the smell of horses about him. He looked clean and somehow polished, with hair and beard that shone darkly.

‘He is strong, yes?’ he replied, his Latin accented but clear. ‘His father won races in Pontus, but he is a little too heavy for speed, more suited for battle.’

Renius shrugged. ‘I just want him to take me north, over the mountains. How much are you asking?’

‘His name is Apollo. I bought him when a rich man lost his wealth and was forced to sell. I paid a small fortune, but I know horses, I know what he is worth.’

‘I like him,’ Peppis said.

Both men ignored the boy.

‘I will pay five aurei for him and sell him after the journey is over,’ Renius said firmly.

‘He is worth twenty and I have paid for his feed all winter,’ the trader replied.

‘I can buy a small house for twenty!’

The trader shrugged and looked apologetic.

‘Not any more. Prices have gone up. It is the war in the north. All the best ones are being taken for Mithridates, an upstart who calls himself a king. Apollo is one of the last of the good stock.’

‘Ten is my final offer. We are buying two of yours today, so I want a price for both.’

‘Let us not argue. Let me show you another of lesser worth that will carry you north. I have two others I could sell together, brothers they are, and fast enough.’

The man walked on down the row of horses and Marcus eyed Apollo, who watched him with interest as he chewed a mouthful of hay. He patted the soft nose as the continuing argument dwindled with distance. Apollo ignored him and reached back for another mouthful, pulled from a string sack nailed to the stable wall.

After a while, Renius returned, looking a little pale.

‘We’ve got two, for tomorrow: Apollo and another one he called Lancer. I’m sure he makes the names up on the spot. Peppis will ride with you, his small weight won’t be any trouble. Gods, the prices these people ask for! If your uncle hadn’t provided so generously, we’d be walking tomorrow.’

‘He’s not my uncle,’ Marcus reminded. ‘How much did they cost us?’

‘Don’t ask and don’t expect to eat much on the journey. Come on, we’ll pick the horses up tomorrow at dawn. Let us hope that the prices for rooms haven’t risen as high, or we’ll be sneaking back in here when it gets dark.’

Continuing to grumble, Renius strode out of the stables, with Marcus and Peppis following him, trying not to smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Marcus sat easily on his horse, occasionally reaching forward to scratch Lancer’s ears as they rode down the mountain path. Peppis was dozing behind him, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horse’s walk. Marcus thought of waking him with an elbow to see the view, but decided to leave him alone.

It seemed as if they could see all of Greece from the heights, spread out below in a rolling green and yellow landscape with groves of olive trees and isolated farms speckling the hills and valleys. The clean air smelled different, carrying the scent of unknown flowers.

Marcus remembered gentle Vepax, the tutor, and wondered if he had walked these hills. Or perhaps Alexander himself had taken armies through to the plains on his way to battle distant Persia. He imagined the grim Cretan archers and the Macedonian phalanx as they followed the boy king, and his back straightened in the saddle.

Renius rode ahead, his eyes swinging from the narrow trail to the surrounding scrub foliage and back in a monotonous pattern of alertness. He had withdrawn into himself more and more over the previous week of travel and whole days had passed without more than a few words spoken between them. Only Peppis broke the long silences with exclamations of wonder at birds or lizards on the rocks. Marcus hadn’t pushed for conversation, sensing that the gladiator was happier with silence. He smiled wryly at the man’s back as they rode, mulling over how he felt about him.

He had hated him once, at that moment in the courtyard of the estate, with Gaius lying wounded in the dust. Yet a grudging respect had existed even before Marcus had raised his sword against him. Renius had a solidity to him that made other men seem insubstantial in comparison. He could be brutal and had a great capacity for callous violence, oblivious to pain or fear. Others followed his lead without a thought, as if they somehow knew this man would see them through. Marcus had seen it on the estate and on the ship and it was difficult not to feel a touch of awe himself. Even age couldn’t hold him. Marcus remembered the moment as Cabera closed the old man’s wounds, and his surprise at the way the healing took so quickly. They had both watched in astonishment as life swelled in the broken figure and the skin flushed with suddenly rushing blood.

‘He walks a greater path than most,’ Cabera had said later, when Renius had been laid out on a cool bed in the house to finish his healing. ‘His feet are strong in the earth.’

Marcus had wondered at Cabera’s tone as he tried to make the young man understand the importance of what he had seen.

‘Never have I seen death take its grip off a man as it did with Renius. The gods were whispering in my mind when I touched him.’

The path twisted and turned and they slowed to let the horses pick their way through the broken surface stones, unwilling to risk a sprain or a fall on the steep slope.

‘What does the future hold for you, I wonder?’ Marcus thought to himself in the comfortable silence. ‘Father.’

The word came to him and he realised the idea had been there for some time. He had never known a man to call father and the word unlocked a door in his mind as he explored his feelings further without pain. Renius was not his blood, but a part of him wished he was travelling these lands with his father, protecting each other from dangers. It was a grand daydream and he pictured men’s faces as they heard he was the son of Renius. They would look at him with a little awe of their own perhaps and he would simply smile.

Renius broke wind noisily, shifting his weight to the left without looking back. Marcus laughed suddenly at this interruption to his thoughts and continued chuckling to himself at intervals for some time after. The gladiator rode on, his thoughts on the descent and his future once he had delivered Marcus to his legion.

As they approached a narrow part of the trail, boulders rose on both sides as if the thin path had been cut through them. Renius laid his hand on his sword and loosened the blade.

‘We’re being watched. Be ready,’ he called back in a low voice.

Almost as he finished speaking, a dark figure rose from the undergrowth nearby.

‘Stop.’

The word was spoken with casual confidence and in good, clear Latin, but Renius ignored it. Marcus part drew his sword and kept the horse walking with pressure from his knees. From the sudden stiffness in the arms around his waist, he knew Peppis was awake and alert, but for once staying silent.

The man looked like a Greek, with the distinctive curled beard, but, unlike the merchants of the town they’d seen, he had the air of a warrior about him. He smiled and called out again.

‘Stop, or you will be killed. Last chance.’

‘Renius?’ Marcus muttered nervously.

The old man scowled, but kept going, digging his heels into Apollo’s flanks to urge him into a trot.

An arrow cut the air, taking the horse high in the shoulder with a dull thumping sound. Apollo screamed and fell, pitching Renius to the ground in a crash of metal and swearing. Peppis cried out in fear and Marcus reined in, scanning the undergrowth for the archer. Was there only one, or were there more out there? These men were obviously brigands; they would be lucky to escape alive if they submitted meekly.

Renius came to his feet awkwardly, yanking out his sword. His eyes glinted. He nodded to Marcus, who dismounted smoothly, using his horse to block the sight of the hidden archer. He drew his gladius, reassured by its familiar weight. Peppis came off the horse in a scramble and tried to hide behind a leg, muttering nervously to himself.

The stranger spoke again, his voice friendly. ‘Do not do anything foolish. My companions are very good with their bows. Practice is the only way to fill the hours here in the mountains, that and relieving the occasional traveller of his possessions.’

‘There is only one archer, I think,’ Renius growled, staying light on the balls of his feet and keeping an eye on the scrub. He knew the man would not have stayed in the same place and could be creeping in to get a clean kill as they spoke.

‘You wish to gamble your life on this, yes?’

The two men looked at each other and Peppis gripped Lancer’s leg, making the horse snort with displeasure.

The outlaw was clean and simply dressed. He looked much like one of the huntsmen Marcus had known on the estate, burned a deep brown by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He did not look like a man given to empty threats and Marcus groaned inwardly. At best, they would arrive at the legion with no kit or equipment, a beginning he might never live down. At worst, death was a few moments away.

‘You look like an intelligent man,’ the outlaw continued. ‘If I drop my hand, you will be dead on the instant. Put your sword on the ground and you will live a few moments more, perhaps until you grow old, yes?’

‘I’ve been old. It isn’t worth it,’ Renius replied, already beginning to move.

He threw his gladius at the man, end over end in the air. Before it struck, he was leaping away into the shadow of the rock-side. An arrow cut the air where he had been, but no others accompanied it. Only one archer.

Marcus had used the moment to duck under his horse’s belly past Peppis, and came up running, throwing himself at the slope, trusting to his speed to keep him steady. He cleared the main ridge without slowing down and accelerated, guessing where the archer must be hiding. As he approached, a man broke from the cover of a grove of fig trees off to his right and he almost skidded as he turned to follow.

He had him in twenty paces along the loose rock surface, bringing him down from behind in a leap. The impact jarred the gladius from his hand and he found himself locked in a struggle with a man who was bigger and stronger than he was. The archer twisted violently in Marcus’ grip and they found each other’s throats with grasping hands. Marcus began to panic. The man’s face was red, but his neck appeared to be made of wood and he couldn’t seem to get a crushing grip on the thick flesh.

He would have called for Renius, but the man couldn’t have climbed the ridge with only one arm, and anyway he could not draw breath with the archer’s great paws on his throat. Marcus dug his thumbs into the windpipe and heaved all his downward weight onto them. The man grunted in pain, but the hairy hands tightened still further and Marcus saw flashes of white light across his vision as his body began to scream for air. His own hands seemed to weaken and he despaired for a second. His right hand came off the throat, almost without his conscious thought and began to hammer the grunting face. The white lights were streaked with flashes of black and his vision began to narrow into a dark tunnel, but he kept striking over and over. The face below him was a messy red pulp, but the hands on his throat were merciless.

Then they fell away, without drama, lying limp on the ground. Marcus sobbed in air and rolled off to one side. His heart was beating at an impossible speed and he felt light-headed, almost as if he was floating. He pulled himself onto his knees and his fingers scrabbled without strength for the hilt of his sword in ever-widening circles.

Finally, they closed on the leather grip and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He could hear Renius and Peppis calling for him below, but had no breath to answer. Staggering, he took a few steps back to the man and froze as he saw the eyes were open and looking at him, the heavy chest heaving as raggedly as his own.

Rasping words grated past the man’s smashed lips, but they were Greek and Marcus couldn’t understand them. Still panting, he pressed the sharp tip of the gladius against the man’s chest and shoved down hard. Then his grip slipped off the hilt and he collapsed in a sprawl, turning weakly to empty his stomach onto the ground.

By the time Marcus climbed stiffly back to the path, Peppis had recovered Renius’ sword and the gladiator was holding a pad of cloth to the wound in Apollo’s shoulder. The big horse was shivering visibly with shock, but was on his feet and aware. Peppis had to hold Lancer’s reins tightly as the horse stepped and skittered, wide nostrils and eyes showing his fear at the smell of blood.

‘Are you all right, lad?’ Renius asked.

Marcus nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt crushed and air seemed to whistle with each breath. He pointed at it and Renius beckoned him closer so he could take a look. He made the movement slow, so as not to alarm the horses.

‘Nothing permanent,’ he judged a moment later. ‘Big hands, judging by the prints.’

Marcus could only gasp weakly. He hoped Renius couldn’t smell the sour vomit odour that seemed to surround him in a cloud, but guessed he could and chose not to mention it.

‘They made a mistake attacking us,’ Peppis observed, his little face serious.

‘Yes, they did, boy, though we were lucky as well,’ Renius replied. He looked at Marcus. ‘Don’t try to speak, just help the boy strap the equipment to your horse. Apollo will be lame for a week or two. We’ll ride in turns unless those bandits have mounts nearby.’

Lancer whinnied and an answering snort came from further down the mountain. Renius grinned.

‘Luck is with us again, I see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you search the body?’

Marcus shook his head and Renius shrugged.

‘Not worth climbing up again. They wouldn’t have had much and a bow’s no use to a man with one arm. Let’s get going. We can get off this rock by sunset if we keep a fast pace.’

Marcus began removing Apollo’s packs, taking the reins. Renius patted his shoulder as he turned away. The action was worth far more than words.

After a month of long days and cold nights, it was good to see the legion camp from far away across the plain. Even at that distance, thin sounds carried. It seemed like a town on the horizon, with eight thousand men, women and children engaged in the simple day-to-day tasks necessary to keep such a large body of men in the field. Marcus tried to imagine the armouries and smithies, built and taken apart with each camp. There would be food kitchens, building supply dumps, stonemasons, carpenters, leather-workers, slaves, prostitutes and thousands of other civilians who lived and were paid to support the might of Rome in battle. Unlike the tent rows of Marius’ legion, this was a permanent camp, with a solid wall and fortifications surrounding the main grounds. In a sense, it was a town, but a town constantly prepared for war.

Renius pulled up and Marcus drew alongside on Lancer, tugging on the reins to halt the third horse they had named Bandit after his last owner. Peppis sat awkwardly on Bandit’s riding blanket, his mouth open at the sight of the encamped legion. Renius smiled at the boy’s awe.

‘That’s it, Marcus. That is your new home. Do you still have the papers Marius gave you?’

Marcus patted his chest in response, feeling the folded pack of parchment under the tunic.

‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. He hoped so. Renius had been a part of his life for so long that the thought of seeing the man riding away while he rode up to the gates alone was too painful to express.

‘I’ll see you and Peppis to the Praefectus castrorum – the quartermaster. He will tell you which century you will join. Learn the history quickly; each has its own record and pride.’

‘Any other advice?’

‘Obey every order without complaint. At the moment you fight like an individual, like one of the savage tribes. They will teach you to trust your companions and to fight as a unit, but the learning does not come easily to some.’

He turned to Peppis. ‘Life will be hard for you. Do as you are told and when you are grown you will be allowed to join the legion. Do nothing that shames you. Do you understand?’

Peppis nodded, his throat dry from fear of this alien life.

‘I will learn. So will he,’ Marcus said.

Renius nodded and clicked his tongue at his horse to move on. ‘That you will.’

Marcus felt an obscure satisfaction at the clean, orderly layout of streets, complete with rows of long, low buildings for the men. He and Renius had been greeted warmly at the gate as soon as he had shown his papers and proceeded on foot to the Prefect’s quarters, where he would pledge years of his life in the field service of Rome. He took confidence from Renius as the man strode confidently through the narrow roads, nodding in approval at the polished perfection of the soldiers who marched past in squads of ten. Peppis trotted behind them, carrying a heavy pack of equipment on his back.

The papers had to be shown twice more as they approached the small, white building from which the camp Prefect ran the business of a Roman town in a foreign land. At last they were allowed entry and a slim man dressed in a white toga and sandals came into the outer rooms to meet them as they passed through the door.

‘Renius! I heard it was you in the camp. The men are already talking about you losing your arm. Gods, it is good to see you!’ He beamed at them, the image of Roman efficiency, suntanned and hard, with a strong grip as he greeted each of them in turn.

Renius smiled back with genuine warmth.

‘Marius didn’t tell me you were here, Carac. I am glad to see you well.’

‘You haven’t aged, I swear it! Gods, you don’t look a day over forty. How do you do it?’

‘Clean living,’ Renius grunted, still uncomfortable with the change Cabera had wrought.

The Prefect raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but let the subject drop.

‘And the arm?’

‘Training accident. The lad here, Marcus, cut me and I had it taken off.’

The Prefect whistled and shook Marcus’ hand again.

‘I never thought I’d meet a man who could get to Renius. May I see the papers you brought with you?’

Marcus felt nervous all of a sudden. He passed them over and the Prefect motioned them to long benches as he read.

Finally, he passed them back. ‘You come very well recommended, Marcus. Who is the boy?’

‘He was on the merchant ship we took from the coast. He wants to be my servant and join the legion when he is older.’

The Prefect nodded. ‘We have many such in the camp, usually the bastard children of the men and the whores. If he shapes up there may be a place, but the competition will be fierce. I am more interested in you, young man.’

He turned to Renius. ‘Tell me about him. I will trust your judgement.’

Renius spoke firmly, as if reporting. ‘Marcus is unusually fast, even more so when his blood is fired. As he matures, I expect him to become a name. He is impetuous and brash and likes to fight, which is partly his nature and partly his youth. He will serve the Fourth Macedonia well. I gave him his basic training, but he has gone beyond that and will go further.’

‘He reminds me of your son. Have you noticed the resemblance?’ the Prefect asked quietly.

‘It had not … occurred to me,’ Renius replied uncomfortably.

‘I doubt that. Still, we always have need of men of quality and this is the place for him to find maturity. I will place him with the fifth century, the Bronze Fist.’

Renius took in a sharp breath. ‘You honour me.’

The Prefect shook his head. ‘You saved my life once. I am sorry I could not save your son’s. This is a small part of my debt to you.’

Once again they shook hands. Marcus looked on in some confusion.

‘What now for you, old friend? Will you return to Rome to spend your gold?’

‘I had hoped there would be a place for me here,’ Renius said quietly.

The Prefect smiled. ‘I had begun to think you would not ask. The Fist is short of a weapons master to train them. Old Belius died of a fever six months ago and there is no one else as good. Will you take the post?’

Renius grinned suddenly, the old sharp grin. ‘I will, Carac. Thank you.’

The Prefect slapped him on the shoulder in obvious pleasure.

‘Welcome to the Fourth Macedonia, gentlemen.’ He signalled to a legionary standing to attention nearby. ‘Take this young man to his new quarters in the Bronze Fist century. Send the boy to the stables until I can assign duties to him with the other camp children. Renius and I have a lot of catching up to do – and a lot of wine to drink while we do it.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Alexandria sat in silence, polishing grime from an ancient sword in Marius’ little armoury. She was pleased he had been able to get back his town house. She’d heard the owner had rushed to make a gift of it to the new ruler of Rome. Much better than the thought of living with the rough soldiers in the city barracks – well, it would have been difficult at best. Gods knew, she wasn’t afraid of men; some of her earliest memories were of them with her mother in the next room. They came in reeking of beer and cheap wine and went out with a swagger. They never seemed to last very long. One of them had tried to touch her once and she remembered seeing her mother properly angry for the first time in her young life. She’d cracked his skull with a poker and together they’d dragged him into an alleyway and left him. For days, her mother had expected the door to burst in and men to take her away to be hanged, but no one had come.

She sighed as she worked at the layers of crusted oil on the bronze blade, relic of some old campaign. At first, Rome had seemed a city with limitless possibilities, but Marius had taken control three months before and here she was still working all day for nothing and every day a little older. Others were changing the world, but her life remained the same. Only at night, when she sat with ancient Bant in his little metalwork room, did she feel she was making any progress in her life. He had shown her the uses of his tools and guided her hands through the first clumsy steps. He didn’t speak much, but seemed to enjoy her company and she liked his silences and kind blue eyes. She had seen him first as he was shaping a brooch in the workshop and knew in that moment that it was something she could do. It was a skill worth learning, even for a slave.

She rubbed more vigorously. To be worth no more to a man than a horse, or even a good sword like the one she held! It wasn’t fair.

‘Alexandria!’ Carla’s voice, calling. For a moment, she was tempted to remain silent, but the woman had a tongue like a whip and her disapproval was feared by most of the female slaves.

‘Here,’ she called, putting the sword down and wiping her hands on a rag. There would be another task for her, another few hours of labour before sleep.

‘There you are, love. I need someone to run down to the market for me; would you do that?’

‘Yes!’ Alexandria stood up quickly. She had come to look forward to these rare errands over the previous few months. They were the only occasions when she was allowed to leave Marius’ house and on the last few she had been trusted on her own. After all, where could she run?

‘I have a list of things for you to buy for the house. You always seem to get the best price,’ Carla said as she passed a slate over.

Alexandria nodded. She enjoyed bargaining with the traders. It made her feel like a free woman. The first time she hadn’t been alone, but, even with a witness, Carla had been shocked at how much money the girl had saved the house. The traders had been charging over market value for years, knowing Marius had deep pockets. The older woman realised the girl had a talent and sent her out as much as possible, seeing also that she needed the little touches of freedom. Some never got used to the condition of slavery and were slowly broken down into depression and occasionally despair. Carla enjoyed watching Alexandria’s face light up at the thought of a trip out.

She guessed the girl was keeping a coin or two from what she was given, but what did that matter? She was saving them silvers, so if she kept the odd bronze, Carla didn’t begrudge them to her.

‘Go on with you. I want you back in two hours and not a minute later, understand?’

‘I do, Carla. Two hours. Thank you.’

The older woman grinned at her, remembering when she had been young and the world was such an exciting place. She knew all about Alexandria’s visits to Bant the metalworker. The old man had taken quite a liking to her, it seemed. There was very little in the house that Carla didn’t find out about sooner or later and she knew that in Alexandria’s room was a small bronze disc that she had decorated with a lion’s head using Bant’s tools. It was a pretty piece.

As she watched the trim figure vanish around a corner, Carla wondered if it was a present for Gaius. Bant had said the girl had a talent for the work. Aye, perhaps because she was making it for love.

The market was a riot of smells and swirling crowds, but Alexandria didn’t dawdle over the items on the list for once. She completed her business quickly, getting good prices, but leaving the discussion before they were pared right to the bone. The shopkeepers seemed to enjoy the arguments with the pretty girl, throwing their hands into the air and calling for witnesses to see what she was demanding. She smiled at them then, and for a few the smile dropped the price further than they could believe after she had left. Certainly more than their wives could believe.

With packages stowed safely in two cloth bags, Alexandria hurried on to her real destination, a tiny jewellery shop at the end of the stalls. She had been inside many times to look at the man’s designs. Most of the pieces were bronze or pewter. Silver was rarely worked in jewellery, and gold was too expensive unless particular pieces were commissioned. The metalsmith himself was a short man, dressed in a rough tunic and a heavy leather apron. He watched her as she came into the tiny shop and stopped work on a small gold ring to keep an eye on the girl. Tabbic was not a trusting man and Alexandria could feel his steady gaze on her as she looked over his wares.

Finally, she summoned enough courage to speak to him.

‘Do you buy items?’ she said.

‘Sometimes,’ came the reply. ‘What do you have?’

She produced the bronze disc from a pocket in her tunic and he took it from her hand, holding it up to the daylight to see the design. He held it for a long time and she didn’t dare speak for fear of angering him. Still he said nothing, just turned it over and over in his hands, examining every last mark on the metal.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked at last.

‘I made it. Do you know Bant?’

The man nodded slowly.

‘He has been showing me how.’

‘This is crude, but I can sell it on. The execution is clumsy, but the design is very good. The lion’s face is very well scribed, it’s just that you aren’t very skilled with the hammer and awl.’ He turned it over again.

‘Tell me the truth now, you understand? Where did you get the bronze to make this?’

Alexandria looked at him nervously. He returned her stare without blinking, but his eyes seemed kind. Quickly she told him about her bargaining and how she had saved a few tiny coins from the house money, enough to purchase the bare metal circle from a stall of trinkets.

Tabbic shook his head. ‘I can’t take it then. It isn’t yours to sell. The coins belonged to Marius, so the bronze is his as well. You should give it to him.’

Alexandria felt tears threaten to start. She had spent so long on the little piece and now it had all come to nothing. She watched, almost hypnotised, as he turned it over in his grasp. Then he pressed it back into her hands.

Miserable, she put the disc back in her pocket.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

He turned back to her. ‘My name is Tabbic. You don’t know me, but I have a reputation for honesty and sometimes for pride.’ He held up another metal circle, a grey silver in colour.

‘This is pewter. It’s softer than bronze and you’ll find it easier to work. It polishes up nicely and doesn’t discolour as badly, just grows dull. Take it, and return it to me when you have made something of it. I’ll attach a pin and sell it on as a cloak fastener for a legionary. If it’s as good as the bronze one, I could get a silver coin for it. I’ll take back the price of the pewter and the pin and you will be left with six, maybe seven quadrantes. A business transaction, understand?’

‘Where is your profit in this?’ Alexandria asked, her eyes wide at the change in fortune.

‘None for this first one. I am making a small investment in a talent I think you have. Give Bant my regards when you see him next.’

Alexandria pocketed the pewter circle and once again had to fight against tears. She wasn’t used to kindness.

‘Thank you. I will give the bronze to Marius.’

‘Make sure you do, Alexandria.’

‘How … how do you know my name?’

Tabbic picked up the ring he had been working on as she came in.

‘Bant talks of little else when I see him.’

Alexandria had to run to be back before the two hours were up, but her feet were light and she felt like singing. She would make the pewter disc into a beautiful thing and Tabbic would sell it for more than a silver coin and clamour for more until her work brought in gold pieces, and one day she would gather her profits together and buy herself free. Free. It was a giddy dream.

As she was let into Marius’ house, the scent of the gardens filled her lungs and she stood for a moment, just breathing in the evening air. Carla appeared and took her bags and the coins, nodding at the savings as always. If the woman noticed anything different about Alexandria, she didn’t say, but she smiled as she took the supplies down to the cool basement stores, where they wouldn’t spoil too quickly.

Alone with her thoughts, Alexandria didn’t see Gaius at first and wasn’t expecting him. He spent most of his days matching his uncle’s punishing schedule, returning to the house at odd hours only to eat and sleep. The guards at the gate let him in without comment, well used to his comings and goings. He started as he saw Alexandria in the gardens and stood for a moment, simply enjoying the sight of her. Evening was coming on with late-summer slowness, where the air is soft and the light has a touch of grey for hours before it fades.

She turned as he approached and smiled at him.

‘You look happy,’ he said, smiling in return.

‘Oh, I am,’ she replied.

He had not kissed her since the moment in the stables back on the estate, but he sensed the time was right at last. Marcus was gone and the town house seemed deserted.

He bent his neck and his heart thumped painfully with something almost like fear.

He felt her warm breath before their lips touched and then he could taste her and he gathered her up in a natural embrace, as they seemed to fit together without effort or design.

‘I can’t tell you how often I have thought of this,’ he murmured.

She looked into his eyes and knew there was a gift she could give him and found she wanted to.

‘Come along to my room,’ she whispered, taking his hand.

As if in a dream, he followed her through the gardens to her quarters.

Carla watched them go.

‘And about bloody time,’ she muttered.

At first, Gaius was worried that he would be clumsy, or worse, quick, but Alexandria guided his movements and her hands felt cool on his skin. She took a little bottle of scented oil from a shelf and he watched as she spilled a few sluggish drops onto her palms. It had a rich scent that filled his lungs as she sat astride him, rubbing it gently into his chest and lower, making him gasp. He took some of it from his own skin and reached upwards to her breasts, remembering the first time he had seen their soft swell in the courtyard of the estate so long ago. He pressed his mouth gently against one then the other, tasting her skin and moving his lips over the oily nipples. She opened her mouth slightly, her eyes closing at his touch. Then she bent to kiss him and her unbound hair covered them both.

As the evening darkened, they joined with urgency and then again with playfulness and a kind of delight. There was little light in her room without the candles, but her eyes shone and her limbs were darkened gold as she moved under him.

He woke before dawn to find her gaze on his face.

‘This was my first time,’ he said quietly. Something in him told him not to ask the question, but he had to know. ‘Was it the first for you?’

She smiled, but it was a sad smile.

‘I wish it had been,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

‘Did you … with Marcus?’

Her eyes widened slightly. Was he truly so innocent that he didn’t see the insult?

‘Oh, I would have, of course,’ she replied tartly, ‘but he didn’t ask.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, blushing, ‘I didn’t mean …’

‘Did he say we did?’ Alexandria demanded.

Gaius kept his face straight as he replied: ‘Yes, I’m afraid he boasted about it.’

‘I’ll put a dagger in his eye the next time I see him, gods!’ Alexandria raged, gathering her clothes to dress.

Gaius nodded seriously, trying not to smile at the thought of Marcus returning innocently.

They dressed hurriedly, as neither wanted the gossips to see him coming out of her room before the sun was up. She left the slave quarters with him and they sat together in the gardens, brushed by a warm night wind that moved in silence.

‘When can I see you again?’ he said quietly.

She looked away and he thought she wouldn’t answer. Fear rose in him.

‘Gaius … I loved every moment of last night: the touch and feel and taste of you. But you will marry a daughter of Rome. Did you know I wasn’t Roman? My mother was from Carthage, taken as a child and enslaved, then made into a prostitute. I was born late. I should never have been born so late to her. She was never strong after me.’

‘I love you,’ Gaius said, knowing it was true for at least that moment and hoping that was enough. He wanted to give her something that showed she was more than just a night of pleasure for him.

She shook her head lightly at his words.

‘If you love me, let me stay here in Marius’ home. I can fashion jewellery and one day I will make enough to buy myself free. I can be happy here as I could never be if I let myself love you. I could, but you would be a soldier and leave for distant parts of the world and I would see your wife and your children and have to nod to them in the street. Don’t make me your whore, Gaius. I have seen that life and I don’t want it. Don’t make me sorry for last night. I don’t want to be sorry for something so good.’

‘I could free you,’ he whispered, in pain. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Her eyes flashed in anger, quickly controlled. ‘No, you couldn’t. Oh, you could take my pride and sign me free by Roman law, but I would have earned it in your bed. I am free where it matters, Gaius. I realise that now. To be a free citizen in law, I must work honestly to buy myself back. Then I am my own. I met a man today who said he had honesty and pride. I have both, Gaius, and I don’t want to lose either. I will not forget you. Come and see me in twenty years and I will give you a pendant of gold, fashioned with love.’

‘I will,’ he said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then rose and left the scented gardens.

He let himself out onto the streets of the city and walked until he was lost and too tired to feel anything except numbness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

As the moon rose, Marius frowned at the centurion.

‘My orders were clear. Why have you not obeyed them?’

The man stammered a little as he replied: ‘General. I assumed there had been a mistake.’ His face paled as he spoke. He knew the consequences. Soldiers did not send messengers to query their orders, they obeyed them, but what he had been asked was madness.

‘You were told to consider tactics against a Roman legion. Specifically, to find ways to nullify their greater mobility outside the gates. Which part did you not understand?’ Marius’ voice was grim and the man paled further as he saw his pension and rank disappearing.

‘I … No one expects Sulla to attack Rome. No one has ever attacked the city –’

Marius interrupted him. ‘You are dismissed to the ranks. Fetch me Octavius, your second-in-command. He will take your place.’

Something crumpled out of the man. More than forty years old, he would never see promotion again.

‘Sir, if they do come, I would like to be in the first rows to meet them.’

‘To redeem yourself?’ Marius asked.

The man nodded, sickly.

‘Granted. Yours will be the first face they see. And they will come, and not as lambs, but wolves.’

Marius watched the broken man walk stiffly away and shook his head. So many found it difficult to believe that Sulla would turn against their beloved city. For Marius it was a certainty. The news he received daily was that Sulla had finally broken the back of the rebel armies under Mithridates, burning a good part of Greece to the ground in the process. Barely a year had passed, and he would be returning as a conquering hero. The people would grant him anything. With such a strong position, there was no chance of him leaving the legion in the field or in a neighbouring city while he and his cronies came quietly back to take their seats in the Senate and go on as usual. This was the gamble Marius had taken. Though there was nothing else he could find to admire about the man, Sulla was a fine general and Marius had known all along that he could win and return.

‘The city is mine now,’ he muttered thickly, looking about him at the soldiers building ramparts onto the heavy gates for arrow fire. He wondered where his nephew had got to and noted absently how little he’d seen of him in the last few weeks. Tiredly, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, knowing he was pushing himself too hard.

He had snatched sleep for a year as he built his supply lines and armed his men and planned the siege to come. Rome had been recreated as a city fortress and there was not a weak point in any of the walls. She would stand, he knew, and Sulla would break himself on the gates.

His centurions were hand-picked and the loss of one that morning was a source of irritation. Each man had been promoted for his flexibility, his ability to react to new situations, ready for this time, when the greatest city in the world would face her own children in battle – and destroy them.

Gaius was drunk. He stood on the edge of a balcony with a full goblet of wine, trying to steady his vision. A fountain splashed in the garden below and blearily he decided to go and put his head into the water. The night was warm enough.

The noise from the party was a crashing mix of music, laughter and drunken shouting as he moved back inside. It was past midnight and no one was left sober. The walls were lined with flickering oil lamps, casting an intimate light over the revellers. The wine slaves filled every cup as soon as it was drained and had been doing so for hours.

A woman brushed against Gaius and draped an arm over his shoulder, giggling, making him spill some red wine onto the cream marble floor. Her breasts were uncovered and she pulled his free hand onto them as she pressed her lips to him.

He broke for air and she took his wine, emptying the cup in one. Throwing it over her shoulder, she reached down into the folds of his toga, fondling him with erotic skill. He kissed her again and staggered back under her drunken weight until his back pressed up against a column near the balcony. He could feel its coolness against his back.

The crowd were oblivious. Many were only partly dressed and the sunken pool in the middle of the floor churned with slippery couples. The host had brought in a number of slave girls, but the debauchery had spread with the drunkenness and by this late hour the last hundred guests were ready to accept almost anything.

Gaius groaned as the stranger opened her mouth on him and he signalled a passing slave for another cup of wine. He spilled a few drops down his bare chest and watched as the liquid dribbled down to her working mouth, absently rubbing the wine into her soft lips with his fingers.

The music and laughter swelled around him. The air was hot and humid with steam from the pool and the light of the lamps. He finished the wine and threw the cup out into the darkness over the balcony, never hearing it strike the gardens below. His fifth party in two weeks and he thought he had been too tired to go out again, but Diracius was known for throwing wild ones. The other four had been exhausting and he realised this could be the end of him. His mind seemed slightly detached, an observer to the writhing clumps around him. In truth, Diracius had been right to say the parties would help him forget, but, even after so many months, each moment with Alexandria was still there to be called into his mind. What he had lost was the sense of wonder and of joy.

He closed his eyes and hoped his legs would hold him upright to the end.

Kneeling, Mithridates spat blood over his beard onto the ground, keeping his head bowed. A bull of a man, he had killed many soldiers in the battle of the morning and even now, with his arms tied and his weapons taken, the Roman legionaries walked warily around him. He chuckled at them, but it was a bitter sound. All around lay hundreds of men who had been his friends and followers, and the smell of blood and open bowels hung on the air. His wife and daughters had been torn from his tent and butchered by cold-eyed soldiers. His generals had been impaled and their bodies sagged loosely, held upright on spikes as long as a man. It was a bleak day to see it all end.

His mind wandered back over the months, tasting again the joys of the rebellion, the pride as strong Greeks came to his banner from all the cities, united again in the face of a common enemy. It had all seemed possible for a while, but now there were only ashes in the mouth. He remembered the first fort to fall and the disbelief and shame in the Roman Prefect’s eyes as he was made to watch it burn.

‘Look on the flames,’ Mithridates had whispered to him. ‘This will be Rome.’ The Roman had tried to reply, but Mithridates had silenced him with a dagger across his throat, to the cheers of his men.

Now, he was the only one left of the band of friends that had dared to throw off the yoke of Roman rule.

‘I have been free,’ he muttered through the blood, but the words failed to cheer him as they once could.

Trumpets sounded and horses galloped across a cleared path to where Mithridates waited, resting back on his haunches. He raised his shaggy head, his long hair falling over his eyes. The legionaries nearby stood to attention in silence and he knew who it had to be. One eye was stuck with blood, but through the other he could see a golden figure climb down from a stallion and pass the reins to another. The spotless white toga seemed incongruous in this field of death. How was it possible for anything in the world to be untouched by the misery of such a grey afternoon?

Slaves spread rushes over the mud to make a path to the kneeling king. Mithridates straightened. They would not see him broken and begging, not with his daughters lying so close in peaceful stillness.

Cornelius Sulla strode over to the man and stood watching. As if by arrangement with the gods, the sun chose that moment to come from behind the clouds and his dark-blond hair glowed as he drew a gleaming silver gladius from a simple scabbard.

‘You have given me a great deal of trouble, Highness,’ Sulla said quietly.

At his words, Mithridates squinted.

‘I did my best to,’ he replied grimly, holding the man’s gaze with his one good eye.

‘But now it is over. Your army is broken. The rebellion has ended.’

Mithridates shrugged. What good was it to state the obvious?

Sulla continued: ‘I had no part in the killing of your wife and daughters. The soldiers involved have all been executed at my command. I do not make war on women and children and I am sorry they were taken from you.’

Mithridates shook his head as if to clear it of the words and the sudden flashes of memory. He had heard his beloved Livia screaming his name, but there were legionaries all around him armed with clubs to take him alive. He had lost his dagger in a man’s throat and his sword when it jammed in another’s ribs. Even then, with her screams in his ears, he had broken the neck of a man who rushed in on him, but as he stooped to pick up a fallen sword, the others had beaten him senseless and he had woken to find himself bound and battered.

He gazed up at Sulla, looking for mockery. Instead, he found only sternness and believed him. He looked away. Did this man expect Mithridates the King to laugh and say all was forgiven? The soldiers had been men of Rome and this golden figure was their master. Was a huntsman not responsible for his dogs?

‘Here is my sword,’ Sulla said, offering the blade. ‘Swear by your gods that you will not rise against Rome in my lifetime, and I will leave you alive.’

Mithridates looked at the silver gladius, trying to keep the surprise from his face. He had grown used to the fact that he would die, but to suddenly have the offer of life again was like tearing scabs away from hidden wounds. Time to bury his wife.

‘Why?’ he grunted through the drying blood.

‘Because I believe you to be a man of your word. There has been enough death today.’

Mithridates nodded silently in reply and Sulla reached round him with the unstained blade to cut the bonds. The king felt the soldiers nearby tense as they saw the enemy free once more, but he ignored them, reaching out and taking the blade in his scarred right palm. The metal was cold against his skin.

‘I swear it.’

‘You have sons, what about them?’

Mithridates looked at the Roman general, wondering how much he knew. His sons were in the east, raising support for their father. They would return with men and supplies and a new reason for vengeance.

‘They are not here. I cannot answer for my sons.’

Sulla held the blade still in the man’s grip.

‘No, but you can warn them. If they return and raise Greece against Rome while I live, I will visit upon her people a scale of grief they have never known.’

Mithridates nodded and let his hand fall from the blade. Sulla resheathed it and turned away, striding back to his horse without a backward glance.

Every Roman in sight moved off with him, leaving Mithridates alone on his knees, surrounded by the dead. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at last at the score of pains that plagued him. He watched the Romans break camp and move to the west, back to the sea, and his eyes were cold and puzzled.

Sulla rode silently for the first few leagues. His friends exchanged glances, but for a while no one dared to break the grim silence. Finally, Padacus, a pretty young man from northern Italy, put out his hand to touch Sulla’s shoulder and the general reined in, looking at him questioningly.

‘Why did you leave him alive? Will he not come against us in the spring?’

Sulla shrugged. ‘He might, but if he does, at least he is a man I know I can beat. His successor might not make mistakes so easily. I could have spent another six months rooting out every one of his followers left alive in tiny mountain camps, but what would we have gained except their hatred? No, the real enemy, the real battle –’ He paused and looked over to the western horizon, almost as if he could see all the way to the gates of Rome. ‘The real battle has yet to be fought and we have spent too much time here already. Ride on. We will assemble the legion at the coast, ready for the crossing home.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Gaius leaned on the stone window ledge and watched the sun come up over the city. He heard Cornelia stir on the long bed behind him and smiled to himself as he glanced back. She was still asleep, her long gold hair spilling over her face and shoulders as she shifted restlessly. In the heat of the night they had needed little to cover them and her long legs were revealed almost to the hip by the light cloth that she had gathered in one small hand and pulled closer to her face.

For a moment, his thoughts turned to Alexandria, but it was without pain. It had been hard for the first months, even with friends like Diracius to distract him. He could look back now and wince at his naivety and clumsiness. Yet there was sadness, too. He could never be that innocent boy again.

He had seen Metella privately and signed a document that passed Alexandria’s ownership over to the house of Marius, knowing he could trust his aunt to be kind to her. He had also left a sum of gold pieces, taken from his estate funds, to be handed to her on the day she purchased her freedom. She would find out when she was free. It was a small gift, considering what she had given him.

Gaius grinned as he felt arousal stir once more, knowing he would have to be moving before the household came awake. Cornelia’s father Cinna was another of the political heavyweights Marius was flattering and working to control. Not a man to cross, and discovery in his beloved daughter’s bedroom would mean death even for Marius’ nephew.

He glanced at her again and sighed as he pulled his clothes to him. She had been worth it though, worth the risk many times over. Three years older than him, she had yet been a virgin, which surprised him. She was his alone and that gave him quiet satisfaction and more than a little of the old joy.

They had met at a formal gathering of Senate families, celebrating the birth of twin sons to one of the nobilitas. In the middle of the day, there was nothing like the free licence of one of Diracius’ parties, and at first Gaius had been bored with the endless congratulations and speeches. Then, in a quiet moment, she had come over to him and changed everything. She had been wearing a robe of dark gold, almost a brown, with earrings and a torque at her throat of the same rich metal. He had desired her from the first moments, and liked her as quickly. She was intelligent and confident and she wanted him. It was a heady feeling. He had sneaked in over the roofs to her bedroom window, looking on her as she slept, her hair tousled and wild.

He remembered her rising from the bed and sitting on it with her legs drawn up under her and her back straight. It had been a few seconds before he noticed she was smiling. He sighed as he pulled on his clothes and sandals.

With Sulla gone from the city for a whole year as the Greek rebellion grew in ferocity, it was easy for Gaius to forget that there had to be a reckoning at some point. Marius, though, had worked from the first day for the moment that Sulla’s standards became visible on the horizon. The city was still buzzing with excitement and dread, as it had been for months. Most had stayed, but a steady trickle of merchants and families leaving the city showed that not every inhabitant shared Marius’ confidence about the outcome. Every street had shops that were boarded closed and the Senate criticised many of the decisions made, pushing Marius to rage when he came back to his home in the early hours of the mornings. It was a tension Gaius could barely share, with the pleasures of the city to distract him.

He looked over at Cornelia again as he tightened his toga and saw her eyes were open. He crossed to her and kissed her on the lips, feeling the rush of longing as he did. He dropped one hand to her breast and felt her start against him as he broke for air.

‘Will you come to me again, Gaius?’

‘I will,’ he replied, smiling, and found to his surprise that he actually meant it.

‘A good general is prepared for every eventuality,’ Marius said as he handed the documents to Gaius. ‘These are money orders. They are as good as gold in your hand, drawn on the city treasury. I do not expect to have them repaid, they are a gift to you.’

Gaius looked at the sums and fought to smile. The amounts were large, but would barely cover the debts he had run up with the moneylenders. Marius hadn’t been able to keep a close eye on his nephew as the preparations for Sulla’s return continued and Gaius had run lines of credit in those first few months after Alexandria, buying women, wine and sculpture – all to increase his standing in a city that had respect only for gold and power. With borrowed wealth, Gaius had come onto a jaded social scene as a young lion. Even those who distrusted his uncle knew Gaius was a man to be watched and there was never a problem with the ever larger sums he required, as the rich struggled to be next to offer finance to Marius’ nephew.

Marius must have caught a hint of Gaius’ disappointment and interpreted it as worry for the future.

‘I expect to win, but only a fool wouldn’t plan for disaster where Sulla was involved. If it doesn’t go as I have planned, take the drafts and get out of the city. I have included a reference that should get you a berth on a legion vessel to take you to some far post of the empire. I … have also written documents naming you as a son of my house. You will be able to join any regiment and make your name for a couple of years.’

‘What if you crush Sulla, as you expect?’

‘Then we will continue with your advance in Rome. I will secure a post for you that carries life membership of the Senate. They are jealously guarded, come the elections, but it should not be impossible. It will cost us a fortune, but then you are in, truly one of the chosen. Who knows where the future will take you after that?’

Gaius grinned, caught up in the man’s enthusiasm. He would use the drafts to pay off the worst of his debts. Of course, the horse sales were next week and the rumour was that Arabian princes were bringing new breeds of warhorses, huge stallions that could be guided with the gentlest touch. They would cost a fortune, a fortune very like the one he held in his hand. He tucked the papers inside his toga as he left. The moneylenders would wait a little longer, he was sure.

In the cool night outside Marius’ town house, Gaius weighed up his options for the hours before dawn. As usual, the dark city was far from quiet and he didn’t feel ready for sleep. Traders and cart-drivers swore at each other, smiths hammered, somebody laughed in a nearby house and he could hear crockery being smashed. The city was a place of life in a way the estate could never match. Gaius loved it.

He could go and listen to the orators in the forum by torchlight, perhaps joining in one of the endless debates with other young nobles until the dawn made them all go home. Or he could seek out Diracius’ home and satisfy other appetites. Wiser not to venture alone through the dark streets, he thought, remembering Marius’ warnings about the various raptores who lurked in the dim alleys, ready for theft or murder. The city was not safe at night and it was easy to become lost in the maze of unnamed, twisting streets. One wrong turning could lead a wanderer into an alley filled with piles of human filth and great pools of urine, though the smell was usually enough of a warning.

A month before, he might have gathered companions for a wild night, but the face of one girl had been appearing more and more in his thoughts. Far from dwindling, his longing for her seemed to be fired by contact rather than quenched. Cornelia would be thinking of him in her father’s estate rooms. He would go to her and scale the outer wall, slipping past her father’s house guards one more time.

He grinned to himself, remembering the sudden fear as he had slipped during the last climb, hanging above the hard stones of the street below. It was getting so he knew every inch of that wall, but one mistake would cost him a pair of broken legs or worse.

‘Worth the risks for you, my girl,’ he whispered to himself, watching the night air frost his breath as he walked through the unlit city streets to his destination.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Cinna estate began the bustle of the working day as early as any other in Rome, heating water, firing the ovens, sweeping, cleaning and readying the clothes of the family before they awoke. Before the sun had risen fully, a slave entered Cornelia’s room, looking round for clothes to be collected for washing. Her thoughts were on the thousand chores to be completed before the mid-morning light meal and at first she noticed nothing. Then her eyes strayed to where a muscled leg sprawled over the side of the bed. She froze as she saw the sleeping couple, still entwined.

After a moment of indecision, her eyes lit up with malice and she took a deep breath, cracking the still scene with wild screams.

Gaius rolled naked off the bed and onto the floor in a crouch. He took in the situation in a second, but didn’t waste any time on cursing himself. He grabbed toga and sword and bolted for the window. The slave girl ran to the door, still screaming, and Cornelia spat oaths after her. Thundering footsteps sounded, and the nurse Clodia came into the room, her face full of outrage. She swung her hand and connected with the slave girl’s face, cutting off the scream with a dull smack of flesh and spinning her right round.

‘Get out quickly, lad,’ Clodia snapped at him as the slave girl whimpered on the floor. ‘You’d better be worth all the trouble this is going to cause!’

Gaius nodded, but turned from the window and came back into the room to Cornelia.

‘If I don’t go, they’ll kill me for an intruder. Tell them my name and tell them you’re mine, that I’ll marry you. Tell them, if anyone harms you I’ll kill him.’

Cornelia didn’t answer, just reached up and kissed him.

He pulled away, laughing. ‘Gods, let me go! It is a fine morning for a bit of a chase.’

She watched with amusement as his white buttocks flashed over the windowsill and away, trying to compose herself for the drama to come.

Her father’s guards entered the room first, led by the dour captain who nodded to her and crossed to the window, looking down.

‘Get going,’ he shouted to his companions. ‘I’ll cross the roofs after him, you men intercept him down below. I’ll have his skin on my wall for this. Your pardon, lady,’ he said as a farewell to Cornelia as his red face dropped out of sight.

Cornelia fought not to giggle with tension.

Gaius slipped and skittered on the tiles, scraping skin from elbows and knees as he sacrificed safety for breakneck speed. He heard the captain shouting behind him, but didn’t look back. The tiles offered precious little grip and all he could really do was control the speed of his fall as he slid towards the edge and the street below. He had time to swear as he realised his sandals were in the room above. How could he make any kind of jump in only his bare feet? He’d break bones for sure and then the chase would be over. He lost his grip on the toga to save the gladius, by far the more valuable of the two items. He managed to cling to the edge of the roof and inched along it, not risking standing up in case archers were waiting for him. It would not be unusual for a man of Cinna’s wealth to have a small army on his estate, much as Marius had.

Crouching low, he knew he was out of sight to the swearing, puffing captain behind him and Gaius looked around desperately for a way out of the predicament. He had to get off the roof. If he stayed, they would simply search each part of it until they found him and either pitch him off onto his head or drag him before Cinna for punishment. With the heat of betrayal on him, Cinna would be deaf to pleas and death would quickly follow for the charge of rape. In fact, Gaius realised Cinna would not even have to bring charges, he would simply summon a lictor and have the man execute Gaius on the spot. If Cinna was of a mind to, he could have Cornelia strangled to save the honour of his house, though Gaius knew the old man doted on his only daughter. If he had genuinely believed she would suffer, he would have stayed to fight it out, but he thought she would be safe enough against old Cinna’s rage.

Down below, where the roof overhung the street, Gaius could hear shouting as the house guards formed a ring that blocked all the exits. Behind him, the scrabbling of iron-shod sandals on tiles was getting closer and so he took a deep breath to calm himself and ran, hoping his speed and balance would keep him on the treacherous surface long enough to find safety. The guard captain cried out in recognition as he broke cover, but Gaius didn’t have time to look back. The nearest roof was too far away to leap onto and the only flat place on the whole complex was a bell tower with a small window.

He made the sill with a desperate jump as his legs finally lost all grip and he heaved himself up and over it, panting in great gulps of the cold morning air. The bell room was tiny, with steps leading down inside it to the main house below. At first, Gaius was tempted to run down them, but then a plan surfaced in his mind and he steadied his breathing and stretched a few muscles as he waited for the captain to reach the window.

Moments after his decision to stay, the man blocked the sunlight and his face lit up at the sight of the young man cornered in the bell house. They looked at each other for a moment and Gaius watched with interest as the thought of being killed as he climbed in crossed the other man’s face. Gaius nodded to him and stood well back to allow him entrance.

The captain grinned nastily at him, panting from the run.

‘You should have killed me while you had the chance,’ he said, drawing his sword.

‘You would have fallen off the roof and I need your clothes – especially those sandals,’ Gaius replied calmly, unsheathing his own gladius and standing relaxed, apparently unaware of his nakedness.

‘Will you tell me your name before I kill you? Just so I have something to tell my master, you know,’ the captain said, moving lightly into a fighter’s crouch.

‘Will you give me your clothes? This is too fine a morning for killing,’ Gaius countered, smiling easily.

The captain began to reply and Gaius attacked, only to have his sword batted aside. The man had been expecting such a move and was ready for it. Gaius realised quickly that he was facing a skilled opponent and focused, aware of every move in the dance. The floor was too small a space for ease and the stairwell loomed between them, threatening to send one of them tumbling.

They feinted and struck around the space, looking for weaknesses. The captain was puzzled at the young man’s skill. He had bought the position in Cinna’s guard after winning a city sword tournament and knew he was the better of most men, but time and again his attacks were driven aside with speed and precision. He wasn’t worried, though. At worst, he could simply hang on until help arrived, and as soon as the searchers realised where they fought more would be sent up the stairs to overwhelm the intruder. Some of this confidence must have shown in his face as Gaius went on the offensive at last, having got the measure of his man.

Gaius lunged through the captain’s guard and pierced his shoulder. The man took the wound with a grunt, but Gaius knocked his riposte aside and opened a gash in the leather chestplate. The captain found himself with his back to the wall of the little bell tower and then a bruising blow on his fingers sent his gladius down the stairwell, clattering and rebounding in its fall. The hand felt useless and he looked into Gaius’ eyes, expecting the cut that would finish him.

Gaius barely slowed. He turned his sword at the last second so that the flat of it slammed against the man’s temple and dropped him senseless onto the floor.

More shouts sounded below and he began to strip the captain, fingers working feverishly.

‘Come on, come on …’ he muttered to himself. Always have a plan, Renius had advised him once, but apart from stealing the man’s clothes, he hadn’t had time to think the rest of his escape through.

After an age, he was dressed. The captain was stirring and Gaius hit him again with the hilt, nodding as the twitching movements ceased. He hoped he hadn’t killed him; the man had been doing what he was paid to do and without malice. Gaius took a deep breath. Stairs or window? He paused for only a second, put his own gladius into the captain’s scabbard, now strapped to him, and strode down the stairs back into the main house.

Marius clenched his fists at the news from the breathless messenger.

‘How many days behind you are they?’ he said, as calmly as he could.

‘If they force-march, it can’t be more than three or four. I came as fast as I could, changing horses, but most of Sulla’s men had landed by the time I set off. I waited to be sure it was the main force and not just a feint.’

‘You did well. Did you see Sulla himself?’

‘I did, though it was at a distance. It seemed to be a full landing of his legion returning to Rome.’

Marius tossed a gold coin to the man, who snatched it out of the air. Marius stood up.

‘Then we must be ready to greet him. Gather the other scouts together. I will prepare messages of welcome for you to take to Sulla.’

‘General?’ the messenger asked, surprised.

‘Ask no questions. Is he not the conquering hero returned to us? Meet me here in an hour to receive the letters.’

Without another word, the man bowed and left.

The captain was found by the searchers as he stumbled naked from the bell tower, holding his head. There was no sign of the intruder, despite the exhaustive search that went on all morning. One of the soldiers remembered a man dressed like the captain who had gone off to check down a side street, but he couldn’t remember enough detail to give a good description. At midday, the search was called off and by then the news of Sulla’s return had hit the streets of Rome. An hour later, one of the house guards noticed a small wrapped package leaning against the house gate and opened it, finding the captain’s uniform, scabbard and sandals. The captain swore as he was handed it.

Gaius was summoned into Marius’ presence that afternoon and had prepared a defence of his actions. However, the general seemed not to have heard the scandal and only motioned Gaius to sit with his centurions.

‘No doubt by now you will have heard that Sulla has landed his forces on the coast and is only three or four days from the city.’

The others nodded and only Gaius had to try to hide the shock he felt.

‘It is a year and four months to the day since Sulla left for Greece. I have had enough time to prepare a suitable homecoming.’

Some of the men chuckled in response and Marius smiled grimly.

‘This is no light undertaking. You are all men I trust and nothing I say here is to leave this room. Do not discuss this with your wives or mistresses or most trusted friends. I have no doubt that Sulla has had spies in the city watching my every move. He must be aware of our preparations and will arrive fully warned of Rome’s readiness for civil war.’

The words, said at last in the open, chilled the hearts of all who heard them.

‘I cannot reveal all my plans even now, save to say this. If Sulla reaches the city alive, and he may not, we will treat his legion as an attacking enemy, destroying them on the field. We have supplies of grain, meat and salt to last us for many months. We will seal the city against him and destroy him on the walls. Even as we speak, the flow of traffic has ceased in and out of Rome. The city stands alone.’

‘What if he leaves his legion in camp and comes to demand his rightful entry?’ asked a man Gaius didn’t know. ‘Will you risk the wrath of the Senate, declare yourself dictator?’

Marius was silent for a long time, then he raised his head and spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

‘If Sulla comes alone, then I will have him cut down. The Senate will not brand me a traitor to the state. I have their support in everything I do.’

This much was true: there was not a man of influence who would dare to put a motion to the Senate condemning the general. The position was clear.

‘Now, gentlemen, your orders for tomorrow.’

Cornelia waited patiently until her father had finished, allowing his rage to wash over her, leaving her untouched.

‘No, Father. You will not have him tracked down. He will be my husband and you will welcome him into our house when the time comes.’

Cinna purpled in renewed anger. ‘I’ll see his body rot first! He comes like a thief into my home and you sit there like a block of marble and tell me I will accept it? I will not, until his body lies broken at my feet.’

Cornelia sighed gently, waiting for the tirade to slow down. Shutting her ears against the shouting, she counted the flowers that she could see from the window. Finally, the tone changed and she brought her attention back to her father, who was looking at her doubtfully.

‘I love him, Father, and he loves me. I am sorry we brought shame to the house, but the marriage will wash it all away, despite the gossips in the market. You did tell me I could choose a man I wanted, remember?’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Not as far as I know. There will be no sign when we are married, no public show.’

Her father nodded, looking older and deflated.

Cornelia stood and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Cinna grunted dubiously. ‘Do I know him, this despoiler of innocence?’

Cornelia smiled, relieved at his change in mood. ‘You do, I’m sure. He is the nephew of Marius. Gaius Julius Caesar.’

Her father shrugged. ‘I have heard the name.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Cornelius Sulla sipped cooled wine in the shadow of his tent, looking over the legion camp. It was the last night he would have to bear away from his beloved Rome. He shivered slightly in the breeze and perhaps in anticipation of the conflict to come. Did he know every aspect of Marius’ plans or would the old fox surprise him? Messages of official welcome lay upon the table, ignored for the formality they were.

Padacus rode up, pulling the horse into a flashy stop with the rear legs buckling on the turn. Sulla smiled at him. So very young, and such a very beautiful man, he noted to himself.

‘The camp is secure, General,’ Padacus called as he dismounted. Every inch of his armour was polished and glowing, the leather soft and dark with oil. A young Hercules, Sulla thought as he received and answered the salute. Loyal unto death, though, like a pampered hound.

‘Tomorrow night, we will enter the city. This is the last night for hard ground and living like barbarians,’ Sulla told him, preferring the simple image over the reality of soft beds and fine linen in the general’s tent at least. His heart was with the men, but the privations of a legionary’s life had never appealed to the consul.

‘Will you share your plans, Cornelius? The others are all eager to know how you will handle Marius.’

Padacus had pressed a little too closely in his enthusiasm and Sulla held up a palm.

‘Tomorrow, my friend. Tomorrow will be soon enough for preparations. I will retire early tonight, after a little more wine.’

‘Will you require … company?’ Padacus asked softly.

‘No. Wait. Send a couple of the better-looking whores to me. I might as well see if I have anything new to learn.’

Padacus dropped his head as if he’d been struck. He backed to his horse and trotted away.

Sulla watched his stiff retreat and sighed, splashing the remaining wine in his goblet onto the black ground. It was the third time the young man had offered and Sulla had to face the fact that he was becoming a problem. The line between adoration and spite was fine in young Padacus. Better to send him away to some other legion before he caused trouble that could not be ignored. He sighed again and walked into the tent, flicking the leather sheet closed over the entrance behind him.

The lamps had been lit by his slaves, the floor was covered in rugs and cloth. Sweet-smelling oil burned in a tiny cup, a rare mixture he enjoyed. Sulla took a deep breath and caught a flicker of movement coming at him from the right. He collapsed backwards out of the line of the attack and felt the air move as something slashed above him. Sulla kicked out with powerful legs and his attacker was knocked from his feet. As the assassin flailed round, Sulla caught his knife hand in a crushing grip. He levered himself up so that his weight was on the man’s chest and he smiled as he watched the man’s expression change from anger and fear to surprise and despair.

Sulla was not a soft man. True, he didn’t favour the more extreme Roman tests of courage, where injuries and scars showed prowess, but he trained every day and fought in every battle. His wrists were like metal and he had no difficulty in turning the blade inward until it was pointing towards the man’s throat.

‘How much did Marius pay you?’ Sulla sneered, his voice showing little strain.

‘Nothing. I kill you for pleasure.’

‘Amateur by word and deed!’ Sulla continued, pressing the knife closer to the heaving flesh. ‘Guards! Attend your consul!’ he barked and, within seconds, the man was pinned down and Sulla could stand and brush dust from himself.

The guard captain had entered with the rush of people. He was pale, but managed to snap out a clean salute as he stood to attention.

‘It seems that an assassin has made his way through the camp and into the tent of a consul of Rome without being challenged,’ Sulla said quietly, dipping his hands into a bowl of scented water on an oak table and holding them out to be dried by a slave.

The guard captain took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Torture will get us the names of his masters. I will supervise the questioning myself. I will resign my commission in the morning, General, with your permission?’

Sulla continued as if the man had not spoken. ‘I do not enjoy being accosted in my own tent. It seems such a common, grubby incident to disturb my repose in this way.’

He stooped and picked up the dagger, ignoring the owner’s frantic struggles as the grim soldiers bound him with vicious tightness. He held the slim blade out to the nervous captain.

‘You have left me unprotected. Take this. Go to your tent and cut your throat with it. I will have your body collected in … two hours?’

The man nodded stiffly, taking the dagger. He saluted again and turned on his heel, marching out of the tent space.

Padacus placed a warm palm on Sulla’s arm. ‘Are you wounded?’

Sulla pulled his arm away in irritation. ‘I am fine. Gods, it was only one man. Marius must have a very low opinion of me.’

‘We don’t know it was only one man. I will set guards around your tent tonight.’

Sulla shook his head. ‘No. Let Marius think he has scared me? I’ll keep those two whores you were bringing me and make sure one of them is awake through the night. Bring them in and get rid of everyone else. I believe I have worked up an appetite for a little vicious entertainment.’

Padacus saluted smartly, but Sulla saw the full lips pout as he turned and made a note. The man was definitely a risk. He would not make it back to Rome. An accident of some kind – a fall from his glorious gelding. Perfect.

At last he was alone and Sulla sat on a low bed, smoothing a hand over the soft material. There was a quiet, female cough from outside and Sulla smiled with pleasure.

The two girls that entered at his call were clean, lithe and richly dressed. Both were beautiful.

‘Wonderful,’ Sulla sighed, patting the bed beside him. For all his faults, Padacus had an eye for truly beautiful women, a rather wasted gift in the circumstances.

Marius frowned at his nephew.

‘I do not question your decision to be wed! Cinna will be a useful support in your career. It will suit you politically as well as personally to marry his daughter. However, I do question your timing. With Sulla’s legion likely to arrive at the gates of the city tomorrow evening, you want me to arrange a marriage in such haste?’

A legionary rushed up to the general, attempting to salute around an armful of scrolls and documents. Marius raised a hand to hold him off.

‘You discussed certain plans with me, if things didn’t work out tomorrow?’ Gaius asked, his voice quiet.

Marius nodded and turned to the guard. ‘Wait outside. I’ll fetch you when I’m finished here.’

The man attempted another salute and trotted out of the general’s barracks room. As soon as he was out of earshot, Gaius spoke again.

‘If somehow things go wrong for us … and I have to flee the city, I won’t leave Cornelia behind unmarried.’

‘She can’t go with you!’ Marius snapped.

‘No. But I can’t leave her without my name for protection. She may be pregnant.’ He hated to admit the extent of their relationship. It was a private thing between them, but only Marius could get the sacrifices and priests ready in the short time left to them and he had to be made to understand.

‘I see. Does her father know of … your intimacy?’

Gaius nodded.

‘Then we are lucky he is not at the door with a horsewhip. Fair enough. I will make ready for the briefest of vow ceremonies. Dawn tomorrow?’

Gaius smiled suddenly, released from a tension he had felt pressing on him.

‘That’s more like it,’ Marius laughed in response. ‘Gods, Sulla isn’t even in sight yet and a long way from taking Rome back from me. You look too hard for the worst outcomes, I fear. Tomorrow evening your haste may seem ridiculous as we put old Sulla’s head on a spike, but no matter. Go. Buy a wedding robe and presents. Have all the bills sent to me.’ He patted Gaius on the back.

‘Oh, and see Catia on the way out – a lady of mature years who makes uniforms for the men. She will think of a few things and where to get them in so short a time. Go!’

Gaius left, chuckling.

As soon as he had gone, Marius summoned his aide with a shout and spread the scrolls out on the table, holding the edges with smooth lead weights.

‘Right, lad,’ he said to the soldier. ‘Summon the centurions for another meeting. I want to hear any fresh ideas, no matter how bizarre. What have I missed? What does Sulla plan?’

‘Perhaps you have already thought of everything, General.’

‘No man can think of everything; all we can do is to be ready for anything.’ Marius waved the man away on his errand.

Gaius found Cabera throwing dice with two of Marius’ legionaries. The old man was engrossed in the game and Gaius controlled his impatience as he made another throw and clapped his ancient hands together in pleasure. Coins were passed over and Gaius took his arm before another round could begin.

‘I spoke to Marius. He can arrange the ceremony for dawn tomorrow. I need help today to get everything ready.’

Cabera looked carefully at him as he tucked his winnings into his ragged brown robe. He nodded to the soldiers and one of them shook hands a little ruefully before walking away.

‘I look forward to meeting this girl who has had such an impact on you. I suppose she is terribly beautiful?’

‘Of course! She is a young goddess. Sweet brown eyes and golden hair. You cannot possibly imagine.’

‘No. I was never young. I was born a wrinkled old man, to the surprise of my mother,’ Cabera answered seriously, making Gaius laugh. He felt drunk with excitement, with the threatening shadow of Sulla’s arrival pushed right to the back of his mind.

‘Marius has given me the purse strings, but the shops close so early. We have no time to waste. Come on!’ Gaius pulled Cabera by the arm and the old man chuckled, enjoying the enthusiasm.

As evening darkened over the city, Marius left the centurions and walked out to make another inspection of the wall defences. He stretched as he walked and felt and heard his back clicking, sore from bending over the plans for so many hours. A warning voice in his mind reminded him of how foolish it was to walk around in this city after dark, even with the curfew still in place. He dismissed it with a shrug. Rome would never hurt him. She loved her son too dearly, he knew.

As if in response to his thoughts, he felt the freshening warm wind on his face, drying the sweat that had seeped from him in the cramped barracks. When Sulla was disposed of, he would see about building a greater palace for the Rome legion. There was a slum area adjoining the barracks that could be flattened by senatorial order. He saw it in his mind and imagined entertaining foreign leaders in the great halls. Dreams, but pleasant as he walked through the silent streets, with only the clack-clack of his sandals breaking the perfect stillness.

He could see the silhouettes of his men against the star-filled night sky long before he reached them. Some were still and some walked their prescribed, overlapping routes at random. At a glance, he could see they were alert. Good men. Who knew what awaited them the next time night fell? He shrugged again to himself and was glad no one could see him in the dim streets. Sulla would come and he would be met with steel. There was no point in worrying and Marius took a deep cleansing breath, putting it all away inside him. He smiled cheerfully as the first of many sentries stopped him.

‘Good lad. Hold that spear steady now, a pilum is a fearful weapon in a strong grip. That’s it. I thought I would take a tour of this section. Can’t stand the waiting, you know. Can you?’

The sentry saluted gravely.

‘I don’t mind it, sir. You may pass.’

Marius clapped his hand against the sentry’s shoulder. ‘Good man. They won’t get past you.’

‘No, sir.’

The legionary watched him go and nodded to himself. The old man was still hungry.

Marius climbed the steps to the new wall his legion had constructed over and around the old gates of Rome. It was a solid and massive construction of heavy interlocking blocks with a wide walkway at the top, where a smaller wall would protect his men from archers. Marius rested his hands on the smooth stone and looked out into the night. If he were Sulla, how would he take the city?

Sulla’s legions had huge siege engines, heavy crossbows, stone throwers and catapults. Marius had used each type and feared them all. He knew that, as well as large stones to batter the wall, Sulla could load his machines with smaller shot that would rip through defenders too slow to duck. He would use fire, launching barrels of rock oil over the wall to ignite the inner buildings. Enough barrels and the men on the wall would be lit from behind, easy targets for archers. Marius had cleared some wooden buildings away from the wall, his men dismantling homes quickly and efficiently. Those he could not move had a huge supply of water at the ready, with trained teams to deal with it. It was a new idea for Rome and one he would have to look into when the battle was over. Every summer, fires gutted houses in the city, sometimes spreading to others before being stopped by a wide street or a thick stone wall. A small group ready with water could …

He knuckled his eyes. Too much time spent thinking and planning. He hadn’t slept for more than a few hours for weeks and the drain was beginning to tell on even his vitality.

The wall would have to be scaled with ladders. It was strong, but Roman legions were practised in taking fortresses and castles. The techniques were almost mundane now. Marius muttered to himself, knowing the nearest sentry was too far away to hear his voice.

‘They have never fought Romans, especially Romans in defence of their own city. That is our true advantage. I know Sulla, but he knows me. They have the mobility, but we have the stronghold and the morale. My men are not attacking beloved Rome, after all.’

Cheered by his thoughts, Marius walked on over the section of wall. He spoke to each man and, recalling names here and there, asked them about their progress and promotions and loved ones. There wasn’t a hint of weakness in any he spoke to. They were like hard-eyed hunting dogs, eager to be killing for him.

By the time he had walked the section and descended back into the dark streets below, Marius felt lifted by the men’s simple faith in him. He would see them through. They would see him through. He hummed a military tune to himself as he strolled back to the barracks and his heart was light.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Gaius Julius Caesar smiled, despite the feeling of anxious weakness that fluttered in his stomach. With the help of Marius’ seamstress, he had sent servants off to buy and organise for most of the night. He’d known the ceremony would have to be simple and was astonished at so many members of the nobilitas in attendance on a cold morning. The senators had come, bringing families and slaves to the temple of Jupiter. Every glance that met his was followed by a smile, and the soft odours of flowers and burning scentwood was strong in the air. Marius and Metella were there at the entrance of the marble temple and Metella was dabbing tears from her eyes. Gaius nodded to them both nervously as he waited for his bride to arrive. He twitched the sleeves of his marriage robe, cut low around his neck to reveal a single amethyst on a slender gold chain.

He wished Marcus was there. It would have helped to have someone who really knew him. Everyone else was part of the world he was growing into: Tubruk, Cabera, Marius, even Cornelia herself. With a pang, he realised that to make it all seem real, he needed someone there who could meet his eye and know the whole journey to that point. Instead, Marcus was away in foreign lands, the wild adventurer he always wanted to be. By the time he returned, the wedding day would just be a memory that he could never share.

It was cool in the temple and for a moment Gaius shivered, feeling his skin prickle as the hairs stood up. He was in a room full of people who didn’t know him.

If his father had lived, he could have turned to him as they all waited for Cornelia. They could have shared a smile, or a wink that said, ‘Look what I’ve done.’

Gaius felt tears come into his eyes and he looked up at the domed ceiling, willing them not to spill onto his face. His father’s funeral had been the end of his mother’s moments of peace. Tubruk had shaken his head when Gaius asked if she was able to come. The old gladiator loved her as much as anyone, he knew. Perhaps he always had.

Gaius cleared his throat and dragged his thoughts back to the moment. He had to put childhood behind him. There were many friends in the room, he told himself. Tubruk was like an uncle with his gruff affection and Marius and Metella seemed to have accepted him without reserve. Marcus should have been there. He owed him that.

Gaius hoped Cinna would be pleasant. He had not spoken to the man since formally asking for Cornelia’s hand to be passed from father to husband. It had not been a happy meeting, though the senator had kept his dignity for her sake. At least he had been generous with the dowry for Cornelia. Cinna had handed him the deeds to a large town house in a prosperous area of Rome. With slaves and guards as part of the gift, Gaius had felt a worry ease from him. She would be safe now, no matter what happened. He frowned. He would have to get used to the new name, casting off the old with the other trappings of youth. Julius. His father’s name. It had a good sound to the ear, though he guessed he would always be Gaius to those he had known as a boy. His father had not lived to see him adopt his adult name and that saddened him. He wondered if the old man could see his only son and hoped so, wishing for just that one more moment to share pride and love.

He turned and smiled weakly at Cabera, who regarded him with a sour expression, his thinning hair still tousled from being roused at what he considered an ungodly hour. He too was dressed in a new brown robe to mark the occasion, adorned with a simple pewter brooch, a design of a fat-faced moon standing proud on the metal. Julius recognised it as Alexandria’s work and smiled at Cabera, who scratched an armpit vigorously. Julius kept smiling and after a few seconds, the ancient features cracked in cheerful response, despite his worries.

The future was dark to Cabera as it always was when he was a part of a particular destiny. The old man felt afresh the irritation at only being able to sense the paths that had little bearing on his own life, but even the scratch of his misgivings couldn’t prevent him taking pleasure in the youthful joy he felt coming from Julius like a warm wave.

There was something wonderful about a wedding, even one as quickly arranged as this one. Everyone was happy and for at least this little while the problems to come could be forgotten, or at least ignored until dark.

Julius heard footsteps sound on the marble behind him and he turned to see Tubruk leaving his seat to approach the altar. The estate manager looked his usual self, strong, brown and healthy, and Julius clasped his arm, feeling it as an anchor in the world.

‘You looked a bit lost up here. How are you feeling?’ Tubruk asked.

‘Nervous. Proud. Amazed so many turned up.’

Tubruk looked with fresh interest at the crowd and turned back with eyebrows raised.

‘Most of the power in Rome is in this room. Your father would be proud of you. I’m proud of you.’ He paused for a moment, unsure of whether to continue. ‘Your mother did want to come, but she was just too weak.’

Julius nodded and Tubruk punched his arm affectionately before going back to his seat a few rows behind.

‘In my village, we just take a girl by the hair and pull her into our hut,’ Cabera muttered, shocking the priest out of his beatific expression. Seeing this, the old man went on cheerfully: ‘If it didn’t work, you’d give her father a goat and grab one of her sisters. Much simpler that way – no hard feelings and free goat milk for the father. I had a herd of thirty goats when I was a lad, but I had to give most of them away, leaving me without enough to support myself. Not a wise decision, but difficult to regret, no?’

The priest had flushed at these casual references to barbarian practices, but Julius only chuckled.

‘You old fraud. You just like to shock these upright Roman citizens.’

Cabera sniffed loudly.

‘Maybe,’ he admitted, remembering the trouble he’d caused when he had tried to offer his last goat upfront for a night of pleasure. It had seemed like sense at the time, but the girl’s father had taken a spear from his wall and chased the young Cabera up into the hills where he had to hide for three days and nights.

The priest eyed Cabera with distaste. He was nobilitas himself, but in his religious role wore a cream toga with a hood that left only his face bare. He waited patiently for the bride with the others. Julius had explained that the ceremony must be as simple as possible because his uncle would want to leave at the earliest moment. The priest had scratched his chin in obvious annoyance at this, before Julius slipped a small pouch of coins into his robe as an ‘offering’ to the temple. Even the nobilitas had bills and debts. It would be a short service. After Cornelia was brought in to be given away by her father, there would be prayers to Jupiter, Mars and Quirinus. An augur had been paid gold to predict wealth and happiness for them both. The vows would follow and Julius would put a simple gold ring on her finger. She would be his wife. He would be her husband. He felt sweat dampen his armpits and tried to shrug away the nervousness.

He turned again and looked straight into the eyes of Alexandria as she stood in a simple dress, wearing a brooch of silver. There were tears sparkling in her gaze, but she nodded at him and something eased within.

Soft music began at the back, swelling to fill the vaulted ceiling like the incense smoke that spilled from the censers. Julius looked round and caught his breath and everything else was forgotten.

Cornelia was there, standing tall and straight in a cream dress and thin golden veil, her hand on the arm of her father, who was clearly unable to keep a beaming smile from his face. Her hair had been tinted darker, and her eyes seemed of the same warm colour. At her throat was a ruby the size of a bird’s egg, held in gold against the lighter tone of her skin. She looked beautiful and fragile. There was a small wreath on the crest of her head, made from verbena and sweet marjoram flowers. He could smell their scent as Cornelia and her father approached. Cinna let go of her arm as they reached Julius, remaining a pace behind.

‘I pass Cornelia into your care, Gaius Julius Caesar,’ he said formally.

Julius nodded. ‘I accept her into my care.’ He turned to her and she winked at him.

As they knelt, he caught again the scent of flowers from her and couldn’t stop himself glancing over to her bowed head. He wondered if he would have loved her if he hadn’t known Alexandria, or if he had met her before he had gone to the houses where women could be bought for a night or even an hour. He hadn’t been ready for this, not back then, a year and a lifetime ago. The prayers were a peaceful murmur over their heads and he was content. Her eyes were soft as summer darkness.

The rest of the ceremony went in a blur for him. The simple vows were spoken – ‘Where you go, there go I.’ He knelt under the priest’s hands for what seemed like eternity and then they were out in the sunshine and the crowd was cheering and shouting, ‘Felicitas!’ and Marius was bidding him goodbye with a great clap on his back.

‘You’re a man now, Julius. Or she will make you one very soon!’ he said loudly, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘You have your father’s name. He would be proud of you.’

Julius returned the grip strongly. ‘Do you want me on the walls now?’

‘I think we can spare you for a few hours. Report to me at four this afternoon. Metella will have finished crying about then, I think.’

They grinned at each other like boys and Julius was left in a space for a moment, alone with his bride in a crowd of well-wishers. Alexandria walked up to him and he smiled, suddenly nervous. Her dark hair was bound with wire and the sight of her made his throat feel tight. There was so much history in those dark eyes.

‘That’s a beautiful brooch you are wearing,’ he said.

She reached up and tapped it with her hand.

‘You’d be surprised at how many people have asked about it this morning. I already have some orders.’

‘Business on my wedding day!’ he exclaimed and she nodded without embarrassment.

‘May the gods bless your house,’ she said formally.

She moved away and he turned to find Cornelia looking at him quizzically. He kissed her.

‘She is very beautiful. Who is she?’ she said, her voice betraying a touch of worry.

‘Alexandria. She is a slave at Marius’ house.’

‘She doesn’t act like a slave,’ Cornelia replied, dubiously.

Julius laughed. ‘Do I hear jealousy?’

Cornelia did not smile and he took her hands gently in his.

‘You are all I want. My beautiful wife. Come to our new home and I’ll show you.’

Cornelia relaxed as he kissed her, deciding to find out everything she could about the slave girl with the jewellery.

The new house was bare of furniture, or slaves. They were the only ones there and their voices echoed. The bed was a present from Metella, made of carved, dark wood. At least there was a mattress over the slats, and soft linen.

For a few minutes, they seemed clumsy, self-conscious with the weight of the new titles.

‘I think you might remove my toga, wife,’ Julius said, his voice light.

‘I shall, husband. You could unbind my hair, perhaps.’

Then their old passion returned and the clumsiness was forgotten through the afternoon, as the heat built outside.

Julius panted, his hair wet with perspiration. ‘I will be tired out tonight,’ he said between breaths.

A light frown creased Cornelia’s forehead. ‘You’ll be careful?’

‘Not at all, I shall throw myself into conflict. I may start a battle myself, just to impress you.’

Her fingers traced a line down his chest, dimpling the smooth skin. ‘You could impress me in other ways,’

He groaned. ‘Not right now I can’t, but give it a little time.’

Her eyes glinted mischievously as she moved her delicate fingers.

‘I might be too impatient to wait. I think I can awake your interest.’

After a few moments, he groaned again, crumpling the sheets under his clenching fists.

At four o’clock, Julius was hammering at the barracks door, only to be told the general was back up on the walls, walking section after section. Julius had exchanged his toga for a legionary’s simple uniform of cloth and leather. His gladius was held to his belt and he carried a helmet under one arm. He felt slightly light-headed after the hours spent with Cornelia, but he found he was able to leave that longing in a compartment inside himself. He would return to her as the young lover, but at that moment he was a soldier, nephew of Marius, trained by Renius himself.

He found Marius talking to a group of his officers and stood a few paces away, looking over the preparations. Marius had split his legion into small mobile groups of sixteen men, each with assigned tasks, but more flexible than having each century man the wall. All the scouts reported Sulla making a straight line for the city, with no attempt to feint or confuse. It looked as if Sulla was going to risk a direct attack, but Marius still suspected some other plan to make itself evident as the army hove into view. He finished giving his final orders and gripped hands with each of his officers before they went to their posts. The sun had dropped past the zenith point and there were only a few hours until evening began.

He turned to his nephew and grinned at the serious expression.

‘I want you to walk the wall with me, as fresh eyes. Tell me anything you could improve. Watch the men, their expressions, the way they hold themselves. Judge their morale.’

Julius still looked grim and Marius sighed in exasperation.

‘And smile, lad. Raise their spirits.’ He leaned in closer. ‘Many of these men will be dead by morning. They are professionals, but they will still know fear. Some won’t be happy about facing our own people in war, though I have tried to have the worst of those moved back from the first assault wall. Say a few words to as many as you can, not long conversations, just notice what they are doing and compliment them on it. Ask them their names and then use the name in your reply to them. Ready?’

Julius nodded, straightening his spine. He knew that the way he presented himself to others affected how they saw him. If he strode in with shoulders and spine straight, men would take him seriously. He remembered his father telling the boys how to lead soldiers.

‘Keep your head high and don’t apologise unless you absolutely have to. Then do it once, loudly and clearly. Never whine, never plead, never gush. Think before you speak to a man and, when you have to, use few words. Men respect the silent; they despise the garrulous.’

Renius had taught him how to kill a man as quickly and efficiently as possible. He was still learning how to win loyalty.

They walked slowly along a section of wall, stopping and speaking to each soldier and spending a few minutes longer with the leader of the section, listening to ideas and suggestions and complimenting the men on their readiness.

Julius caught glances and held them as he nodded. The soldiers acknowledged him, tension evident. He stopped by one barrel-chested little man adjusting a powerful metal crossbow, set into the stone of the wall itself.

‘What’s the range?’

The soldier saluted smartly.

‘With the wind behind you, three hundred paces, sir.’

‘Excellent. Can the machine be aimed?’

‘A little, nothing precise at the moment. The workshop is working on a moving pedestal.’

‘Good. It looks a deadly thing indeed.’

The soldier smiled proudly and wiped a rag over the winch mechanism that would wind the heavy arms back to their locking slot.

‘She, sir. Something as dangerous as this has to be female.’

Julius chuckled as he thought of Cornelia and his aching muscles.

‘What is your name, soldier?’

‘Trad Lepidus, sir.’

‘I will look to see how many of the enemy she takes down, Lepidus.’

The man smiled again.

‘Oh, it will be a few, sir. No one is coming into my city without the permission of the general, sir.’

‘Good man.’

Julius moved on, feeling a touch more confidence. If all the men were as steadfast as Trad Lepidus, there couldn’t be an army in the world that could take Rome. He caught up with his uncle, who was accepting a drink from a silver flask and spluttering over the contents.

‘Sweet Mars! What’s in this, vinegar?’

The officer fought not to smile.

‘I dare say you are used to better vintages, sir. The spirit is a little raw.’

‘Raw! Mind you, it is warming,’ Marius said, tilting the flask up once more. Finally, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Excellent. Send a chit to the quartermaster in the morning. I think a small flask for officers would be just the thing against the chill of winter’s nights.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the man replied, frowning slightly as he tried to calculate the profits he would make as the sole supplier to his own legion. The answer obviously pleased him and he saluted smartly as Julius passed.

Finally, Marius reached the flight of stone steps down to the street that marked the end of the section. Julius had spoken or nodded or listened to every one of a hundred or so soldiers on that part of the wall. His facial muscles felt stiff and yet he felt a touch of his uncle’s pride. These were good men and it was a great thing to know they were ready to lay down their lives at your order. Power was a seductive thing and Julius enjoyed the reflected warmth of it from his uncle. He felt a mounting excitement as he waited with his city for Sulla to arrive and darkness to come.

Narrow wooden towers had been placed at intervals all round the city. As the sun set, a lookout shouted from one and the word was passed at a fierce speed. The enemy were on the horizon, marching towards the city. The gates were closed against them.

‘At last! The waiting was chafing on me,’ Marius bellowed, charging out of his barracks as the warning horns were sounded across the city, long wailing notes.

The reserves took their positions. Those few Romans still on the streets ran for their homes, bolting and barricading their doors against the invaders. The people cared little for who ruled the city as long as their families were safe.

The Senate meetings had been postponed that day and the senators too were in their palatial houses, dotted around the city. Not one of them had taken the roads to the west, though a few had sent their families away to country estates rather than leave them at risk. A few rose with tight smiles, standing at balconies and watching the horizon as the horns moaned across the darkening city. Others lay in baths or beds and had slaves ease muscles that tightened from fear. Rome had never been attacked in its history. They had always been too strong. Even Hannibal had preferred to meet Roman legions on the field rather than to assault the city itself. It had taken a man like Scipio to take his head and that of his brother. Would Marius have the same ability, or would it be Sulla that held Rome in his bloody hand at the end? One or two of the senators burned incense at their private altars for their household gods. They had supported Marius as he tightened his grip on Rome, forced to take his side in public. Many had staked their lives on his success. Sulla had never been a forgiving man.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Torches were lit all around the city as night fell. Julius wondered what it would look like to the gods as they looked down, a great gleaming eye in the black vastness of the land? We look up as they look down, he thought.

He stood with Cabera on ground level, listening to the news as it was shouted down from the wall lookouts and relayed along and deep into the city, a vein of information for those who could see and hear nothing. Over it, despite the nearby noises, he could make out the distant tramp of thousands of armoured men and horses on the move. It filled the soft night and grew louder as they approached.

There was no doubt now. Sulla was bringing his legion right up the Via Sacra to the gates of the city, with no attempt at subterfuge. The lookouts reported a torchlit snake of men stretching for miles back in the darkness, with the tail disappearing over hills. It was a marching formation for friendly lands, not a careful approach to close with an enemy. The confidence of such a casual march made many raise eyebrows and wonder what on earth Sulla was planning. One thing was for certain: Marius was not the man to be cowed by confidence.

Sulla clenched his fists in excitement as the gates and walls of the fortress city began to glow with the reflected light of his legion. Thousands of fighting men and half as many again in support marched on through the night. The noise was rhythmic and deafening, the crash of feet on the stone road echoing back and around the city and the night. Sulla’s eyes sparkled in the flames of torches and he casually raised his right hand. The signal was relayed, great horns wailing into the darkness, setting off responses all the way down the great snake of soldiers.

Stopping a moving legion required skill and training. Each section had to halt to order, or a pile-up would result, with the precision lost in chaos. Sulla turned and looked back down the hill, nodding with satisfaction as each century became still, their torches held in unwavering hands. It took almost half an hour from the first signal to the end, but at last, they all stood on the Via Sacra and the natural silence of the countryside seemed to flow back over them. His legion waited for orders, gleaming gold.

Sulla swept his gaze over the fortifications, imagining the mixed feelings of the men and citizens inside. They would be wondering at his halt, whispering nervously to each other, passing the news back to those who could not see the great procession. The citizens would hear his echoing horns and be expecting attack at any moment.

He smiled. Marius too would be chafing, waiting for the next move. He had to wait, that was the key weakness of the fortified position – they could only defend and play a passive role.

Sulla bided his time, signalling for cool wine to be brought to him. As he did so, he noticed the rather rigid posture of a torch carrier. Why was the man so tense, he wondered. He leaned forward in his saddle and noticed the thin trickle of boiling hot oil that had escaped the torch and was creeping towards the slave’s bare hand. Sulla watched the man’s eyes as they flicked forward and back to the burning liquid. Was there a touch of flame in the trickle? Yes, the heat would be terrible; it would stick as it burned the man. Sulla observed with interest, noting the sweat on the man’s forehead and having a private bet with himself as to what would happen when the heat touched the skin.

He was a believer in omens and at such a moment, before the gates of Rome herself, he knew the gods would be watching. Was this a message from them, a signal for Sulla to interpret? Certainly he was beloved of the gods, as his exalted position showed. His plans were made, but disaster was always possible with a man like Marius. The flickering flames on the oil touched the slave’s skin. Sulla raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking with surprise. Despite the obvious agony of it, the man stood still as rock, letting the oil run on past his knuckles and continue its course into the dust of the road. Sulla could see the flames light his hand with a gentle yellow glow yet still the fellow did not move!

‘Slave!’ he called.

The man turned to face his master.

Pleased, Sulla smiled at his steadiness.

‘You are relieved. Bathe that hand. Your courage is a good omen for tonight.’

The man nodded gratefully, extinguishing the tiny flames with the grasp of his other palm. He scuttled off, red-faced and panting at the release. Sulla accepted a cool goblet graciously and toasted the walls of the city, his eyes hooded as he tipped it back and tasted the wine. Nothing to do now but wait.

Marius gripped the lip of the heavy wall with irritation.

‘What is he doing?’ he muttered to himself. He could see the legion of Sulla stretching away into the distance, halted not more than a few hundred paces from the gate that opened onto the Via Sacra. Around him his men waited, as tense as himself.

‘They are just outside missile range, General,’ a centurion observed.

Marius had to control a flare of temper. ‘I know. If they cross inside it, begin firing at once. Hit them with everything. They’ll never take the city in that formation.’

It made no sense! Only a broad front stood a chance against a well-prepared enemy. The single-point spearhead march stood no chance of breaching the defences. He clenched his fist in anger. What had he missed?

‘Sound the horns the moment anything changes,’ he ordered the section leader and strode back through the ranks to the steps leading to the city street below.

Julius, Cabera and Tubruk waited patiently for Marius to come over, watching him as he checked in with his advisers, who had nothing new to offer, judging by the shaking of heads. Tubruk loosened his gladius in his scabbard, feeling the light nerves that always came before bloodshed. It was in the air and he was glad he had stayed on through the hot day. Gaius, no, Julius now, had almost sent him home to the estate, but something in the ex-gladiator’s eyes had prevented the order.

Julius wished the band of friends could have been complete. He would have appreciated Renius’ advice and Marcus’ odd sense of humour. As well as that, if it did come to a fight, there were few better to have at your side. He too loosened his sword, rattling the blade against the metal lip of the scabbard a few times to clear it of any obstructions. It was the fifth time he had done so in as many minutes and Cabera clapped a hand to his shoulder, making him start a little.

‘Soldiers always complain about the waiting. I prefer it to the killing, myself.’ In truth, he felt the swirling paths of the future pressing heavily on him and was caught between the desire to get Julius away to safety or to climb up onto the wall to meet the first assault. Anything to make the paths resolve into simple events!

Julius scanned the walls, noting the number and positions of men, the smooth guard changes, the test runs of the ballistae and army-killer weapons. The streets were silent as Rome held its breath, but still nothing moved or changed. Marius was stamping around, roaring orders that would have been better left to the trusted men in the chain of command. It seemed the tension was affecting even him.

The endless chains of runners were finally still. There was no more water to be carried and the stockpiles of arrows and shot were all in position. Only the breathless footsteps of a messenger from another part of the wall broke the tension every few minutes. Julius could see the worry on Marius’ face, made almost worse by the news of no other attack. Could Sulla really be willing to risk his neck in a legal entry to the city? His courage would win admirers if he walked up to the gates himself, but Julius was sure he would be dead, killed by an ‘accidental’ arrow as he approached. Marius would not leave such a dangerous snake alive if he came within bow shot.

His thoughts were interrupted as a robed messenger jostled by him. In that moment, the scene changed. Julius watched in dawning horror as the men on the closest section of the wall were suddenly overwhelmed from behind, by their own companions. So intent were they on the legion waiting outside that scores fell in a few seconds. Water carriers dropped the buckets they held and sank daggers into the soldiers nearest them, killing men before they even realised they were under attack.

‘Gods!’ he whispered. ‘They’re already inside!’

Even as he bared his gladius and felt rather than saw Tubruk do the same, he saw a flaming arrow lit calmly from a brazier and sent soaring into the night. As it arced upwards, the silence of murder was broken. From outside the walls, Sulla’s legion roared as if hell had broken open and came on.

In the darkness of the street below, Marius had had his back to the wall when he noticed the stricken expression of a centurion. He spun in time to see the man clawing at the air, impaled on a long dagger that had been thrust into his back.

‘What is it? Blood of the gods …’ He pulled in a great gasp of air to rally the nearest sections and, as he did, saw a flaming arrow sweep out into the ink blackness of the starless night.

‘To me! First-Born to the gate! Hold the gate! Sound full warning! They come!’

His voice cracked out, but the horn blowers were lying in pools of their own blood. One still struggled with his assailants, hanging on to the slim bronze tube despite the vicious stabbing his body was taking. Marius drew the sword that had been in his family for generations. His face was black with rage. The two men died and Marius raised the horn to his own lips, tasting the blood that had spattered onto the metal.

All around him in the darkness, other horns answered. Sulla had won the first few moments, but he vowed it wasn’t over yet.

Julius saw the group dressed as messengers were all armed and converging on where Marius stood with a bloody horn and his bright sword already dark with blood. The wall loomed behind him, flickering with torch shadows.

‘With me! They’re going for the general in the confusion,’ he barked to Tubruk and Cabera, charging the back of the group as he shouted.

His first blow took one of the running men in the neck as they slowed to negotiate struggling groups of fighters. Finally, Marius’ men seemed to have woken up to the fact that the enemy were disguised, but the fighting was difficult and, in the flashing colours and blows of combat, no man knew which of the groups were friends and which were enemies. It was a devastating ploy and inside the walls everything was chaos.

Julius ripped his blade across a leg muscle, crashing his running feet over the body as it collapsed and feeling satisfaction as he felt the bones shift and break under his sandals. At first he was surprised at the group not standing to fight, but he quickly realised they had orders to assassinate Marius and were careless of any other dangers.

Tubruk brought down another with a leap that had them both sprawling on the hard cobbles. Cabera took one more with a dagger throw that caught Sulla’s man in the side and sent him staggering. Julius let his blade scythe out as he clattered past and felt a satisfying shock up his arm as it connected and slid free.

Ahead, Marius stood alone and other, black-clad figures converged on him. He roared defiance as he saw them coming and suddenly Julius knew he was too late. More than fifty men were charging at the general. All his soldiers in the area were dead or dying. One or two still screamed their frustration, but they too could not reach his uncle.

Marius spat blood and phlegm and raised his sword menacingly.

‘Come on, boys. Don’t keep me waiting,’ he growled through clenched teeth, anger keeping despair at bay.

Julius felt a hard fist jerk at his collar and drag him to a stop. He roared in anger and felt his sword arm batted away as he spun to face the threat. He found himself looking into Tubruk’s stern face.

‘No, boy. It’s too late. Get out while you can.’

Julius struggled in the grip, swearing with incoherent rage.

‘Let go! Marius is …’

‘I know. We can’t save him.’ Tubruk’s face was cold and white. ‘His men are too far away. We’ve been overlooked for a moment, but there’s too many of them. Live to avenge him, Gaius. Live.’

Julius swivelled in the grip and fifty feet away saw Marius go down under a heaving mass of bodies, some of which were loose and boneless, already dead from his blows. The others held clubs, he saw, and they were striking wildly at the general, beating him to the ground in mindless ferocity.

‘I can’t run,’ Julius said.

Tubruk swore. ‘No. But you can retreat. This battle is lost. The city is lost. Look, Sulla’s traitors are on the gates themselves. The legion will be on us if we don’t move now. Come on.’ Without waiting for further argument, Tubruk grabbed the young man under the armpits and began pulling him away, with Cabera taking the other arm.

‘We’ll get the horses and cross the city to one of the other gates. Then on to the coast and a legion galley. You must get clear. Few who have supported Marius will be alive in the morning,’ Tubruk continued grimly.

The young man went almost limp in his grasp and then stiffened in fear as the night came alive with more black shapes surrounding them. Swords were pressed up to their throats and Julius tensed for the pain to come as an order broke the night.

‘Not these. I know them. Sulla said to keep them alive. Get the ropes.’

They struggled, but there was nothing they could do.

Marius felt his sword pulled from his grasp and heard the clatter as it was thrown on the stones almost distantly. He felt the thudding blows of clubs not as pain, but simply impacts, knocking his head from side to side in the crush of bodies. He felt a rib snap with an icicle of pain and then his arm twisted and his shoulder dislocated with a rip. He pulled up to consciousness and sank again as someone stamped on his fingers, breaking them. Where were his men? Surely they would be coming to save his life. This was not how it was meant to be, how he had seen his end. This was not the man who entered Rome at the head of a great Triumph and wore purple and threw silver coins to the people that loved him. This was a broken thing that wheezed blood and life out onto the sharp stones and wondered if his men would ever come for him, who loved them all as a father loves his children.

He felt his head pulled back and expected a blade to follow across his exposed throat. It didn’t come and, after long seconds of agony, his eyes focused on the forbidding black mass of the Sacra gate. Figures swarmed over it and bodies draped it in obscene costume. He saw the huge bar lifted by teams of men and then the crack of torchlight that shone through it. The great gate swung open and Sulla’s legion stood beyond, the man himself at the head, wearing a gold circlet to bind back his hair and a pure white toga and golden sandals. Marius blinked blood out of his eyes and in the distance heard a renewed crash of arms as the First-Born poured in from all over the city to save their general.

They were too late. The enemy was already within and he had lost. They would burn Rome, he knew. Nothing could stop that now. His holding troops would be overwhelmed and there would be bloody slaughter, with the city raped and destroyed. Tomorrow, if Sulla still lived, he would inherit a mantle of ashes.

The grip in Marius’ hair tightened to bring his head higher, a distant pain amongst all the others. Marius felt a cold anger for the man who strode so mightily towards him, yet it was mixed with a touch of respect for a worthy enemy. Was not a man judged by his enemies? Then truly Marius was great. His thoughts wandered away and back, fogged by the heavy blows. He lost consciousness, he thought only for a few seconds, coming to as a brutal-faced soldier slapped his cheeks, grimacing at the blood that came off onto his hands. The man began to wipe them on his filthy robe, but a strong clear voice sounded.

‘Be careful, soldier. Your hands have the blood of Marius on them. A little respect is due, I believe.’

The man gaped at the conqueror, clearly unable to comprehend. He took a few paces away into the growing crowd of soldiers, holding his hands stiffly away from his body.

‘So few understand, do they, Marius? Just what it is to be born to greatness?’ Sulla moved so that Marius could look him in the face. His eyes sparkled with a glittering satisfaction that Marius had hoped never to see. Looking away, he hawked up blood from his throat and allowed it to dribble onto his chin. There was no energy to spit, and he had no desire to exchange dry wit in the moments before his death. He wondered if Sulla would spare Metella and knew he probably wouldn’t. Julius – he hoped he had escaped, but he too was probably one of the cooling corpses that surrounded them all.

The sounds of battle swelled in the background and Marius heard his name being chanted as his men fought through to him. He tried not to feel hope; it was too painful. Death was coming in seconds. His men would see only his corpse.

Sulla tapped his teeth with a fingernail, his face thoughtful.

‘You know, with any other general I would simply execute him and then negotiate with the legion to cease hostilities. I am, after all, a consul and well within my rights. It should be a simple enough matter to allow the opposing forces to withdraw outside the city and lead my men into the city barracks in their place. I do believe, though, that your men will carry on until the last man stands, costing hundreds more of my own in the process. Are you not the people’s general, beloved of the First-Born?’ He tapped his teeth again and Marius strove to concentrate and ignore the pain and weariness that threatened to drag him back down to darkness.

‘With you, Marius, I must make a special solution. This is my offer. Can he hear me?’ he asked one of the men Marius could not see. More slaps woke him from his stupor.

‘Still with us? Tell your men to accept my legal authority as consul of Rome. The Primigenia must surrender and my legion be allowed to deploy into the city without incident or attack. They are in anyway, you know. If you can deliver this, I will allow you to leave Rome with your wife, protected by my honour. If you refuse, not one of your men will be left alive. I will destroy them from street to street, from house to house, along with all who have ever shown you favour or support, their wives, children and slaves. In short, I will wipe your name from the annals of the city, so that no man will live who would have called you friend. Do you understand, Marius? Pull him to his feet and support him. Fetch the man water to ease his throat.’

Marius heard the words and tried to hold them in his swirling, leaden thoughts. He didn’t trust Sulla’s honour further than he could spit, but his legion would be saved. They would be sent far from Rome, of course, given some degrading task of guarding tin mines in the far north against the painted savages, but they would be alive. He had gambled and lost. Grim despair filled him, blunting the sharpness of the pain as broken bones shifted in the rough grip of Sulla’s men, men who would not have dared lay a finger on him only a year before. His arm hung slack, feeling numb and detached from him, but that didn’t matter any more. A last thought stopped him from speaking at once. Should he delay in the hope that his men could win through and turn the situation to his advantage? He turned his head and saw the mass of Sulla’s men fanning out to secure the local streets and realised the chance for a quick retaliation had gone. From now on, it would be the messiest, most vicious kind of fighting, and most of his legion was still on the walls around the city, unable to engage. No.

‘I agree. My word on it. Let the nearest of my men see me, so that I may pass the order on to them.’

Sulla nodded, his face twisted with suspicion. ‘Thousands will die if you tell untruth. Your wife will be tortured to death. Let there be an end to this. Bring him forward.’

Marius groaned with pain as he was dragged away from the shadow of the wall, to where the clash of arms was intense.

Sulla nodded to his aides. ‘Sound the disengage,’ he snapped, his voice betraying the first touch of nerves since Marius had seen him. The horns sounded the pattern and at once the first and second rows took two paces back from the enemy, holding position with bloody swords.

Marius’ legion had left the walls on the southeast side of the city, swarming through the streets. They massed down every alley and road, eyes bright with rage and bloodlust. Behind them, every second, more gathered as the city walls were stripped of defenders. As Marius was propped up to speak, a great howl went up from the men, an animal noise of vengeance. Sulla stood his ground, but the muscles tightened around his eyes in response. Marius took a deep breath to speak and felt the press of a dagger by his spine.

‘First-Born.’ Marius’ voice was a croak, and he tried again, finding strength. ‘First-Born. There is no dishonour. We were not betrayed but attacked by Sulla’s own men left behind. Now, if you love me, if you have ever loved me, kill them all and burn Rome!’

He ignored the agony of the dagger as it tore into him, standing strong before his men for one long moment as they roared in fierce joy. Then his body collapsed.

‘Fires of hell!’ Sulla roared as the First-Born surged forward. ‘Form fours. Mêlée formation and engage. Sixth company to me. Attack!’ He drew his sword as the closest company clustered round to protect him. Already, he could smell blood and smoke on the air and dawn was still hours away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Marcus looked over the parapet, straining his eyes at the distant campfires of the enemy. It was a beautiful land, but there was nothing soft in it. The winters killed the old and weak and even the scrub bushes had a wilted, defeated look as they clung to the steep crags of the mountain passes. After more than a year as a hill scout, his skin was a dark brown and his body was corded with wiry muscle. He had begun to develop what the older soldiers called the ‘itch’, the ability to smell out an ambush, to spot a tracker and move unseen over rocks in the dark. All the experienced trackers had the itch and those who hadn’t acquired it after a year never would – and would never be first-rate, they claimed.

Marcus had first been promoted to command eight men after he successfully spotted an ambush by blueskin tribesmen, directing his scouts around and behind the waiting enemy. His men had cut them to pieces and only afterwards did anyone remark that they had followed his lead without argument. It had been the first time he had seen the wild nomads up close and the sight of their blue-dyed faces still slid into his dreams after bad food or cheap wine.

The policy of the legion was to control and pacify the area, which in practice meant a blanket permission to kill as many of the savages as they could. Atrocities were common. Roman guards were lost and found staked out, their entrails exposed to the brutal sun. Mercy and kindness were quickly burned away in the heat, dust and flies. Most of the actions were minor – there could be none of the set-piece battles so beloved of the Roman legionaries on such broken and hostile terrain. The patrols went out and came back with a couple of heads or a few men short. It seemed to be a stalemate, with neither side having the strength for extermination.

After twelve months of this, the raids on the supply caravans suddenly became more frequent and more brutal. Along with a number of other units, Marcus’ men had been added to the supply guards, to make sure the water barrels and salted provisions reached their most isolated outposts.

It had always been clear that these buildings were barbs under the skin of the tribespeople and attacks on the small stone forts in the hills were common. The legion rotated the men stationed there at regular intervals and many came back to the permanent camp with grisly stories of heads thrown over the parapets, or words of blood found on the walls when the sun rose.

At first the duties of caravan guard had not been onerous for Marcus. Five of his eight men were experienced, cool hands and completed their duties without fuss or complaint. Of the other three, Japek complained constantly, seeming not to care that he was disliked by the others, Rupis was close to retirement and had been broken back to the ranks after some failure of command and the third was Peppis. Each presented different problems and Renius had only shaken his head when asked for advice.

‘They’re your men, you sort it out,’ had been his only word on the subject.

Marcus had made Rupis his second, in charge of four of the men, in the hope that this would restore a little of his pride. Instead, he seemed to take some obscure insult from this and practically sneered whenever Marcus gave him an order. After a little thought, Marcus had ordered Japek to write down every one of his complaints as they occurred to him, forming a catalogue that he would allow Japek to present to their centurion back at the permanent camp. The man was famous for not suffering fools and Marcus was glad to note that not a single complaint had gone down on the parchment he had provided from the legion stores. A small triumph, perhaps, but Marcus was struggling to learn the skills of dealing with people or, as Renius put it, making them do what you want without being so annoyed they do it badly. When he thought about it, it made Marcus smile that the only teacher he’d ever had for diplomacy was Renius.

Peppis was the kind of problem that couldn’t be resolved with a few words or a blow. He had made a promising start at the permanent barracks, growing quickly in size and bulk with good food and exercise. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to steal from the stores, often bringing the items to Marcus, which had caused him a great deal of embarrassment. Even being forced to return everything he took and a brief but solid lashing had failed to cure Peppis of the habit and eventually the Bronze Fist centurion, Leonides, had sent the boy to Marcus with a note that read: ‘Your responsibility. Your back.’

The guard duty had started well, with the kind of efficiency Marcus had begun to take for granted but which he guessed was not the standard all over the empire. They had set off one hour before dawn, trailing along the paths into the dark granite hills. Four flat ox carts had been loaded with tightly lashed barrels and thirty-two soldiers detailed for guard duty. They were under the command of an old scout named Peritas, who had twenty years of experience under his belt and was no one’s fool. Altogether, they were a formidable force to be trundling through the winding hill paths and although Marcus had felt hidden eyes on them almost from the beginning, that was a feeling you quickly became used to. His unit had been given the task of scouting ahead and Marcus was leading two of his men up a steep bank of loose stone and dried moss when they came face to face with about fifty painted, blue-skinned figures, fully armed for war.

For a few seconds, both groups merely gaped at each other and then Marcus had turned and scrambled back down the slope, his two companions only slightly slower. Behind them a great yell went up, making unnecessary the need to call any warning to the caravan. The blueskins poured over the lip of the hidden ledge and fell on the caravan guards with their long swords held high and wild screams rending the mountain air.

The legionaries had not paused to gape. As the blueskins charged, arrows were fitted to bowstrings and a humming wave of death passed over the heads of Marcus and his men, giving them time to reach the path and turn to face the enemy. Marcus remembered having drawn his gladius and killing a warrior who had screamed at him right up to the moment when Marcus chopped his blade into the creature’s throat.

For a moment, the legionaries were overwhelmed. Their strength was in units, but on the ragged path it was every man for himself and little chance to link shields with anyone else. Nonetheless, Marcus saw that each of the Romans was standing and cutting, their faces grim and unyielding before the blue horror of the tribe. More men fell on both sides and Marcus found himself with his back to a cart, ducking under a sword cut to bury his shorter blade in a heaving blue stomach and ripping it out to the side. The intestines seemed bright yellow against the blue dye, some part of him noted as he defended against two more. He took one hand off at the wrist and sliced another warrior in the groin as he tried to leap onto the cart. The snarling tribesman fell back into the choking dust and Marcus stamped down on him blindly while slicing the bicep of the next. It seemed to last a long time and, when they finally broke and raced away up the banks into cover, Marcus was surprised to see the sun where it had been when they attacked. Only a few minutes had passed at most. He looked round for his unit and was relieved to see faces he knew well, panting and splashed with blood, but alive.

Many had not been so lucky. Rupis would never sneer again. He lay with his legs sprawled against one of the carts, a wide red smile opened in his throat. Twelve others had been butchered in the attack and around them lay almost thirty of the still blue bodies, dribbling blood onto their land. It was a grim sight and the flies were already arriving in droves for the feast.

As Marcus had called for Peppis to bring him a flask of water, Peritas had begun setting the guards again and called the commanders to him for a quick report. Marcus had taken the flask from Peppis and trotted to the head of the column.

Peritas looked as if the heat and dust had baked all moisture out of him over the years, leaving only a sort of hard wood and eyes that peered out at the world with amused indifference. Of the whole group, he was the only one who was mounted. He nodded as Marcus saluted.

‘We could turn back, but my guess is we’ve seen the worst they have to offer at the moment. I think if we took the bodies back, that would be a little victory for the savages, so we go on. Strap the dead to the carts and change the guards over. I want the freshest men on lookout, just in case of more trouble. Well done those men who surprised the enemy and made them show themselves early. Probably saved a few Roman lives. It’s only thirty miles to the hill fort, so we had better press on. Questions?’

Marcus looked at the horizon. There was nothing to ask. Men died and were cremated and sent back to Rome. That was army life. Those who survived received promotions. He hadn’t realised there was as much luck involved as there seemed to be, but Renius had nodded when asked and pointed out that, although the gods may well have heroic favourites, an arrow doesn’t care who it kills.

The real trouble started when the depleted company reached the last few miles of the journey. They had begun to see blueskins watching them from the undergrowth, a flash of colour here and there. They hadn’t the numbers to send a unit to attack and the blueskins had never used missile weapons, so the legionaries just ignored the tribesmen and kept a good grip on their swords.

The closer they came to the fort, the more of the enemy they could see. At least twenty of them were keeping pace on a higher level than the path, using the trees and undergrowth for cover, but occasionally coming out into the open to hoot and jeer at the grim soldiers of Rome. Peritas frowned as his horse trotted on and kept his hand on his sword hilt.

Marcus kept expecting a spear to be thrown. He imagined one of the blue warriors sighting on him and could practically feel the spot between his shoulder blades where the point would land. They certainly carried spears, but seemed to avoid throwing them, or at least had in the past. It didn’t stop the spot itching, though. He began willing the fort to be close and at the same time dreading what they might find. More than one tribe must be gathered; certainly none of the men had ever seen so many blueskins in one place before. If any of them lived to report back to the rest of the legion, someone would have to warn them that the tribes had grown in confidence and numbers.

At last they rounded a turn in the track and saw the last segment of the journey, half a mile of steeply rising path up to a small fortress on a grey hill. Roaming the flat lands around the outcropping were more of the blue men. Some were even camped in sight of the fortress and watched the caravan with slitted eyes. Footfalls on rock could be heard behind them, and rocks dislodged by scrambling bare feet spattered and bounced against the ground. With every man on edge, they had begun the slow climb to the fort, the ox-drivers waving and cracking their whips nervously.

Marcus could see no lookouts and began to feel a sense of dull fear. They wouldn’t make it – and what would they find when they did?

The slow march continued until they were close enough to see the details of the fort. Still there was no one on the ramparts and Marcus knew with a sinking heart that no one could be alive inside. He had his sword drawn and was swinging it nervously as he walked.

Suddenly a great howl went up from every blueskin around. Marcus had risked a glance back down the path and saw what must have been a hundred of the warriors charging at them.

Peritas rode down the line of legionaries.

‘Abandon the wagons! Make for the fort. Go!’ he shouted and suddenly they were running. The howls increased in savage joy behind them as the drivers leapt off and sprinted the last hundred feet. Marcus held his sword away from his body and ran, not daring to look back again. He could hear the slap of hard bare feet and the high screaming of a blueskin attack too close for comfort. He saw the gate come up and was through it with a knot of shoving, heaving soldiers, turning immediately to yell encouragement to the slower men.

Most made it. Only two men, either too tired or too scared to make the sprint, were run down, turning in the last moment like trapped animals and spitted with many blades. Wet red metal was raised in defiance as the survivors shut and barred the gate and Peritas was off his horse and shouting to search and secure the fort. Who could understand the sick reasoning of the savages? Perhaps they had more men waiting inside, just for the pleasure of picking them off when they thought they had reached safety.

The fort was empty, however, except for the bodies. A Fifty manned each fort, with twenty horses. Man and beast lay where they had been killed and then mutilated. Even the horses had their stinking guts spread over the stone floor and clouds of blue-black flies buzzed into the air as they were disturbed. Two men vomited as the smell hit them and Marcus’ heart sank even more. They were trapped, with only disease and death in the future. Outside, the blueskins chanted and whooped.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Before night fell, Peritas had the bodies of the legionaries locked in an empty basement store. The dead horses proved a more difficult problem. All weapons had been stripped from the fort and there wasn’t an axe to be found anywhere. The slippery carcasses could be lifted by five or six of the men working at once, but not carried up the stone steps to be put over the ramparts. In the end, Peritas had stacked the heavy, limp bodies against the gate to slow down attackers. It was the best they could hope for. No one expected to make it through the night and fear and resignation hung heavily on all of them. Up on the walls, Marcus watched the campfires with narrowed eyes.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he muttered to Peppis, ‘is why we were allowed back into the fort. They have taken it once and they must have lost some lives, so why not cut us down on the trail?’

Peppis shrugged. ‘They’re savages, sir. Perhaps they enjoy a challenge, or humiliating us.’ He carried on with his task of sharpening blades on a worn concave whetstone. ‘Peritas says we will be missed when we don’t get back by morning and they’ll send out a strike force by tomorrow evening, perhaps even earlier. We don’t have to hold out for long, but I don’t think the blueskins will give us that kind of time.’ He continued wiping the stone along a silver blade.

‘I think we could hold this place for a day or so. They have the numbers, granted, but that’s all they have. Mind you, they did take it once.’

Marcus paused as a chant began in the near darkness. If he strained his eyes, he could see dancing figures silhouetted against the flames of the fires.

‘Someone is having a good time tonight,’ he muttered. His mouth watered. The fort well had been poisoned with rotting flesh and everything else edible had been removed. Truth to tell, if the reinforcements didn’t get to them in a day or two, thirst would do the blueskins’ job for them. Perhaps they intended the Romans to die with dry throats in the burning sun. That would match the cruel tales he had heard about them, given a fresh airing amongst the nervous soldiers as night fell on the fort.

Peppis peered over the wall into the gloom and snorted.

‘There’s one of them peeing against the wall down there,’ he said, his voice caught between outrage and amusement.

‘Watch yourself, don’t lean out or put your head up too high,’ Marcus replied as he pressed his own head closer to the rough stone, trying to peer over the edge whilst exposing as little of himself as possible.

Astonishingly close and directly below them was a swaying blueskin holding his parts and spraying the fort with dark urine in short sweeping arcs. The grinning figure caught sight of the movement above and jumped, recovering quickly. He waved a hand at the pair who watched him and waggled his privates in their direction.

‘He’s had a little too much to drink, I’d say,’ Marcus murmured, grinning despite himself. He watched the man pull a bloated wineskin around his body and suck on the mouth of it, spilling more than he took in. Blearily, the blueskin shoved in the stopper on his third attempt and gestured up again, calling out something in his slushy tongue.

Tiring of their lack of response, he took two steps and fell flat on his face.

Marcus and Peppis watched him. He was still.

‘Not dead, I can see his chest moving. Dead drunk maybe,’ Peppis whispered. ‘It’s bound to be a trap. Devious, the blueskins are, everyone says.’

‘Maybe, but I can only see one of them and I can take one. We could do with that wine. I know I could, anyway,’ Marcus replied. ‘I’m going down there. Fetch me a rope. I can drop over the wall and climb back up before there’s any real danger.’

Peppis scurried off on his errand and Marcus focused on the prone figure and the surrounding ground. He weighed the risks and then smiled sardonically. They were all going to die in the night or at dawn, so what did the risks matter? The problem receded and he felt his tension relax. There was something about almost certain death that was quite calming in its way. At least he would have a drink. That wine sack had looked full enough to give nearly all of them a cupful.

Peppis tied up his end of the rope and sent the rest uncoiling silently down the twenty-foot drop. Marcus made sure his gladius was secure and ruffled the hair of the lad.

‘See you soon,’ he whispered, putting one leg over the parapet and disappearing into the gloom below. The dark was so complete that Peppis could barely make him out as he crept towards the still figure, the gladius drawn and ready in his hand.

Marcus felt the itch again and clenched his jaw. Something was wrong with the scene and it was too late to avoid the trap. He reached out a foot to stir the drunken blueskin and wasn’t surprised when the man suddenly sprang up. Marcus took his throat out before the expression of triumph could fully form. Then two more blue men rose out of the dirt. It was their presence he’d sensed, hidden in shallow graves and lying perfectly still for hours with almost inhuman discipline. They had probably dug themselves in to wait before the Roman caravan even appeared, Marcus realised as he attacked. They were not wild savages, but warriors.

There seemed to be just the three of them, young men out for status or a first kill. They had risen with swords in their hands and his first backhand blow was blocked with a loud ring of metal that made Marcus wince. There would be more of them coming. He had to get clear before the whole blueskin army arrived.

Marcus’ blade slid along the dust-covered warrior’s and clashed against a crude bronze guard. The man leered and Marcus punched him in the stomach with his other fist, ripping the blade back and through him as he doubled over in pained surprise. He collapsed as his neck veins parted and hit the ground wretchedly.

The third was not as skilled as his companion, but Marcus could hear shouts and knew time was running out. His haste made him careless and he ducked late on a wild slash that nicked his ear and scored a line in his scalp.

He slid to his left and punched the blade into the man’s heart through the blue-stained ribs from the side. As the warrior fell with a gurgling cry, Marcus could hear the slap of running feet he remembered so vividly from the afternoon scramble into the fort. It was too late to run for the rope, so he turned and detached the wineskin from the first body, pulling out the stopper and taking a deep draught as the night around him filled with swords and blue shadows.

They formed a circle around him, swords ready, eyes bright even in the darkness. Marcus eased the wine bag to his feet and held his gladius high. They made no move and he saw eyes roam over the bodies. Long seconds stretched in silence, then one of them stepped forward, large, bald and blue, and carrying a long, curved blade.

The warrior pointed off into the distance and gestured at Marcus. Marcus shook his head and pointed back at the fort. Someone jeered, but a curt hand signal from the man cut their noise off. The warrior stepped forward fearlessly, his sword pointed at Marcus’ throat. With his other arm he pointed again at the campfires and then at the young Roman. The circle tightened silently and Marcus could feel the closeness of the men behind him.

‘Tortured to death over the fire it is, then,’ he said, pointing to the campfires himself.

The big blue warrior nodded, his eyes never leaving Marcus. He spoke a few words of command and another warrior placed his hand on Marcus’ sword blade, gently removing it from his grip.

‘Oh, unarmed and tortured to death, I didn’t understand at first,’ Marcus continued, forcing his voice to pleasant tones and knowing they didn’t understand. He smiled and they smiled back at him.

They left the fort behind in the darkness and it was probably just his imagination that he caught a glimpse of Peppis’ face outlined against the sky for a moment when he looked back.

They walked with strutting confidence into the blueskin camp with their prisoner. Marcus could see they were readying themselves for war. Weapons were stacked in bundles and the warriors danced and howled at the fires, spitting what must have been raw alcohol, judging by the blue flames that burst and flickered as the streams of liquid hit them. They whooped and wrestled and more than one sat slathering a pale mud onto his arms and face – the source, Marcus guessed, of the blue dye.

He barely had time to take all this in before he was shoved to his knees at the side of the bonfire and a crude clay cup of clear spirit was pressed into his hands. His eyes watered as he caught the evaporating fumes, but he swallowed it all and then fought not to choke. It was powerful liquor and he waved away the offer of another cup, wanting to keep a clear head. His guards settled on the ground all around him and seemed to be commenting on his clothes and manners to each other. Certainly it involved much pointing and laughing. Marcus ignored them, wondering if there would be a chance to run. He eyed the swords of the warriors nearest him, noting how they were removed from belts and laid on the scrub grass near to hand. He might be able to grab one …

Horns blew and interrupted his concentration. As everyone looked towards the source of the sound, Marcus stole one more look at the closest blade and saw the warrior’s hand was resting on it. As his gaze travelled upward, he met the man’s eyes and chuckled wryly as the burly warrior shook his head and smiled, revealing brown and rotting teeth.

The horn was held by the first old blueskin Marcus had seen. He must have been fifty and, unlike the hard muscular bodies of the young fighters, he had a heavy belly that bowed out his robe and jiggled as he moved skinny arms. He must have been a leader, as the warriors reacted to his shouted commands with speed. Three handy-looking types unsheathed their long swords and nodded to friends in the circle. Small drums were produced and a fast rhythm sounded. The three men stood relaxed as the rhythm filled the night and then they moved, faster than Marcus would have believed possible. The swords were like bars of dawn light and the moves were fluid, flowing into one another, so unlike the Roman sequences that Marcus had learned.

He could see the fight was staged, more a dance than a contest of violence. The men spun and leapt and their swords hummed as they cut the hot night air.

Marcus watched entranced to the end as the men once again resumed their relaxed positions and the drumming ceased. The warriors whooped and Marcus joined them without embarrassment, tensing as the old man walked over to him.

‘Do you like? They are skilful?’ the man said in a heavy accent.

Marcus covered his confusion and agreed, his expression carefully blank.

‘These men took your little fort. They are the Krajka, the best of us, yes?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Your men fought well, but the Krajka train when they stand, yes, as young children? We will take back all your ugly forts this way, yes? Stone from stone and ashes scattered? We will do this.’

‘How many … Krajka are there?’ Marcus asked.

The old man smiled, showing only three teeth in black gums.

‘Not enough. We practise on those came with you today. Other warriors need to see how you people fight, yes?’

Marcus looked at him in disbelief. The future was clearly bleak for those left in the fort. They had been allowed to make the safety of the walls just so the young blueskins could blood themselves against reduced defenders. It was chilling. The legion believed the blueskins to be close to animals in intelligence. Any captured prisoners went berserk, biting through ropes and killing themselves on anything sharp if they couldn’t escape. This evidence of careful planning – and one who spoke a civilised language – would wake them up to a threat they didn’t treat seriously enough.

‘Why didn’t the men kill me?’ Marcus asked. He fought to remain calm as the old man leaned closer to his face and sour breath washed over him.

‘They very impressed. Three men you kill with short sword. Kill like man, not with bow or spear throwing. They bring you to show to me, as a strange thing, yes?’

A curiosity, a Roman good at killing. He guessed what had to come next before the old man spoke.

‘Not good to have young warriors admire Roman. You fight Krajka, yes? If win, you go back to fort. If Krajka kill you, then all men see and know hope for future days, yes?’

Marcus agreed. There was nothing else to do. He looked into the flames and wondered if they would let him use his gladius.

Blueskins had come over from all the other campfires, leaving them barely defended. Marcus realised the men in the fort could not be aware of the opportunity. They would still see the spots of light in the mountain darkness and not know the bulk of them had trotted over to see the contest.

Marcus was allowed to stand and a circle was marked out with daggers stuck into the soil. The blueskins gathered outside the line, some balancing friends on their shoulders so they could see. Whichever way Marcus turned, he could see a heaving wall of blue flesh and grinning yellow teeth. He noticed how many of the eyes were pink-rimmed and decided it must be something in the dye that irritated the skin. The older, potbellied blueskin stepped into the circle and gravely handed Marcus his gladius, stepping back warily. Marcus ignored him. You didn’t need the scout’s eye to sense the hostility here. Lose and be cut to pieces to show their superiority, win and be torn apart by the mob. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Gaius would do and had to smile at the thought. Gaius would have killed the leader as soon as he handed over the sword. It couldn’t get any worse, after all.

The leader was still visible, his belly sticking into the circle space, but somehow it didn’t seem right to run over and stick the old devil. Perhaps they would let him go. He looked around at the faces again and shrugged. Not very likely.

A low cheer built as one of the Krajka came through the circle, with the warriors parting briefly and then shoving their way back into position to get a good view. Marcus looked him up and down. He was much taller than the average blueskin and had a good three inches on Marcus, even after the growth he’d put on since leaving Rome. He was bare-chested and muscles shifted easily under the painted skin. Marcus guessed they were probably about equal in reach. His own arms were long, with powerful wrists from hours of sword practice. He knew he had a chance, no matter how good the man was. Renius still worked with him every day and Marcus was running out of opponents to give him a challenge in the practices.

He watched the way the tall man moved and walked. He looked into his eyes and found no give. The man didn’t smile and wouldn’t understand insults anyway. He walked around the edge of the circle, always staying out of reach in case Marcus tried a wild attack. Marcus turned on the spot, watching him all the time until he took up his position on the opposite side, twenty feet away. Tactics, tactics. Renius said never to stop thinking. The point was to win, not to be fair. Marcus winced as the man drew a long sword that reached from his hip to the ground, a shining length of polished bronze. There was the edge. He hadn’t really noticed before, but the blueskins were using bronze weapons and a hard iron gladius would soon take the edge off it, if he could survive the first few blows. His thoughts raced. Bronze blunted. It was softer than iron.

The man walked closer and loosened his bare shoulders. He was wearing only leggings over bare feet and looked supremely athletic, moving like a great cat.

Marcus called to the leader, ‘If I kill him, I walk free, yes?’

A great jeer went up from the crowd, making him wonder how many understood the language. The old blueskin nodded, smiling, and signalled with his hand to begin.

Marcus jumped as drums sounded over the chatter of the crowd. His opponent relaxed visibly as the rhythms were pounded out. Marcus watched him lower into a fighter’s stance, the sword held out unwavering. The extra inches on the blade would give him the advantage in reach, Marcus thought, rolling his shoulders. He held up his hand and took a step back to remove his tunic. It was a relief to be free of it in the stifling heat, made worse by the nearby fire and the sweating crowd. The drumming intensified and Marcus focused his gaze on the man’s throat. It unnerved some opponents. He became utterly still while the other swayed gently. Two different styles.

The Krajka barely seemed to move, but Marcus felt the attack and shifted aside, making the bronze blade miss him. He didn’t engage the gladius with the blade, trying to judge the man’s speed.

A second cut, a smooth continuation of the first, came at his face and Marcus brought his gladius up desperately with a ring of metal. The blades slid together and he felt fresh sweat prickle on his hairline. The man was fast and fluid, with killing strikes that seemed only flicks and feints. Marcus blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.

It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius’ words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.

The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn’t follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man’s readiness to reverse his sword into a downwards slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus’ head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months before killing them.

It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.

The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka’s side.

The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.

Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus’ hard sandals cracked against his toes.

Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent’s confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hair’s-breadth from his skin, and Marcus could feel the hot gaze above his own. The man was angry that he had not won easily. Another blow was blocked and once again the bare feet were crunched under hard Roman sandals.

The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into the air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus’ skin across the chest. The crowd roared and, as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.

The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus’ eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like over-ripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus’ feet.

Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.

They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin’s voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man’s eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.

‘Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning.’

Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.

‘He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better.’

‘Of course. He was my son.’ The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.

‘Walk home now.’

He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.

The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.

‘I’m alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down,’ he called into the silence.

There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.

A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognised the sour features of Peritas.

‘Marcus? Peppis said the ’skins had you.’

‘They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?’ Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?

Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.

‘I thought they was going to eat you,’ the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.

He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender.’

Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. ‘You have all night to tell us what happened. I don’t think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?’

Marcus looked at the older man and understood what couldn’t be said openly in front of the boy.

‘There’s enough,’ he replied, his voice low.

Peritas looked away and nodded to himself.

As dawn broke, Marcus and the others waited grimly for the assault, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Every man of them stood on the walls, swinging their heads nervously at the slightest movement of a bird or hare down on the scrubland. The silence was frightening, but when a sword falling over interrupted it more than a few swore at the soldier who’d let it slip.

Then, in the distance, they heard the brassy horns of a Roman legion, echoing in the hills. Peritas jogged along the narrow walkway inside the walls and cheered as they watched three centuries of men come out of the mountain trails at a double-speed march.

It was only a few minutes before a voice sounded, ‘Approaching the fort,’ and the gates were thrown open.

The legion commanders had not been slow in sending out a strike force when the caravan was late returning. After the recent attacks, they wanted a show of strength and had marched through the dark hours over rough terrain, making twenty miles in the night.

‘Did you see any sign of the blueskins?’ Peritas asked, frowning. ‘There were hundreds around the fort when we arrived. We were expecting an attack.’

A centurion shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘We saw signs of them, smouldering campfires and rubbish. It looks like they all moved out in the night. There is no accounting for the way savages think, you know. One of their magic men probably saw an unlucky bird or some kind of omen.’

He looked around at the fort and caught the stench of the bodies.

‘Looks like we have work to do here. Orders are to man this place until relieved. I’ll send a Fifty back with you to permanent camp. No one moves without a heavy armed force from now on. This is hostile territory, you know.’

Marcus opened his mouth to reply and Peritas turned him deftly around with an arm on his shoulder, sending him off with a gentle push.

‘We know,’ he said, before turning away to ready his men for the march home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The street gang was already draped in expensive bolts of cloth, stolen from a shop or seamstress. They carried clay vessels that sloshed red wine onto the stone street as they wove and staggered along.

Alexandria peered out of the locked gates of Marius’ town house, frowning.

‘The filth of Rome,’ she muttered to herself. With all the soldiers in the city engaged in battle, it had not taken long for those who enjoyed chaos to come out onto the streets. As always, it was the poor who suffered the most. Without guards of any kind, houses were broken into and everything of value carried away by yelling, jeering looters.

Alexandria could see one of the bolts of cloth was splashed with blood and her fingers itched for a bow to send a shaft into the man’s drunken mouth.

She ducked back behind the gatepost as they went past, wincing as a burly hand reached out to rattle the gate, testing for weakness. She gripped the hammer she had taken from Bant’s workshop. If they tried to climb the gates, she was ready to crack someone’s head. Her heart thudded as they paused and she could hear every slurred word between them.

‘There’s a whorehouse on Via Tantius, lads. We could get a little free trade,’ came a rough voice.

‘They’ll have guards, Brac. I wouldn’t leave a post like that, would you? I’d make sure I got paid for my service as well. Those whores would be glad to have a strong man protecting them. What we want is another nice little wife with a couple of young daughters. We’ll offer to look after them while the husband’s away.’

‘I’m first, though. I didn’t get much of a turn last time,’ the first voice said.

‘I was too much for her, that’s why. After me, a woman don’t want another.’

The laughter was coarse and brutal and Alexandria shuddered as they moved away.

She heard light footsteps behind her and spun, raising the hammer.

‘It’s all right, it’s me,’ Metella said, her face pale. She had heard the end of it. Both women had tears in their eyes.

‘Are you certain about this, mistress?’

‘Quite certain, Alexandria, but you’ll have to run. It will be worse if you stay here. Sulla is a vengeful man and there is no reason for you to be caught up in his spite. Go and find this Tabbic. You have the paper I signed?’

‘Of course. It is the dearest thing I own.’

‘Keep it safe. The next few months will be difficult and dangerous. You will need proof you are a free woman. Invest the money Gaius left for you and stay safe until the city legion has restored order.’

‘I just wish I could thank him.’

‘I hope you have the chance one day.’ Metella stepped up to the bars and unlocked them, looking up and down the street. ‘Go quickly now. The road is clear for the moment, but you must hurry down to the market. Don’t stop for anything, you understand?’

Alexandria nodded stiffly, not needing to be told after what she had heard. She looked at Metella’s pale skin and dark eyes and felt fear touch her.

‘I just worry about you in this great house, all alone. Who will look after you, with the house empty?’

Metella held up a hand in a gentle gesture.

‘Have no fear for me, Alexandria. I have friends who will spirit me away from the city. I will find a warm foreign land and retire there, away from all the intrigue and pains of a growing city. Somewhere ancient appeals to me, where all the struggle of youth is but a distant memory. Stay to the main street. I can’t relax until the last of my family is safely away.’

Alexandria held her gaze for a second, her eyes bright with tears. Then she nodded once and passed through the gates, closing them firmly behind her and hurrying away.

Metella watched her go, feeling every one of her years in comparison to the young girl’s light steps. She envied the ability of the young to start anew, without looking back at the old. Metella kept her in sight until she turned a street corner and then looked inwards to her empty, echoing home. The great house and gardens were empty at last.

How could Marius not be here? It was an eerie thought. He had been gone so often on long campaigns, yet always returned, full of life and wit and strength. The idea that he would not return once more for her was an ugly wound that she would not examine. It was too easy to imagine that he was away with his legion, conquering new lands or building huge aqueducts for foreign kings. She would sleep and, when she awoke, the awful sucking pain inside her would be gone and he would be there to hold her.

She could smell smoke on the air. Ever since Sulla’s attack on the city three days before, there had been fire, raging untended from house to house and street to street. It had not reached the stone houses of the rich yet, but the fire that roared in Rome would consume them all eventually, piling ashes on ashes until there was nothing left of dreams.

Metella looked out at the city that sloped away from the hill. She leaned against a marble wall and felt its coolness as a comfort against the thick heat. There were vast black plumes of churning smoke lifting into the air from a dozen points and spreading into a grey layer, the colour of despair. Screams carried on the wind as the marauding soldiers fought without mercy and the raptores on the streets killed or raped anything that crossed their path.

She hoped Alexandria would get through safely. The house guards had deserted her the morning they heard of Marius’ death. She supposed she was lucky they had not murdered her in her bed and looted the house, but the betrayal still stung. Had they not been treated fairly and well? What was left to stand on in a world where a man’s oath could vanish in the first warm breeze?

She had lied to Alexandria of course. There was no way out of the city for her. If it was dangerous to send a young slave girl on a journey of only a few streets, it was impossible for a well-known lady to transport her wealth past the wolves that roamed the roads of Rome, looking for just such opportunities. Perhaps she could have disguised herself as a slave, even travelled with one of the slaves. With luck, they might have got out alive, though she thought it more than likely that they would have been hurt and abused and left for the dogs somewhere. There had been no law in Rome for three days and to some that was a heady freedom. If she had been younger and braver she might have taken the risk, but Marius had been her courage for too long.

With him, she could stand the sniggers of society ladies as they discussed her childless state behind her back. With him, she could face the world with an empty womb and still smile and not give way to screaming. Without him, she could not dare the streets alone and start again as a penniless refugee.

Metal-studded sandals ran past the gates and Metella felt a shiver start in her shoulders and run through her. It would not be long before the fighting reached this area and the looters and murderers that moved with Sulla would be breaking down the iron gates of Marius’ old city home. She had received reports for the first two days until her messengers too had deserted her. Sulla’s men had poured into the city, taking and holding street after street, using the advantage that Marius had created for them. With the First-Born spread all around the city walls, they could not bring the bulk of their forces against the invader for most of the first night of fighting and by then Sulla had dug in and was content to continue a creeping battle, dragging his siege engines through the streets to smash barricades and lining the roads behind him with the heads of Marius’ men. It was said the great temple of Jupiter had been burned, with flames so hot that the marble slabs cracked and exploded, bringing down the columns and the heavy pillars, spilling them onto the piazza with thunderous reports. The people said it was an omen, that the gods were displeased with Sulla, but still he seemed to be winning.

Then her reports had ended, and at night she knew that the rhythmic victory chants echoing across Rome were not from the throats of the First-Born.

Metella reached up to her shoulder and took hold of the strap there, lifting it away from her skin. She shrugged it off and reached for the other. In a moment, her dress slipped into a puddle of material and she stepped naked from it, her back to the gates as she walked through the arches and doors, deeper into the house. The air felt cooler on her uncovered skin and she shivered again, this time with a touch of pleasure. How strange it was to be naked in these formal rooms!

As she walked, she slipped bangles from her hands and rings from her fingers, placing the handful of precious metal on a table. Marius’ wedding ring she kept, as she had promised him that she would never take it off. She loosed her hair from the bands and let it spill down her back in a wave, tossing her head to make the crimps and curls fall out.

She was barefoot and clean as she entered the bathing hall and felt the steam coat her with the tiniest trace of gleaming moisture. She breathed it in and let the warmth fill her lungs.

The pool was deep and the water freshly heated, the last task of the departing slaves and servants. She let out a small sigh as she stepped down into the clear pool, made dark blue by the mosaic base. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes and thought back over the years with Marius. She’d never minded the long periods he spent away from Rome and their home with the First-Born. Had she known how short the time would be, she would have gone with him, but it was not the moment for pointless regrets. Fresh tears slid from under her eyelids without effort or any release of tension.

She remembered when he was first commissioned and his pleasure at each rise in rank and authority. He had been glorious in his youth and the lovemaking had been joyous and wild. She had been an innocent girl when the muscular young soldier had proposed. She hadn’t known about the ugly side of life, about the pain as year after year passed without children to bring her joy. Each one of her friends had pressed out screaming child after child and some of them broke her heart just to look at them, just from the sudden emptiness. Those were the years when Marius had spent more and more time away from her, unable to cope with her rages and accusations. For a while she had hoped he would have an affair and she had told him that she would even accept a child from such a union as her own.

He had taken her head tenderly in his hands and kissed her softly. ‘There is only you, Metella,’ he had said. ‘If fate has taken this one pleasure from us, I won’t spit in her eye.’

She had thought she would never be able to stop the sobs that pulled at her throat. Finally he had lifted her up and taken her to bed where he was so gentle she cried once more, at the end. He had been a good husband, a good man.

She reached over to the side of the pool without opening her eyes. Her fingers found the thin iron knife she had left there. One of his, given after his century had held a hill fort for a week against a swarming army of savages. She gripped the blade between two fingers and guided it blindly down to her wrist. She took a deep breath and her mind was numb and filled with peace.

The blade cut and the strange thing was it didn’t really hurt. The pain was a distant thing, almost unnoticed as her inner eye relived old summers.

‘Marius.’ She thought she’d said the name aloud, but the room was still and silent and the blue water had turned red.

Cornelia frowned at her father.

‘I will not leave here. This is my home and it is as safe as anywhere else in the city at the moment.’

Cinna looked about him, noting the heavy gates that blocked off the town house from the street outside. The house he had given as her dowry was a simple one of only eight rooms, all on one floor. It was a beautiful home, but he would have preferred an ugly one, with a high brick wall around it.

‘If a mob comes for you, or Sulla’s men, looking to rape and destroy …’ His voice shook with suppressed emotion as he spoke, but Cornelia held firm.

‘I have guards to handle a mob and nothing in Rome will stop Sulla if the First-Born cannot,’ Cornelia replied. Her voice was calm but, inside, doubts nagged at her. True, her father’s home was built like a fortress, but this belonged to her and to Julius. It was where he would look for her, if he survived.

Her father’s voice rose almost to a screech. ‘You haven’t seen what the streets are like! Gangs of animals looking for easy targets. I couldn’t go out myself without my guards. Many homes have been set on fire, or looted. It is chaos.’ He rubbed his face with his hands and his daughter saw that he hadn’t shaved.

‘Rome will come through it, Father. Didn’t you want to move out to the country when the riots were going on a year ago? If I had left then, I would not have met Julius and I would not be married.’

‘I wish I had left!’ Cinna snapped, his voice savage. ‘I wish I had taken you away then. You would not be here, in danger, with …’

She stepped closer to him and put her hand out to touch his cheek.

‘Calm, Father, calm. You will hurt yourself with all your worries. This city has seen upheavals before. It will pass. I will be safe. You should have shaved.’

There were tears in his eyes and she stepped into a crushing hug.

‘Gently, old man. I am delicate now.’

Her father straightened his arms, looking at her questioningly.

‘Pregnant?’ he asked, his voice rough with affection.

Cornelia nodded.

‘My beautiful girl,’ he said, gathering her in again, but carefully.

‘You will be a grandfather,’ she whispered into his ear.

‘Cornelia,’ he said. ‘You must come now. My house is safer than this. Why take such a risk? Come home.’

The word was so powerful. She wanted to let him take her to safety, wanted very much to be a little girl again, but could not. She shook her head, smiling tightly to try to take away the sting of rejection.

‘Leave more guards if it will make you feel happy, but this is my home now. My child will be born here and when Julius is able to return to the city he will come here first.’

‘What if he has been killed?’

She closed her eyes against the sudden stab of pain, feeling tears sting under the lids.

‘Father, please … Julius will come back to me. I … I am sure of it.’

‘Does he know about the child?’

She kept her eyes closed, willing the weakness to pass. She would not start sobbing, though part of her wanted to bury her head in her father’s chest and let him carry her away.

‘Not yet.’

Cinna sat on a bench next to a trickling pool in the garden. He remembered the conversations with the architect when he had been readying the house for his daughter. It seemed such a long time ago. He sighed.

‘You defeat me, girl. What will I tell your mother?’

Cornelia sat next to him. ‘You will tell her that I am well and happy and going to give birth in about seven months. You will tell her that I am preparing my home for the birth and she will understand that. I will send messengers to you when the streets are quiet again and … that we have enough food and are in good health. Simple.’

Her father’s voice was cracking slightly as he tried to find a note of firmness. ‘This Julius had better be a good husband to you – and a good father. I will have him whipped if he isn’t. Should have done it when I heard he was running about on my roof after you.’

Cornelia wiped a hand over her eyes, pressing the worry back inside her. She forced herself to smile. ‘There’s no cruelty in you, Father, so don’t try and pretend there is.’

He grimaced, and the silence stretched for long moments.

‘I will wait another two days and then I will have my guards take you home.’

Cornelia pressed a hand on her father’s arm. ‘No. I am not yours any more. Julius is my husband and he will expect me to be here.’

Then the tears could no longer be held back and she began to sob. Cinna pulled her to him and embraced her tightly.

Sulla frowned as his men raced to secure the main streets, which would give them access to the great forum and the heart of the city. After the first bloody scramble, the battle for Rome had gone well for him, with area after area taken with quick, brutal skirmishes and then held against an enemy in disarray. Before the sun had risen fully, most of the lower east quarter of Rome was under his control, creating a large area in which they could rest and regroup. Then tactical problems had arisen. With his controlled areas expanding in a line, he had fewer and fewer men to hold the border and knew he was always in danger from any sort of attack that massed men against a section where his were spread thinly.

Sulla’s advance slowed and orders flowed ever more swiftly from him, moving units around, or making them hold. He knew he had to have a secure base before he asked for any kind of surrender. After Marius’ last words to them, Sulla accepted that there was a chance his soldiers would fight to the last man – their loyalty was legendary even in a system where such loyalty was fostered and nurtured. He had to make them lose hope and a slowing advance would not do that.

Now he was standing in an open square at the top of the Caelius hill. All the massed streets behind him back to the Caelimontana gate were his. The fires had been put out and his legion were entrenched from there all the way to Porta Raudusculana at the southern tip of the city walls.

In the small square were nearly a hundred of his men, split into groups of four. Each man had volunteered and he was touched by it. Was this what Marius felt when his men offered their lives for him?

‘You have your orders. Keep moving and cause havoc. If you are outnumbered, get away until you can attack again. You are my luck and the luck of the legion. Gods speed you.’

As one, they saluted him and he returned it, his arm stiff. He expected most to be dead within the hour. If it had been night, they would have been more useful, but in the bright daylight they were little better than a distraction. He watched the last group of four squeeze through the barricade and hare off along a side street.

‘Have Marius’ body wrapped and placed in cool shadow,’ Sulla said to a nearby soldier. ‘I cannot say when I will have the leisure to organise a proper funeral for him.’

A sudden flight of arrows was launched from two or three streets away. Sulla watched the arc with interest, noting the most likely site for the archers and hoping a few of his four-man squads were in the area. The black shafts passed overhead and then all around them, shattering on the stone of the courtyard Sulla had adopted as a temporary command post. One of his messengers dropped with a barbed arrow through his chest and another screamed, though he seemed not to have been touched. Sulla frowned.

‘Guard. Take that messenger somewhere close and flog him. Romans don’t scream or faint at the sight of blood. Make sure I can see a little of his on his back when you return.’

The guard nodded and the messenger was borne away in silence, terrified lest his punishment be increased.

A centurion ran up and saluted.

‘General. This area is secure. Shall I sound the slow advance?’

Sulla stared at him.

‘I chafe at the pace we are setting. Sound the charge for this section. Let the others catch us up as they may.’

‘We will be exposed, sir, to flanking attacks,’ the man stammered.

‘Question an order of mine again in war and I will have you hanged like a common criminal.’

The man paled and spun to give the order.

Sulla ground his teeth in irritation. Oh, for an enemy who would meet him on an open field. This city fighting was unseen and violent. Men ripping each other with blades out of sight in distant alleyways. Where were the glorious charges? The singing battle weapons? But he would be patient and he would eventually grind them down to despair. He heard the charge horn sound and saw his men lift their barricades and prepare to carry them forward. He felt his blood quicken with excitement. Let them try to flank him, with so many of his squads mingling out there to attack from behind.

He smelled fresh smoke on the air and could see flames lick from high windows in the streets just ahead. Screams sounded above the eternal clash of arms and desperate figures climbed out onto stone ledges, thirty, forty feet above the sprawling mêlée below. They would die on the great stones of the roadways. Sulla saw one woman lose her grip and fall headfirst onto the heavy kerb. It broke her into a twisted doll. Smoke swirled in his nostrils. One more street and then another.

His men were moving quickly.

‘Forward!’ he urged, feeling his heart beat faster.

Orso Ferito spread a map of Rome on a heavy wooden table and looked around at the faces of the centurions of the First-Born.

‘The line I have marked is how much territory Sulla has under his control. He fights on an expanding line and is vulnerable to a spear-point attack at almost any part of it. I suggest we attack here and here at the same time.’ He indicated the two points on the map, looking round at the other men in the room. Like Orso, they were tired and dirty. Few had slept more than an hour or two at a time in the previous three-day battle and, like the men, they were close to complete exhaustion.

Orso himself had been in command of five centuries when he had witnessed Marius’ murder at the hands of Sulla. He had heard his general’s last shout and he still burned with rage when he thought of smug Sulla shoving a blade into a man Orso loved more dearly than his own father.

The following day had been chaos, with hundreds dying on both sides. Orso had kept control over his own men, launching short and bloody attacks and then withdrawing before reserves could be brought up. Like many of Marius’ men, he was not high-born and had grown up on the streets of Rome. He understood how to fight in the roads and alleys he had scrambled along as a boy, and before dawn on the second day he had emerged as the unofficial leader of the First-Born.

His influence was felt immediately as he began to coordinate the attacks and defences. Some streets Orso would let go as strategically unimportant. He ordered the occupants out of houses, set the fires and had his men withdraw under arrow cover. Other streets they fought for again and again, concentrating their available forces on preventing Sulla from breaking through. Many had been lost, but the headlong rush into the city had been slowed and stopped in many areas. It would not be over quickly now and Sulla had a fight on his hands.

Whatever Orso’s mother had called him, he had always been Orso, the bear, to his men. His squat body and most of his face was covered in black, wiry hair, right up onto his cheeks. His slab-muscled shoulders were matted with dried blood and, like the others in the room who had been forced to give up their Roman taste for cleanliness, he stank of smoke and old sweat.

The meeting room had been chosen at random, a kitchen in someone’s town house. The group of centurions had walked in off the street and spread the map out. The owner was upstairs somewhere. Orso sighed as he looked at the map. Breakthroughs were possible, but they would need the luck of the gods to beat Sulla. He looked around at the faces at the table again and was hard put not to wince at the hope he saw reflected there. He was no Marius, he knew that. If the general had remained alive to be in this room, they would have had a fighting chance. As it was …

‘They have no more than twenty to fifty men at any given point on the line. If we break through quickly, with two centuries at each position, we should be able to cut them to pieces before reinforcements arrive.’

‘What then? Go for Sulla?’ one of the centurions asked. Marius would have known his name, Orso acknowledged to himself.

‘We can’t be sure where that snake has positioned himself. He is quite capable of setting up a command tent as a decoy for assassins. I suggest we pull straight back out, leaving a few men in civilian clothes to watch for an opportunity to take him.’

‘The men won’t be pleased. It is not a crushing victory and they want one.’

Orso snapped back his ire. ‘The men are legionaries of the finest damn legion in Rome. They will do as they’re told. This is a game of numbers, if it is a game at all. They have more. We control similar ground with far fewer men. They can reinforce faster than we can and … they have a far more experienced commander. The best we can do is to destroy a hundred of their men and pull out, losing as few of ours as possible. Sulla still has the same problem of defending a lengthening line.’

‘We have the same problem, to some extent.’

‘Not half as badly. If they break through, it is into the vast city, where they can be flanked with ease and cut off. We are still in control of the larger area by far. When we break their line, it will be straight into the heart of their territory.’

‘Where they have their men, Orso. I am not convinced your plan will work,’ the man continued.

Orso looked at him. ‘What is your name?’

‘Bar Gallienus, sir.’

‘Did you hear what Marius called out before he was killed?’

The man reddened slightly. ‘I did, sir.’

‘So did I. We are defending our city and her inhabitants from an illegal invader. My commander is dead. I have assumed temporary command until the current crisis is over. Unless you have something useful to add to the discussion, I suggest you wait outside and I’ll let you know when we are finished. Is that clear?’ Although Orso’s voice remained calm and polite throughout the exchange, all the men in the room could feel the anger coming off him like a physical force. It took a little courage not to edge away.

Bar Gallienus spoke quietly.

‘I would like to stay.’

Orso clapped a hand on his shoulder and looked away from him.

‘Anything we have that can launch a missile, including every man with a bow, will mass at those two points, one hour from now. We will hit them with everything and then two centuries will charge their defences on my signal. I will lead the attack through the old market area as I know it well. Bar Gallienus will lead the other. Any questions?’

There was silence at the table. Gallienus looked Orso in the eye and nodded his agreement.

‘Then gather your legionaries, gentlemen. Let’s make the old man proud. “Marius” is the shout. The signal will be three short blasts. One hour.’

Sulla stepped back from the bloodied men panting in front of him. Of the hundred he had sent into the fray hours before, only eleven had made it back to report and these were wounded, every one.

‘General. The mobile squads were only partially successful,’ a soldier said, trying hard to stand erect over the weakness of his heaving lungs. ‘We did a lot of damage in the first hour and at a guess took down more than fifty of the enemy in small skirmishes. Where possible, we caught them alone or in pairs and overwhelmed them as you suggested. Then the word must have gone out and we found ourselves being tracked through the streets. Whoever was directing them must know the city very well. Some of us took to the roofs, but there were men waiting up there.’ He paused for breath again and Sulla waited impatiently for the man to calm himself.

‘I saw several of the men brought down by women or children coming out of the houses with knives. They hesitated to kill civilians and were cut to pieces. My own squad was lost to a similar group of First-Born who had removed their outer armour and carried only short swords. We had been running a long time and they cornered us in an alleyway. I …’

‘You said you had information to report. It was clear from the beginning that the mobile groups would do only limited damage. I had hoped to spread fear and chaos, but it seems there is a semblance of discipline left in the First-Born. One of Marius’ seconds must have taken overall tactical control. He will be looking to strike back quickly. Did your men see any signs of this?’

‘Yes, General. They were bringing men up quietly through the streets. I do not know when or where they will attack, but there will be some sort of skirmish soon.’

‘Hardly worth eighty of my men, but useful enough to me. Get yourselves to the surgeons. Centurion!’ he snapped at a man nearby. ‘Get every man up to the barricades. They will try to break through. Triple the men on the line.’

The centurion nodded and signalled to the messengers to carry the news to the outposts of the line.

Suddenly the sky turned black with arrow shafts, a stinging, humming swarm of death. Sulla watched them fall. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw as they whirred towards his position. Men around him threw themselves down, but he stood straight and unblinking with his eyes glittering.

The shafts rained and shattered around him, but he was untouched. He turned and laughed at his scrambling advisers and officers. One was on his knees, pulling at an arrow in his chest and spilling blood from his mouth. Two others stared glassily at the sky, unmoving.

‘A good omen, don’t you think?’ he said, still smiling.

Ahead, somewhere in the city, a horn blew three short blasts and a roar rose in response. Sulla heard one name chanted above the noise and for a moment knew doubt.

‘Ma-ri-us!’ howled the First-Born. And they came on.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Alexandria hammered at the door of the little jeweller’s shop. There had to be someone there! She knew he could have left the city as so many others had done and the thought that she might be just drawing attention to herself made her go pale. Something scraped in the street nearby, like a door opening.

‘Tabbic! It’s me, Alexandria! Gods, open up, man!’ She let her arm fall, panting. Shouts came from nearby and her heart thudded wildly.

‘Come on. Come on,’ she whispered.

Then the door was wrenched aside and Tabbic stood glaring, a hatchet held tightly in his hand. When he saw her he looked relieved and something of the anger faded.

‘Get in, girl. The animals are out tonight,’ he said gruffly. He looked up and down the street. It seemed deserted, though he could feel eyes on him.

Inside, she was faint from relief.

‘Metella … sent me, she …’ she said.

‘It’s all right, girl. You can explain later. The wife and kids are upstairs putting a meal together. Go up and join them. You’re safe here.’

She paused for a moment and turned to him, unable to hold it in.

‘Tabbic. I have papers and everything. I’m free.’

He leaned close and looked her in the eyes, a smile beginning.

‘When were you anything else? Get upstairs now. My wife will be wondering what all the fuss is about.’

There was nothing in the battle manuals for assaulting a broken barricade set across a city street. Orso Ferito simply roared his dead general’s name and launched himself up the litter of broken carts and doors into the arms of the enemy. Two hundred men came behind him.

Orso buried his gladius in the first throat he saw and only missed being cut by slipping on the shifting barricade and rolling down the other side. He came up swinging and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of bone. His men were all around him, hacking and cutting onward. Orso couldn’t tell how well they were doing or how many had died. He only knew that the enemy was in front of him and he had a sword in his hand. He roared and cut a man’s arm from his shoulder as it was raising a shield to block him. He grabbed the shield with the limp arm falling out of the grip and used it to shoulder-charge two men from his path, trampling over them. One of them stabbed upwards and he felt a warmth rush over his legs but paid it no attention. The area was clear, but the end of the street was filling with men. Orso saw their captain sound the charge and met it at full speed across the open space. He knew in that moment how it felt to be a berserker in one of the savage nations they had conquered. It was a strange freedom. There was no pain, only an exhilarating distance from fear or exhaustion.

More men went under his sword and the First-Born carried all before them, cutting and dealing death on bright metal.

‘Sir! The side streets. They have more reinforcements!’

Orso almost shook off the hand tugging at his arm, but then his training came to the fore.

‘Too many of them. Back, lads! We’ve cut them enough for now!’ He raised his sword in triumph and began to run back the way they had come, panting even as he noted the numbers of Sulla’s dead. More than a hundred, if he was any judge.

Here and there were faces he had known. One or two stirred feebly and he was tempted to stop for them, but behind came the crash of sandals on stone and he knew they had to reach the barricades or be routed with their backs to them.

‘On, lads. Ma-ri-us!’

The cry was answered from all around and then again they were climbing. At the top, Orso looked back and saw the slowest of his men being brought down and trampled. Most had made it clear and as he turned to run down the other side, the First-Born archers fired again over his men’s heads, sending more bodies to die on the stone road, screaming and writhing. Orso chuckled as he ran, his sword drooping from the exhaustion that was threatening to unman him. He ducked inside a building and stood gasping, his hands braced on his knees. The cut in his thigh was bad and blood ran freely. He felt light-headed and could only mumble as hands took him onwards away from the barricade.

‘Can’t stop here, sir. The archers can only cover us until they run out of arrows. Have to keep going a road or two further. Come on, sir.’

He registered the words, but wasn’t sure if he had responded. Where had his energy gone? His leg felt weak. He hoped Bar Gallienus had done as well.

Bar Gallienus lay in his own blood, with Sulla’s sword pressing against his throat. He knew he was dying and tried to spit at the general, but could not raise more than a sputter of liquid. His men had found a freshly reinforced century over the barricade and had very nearly been broken on the first assault. After minutes of furious fighting, they had breached the wall of piled stone and wood and thrown themselves into the mass of soldiers beyond. His men had taken many with them, but it was simply too much. The line had not been thin at all.

Bar smiled to himself, revealing bloody teeth. He knew Sulla could reinforce quickly. It was a shame he wouldn’t have the chance to mention this to Orso. He hoped the hairy man had done better than he had, or the legion would be leaderless again. Foolhardy to risk himself on such a venture, but too many of them had died in that dreadful first day of havoc and execution. He’d known Sulla would reinforce.

‘I think he’s dead, sir,’ Bar heard a voice say.

He heard Sulla’s voice reply. ‘A pity. He has the strangest expression. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking.’

Orso snarled at the centurion who tried to help him stand. His leg ached and he had a crutch under one shoulder, but he was in no mood to be helped.

‘No one came back?’ he asked.

‘We lost both centuries. That section had been reinforced just before we charged it, sir. It doesn’t look like that tactic will work again.’

‘I was lucky then,’ Orso grunted. No one met his eye. He had been, to hit a section of the wall where the strength was low. Bar Gallienus must have laughed to see himself proved right about that. It was a shame he couldn’t buy the man a drink.

‘Sir? Do you have any other orders?’ asked one of the centurions.

Orso shook his head. ‘Not yet. But I will have when I know where we stand.’

‘Sir.’ The younger man hesitated.

Orso swung to face him. ‘What is it? Spit it out, lad.’

‘Some of the men are talking of surrender. We are down to half-strength and Sulla has the supply routes to the sea. We cannot win and …’

‘Win? Who said we were going to win? When I saw Marius die, I knew we couldn’t win. I realised then that Sulla would break the back of the First-Born before enough could gather to cause him any real difficulty. This isn’t about winning, boy, it’s about fighting for a just cause, following orders and honouring a great man’s life and death.’

He looked at the men around the room. Only a few couldn’t meet his eyes and he knew he was among friends. He smiled. How would Marius have put it?

‘A man can wait a lifetime for a moment like this and never see one. Some just grow old and wither, never getting their chance. We will die young and strong and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘But, sir, perhaps we could break out of the city. Head for the mountains …’

‘Come outside. I am not going to waste a great speech on you buggers.’

Orso grunted and hobbled out of the door. In the street were a hundred or so of the First-Born, weary and dirty, with bandages wrapped around cuts. They looked defeated already and that thought gave him the words.

‘I am a soldier of Rome!’ His voice, by nature deep and rough, carried across them, stiffening backs.

‘All I ever wanted was to serve my time and retire to a nice little plot of land. I didn’t want to lose my life on some foreign ground and be forgotten. But then I found myself serving with a man who was more father to me than my own father ever was and I saw his death and I heard his words and I thought, Orso, this may be where you stand, old son. And maybe that’s enough, after all.

‘Anyone here think they will live for ever? Let other men plant cabbages and grow dry in the sun. I will die like a soldier, on the streets of the city I love, in her defence.’

His voice dropped a little as if he was imparting a secret. The men leaned close and more joined the growing crowd.

‘I understand this truth. Few things are worth more than dreams or wives, pleasures of the flesh or even children. Some things are, though, and that knowledge is what makes us men. Life is just a warm, short day between long nights. It grows dark for everyone, even those who struggle and pretend they will always be young and strong.’

He pointed to a mature soldier, slowly flexing his leg as he listened.

‘Tinasta! I see you testing that old knee of yours. Did you think age would ease the pain of it? Why wait until it buckles from weakness and have younger men shoulder you aside? No, my friends; my brothers. Let us go while the light is still strong and the day is still bright.’

A young soldier raised his head and called out, ‘Will we be remembered?’

Orso sighed, but smiled. ‘For a while, son, but who remembers the heroes of Carthage or Sparta today? They know how they ended their day. And that is enough. That is all there ever is.’

The young man asked quietly, ‘Is there no chance then that we can win?’

Orso limped over to him, using the crutch for support. ‘Son. Why don’t you get out of the city? A few of you could break off if you slipped past the patrols. You don’t have to stay.’

‘I know, sir.’ The young man paused. ‘But I will.’

‘Then there is no need to delay the inevitable. Gather the men. Everyone in position to attack Sulla’s barricades. Let anyone go who wants to, with my blessing. Let them find other lives somewhere and never tell anyone they once fought for Rome when Marius died. One hour, gentlemen. Gather your weapons one more time.’

Orso looked around him while the men stood and checked their blades and armour as they had been trained to do. More than a few clapped him on the shoulder as they went to their positions and he felt his heart would burst with pride.

‘Good men, Marius,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good men.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Cornelius Sulla sat idly on a throne of gold, resting on a mosaic of a million black and white tiles. Near the centre of Rome, his estate had been untouched by the rioting and it was a pleasure to be back and in power once more.

Marius’ legion had fought almost to the last man, as he had predicted they would. Only a few had tried to run at the end and Sulla had hunted them down without mercy. Vast fire trenches lined the outer walls of the city and he had been told that the thousands of bodies would burn for days or even weeks before the ashes were finally cold. The gods would notice such a sacrifice to save their chosen city, he was sure.

Rome would need to be cleaned when the fires were out. There wasn’t a wall anywhere that had not been speckled with the oily ash that floated in and stung the eyes of the people.

He had denounced the Primigenia as traitors, with their lands and wealth forfeit to the Senate. Families had been dragged out onto the streets by neighbours jealous of their possessions. Hundreds more had been executed and still the work went on. It would be a bitter mark on the glorious history of the seven hills, but what choice had he had?

Sulla mused to himself as a slave girl approached with a cup of ice-cold fruit juice. It was too early in the day for wine and there were so many still to see and to condemn. Rome would rise again in glory, he knew, but for that to happen the last of the friends and supporters of Marius – the last of Sulla’s enemies – had to be ripped from the good, healthy flesh.

He winced as he sipped from the gold cup and ran a finger over his swollen eye and the ridges of a purpling gash along his right cheek. It had been the hardest fight of his life, making the campaign against Mithridates look rather pallid in comparison.

Marius’ death came into his mind again, as it had so frequently in recent days. Impressive. The body had been saved from the fires. Sulla considered having a statue of the man standing at the top of one of the hills. It would show his own greatness in being able to honour the dead. Or he could just have it thrown into the pits with the others. It wasn’t important.

The room where he sat was almost empty. A domed roof showed a pattern of Aphrodite in the Greek style. She looked down on him with love, a beautiful naked woman, with her hair wrapped around her. He wanted those who met him to know he was loved by the gods. The slave girl and her pitcher stood paces from him, ready to refill his cup at a gesture. The only other presence in the room was his torturer, who stood nearby with a small brazier and the grisly tools of his trade laid out on a table in front of him. His leather apron was already spattered from the morning’s work and still there was more to do.

Bronze doors, almost as large as those that opened onto the Senate, boomed as they were struck with a mailed gauntlet. They opened to reveal two of his legionaries dragging in a burly soldier with his wrists and feet tied. They pulled him across the shining mosaic towards Sulla and he could see the man’s face was already battered, his nose broken. A scribe walked behind the soldiers and consulted a sheaf of parchment for details.

‘This one is Orso Ferito, master,’ the scribe intoned. ‘He was found under a pile of Marius’ men and has been identified by two witnesses. He led some of the traitors in the resistance.’

Sulla stood lithely and walked to the figure, signalling for the guards to let him fall. He was conscious, but a dirty cloth gag prevented anything more than animal grunts from him.

‘Cut the gag away. I would question him,’ Sulla ordered and the deed was done quickly and brutally, a blade bringing fresh blood and a groan from the prostrate man.

‘You led one of the attacks, didn’t you? Are you that one? My men were saying you had taken over after Marius. Are you that man?’

Orso Ferito looked up with a sparkle of hatred. His gaze played over the bruise and cut on Sulla’s face and he smiled, revealing teeth broken and bloody. The voice seemed dragged from some deep well and it croaked out at him.

‘I would do it again,’ he said.

‘Yes. So would I,’ Sulla replied. ‘Put out his eyes and then hang him.’ He nodded to the torturer, who removed a sliver of hot iron from the brazier, holding the darker end in heavy clamps. Orso struggled as his arms were bound with leather straps, his muscles writhing. The torturer was impassive as he brought the metal close enough to singe the lashes, then pressed it in, rewarded with a soft, grunting, animal sound.

Sulla drained his cup without tasting the juice. He looked on without pleasure, congratulating himself for his lack of emotion. He was not a monster, he knew, but the people expected a strong leader and that is what they would get. As soon as the Senate could reconvene, he would declare himself dictator and assume the power of the old kings. Then Rome would see a new era.

The unconscious Ferito was dragged away to be executed and Sulla had only a few minutes alone before the door boomed again and fresh soldiers entered with the little scribe. This time, he knew the young man who stumbled between them.

‘Julius Caesar,’ he said. ‘Captured at the very height of the excitement, I believe. Let him stand, gentlemen; this is not a common man. Remove his gag – gently.’

He looked at the young lad and was pleased to note how he straightened. His face bore some bruising, but Sulla knew his men would have been wary of risking their general’s displeasure with too much damage before judgement. He stood tall, a fraction under six feet, and his body was well-muscled and sun-dark. Blue eyes looked coldly out from his face and Sulla could feel the force of the man coming at him, seeming to fill the room till it was just the two of them, soldiers, torturer, scribe and slave all forgotten.

Sulla tilted his head back slightly and his mouth stretched and opened into a pleased expression.

‘Metella died, I am sorry to say. She took her own life before my men could break in and save her. I would have let her go, but you … you are a different problem. Did you know the old man captured with you escaped? He seems to have slipped his bonds and freed the other. Most unusual companions for a young gentleman.’ He saw the spark of interest in the other’s face.

‘Oh, yes. I have men out looking for the pair, but no luck at present. If my men had tied you with them, I dare say you would be free by now. Fate can be a fickle mistress – your membership of the nobilitas leaves you here while those gutter scum run free.’

Julius said nothing. He did not expect to live an hour longer and suddenly saw that nothing he could say would have meaning or use. Raging at Sulla would only amuse him and pleading would arouse his cruelty. He remained silent and glared.

‘What do we have on him, scribe?’ Sulla spoke to the man with the parchment.

‘Nephew of Marius, son of Julius. Both dead. Mother Aurelia, still alive, but deranged. Owns a small estate a few miles outside the city. Considerable debts to private houses, sums undisclosed. Husband of Cornelia, Cinna’s daughter, married on the morning of the battle.’

‘Ah,’ Sulla said, interrupting. ‘The heart of the matter. Cinna is no friend of mine, though he is too wily to have supported Marius openly. He is wealthy; I understand why you would want the support of the old man, but surely your life is worth more.

‘I will offer you a simple choice. Put this Cornelia aside and swear loyalty to me and I will let you live. If not, my torturer here is heating his tools once again. Marius would want you to live, young man. Make the right choice.’

Julius glared his anger. What he knew of Sulla didn’t help him. It could be a cruel trick to make him deny those he loved before executing him anyway.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sulla spoke again.

‘Divorce Cornelia and you will live. Such a simple act will shame Cinna, weakening him. You will go free. These men are all witnesses to my word as ruler of Rome. What is your answer?’

Julius held himself perfectly still. He hated this man. He had killed Marius and crippled the Republic his father had loved. No matter what he lost, the answer was clear and the words had to be said.

‘My answer is no. Make an end of it.’

Sulla blinked in surprise and then laughed out loud.

‘What a strange family! Do you know how many men have died in this very room over the last few days? Do you know how many have been blinded, castrated and scarred? Yet you scorn my mercy?’ He laughed again and the sound was harsh under the echoing dome.

‘If I let you go free, will you try to kill me?’

Julius nodded. ‘I will devote my remaining years to that end.’

Sulla grinned at him in genuine pleasure. ‘I thought so. You are fearless, and the only one of the nobilitas to refuse a bargain of mine.’ Sulla paused for a moment, raising his hand to signal to the torturer, who stood ready. Then his hand dropped listlessly.

‘You may go free. Leave my city before sunset. If you come back while I live, I will have you killed without trial or audience. Cut his ropes, gentlemen. You have bound a free man.’ He chuckled for a moment, then was still as the ropes fell in twisted circles by Julius’ feet. The young man rubbed his wrists, but his expression was as still as stone.

Sulla stood from his throne.

‘Take him to the gates and let him walk.’ He turned to look Julius in the eye. ‘If anyone ever asks you why, tell them it was because you remind me of myself and perhaps I have killed enough men today. That’s all.’

‘What about my wife?’ Julius called as his arms were taken again by the guards.

Sulla shrugged. ‘I may take her as a mistress, if she learns to please me.’

Julius struggled wildly, but could not break free as he was dragged out.

The scribe lingered by the door.

‘General? Is that wise? He is Marius’ nephew after all …’

Sulla sighed and accepted another cup of cold liquid from the slave girl.

‘Gods save us from little men. I gave you my reason. I have achieved anything I ever wanted and boredom looms. It is good to leave a few dangers to threaten me.’

His gaze focused far away.

‘He is an impressive young man. I think there may be two of Marius inside him.’

The scribe’s expression showed he understood none of it.

‘Shall I have the next one brought in, Consul?’

‘No more today. Are the baths heated? Good, the Senate leaders will be dining with me tonight and I want to be fresh.’

Sulla always had his pool as hot as he could possibly stand it. It relaxed him wonderfully. His only attendants were two of his house slave girls and he rose naked out of the water without self-consciousness in front of them. They too were naked, except for bangles of gold on their wrists and around their necks.

Both had been chosen for their full figures and he was pleased as he allowed them to rub the water from his body. It was good for a man to look on beautiful things. It raised the spirit above the level of the beasts.

‘The water has brought my blood to the surface, but I feel sluggish,’ he murmured to them, walking a few paces to a long massage bench. It was soft under him and he felt himself relax completely. He closed his eyes, listening to the two young women as they tied the thin, springy wands of the birch tree, gathered fresh that morning and still green.

The two slaves stood over his heat-flushed body. Each held a long bunch of the cut branches, almost like a brush, three feet long. At first they almost caressed him with the birch twigs, leaving faint white marks on his skin.

He groaned slightly and they paused.

‘Master, would you like it harder?’ one of them asked, timidly. Her mouth was bruised purple from his attentions the night before, and her hands trembled slightly.

He smiled without opening his eyes and stretched out on the bench. It was splendidly invigorating.

‘Ah yes,’ he replied dreamily. ‘Lay on, girls, lay on.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Julius stood with Cabera and Tubruk at the docks, his face grey and cold. In contrast, as if to mock the grim events of his life, the day was hot and perfect, with only a light breeze coming off the sea to bring relief to the dust-stained travellers. It had been a hectic flight from the stinking city. At first he had been alone and on a sway-backed pony that was all he could buy for a gold ring. Grimacing, he had skirted around the firepits filled with flesh and trotted onto the main stone road west to the coast.

Then he heard a familiar hail and saw his friends step out from the trees ahead. It had been a joyous reunion to find each other alive, though the mood darkened as they told their stories.

Even in that first moment, Julius could see Tubruk had lost some of his vitality. He looked gaunt and dirty and told briefly of how they had lived as animals in streets where every sort of horror happened in the day and grew worse at night, where screams and shouts were the only clues. He and Cabera had agreed to wait a week on the road to the coast, hoping Julius could win free.

‘After that,’ Cabera said, ‘we were going to steal some swords and cut you out.’

Tubruk laughed in response and Julius could see they had grown closer in their time together. It failed to lighten his mood. Julius told them of Sulla’s whimsical cruelty and his fists clenched in fresh anger as the words spilled from him.

‘I will come back to Rome. I will cut off his balls if he touches my wife,’ he said quietly at the end.

His companions could not hold his gaze for long and even Cabera’s usual humour had vanished for a while.

‘He has the pick of women in Rome, Gaius,’ Tubruk murmured. ‘He’s just the sort of man who likes to twist the knife a little. Her father will keep her safe, even get her out of Rome if there’s a danger. That old man would set his guards on Sulla himself if there was a threat to her. You know this.’

Julius nodded, his eyes distant, needing to be persuaded. At first, he had wanted to try to get to her under cover of night, but the curfew was back and moving in the streets would mean instant death.

At least Cabera had managed to get hold of a few valuable items in the days he had spent on the streets with Tubruk. A gold armlet he had found in ashes bought them horses and bribes to pass the wall guards. The drafts that Julius still carried against his skin were too large to change outside a city and it was infuriating to have to rely on a few bronze coins when paper wealth was so close, but useless to them. Julius was not even sure that Marius’ signature would make them good any more, but guessed the wily general would have thought of that. He had prepared for almost anything.

Julius had spent a couple of their valuable coins sending letters, giving each to legionaries on their way back to the city or outwards to the coast and Greece.

Cornelia would know he was safe, at least, but it would be a long time before he could see her again. Until he could return with strength and support, he was not able to return at all and the bitterness of it twisted and ate at him, leaving him empty and tired. Marcus would hear of the disaster in Rome and not come blindly back to look for him when his term of service ended. That was only a small comfort. As never before, he felt the loss of his friend.

A thousand other regrets taunted him as they came into his mind, too painful to be allowed to take root. The world had changed fundamentally for the young man. Marius could not be dead. The world was empty without him.

Weary after days on the road, the three men trotted their horses into the bustling coastal port west of Rome. Tubruk spoke first, after they had dismounted and tied their horses to a post outside an inn.

‘The flags of three legions are here. Your papers will get you a commission in any of them. That one is based in Greece, that one in Egypt and the last is on a trade run up to the north.’ Tubruk spoke calmly, showing his knowledge of the empire’s movements had not waned in the time he had spent running the estate.

Julius felt uncomfortable and exposed on the docks, yet this was not a decision to be hurried. If Sulla changed his mind, even now there could be armed men on their way to kill them or bring them back to Rome.

Tubruk could not give much advice. True, he had recognised the banners of the legions, but he knew he was fifteen years out of date when it came to the reputations of the officers. He felt frustrated to have to put such a serious decision in the hands of the gods. At least two years of Julius’ life would be spent with whichever unit they decided upon and they could end up flipping coins.

‘I like the sound of Egypt, myself,’ Cabera said, looking wistfully across the sea. ‘It is a long time since I shook its dust from my sandals.’ He could feel the future bending around the three of them. Few lives had such simple choices, or maybe all did but most could not see them when they came. Egypt, Greece or the north? Each beckoned in different ways. The lad must make a choice on his own, but at least Aegyptus was hot.

Tubruk studied the galleys rocking at their moorings, looking for one to rule out. Each was guarded by alert legionaries, and men swarmed over the wallowing vessels, repairing, scrubbing or refitting after voyages all over the world.

He shrugged. He assumed that after the fuss had died down and Rome was peaceful he would return to the estate. Someone had to keep the place alive.

‘Marcus and Renius are in Greece. You could meet up with them there, if you wanted,’ Tubruk ventured, turning to watch the road for dust raised by trackers.

‘No. I haven’t achieved anything, except to be married and run out of Rome by my enemy,’ Julius muttered.

‘Your uncle’s enemy,’ Cabera corrected.

Julius turned slowly to the old man, his gaze unwavering.

‘No. He is my enemy now. I will see him dead, in time.’

‘In time, perhaps,’ Tubruk said. ‘Today, you need to get away and learn to be a soldier and an officer. You are young. This is not the end of you, or your career.’ Tubruk held his gaze for a second, thinking how much like his father Julius was becoming.

Eventually, the younger man nodded briefly before turning away. He examined the ships again.

‘Egypt it is. I always wanted to see the land of the pharaohs.’

‘A fine choice,’ Cabera said. ‘You will love the Nile and the women are scented and beautiful.’ The old man was pleased to see Julius smile for the first time since they had been captured in the night. It was a good omen, he thought.

Tubruk gave a boy a small coin to hold their horses for an hour and the three men walked towards the galley ship that bore an Egyptian legion’s flags. As they approached, the busy action of workers became even more apparent.

‘Looks like they’re getting ready to ship out,’ Tubruk noted, jerking his thumb at barrels of supplies being loaded by slaves. Salted meat, oil and fish swung over the narrow strip of water into the arms of sweating slaves on board, each one noted and crossed off a slate with typical Roman efficiency. Tubruk whistled to one of the guards, who stepped over to them.

‘We need to speak to the captain. Is he aboard?’ Tubruk asked.

The soldier gave them a quick appraisal and appeared to be satisfied, despite the dust of the road. Tubruk and Julius, at least, looked like soldiers.

‘He is. We’ll be casting off on the noon tide. I can’t guarantee he’ll see you.’

‘Tell him Marius’ nephew is here, fresh from the city. We’ll wait here,’ Tubruk replied.

The soldier’s eyebrows raised a fraction and his gaze slid over to Julius.

‘Right you are, sir. I’ll let him know immediately.’

The man took a step to the dockside and walked the narrow plank bridge onto the deck of the galley. He disappeared behind the raised wooden structure that dominated the ship and, Julius guessed, must house the captain’s quarters. While they waited, Julius noted the features of the huge vessel, the oar-holes in the side that would be used to move them out of harbour and in battle to give them the speed to ram enemy vessels, the huge square sails that were waiting to be raised for the wind.

The deck was clear of loose objects as befitted a Roman war vessel. Everything that might cause injury in rough seas was lashed down securely. Steps led to the lower levels at various places in the planking and each could be secured with a bolted hatch to prevent heavy waves from crashing down after the crew. It looked a well-run ship, but until he met the captain he wouldn’t know how things would be for the next two years of his life. He could smell tar and salt and sweat, the scents of an alien world he did not know. He felt strangely nervous and almost laughed at himself.

Out of the deck shadows came a tall man in the full uniform of a centurion. He looked hard and neat, with grey hair cut short to his head and his breastplate shined to a bright bronze glow in the sun. His expression was watchful as he crossed the planks to the dockside and greeted the three waiting men.

‘Good day, gentlemen. I am Centurion Gaditicus, nominal captain of this vessel for the Third Partica legion. We cast off on the next tide, so I cannot spare you a great deal of time, but the name of Consul Marius carries a lot of weight, even now. State your business and I’ll see what I can do.’

Straight to the point, without fuss. Julius felt himself warming to the man. He reached into his tunic and brought out the packet of papers Marius had given him. Gaditicus took them and broke the seal with his thumb. He read quickly, with a frown, nodding occasionally.

‘These were written before Sulla was back in control?’ he asked, his eyes still on the parchment.

Julius felt the desire to lie, but guessed he was being tested by this man.

‘They were. My uncle did not … expect Sulla to be successful.’

Gaditicus’ eyes were unwavering as he measured the young man in front of him.

‘I was sorry when I heard he was lost. He was a popular man and good for Rome. These papers were signed by a consul – they are perfectly valid. However, I am within my rights to refuse you a berth until your personal position vis-à-vis Cornelius Sulla is made clear to me. I will take your word if you are a truthful man.’

‘I am, sir,’ Julius replied.

‘Are you wanted for criminal offences?’

‘I am not.’

‘Are you avoiding scandal of any sort?’

‘No.’

Again, the man held his gaze for a few seconds, but Julius did not look away. Gaditicus folded the papers and placed them inside his own clothing.

‘I will allow you to take the oath, on the lowest officer’s rank of tesserarius. Advancement will come quickly if you show ability; slowly or not at all if you don’t. Understood?’

Julius nodded, keeping his face impassive. The days of high life in Roman society were over. This was the steel in the empire that allowed the city to relax in softness and joy. He would have to prove himself, this time, without the benefit of a powerful uncle.

‘These two, how do they fit in?’ Gaditicus asked, motioning towards Tubruk and Cabera.

‘Tubruk is my estate manager. He will be returning. The old man is Cabera, my … servant. I would like him to accompany me.’

‘He’s too old for the oars, but we’ll find work for him. No one loafs on any ship I run. Everyone works. Everyone.’

‘Understood, sir. He has some skill as a healer.’

Cabera had taken on a slightly glassy-eyed expression, but agreed after a pause.

‘That will serve. Will you be signing on for two years, or five?’ Gaditicus asked.

‘Two, to begin with, sir.’ Julius kept his voice firm. Marius had warned him not to devote his life to soldiering under long contracts, but to keep his options open to gain a wider experience.

‘Then welcome to the Third Partica, Julius Caesar,’ Gaditicus said gruffly. ‘Now get on board and see the quartermaster for your bunk and supplies. I’ll see you in two hours for the oath-taking.’

Julius turned to Tubruk, who reached across and gripped his hand and wrist.

‘Gods favour the brave, Julius,’ the old warrior said, smiling. He turned to Cabera. ‘And you, keep him away from strong drink, weak women and men who own their own dice. Understand?’

Cabera made a vulgar sound with his mouth. ‘I own my own dice,’ he replied.

Gaditicus pretended not to notice the exchange as he once again crossed the planks onto his ship.

The old man felt the future settle as the decision was made and a spot of tension in his skull disappeared almost before he had realised it was there. He could sense the sudden lift in Julius’ spirits and felt his own mood perk up. The young never worried about the future or the past, not for long. As they boarded the galley, the dark and bloody events in Rome seemed to belong to a different world.

Julius stepped onto the moving deck and pulled a deep breath into his lungs.

A young soldier, perhaps in his early twenties, stood nearby with a sly look on his face. He was tall and solid with a pocked and pitted face bearing old acne scars.

‘I thought it must be you, mudfish,’ he said. ‘I recognised Tubruk on the dock.’

For a moment, Julius didn’t recognise the man. Then it clicked.

‘Suetonius?’ he exclaimed.

The man stiffened slightly.

‘Tesserarius Prandus, to you. I am watch commander for this century. An officer.’

‘You’re signing on as one of those, aren’t you, Julius?’ Cabera said clearly.

Julius looked at Suetonius. On this day, he hadn’t the patience to mind the man’s feelings.

‘For now,’ he replied to Cabera, then turned to his old neighbour.

‘How long have you been in that rank?’

‘A few years,’ Suetonius replied, stiffening.

Julius nodded. ‘I’ll have to see if I can do better than that. Will you show me to my quarters?’

Anger at the offhand manner coloured Suetonius’ features. Without another word, he turned away from them, striding over the decks.

‘An old friend?’ Cabera muttered as they followed.

‘No, not really.’ Julius didn’t say any more and Cabera didn’t press for details. There would be time enough at sea to hear them all.

Inwardly Julius sighed. Two years of his life would be spent with these men, and it would be hard enough without having Suetonius there to remember him as a smooth-faced urchin. The unit would range right across the Mediterranean, holding Roman territories, guaranteeing safe sea trade, perhaps even taking part in land or sea battles. He shrugged at his thoughts. His experience in the city had shown that there was no point worrying about the future – it would always be a surprise. He would become older and stronger and would rise in rank. Eventually, he would be strong enough to return to Rome and look Sulla in the eye. Then they would see.

With Marcus standing at his side, there would be a reckoning, and a payment taken for Marius’ death.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Marcus waited patiently in the outer chamber of the camp Prefect’s rooms. To pass the time before he was admitted to the meeting to determine his future, he read the letter from Gaius again. It had been travelling for many months and had been carried from hand to hand by legionaries passing closer and closer to Illyria. Finally, it had been included in a bundle of orders for the Fourth Macedonia and passed on to the young officer.

Marius’ death had come as a terrible blow. Marcus had wanted to be able to show the general that his faith in him had been well founded. He had wanted to thank him as a man, but that was impossible now. Although he had never met Sulla, he wondered if the consul would be a danger for himself and Gaius – Julius now.

He smiled at the news of the marriage and winced at the brief lines about Alexandria, guessing much more than Julius had revealed. Cornelia sounded like an angel to hear Julius write of her. It was really the only piece of good news in the whole thing.

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy door to the inner rooms opening. A legionary came out and saluted. Marcus rose and returned the gesture smartly.

‘The Prefect will see you now,’ the man said.

Marcus nodded and marched into the room, standing to attention the regulation three feet from the Prefect’s oak table, bare except for a wine jug, inkpot and some neatly arranged parchment.

Renius was there, standing in the corner with a cup of wine. Leonides too, the centurion of the Bronze Fist. Carac, the camp Prefect, rose as the young man entered and gestured to him to sit. Marcus lowered himself onto a heavy chair and sat rigidly.

‘At your ease, legionary. This is not a court martial,’ Carac muttered, his gaze wandering over the papers on his desk.

Marcus tried to relax his bearing a little.

‘Your two years is up in a week, as you are no doubt aware,’ Carac said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Marcus replied.

‘Your record has been excellent to date. Command of a contubernium, successful actions against local tribesmen. Winner of the Bronze Fist sword tourney last month. I hear the men respect you, despite your youth, and regard you as dependable in a crisis – some would say especially in a crisis. One officer’s opinion was that you do well enough from day to day, but stand out in battle or difficulty. A valuable trait in a young officer suited to active legion life. It is perhaps to your benefit that the empire is expanding. There will be active work for you anywhere should you so desire it.’

Marcus nodded cautiously and Carac motioned to Leonides.

‘Your centurion speaks well of you and the way you have curbed the thefts of that boy … Peppis. There was some talk at first of whether you could merge your individuality into a legion, but you have been honest and obviously loyal to the Fourth Macedonia. In short, lad, I would like you to sign on again, with promotion to command a Fifty. More pay and status, with time to train for sword tourneys if necessary. What do you say?’

‘May I speak freely, sir?’ Marcus asked, his heart thudding in his chest.

Carac frowned. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

‘It is a generous offer. The two years with Macedonia have been happy ones for me. I have friends here. However … Sir, I grew up on the estate of a Roman who was not my father. His son and I were like brothers and I swore I would support him, be his sword when we were men.’ He could feel Renius’ gaze on him as he continued. ‘He is with the Third Partica at present, a naval legion, with a little more than a year left to serve. When he returns to Rome, I would like to join him there, sir.’

‘Renius has explained some of the history between this … Gaius Julius and yourself. I understand loyalty of this nature very well. It is what makes us more than beasts in the field, perhaps.’ Carac smiled in a cheerful way and Marcus looked at the other two quickly, surprised not to see the censure he had feared.

Leonides spoke up, his voice calm and low. ‘Did you think we would not understand? Son, you are very young. You will serve in many legions before they parcel you off with a farm. Most important of all, though, is that you serve Rome, constantly and without complaint. We three have devoted our lives to that aim – to see her safe and strong, envied by the world.’

Marcus looked round at the three of them and caught Renius smiling as he covered his mouth with the wine cup. Together they were the personification of what he had hoped to be as a young boy, linked by beliefs and loyalty and blood into something unbreakable.

Carac reached over for a document on thick parchment.

‘Renius was convinced this would be the only way to keep you in the legion long enough to take part in the Graeca sword competition this winter. It indentures you for a year and a day.’ He passed it over and Marcus felt his throat tighten with emotion.

He had expected to have to hand back his officer’s equipment and collect his pay before beginning a lonely journey back to Italy. To have this offered to him when the future had seemed so bleak was like a gift from the gods. He wondered how much Renius had had to do with it and decided suddenly that he didn’t care. He wanted to stay on with the Macedonia and in truth had felt torn between the loyalty to his childhood friend and the satisfaction he had found with his own family, the legion.

Now he had a year longer to grow and prosper. His eyes widened slightly as he read the complex Latin of the document. Carac noticed it.

‘You see we have included the promotion. You will command a Fifty under Leonides, directly responsible to his optio, Daritus. I suggest you begin the post with an open mind. Fifty men is not eight – the problems will be new to you and the training for war involves complex skills. It will be a hard and challenging year, but I think you might enjoy it.’

‘I will, sir. Thank you. It is an honour.’

‘An honour earned, young man. I heard about what happened in the blueskin camp. The information you brought back has helped us to reformulate our policy towards them. Who knows, we may even trade with them after a few years.’ Carac was clearly enjoying being the bringer of good news to the young man and Renius looked on approvingly.

‘This will be my year,’ Marcus vowed to himself as he read the document to the end, noting how many ounces of oil and salt he was allowed to draw from the stores, what his allowance for repairs and damages was and so on. The new post had a hundred things he had to learn and quickly. The pay was a vast improvement as well. He knew Julius’ family would support him if asked, but the thought that he might be dependent on charity when he returned to Rome had rankled. Now he would be able to save a little and have a few gold coins for the return.

A thought struck him.

‘Will you be staying on with the Macedonia?’ he asked Renius.

The warrior shrugged and sipped his wine.

‘Probably, I like the company here. Mind you, I am way past retirement age as it is. Carac has to fiddle the pay figures every time he sends them in. I’d like to see what Sulla has done to the place. Oh, I heard he had Rome in the bulletins. I wouldn’t mind checking he’s looking after the old girl properly and, unlike you, I’m not under contract, as sword master.’

Carac sighed. ‘I would like to see Rome again. It’s been fourteen years since I was last posted there, but I knew that’s how it would be when I joined.’ He poured cups of wine for all of them, refilling Renius’ as it was held out.

‘A toast to Rome, gentlemen, and to the next year.’

They stood and knocked the cups together with easy smiles, each one of them a long way from home.

Marcus put his cup down, took up the quill from the inkpot and signed his full name on the formal document.

‘Marcus Brutus,’ he wrote.

Carac reached over the desk and took his right arm in a solid grip.

‘A good decision, Brutus.’

HISTORICAL NOTE

There is very little historical information on the earliest years of Julius Caesar’s life. As far as possible, I have given him the sort of childhood that a young boy from a minor Roman family could have had. Some of his skills can be inferred from later accomplishments, of course. For example, swimming saved his life in Egypt, when he was fifty-two years old. The biographer Suetonius said that he had great skill with swords and horses as well as surprising powers of endurance, preferring to march rather than ride and going bareheaded in all weathers. I am sorry to say that Renius is fictional, though it was customary to employ experts in various fields. We know of one tutor from Alexandria who taught Caesar rhetoric and we can read Cicero’s reluctant praise of Caesar’s ability to speak skilfully and movingly when needed. His father died when Julius was only fifteen and it is true that Julius married Cinna’s daughter Cornelia shortly afterwards, apparently for love.

Although Marius was an uncle on his father’s side rather than Aurelia’s as I have it, the general was very much the sort of character presented here. In flagrant opposition to law and custom, he was Consul seven times in all. Where previously it was possible to join a legion only if a man owned land and had an income from it, Marius abolished that qualification and enjoyed fanatical loyalty from his soldiers. It was Marius who made the eagle the symbol of all Roman legions.

The civil war between Sulla and Marius forms a major part of this book, but I found it necessary to simplify the action for dramatic purposes. Cornelius Sulla did worship Aphrodite and parts of his lifestyle scandalised even the tolerant Roman society. However, he was an extremely able general who had once served under Marius in an African campaign for which they both claimed credit. The two men disliked each other intensely.

When Mithridates rebelled against Roman occupation in the east, both Marius and Sulla wanted to move against him, seeing the campaign as an easy one and a chance to gain great riches. In part from personal motives, Sulla led his men against Rome and Marius in 88 BC, claiming that he would ‘free it from tyrants’. Marius was forced to flee to Africa, returning later with the army he had gathered there. The Senate were simply unable to cope with such powerful leaders and allowed him back, declaring Sulla an enemy of the state while he was away fighting Mithridates. Marius was elected Consul for the last time, but died during his term, leaving the dithering Senate in a difficult situation. They sought peace at first, but Sulla was in a strong position, after a crushing victory in Greece. He did let Mithridates live, but confiscated vast wealth, looting ancient treasures. I compressed these years, having Marius dying in the first attack, which may be an unfairly quick ending for such a charismatic man.

When Sulla returned from the Greek campaign, he led his armies to quick victory against those loyal to the Senate, finally marching on the city again in 82 BC. He demanded the role of Dictator and it was in this role that he met Julius Caesar for the first time, brought before Sulla as one of those who had supported Marius. Despite the fact that Julius flatly refused to divorce Cornelia, Sulla did not have him killed. The Dictator is reported to have said that he saw ‘Many Mariuses in this Caesar’, which if true is something of an insight into the man’s character, as I hope I have explored in this book.

Sulla’s time as Dictator was a brutal period for the city. The unique position he held and abused had been designed as an emergency measure for times of war, similar in concept to Martial Law in modern democracies. Before Sulla, the strictest time limits had accompanied the title, but he managed to avoid these restrictions and scored a fatal wound on the Republic by doing so. One of the laws he passed forbade armed forces approaching the city, even for the traditional Triumph parades. He died aged sixty and for a while it looked as if the Republic might flower again into its old strength and authority. In Greece at this time, aged twenty-two, there was a young man called Caesar who would make this impossible. After all, Marius and Sulla had shown the fragility of the Republic when faced with determined ambition. We can only speculate how the young Caesar was affected when he saw Marius say, ‘Make room for your general,’ and watched the jostling crowd cut down in full view of the senate house.

The histories of these characters, especially those written shortly after the period, by Plutarch and Suetonius, make astonishing reading. In researching the life of Caesar, the question that kept coming up was ‘How did he do that?’ How did a young man recover from the disaster of being on the losing side in a civil war to the point where his very surname came to mean king? Both Tsar and Kaiser are derived from that name and were still being used two thousand years later.

The histories can be a little bare at times, though I would recommend Caesar by Christian Meier to any reader interested in the details I had to omit here. There are so many fascinating incidents in this life that it has been a great pleasure putting flesh to them. The events of the second book are even more astonishing.

Conn Iggulden

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Without the help and support of a number of people, this book would never have been started or finished. I would like to thank Victoria, who has been a constant source of help and encouragement. Also, the editors at HarperCollins, who steered it through the process without too much pain. Any mistakes that remain are, unfortunately, my own.

Also, Richard, who helped to cook the raven and made Marcus possible. Finally, my wife Ella, who had more faith than I did and made the way seem easy.

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2003

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437122

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321759

Version: 2013-12-05

EMPEROR

THE DEATH OF KINGS

CONN IGGULDEN

To my father, who recited ‘Vitai Lampada’ with a gleam in his eye. Also to my mother, who showed me that history was a collection of wonderful stories, with dates.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The fort of Mytilene loomed above them on the hill. Points of light moved on the walls as sentries walked their paths in the darkness. The oak and iron gate was shut and the single road that led up the sheer slopes was heavily guarded.

Gaditicus had left only twenty of his men on the galley. As soon as the rest of the century had disembarked, he had ordered the corvus bridge pulled in and Accipiter slid back from the dark island, the oars barely splashing in the still sea waters.

The galley would be safe from attack while they were gone. With all lights forbidden, she was a blot of darkness that enemy ships would miss unless they came right into the small island harbour.

Julius stood with his unit, waiting for orders. Grimly, he controlled his excitement at seeing action at last after six months of coastal patrol. Even with the advantage of surprise, the fort looked solid and dangerous and he knew scaling the walls was likely to be bloody. Once more, he examined the equipment, testing each rung of the ladders he had been issued, moving amongst the men to make sure they had cloths tied around their sandals for silence and better grip on the climb. There was nothing out of place, but his men submitted to the checks without complaint, as they had twice before since landing. He knew they would not disgrace him. Four were long-term soldiers, including Pelitas who had ten years of galley experience behind him. Julius had made him the second in the unit as soon as he realised the man had the respect of most of the crew. He had previously been overlooked for promotion, but Julius had seen the quality behind the casual approach to uniform and the quite astonishingly ugly face on the man. Pelitas had quickly become a staunch supporter of the new young tesserarius.

The other six had been picked up in Roman ports around Greece, as Accipiter made up her full complement. No doubt some of them had dark histories, but the requirements for a clean record were often ignored for galley soldiers. Men with debts or disagreements with officers knew their last chance for a salary was at sea, but Julius had no complaints. His ten men had all seen battle and to listen to them tell their stories was like a summary of the progress of Rome in the last twenty years. They were brutal and hard, and Julius enjoyed the luxury of knowing they wouldn’t shirk or turn away from the dirty jobs – like clearing the Mytilene fort of rebels on a summer night.

Gaditicus walked through the units, speaking to each officer. Suetonius nodded at whatever he was told and saluted. Julius watched his old neighbour, feeling fresh dislike but unable to pin it to any one thing in the young watch officer. For months, they had worked together with a frosty politeness that now seemed unbreakable. Suetonius still saw him as the young boy he and his friends had tied and beaten a lifetime before. He knew nothing of his experiences since then and had sneered as Julius told the men what it was like to come into Rome at the head of a Triumph with Marius. The events in the capital were only distant rumour to the men on board and Julius felt he wasn’t believed by some of Tonius’ friends. It was galling, but the first hint of tension or fighting between units would have meant demotion to the ranks. Julius had kept his silence, even when he heard Suetonius telling the story of how he had once left the other tesserarius swinging from a tree after cracking his head a few times. His tone had made the incident seem nothing more than a little rough fun between boys. He had felt Julius’ gaze on him at the end and pretended surprise, winking at his Second as they went back to their duties.

As Gaditicus walked over to the last of his units, Julius could see Suetonius grinning behind his shoulder. He kept his own eyes on the centurion and saluted stiffly as he stood to attention. Gaditicus nodded to him, returning the salute with a quick motion of his right forearm.

‘If they don’t know we’re here, we should be able to burn out that little nest before dawn. If they’ve been warned, we’ll be fighting for every step. Make sure the armour and swords are muffled. I don’t want them giving the alarm while we’re on the exposed flanks of that place.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Julius replied smartly.

‘Your men will attack the south side. The slope’s a little easier there. Bring the ladders in quickly and have a man at the bottom of each one to hold them steady so you don’t have to waste time looking for a firm footing. I’m sending Suetonius’ men to kill the gate sentries. There are four of them, so it could be noisy. If you hear shouts before you’re close to the wall, sprint. We must not give them time to organise. Understand? Good. Any questions?’

‘Do we know how many are in there, sir?’ Julius asked.

Gaditicus looked surprised.

‘We’re taking that fort whether they have fifty or five hundred! They haven’t paid taxes for two years and the local governor has been murdered. Do you think we should wait for reinforcements?’

Julius coloured with embarrassment. ‘No, sir.’

Gaditicus chuckled bitterly. ‘The navy is stretched thin enough as it is. You’ll get used to never having enough men and ships if you live through tonight. Now, move to your position and take a wide berth around the fort, using cover. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Julius replied, saluting again. Being an officer, even the lowest rank, was difficult at the best of times. He was expected to know his business, as if the ability came with the rank. He had never assaulted a fortress before by day or night, but was supposed to make decisions on the instant that could mean life or death for his men. He turned to them and felt a fresh surge of determination. He would not let them down.

‘You heard the centurion. Silent progress, split formation. Let’s go.’

As one, they thumped their right fists into their leather breastplates in acknowledgement. Julius winced at the small sound they made.

‘And none of that noisy business either. Until we are in the fort, any orders I give are not to be acknowledged. I don’t want you singing out “Yes, sir” when we’re trying to move silently, all right?’

One or two grinned, but the tension was palpable as they made their slow and careful way through the cover. Two other units detached with them, leaving Gaditicus to command the frontal attack once the sentries had had their throats cut.

Julius was thankful for the endless training drills as he saw the smooth way the men separated in pairs, with four of the long ladders to each unit. The soldiers could run up the wide rungs at almost full speed and it would take only seconds to reach the top of the black walls and get into the fort. Then it would be vicious. With no way of knowing how many rebels faced them, the legionaries would be looking to kill as many as possible in the first few moments.

He signalled with a flat palm for the men to crouch as one of the sentry torches stopped close to their position. Sounds would carry easily, despite the rhythmic screech of the crickets in the grass. After a short pause, the sentry light moved on again and Julius caught the eyes of the closest officers, nodding to each other to begin the attack.

He stood and his heart beat faster. His men rose with him, one of them grunting slightly with the weight of the sturdy ladder. They began to trot up the broken rock of the southern approach. Despite the muffling cloths on their sandals and armour, the thud of feet seemed loud to Julius as he broke into a light run beside his men. Pelitas was in the lead, at the head of the first ladder, but the order changed second by second as they scrambled up the uneven surface, denied even the light of the moon to see the ground. Gaditicus had chosen the night well.

Each of the ladders was passed quickly through the hands of the man in front, who planted the trailing end close to the wall for maximum height. The first man held it steady while the second swarmed up into the darkness. In only a few seconds, the first group were over and the second ready to go, their climb made harder as the ladders slipped and scraped on the stone. Julius caught one as it moved and bunched his shoulders to hold it until the weight at the top had gone, appreciating the sharp reality of levers in the process. All along the line, the soldiers were disappearing into the fort and still the alarm had not been given.

He shifted the ladder until the padded head caught on something and gripped it tightly as he climbed, having to lean close with the sharp angle. He didn’t pause at the top in case archers were sighting on him. There was no time to judge the situation as he slid over the crown and dropped into the darkness below.

He hit and rolled to find his men around him, waiting. Before them was a short stretch of scrub grass, grown long over ancient stones. It was a killing ground for archers and they needed to be out of it quickly. Julius saw the other units had not paused and had crossed to the inner wall. He frowned. It stood as tall as the first, only twenty feet away, but this time the ladders were outside and they were trapped between the walls, as the ancient designers had planned. He swore softly to himself as the men looked to him for a quick decision.

Then a bell began to ring in the fort, the heavy tones booming out into the darkness.

‘What now, sir?’ Pelitas said, his voice sounding bored.

Julius took a deep breath, feeling his own nerves settle slightly.

‘We’re dead if we stay here and they’ll be throwing torches down soon to light us up for archers. You’re best in the rigging, Peli, so get your armour off and see if you can carry a rope up the inner wall. The stones are old, there should be a few gaps for you.’ He turned to the others as Pelitas began to undo the lacing that held his armour together.

‘We need to get that ladder back. If Peli falls, we’ll be easy targets for the archers. It’s a fifteen-foot wall, but we should be able to lift the lightest pair of you to the top, where they can reach over and drag it up.’

He ignored the growing sounds of panic and battle inside the fort. At least the rebels were concentrating on Gaditicus’ attack, but time had to be running out for the soldiers on his side.

The men understood the plan quickly and the heaviest three linked arms and braced their backs against the dark stones of the outer wall. Two more climbed up them and turned carefully so they too were able to lean against the wall behind them. The three at the bottom grunted as the weight came to bear on their armour. The metal plates bit into the men’s shoulders, but without them there was a good chance of snapping a collarbone. They bore the discomfort in silence, but Julius saw they could not hold for long.

He turned to the last pair, who had taken off their armour and stripped down to underclothing and bare feet. Both grinned with excitement as Julius nodded to them and they set about climbing the tower of men with the same speed and efficiency that they brought to the rigging of Accipiter. He drew his sword as he waited for them, straining to see into the darkness above.

Twenty feet away on the inner wall, Pelitas pressed his face against the cold, dry stone and began a short and desperate prayer. His fingers shook as they held a tiny space between slabs and he fought not to make any noise as he heaved himself higher, his feet scrabbling for purchase. His breath hissed between his teeth, so loudly he felt sure someone would come to investigate. For a moment, he regretted bringing the heavy gladius as well as the rope wrapped around his chest, though he couldn’t think of anything worse than reaching the top without a weapon. Falling off onto his head in a great crash was a similarly unpleasant prospect, however.

Above him, he could see a dark lip of stone dimly outlined against the glow of torches as the fort sprang to defend itself from the fifty led by Gaditicus. He sneered silently to himself. Professional soldiers would already have sent scouts around the perimeter to check for a second force or an ambush. It was good to take pride in your work, he thought.

His hand searched blindly above, finally finding a good grip where a corner had crumbled away over the centuries. His arms quivered with exhaustion as Pelitas placed a palm at last on the top slab and hung for a moment, listening for anyone standing close enough to gut him as he pulled himself into the inner fort.

There was nothing, even when he held his breath to listen. He nodded to himself and clenched his jaw as if he could bite through the fear he always felt at these times, then heaved up, swinging his legs around and in. He dropped quickly into a crouch and drew the gladius inch by inch, to avoid sound.

He was in a well of shadow that left him invisible on the edge of a narrow platform with steps leading down to the other buildings on two sides. The remains of a meal on the ground showed him there had been a sentry in place, but the man had obviously gone to repel the front attack instead of staying where he had been told. In his head, Pelitas tutted at the lack of discipline.

Moving slowly, he unwound the heavy rope from his chest and shoulders and tied one end to a rusted iron ring set in the stone. He tugged on it and smiled, letting the loops drop into the dark.

Julius saw that one of the other units was pressed close to the inner wall and was following his idea to retrieve the ladders. Next time, they would have a rope attached to the top rung to throw over the wall, the last man pulling the whole thing after them, but it was easy to be wise in hindsight. Gaditicus should have spent more time learning the layout of the fort, though that was difficult enough as nothing overlooked the steep Mytilene hill. Julius dismissed the doubt as disloyal, but a part of him knew that if he was ordering the attack, he would not have sent his men to take the fort until he knew everything there was to know about it.

The faces of the three men at the bottom of the tower were streaked in sweat and contorted with shuddering pain. Above, he could hear scratching sounds and then the length of ladder came sliding down to them. Quickly, Julius braced it against the wall and the tower dismantled down it, leaving the three at the bottom gasping in relief and rolling their shoulders against cramp. Julius went to each of them, clapping arms in thanks and whispering the next stage. Together, they crossed to the inner wall.

A voice yelled close in the darkness of the inner fort above them and Julius’ heart hammered. He did not understand the words, but the panic was obvious. Surprise had finally gone but they had the ladder and as he flattened himself against the wall he saw Pelitas hadn’t failed or fallen.

‘Move the ladder a few feet and make it steady. Three to climb the rope here. The rest with me.’

They ran to the new point and suddenly the air was cut with arrows whistling overhead, punching into the bodies of the other group bringing their ladder over. Screams sounded as the Romans were picked off. Julius counted at least five archers above, their job made easier as torches were lit and thrown down into the killing ground. There was still darkness under the inner wall and he guessed the rebels thought they were defending the first assault and didn’t know the Romans were already below them.

Julius stepped onto the ladder, his gladius gripped tightly as he climbed the wide rungs. A memory flashed into his mind of the riot that had killed his father years before. So this is what it was like to be first up a wall! He pushed the thoughts aside as he came to the top and quickly threw himself down to miss an axe aimed to decapitate him. Losing balance, he scrabbled on the wall for a terrifying moment and then he was in.

There was no time to take stock of the position. He blocked another axe blow and kicked out hard as the weight of the weapon swung the wielder to one side. It crashed down on stone and his sword slid easily into the heaving chest of the enemy. Something hit him on the helmet, snapping his cheek-guard. His vision blurred and his sword came up to block automatically. He felt wet blood run down his neck and chest to his stomach but ignored it. More of his unit reached the narrow walkway and the cutting began properly.

Three of his unit formed a tight wedge around the top of the ladder, their light armour denting under heavy blows. Julius saw a gladius jerked up into a jaw from below, impaling one of the rebels.

The men they faced wore no common uniform. Some sported ancient armour and wielded strange blades, while others carried hatchets or spears. They were Greek in appearance and shouted to each other in that liquid language. It was messy and Julius could only swear as one of his men fell with a cry, blood spattering darkly in the torchlight. Footsteps crashed and echoed all round the fort. It sounded as if there was an army in there, all running to this point. Two more of his men made the walkway and launched into the fight, pushing the enemy back.

Julius jabbed his gladius tip into a man’s throat in a lunge Renius had taught him years before. He hit hard and furiously and his opponents flailed and died. Whatever they were, the men they faced were winning only with numbers. The Roman skill and training was making the core of soldiers round the ladder almost impossible to break.

Yet they were tiring. Julius saw one of his men yell in frustration and fear as his sword jammed between the plates of an ornate set of armour, probably handed down from generation to generation since the time of Alexander. The Roman wrenched at it viciously, almost knocking the armoured rebel from his feet with the movement. His angry shout changed abruptly to a scream and Julius could see the rebel punching a short dagger into his man’s groin under the armour. Finally the Roman went limp, leaving his gladius still wedged.

‘To me!’ Julius shouted to his men. Together they could force a path along the narrow walkway and move deeper into the fort. He saw steps nearby and motioned to them. More men fell to him and he began to enjoy the fight. The sword was a good weight. The armour gave him a sense of being invulnerable and with the hot blood of action in his system, it sat lightly on him.

A sudden blow to his head removed the damaged helmet and he could feel the cool night air on his sweating skin. It was a pleasure, and he chuckled for a moment as he stepped in and barged a man’s shield, knocking him into the path of his fellows.

‘Accipiter!’ he shouted suddenly. Hawk. It would do. He heard voices echo it and roared it again, ducking under a fore-curved sword that looked more like a farm implement than a weapon of war. His return stroke cut the man’s thighs open, dropping him bawling on the stones.

The other legionaries gathered around him. He saw eight of his unit had made the wall and there were six others who had survived the archers. They stood together and the rebels began to waver in their rushing as the bodies piled around them.

‘Soldiers of Rome, we are,’ grunted one of them. ‘Best in the world. Come on, don’t hang back.’

Julius grinned at him and took up the shout of the galley name when it was begun again. He hoped Pelitas would hear them. Somehow, he didn’t doubt the ugly bastard had survived.

Pelitas had found a cloak on a hook and used it to cover his tunic and drawn sword. He felt vulnerable without his armour, but the men who clattered past didn’t even glance at him. He heard the legionaries growl and shout their challenges nearby and realised it was time to join the fight.

He lifted a torch from a wall bracket and joined the enemy rush to the clash of blades. Gods, there were a lot of them! The inner fort was a maze of broken walls and empty rooms, the sort of place that took hours to clear, with every step open to ambush and arrow fire. He rounded a corner in the darkness, ignored and anonymous for precious moments. He moved quickly, trying not to lose his sense of direction in twists and turns, and then found himself on the north wall, near a group of archers who were firing carefully, their expressions serious and calm. Presumably, the remnants of Gaditicus’ force were still out there, though he could hear Roman orders snapped out in the yard by the main gate. Some had got in, but the battle was far from over.

Half the town must have holed up in the fort, he thought angrily as he approached the archers. One looked up sharply at his approach, but only nodded, firing unhurriedly into the mass of men below them.

As he aimed, Pelitas charged, knocking two of the men headfirst to the stones below. They hit with a crash and the other three archers turned in horror to see him as he threw back the cloak and raised the short gladius.

‘Evening, lads,’ he said, his voice calm and cheerful. One step brought his sword into the chest of the closest. He kneed the body off the wall and then an arrow thumped into him, tearing straight through his side. Only the flights jutted from his stomach and he groaned as his left hand plucked at them, almost without his control. Viciously, he swiped the gladius through the throat of the closest archer, who was raising his own arrow.

It was the last and furthest from him who had fired the shaft. Feverishly, he tried to notch another, but fear made him clumsy and Pelitas reached him, sword held out for the thrust. The man backed away in panic and screamed as he fell from the wall. Pelitas went down slowly onto one knee, his breathing rasping painfully. There was no one near and he laid down his sword, reaching around himself to try and snap the arrow. He would not remove it completely. All the soldiers had seen the rush of blood that could kill you when you did. The thought of catching it every time he turned made his eyes water.

His grip was slippery and he could only bend the wooden shaft, a low moan of agony escaping him. His side was soaked in blood and he felt dizzy as he tried to stand up. Growling softly, he eased the arrow back through himself, so it wasn’t sticking so far out behind.

‘Have to find the others,’ he muttered, taking a deep breath. His hands quivered with the beginnings of shock, so he gripped the gladius as tightly as possible and wrapped his other fist in a fold of the cloak.

Gaditicus backhanded a man in the teeth as he ran at him, following through with a short thrust into the ribs. The fort was filled with rebels, more than the small island would support, he was sure. The rebellion must have picked up firebrands from the mainland, but it was too late to worry now. He remembered the young officer’s question about numbers and how he’d scorned it. Perhaps he should have organised reinforcements. The outcome of the night wasn’t easy to predict.

It had started well, with the sentries taken quickly, almost in the same heartbeat. He had ten men over the ladders and the gate open before anyone inside knew what was happening. Then the dark buildings had vomited soldiers at them, pulling on their armour as they ran. The narrow walkways and steps made the maze an archer’s dream, with only the poor light holding their casualties down to flesh wounds, though he’d lost one man to a shaft into his mouth, straight through his skull.

He could hear his men panting as they pressed close to a wall in darkness behind him. Some torches had been lit, but apart from the occasional arrow fired blindly the enemy had retreated for the moment into the side buildings. Anyone rushing down the path between them was going to be cut to pieces before they made a few paces, but equally the enemy could not leave the shelter to engage the legionaries. It was a temporary lull and Gaditicus was pleased to have the chance to get his breath back. He missed the fitness of the land legions. No matter how you drilled and exercised on a ship, a few minutes of fighting and running left you exhausted. Or maybe it was just age, he acknowledged wryly to himself.

‘They’ve gone to ground,’ he muttered. It would be bitter from now on, killing from building to building, losing one of theirs for every one or two of the enemy. It was too easy for them to wait inside a door or a window and stab the first thing to come through.

Gaditicus was turning to the soldier behind to give orders when the man looked down, his mouth dropping in horror. The stones were covered in shining liquid that streamed quickly through the group and sluiced down between the fort buildings. There was no time to make a plan.

‘Run!’ Gaditicus yelled to the group. ‘Get high! Gods, run!’

Some of the younger men gaped, not understanding, but the experienced ones didn’t wait to find out. Gaditicus was at the back, trying not to think about the archers waiting for just this moment. He heard the crackle and whoosh of fire as they lit the sticky fluid and arrows whined past him, taking a legionary in the lower back. The soldier staggered on for a moment before collapsing. Gaditicus stopped to help him, but as he turned his head he saw flames racing towards them. He drew his sword quickly through the soldier’s throat, knowing it was better than burning. He could feel the heat on his back and panic filled him as he rose from the body. His sandals were wet with the stuff and he knew the fire could not be quenched. He ran blindly after his men.

At full pounding sprint, the group of soldiers rounded a corner and charged on, straight at a group of three crouched archers. All three panicked and only one took the shot, sending an arrow above their heads. The archers were cut down and trampled almost without slowing.

On sheets of flame, the fort became visible. Gaditicus and the others roared in anger and relief at being alive, the sound fuelling their strength and frightening the enemy.

The path ended in a courtyard and this time the waiting archers fired smoothly, destroying the front four men and sending the second row sprawling over their dead companions. The yard was full of the rebels and with a baying cry to answer the Romans in ferocity they came on, howling.

Julius froze as he saw the flames explode along a row of squat buildings to his left. The sheltering darkness became flickering gold and shadow and three men in an alcove were suddenly visible a few paces ahead. They were cut down and behind them an open doorway was revealed, leading into the bowels of the fort. It was the decision of a second and Julius ran straight through it, ripping his sword through the guts of a man waiting inside before he could strike. His followers never hesitated. Without knowing the fort, they could spend fruitless minutes searching for ways to reach their comrades with Gaditicus. The most important thing was to keep moving and kill anyone they came across.

After the light of the fire, it was frighteningly dark inside the fortress. Steps led down to a row of empty rooms and at the end was another set, with a single oil lamp on the wall. Julius grabbed it, swearing as the hot liquid spattered onto his skin. His men clattered behind him and at the bottom Julius threw himself down as arrows hit stone around him and shattered, sending stinging fragments into their midst.

The long, low room they entered had three men in it. Two looked terrified at the dirty, blood-covered soldiers and the third was tied to a chair, a prisoner. Julius saw by his robe that he was a Roman. His face and body were battered and swollen, but his eyes were alive with sudden hope.

Julius raced across the room, swaying to avoid another shaft fired poorly and in haste. Almost with contempt, he reached the two men and cut the archer across the throat. The other tried to stab him, but the chestplate took the blow easily and his backhand cut sent the man crashing to the floor.

Julius rested the point of his gladius on the stones and leaned on it, suddenly tired. His breathing came in great gasps and he noticed how silent the place was, how far below the main fort they were.

‘That was well done,’ said the man in the chair.

Julius glanced at him. Up close, he saw the man had been brutally tortured. His face was swollen and twisted and his fingers had been broken, jutting at obscene angles. Trembling shook the man’s body and Julius guessed he was trying not to lose what little control he had left.

‘Cut his bonds,’ he ordered and helped the prisoner to his feet as he came free, noting how unsteady he was. One of the man’s hands touched the arm of the chair and he gave out a moan of agony, his eyes rolling up in his head for a second before he steadied under Julius’ grip.

‘Who are you?’ Julius said, wondering what they were going to do with the man.

‘Governor Paulus. You might say … this is my fort.’ The man closed his eyes as he spoke, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief. Julius saw his courage and felt a touch of respect.

‘Not yet it isn’t, sir,’ Julius replied. ‘There’s a lot of fighting above and we have to get back to it. I suggest we find you somewhere safe to wait it out. You don’t look quite up to joining in.’

In fact the man looked bloodless, his skin slack and grey. He was about fifty years old with heavy shoulders and a sagging stomach. He might once have been a warrior, Julius judged, but time and soft living had taken his strength, at least of the body.

The governor stood straighter, the effort of will obvious.

‘I’ll go with you as far as I can. My hands are smashed, so I can’t fight, but I want to get out of this stinking pest-hole, at least.’

Julius nodded quickly, signalling to two of the men.

‘Take his arms, gently, carry him if you have to. We must get back to help Gaditicus.’

With that, Julius was clattering up the steps, his mind already on the battle above.

‘Come on, sir. Lean on my shoulder,’ said one of the last pair as he took the weight. The governor cried out as his broken hands moved, then gritted his teeth against the pain.

‘Get me out quickly,’ he ordered curtly. ‘Who was the officer who freed me?’

‘That was Caesar, sir,’ the soldier replied as they began the slow trip. By the end of the first flight of stairs, the pain had forced the governor into unconsciousness and they were able to go much faster.

CHAPTER TWO

Sulla smiled and drank deeply from a silver goblet. His cheeks were flushed with the effects of the wine and his eyes frightened Cornelia as she sat on the couch he had provided.

His men had collected her in the heat of the afternoon, when she felt the heaviness of her pregnancy most painfully. She tried to hide her discomfort and fear of the Dictator of Rome, but her hands shook slightly on the lip of the cup of cool white wine he had offered her. She sipped sparingly to please him, wanting nothing more than to be out of his gilded chambers and back in the safety of her own home.

His eyes watched her every move and she could not hold the gaze as the silence stretched between them.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked, and there was a slurred edge to his words that sent a thrill of panic coursing through her.

Be calm, she told herself. The child will feel your fear. Think of Julius. He would want you to be strong.

When she spoke, her voice was almost steady.

‘Your men have thought of everything. They were very courteous to me, though they did not say why you desired my presence.’

‘Desired? What a strange choice of word,’ he replied softly. ‘Most men would never use the word for a woman, what, weeks from giving birth?’

Cornelia looked at him blankly and he emptied his cup, smacking his lips together with pleasure. He rose from his seat without warning, turning his back to her as he refilled his cup from an amphora, letting the stopper fall and roll on the marble floor unheeded.

She watched it spiral and come to rest, as if hypnotised. As it became still, he spoke again, his voice languid and intimate.

‘I have heard that a woman is never more beautiful than when she is pregnant, but that is not always true, is it?’

He stepped closer to her, gesturing with the cup as he spoke, slopping drops over the rim.

‘I … do not know, sir, it …’

‘Oh, I have seen them. Rat-haired heifers that amble and bellow, their skin blotched and sweating. Common women, of common stock, whereas the true Roman lady, well …’

He pressed even closer to her and it was all she could do not to pull away from him. There was a glitter to his eyes and suddenly she thought of screaming, but who would come? Who would dare come?

‘The Roman lady is a ripe fruit, her skin glowing, her hair shining and lustrous.’

His voice was a husky murmur, and as he spoke he reached out and pressed his hand against the swelling of the child.

‘Please …’ she whispered, but he seemed not to hear. His hand trailed over her, feeling the heavy roundness.

‘Ah, yes, you have that beauty, Cornelia.’

‘Please, I am tired. I would like to go home now. My husband …’

‘Julius? A very undisciplined young man. He refused to give you up, did you know? I can see why, now.’

His fingers reached up to her breasts. Swollen and painful as they were at this late stage, they were held only loosely in the mamillare and she closed her eyes in helpless misery as she felt his hands easing over her flesh. Tears came swiftly into her eyes.

‘What a delicious weight,’ he whispered, his voice ugly with passion. Without warning, he bent and pressed his mouth on hers, shoving his fat tongue between her lips. The taste of stale wine made her gag in reflex and then he pulled away, wiping loose lips with the back of his hand.

‘Please don’t hurt the baby,’ she said, her voice breaking. Tears streamed out and the sight of them seemed to disgust Sulla. His mouth twisted in irritation and he turned away.

‘Take yourself home. Your nose is running and the moment is spoiled. There will be another time.’

He filled his cup from the amphora yet again as she left the room, her sobs almost choking her and her eyes blind with shining tears.

Julius roared as his men charged into the small yard where Gaditicus fought the last of the rebels. As his legionaries hit the rebel flank, there was instant panic in the darkness and the Romans took advantage, bodies falling quickly, ripped apart by their swords. Within seconds, there were fewer than twenty facing the legionaries and Gaditicus shouted, his voice a bellow of authority.

‘Drop your weapons!’

A second of hesitation followed, then a clatter as swords and daggers fell to the tiles and the enemy were still at last, chests heaving, drenched in sweat, but beginning to feel that moment of joyous disbelief that comes when a man realises he has survived where others have fallen.

The legionaries moved to surround them, their faces hard.

Gaditicus waited until the rebels’ swords had been taken and they stood in a huddled and sullen group.

‘Now, kill them all,’ he snapped and the legionaries threw themselves in one last time. There were screams, but it was over quickly and the small yard was quiet.

Julius breathed deeply, trying to clear his lungs of the smells of smoke and blood and opening bowels. He coughed and spat on the stone floor, before wiping his gladius on a body. The blade was nicked and scarred, almost useless. It would take hours to rub out the flaws and he would be better exchanging it quietly for another from the stores. His stomach heaved slightly and he concentrated even harder on the blade and the work to be done before they could return to Accipiter. He had seen bodies piled high before and it was that memory of the morning after his father’s death that made him suddenly believe he could smell burning flesh in his nostrils.

‘I think that’s the last of them,’ Gaditicus said. He was pale with exhaustion and stood bent over with his hands on his knees for support.

‘We’ll wait for dawn before checking every doorway, in case a few more are hiding in the shadows.’ He rose straight, wincing as his back stretched and clicked. ‘Your men were late in support, Caesar. We were naked for a while.’

Julius nodded. He thought of saying what it had taken to get to the centurion at all, but kept his mouth tightly shut. Suetonius grinned at him. He was dabbing a cloth to a gash on his cheek. Julius hoped the stitches would hurt.

‘He was delayed rescuing me, Centurion,’ a voice said. The governor had recovered consciousness, leaning heavily on the shoulders of the two men carrying him. His hands were purple and impossibly swollen, hardly like hands at all.

Gaditicus took in the Roman style of the filthy toga, stiff with blood and dirt. The eyes were tired but the voice was clear enough, despite the broken lips.

‘Governor Paulus?’ Gaditicus asked. He saluted when the governor nodded.

‘We heard you were dead, sir,’ Gaditicus said.

‘Yes … it seemed that way to me for a while.’

The governor’s head lifted and his mouth twisted in a slight smile.

‘Welcome to Mytilene fort, gentlemen.’

Clodia sobbed as Tubruk put his arm around her in the empty kitchens.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. ‘He’s been at her and at her all through the pregnancy.’

‘Shhh … come on.’ Tubruk patted her back, trying to control the fear that had leapt in him when he first saw Clodia’s dusty, tear-stained face. He didn’t know Cornelia’s nurse well, but what he had seen had given him an impression of a solid, sensible woman who would not be crying over nothing.

‘What is it, love? Come and sit down and tell me what’s going on.’

He kept his voice as calm as he could, but it was a struggle. Gods, was the baby dead? It was due any time and childbirth was always risky. He felt coldness touch him. He had told Julius he would keep an eye on them while he was away from the city, but everything had seemed fine. Cornelia had been a little withdrawn in the last months, but many a young girl felt fear with the ordeal of her first birth ahead of her.

Clodia allowed herself to be guided to a bench next to the ovens. She sat without checking the seat for grease or soot, which worried Tubruk even further. He poured a cup of pressed apple juice for her and she gulped at it, her sobs subsiding to shudders.

‘Tell me the problem,’ Tubruk said. ‘Most things can be solved, no matter how bad they might seem.’

He waited patiently for her to finish drinking and gently took the cup from her limp hand.

‘It’s Sulla,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been tormenting Cornelia. She won’t tell me all the details, but he has his men bring her to him at any time of the day or night, pregnant as she is, and she comes back in tears.’

Tubruk paled in anger.

‘Has he hurt her? Hurt the child?’ he pressed, stepping closer.

Clodia leaned away from his intensity, her mouth quivering with returning force.

‘Not yet, but every time is worse. She told me he is always drunk and he … places his hands on her.’

Tubruk closed his eyes briefly, knowing he had to remain calm. The only outward sign was a clenched fist, but when he spoke again, his eyes glittered dangerously.

‘Does her father know?’

Clodia took his arm in a sudden grip.

‘Cinna must not know! It would break him. He would not be able to meet Sulla in the Senate without accusations and he would be killed if he said anything in public. He cannot be told!’

Her voice rose higher as she spoke and Tubruk patted her hand reassuringly.

‘He won’t learn it from me.’

‘I have no one else to turn to, but you, to help me protect her,’ Clodia said brokenly, her eyes pleading.

‘You’ve done right, love. She carries a child of this house. I need to know everything that has happened, do you understand? There must be no mistake in this. Do you see how important that is?’

She nodded, wiping her eyes roughly.

‘I hope so,’ he continued. ‘As the Dictator of Rome, Sulla is almost untouchable under the law. Oh, we could bring a case to the Senate, but not one of them would dare to argue the prosecution. It would mean death for anyone who tried. That is the reality of their precious “equal law”. And what is his crime? In law, nothing, but if he has touched her and frightened her, then the gods call for punishment even if the Senate would not.’

Clodia nodded again. ‘I understand that …’

‘You must understand,’ he interrupted sharply, his voice hard and low, ‘because it means that anything we do will be outside the law and if it is any sort of attack on the body of Sulla himself, then to fail would mean the deaths of Cinna, you, me, Julius’ mother, servants, slaves, Cornelia and the child, everybody. Julius would be tracked down no matter where he hid.’

‘You will kill Sulla?’ Clodia whispered, moving closer.

‘If everything is as you say, I will certainly kill him,’ he promised, and for a moment, she could see the gladiator he had once been, frightening and grim.

‘Good, it is what he deserves. Cornelia will be able to put these dark months behind her and bear the child in peace.’ She dabbed at her eyes and some of the grief and worry eased from her visibly.

‘Does she know you have come to me?’ he asked quietly.

Clodia shook her head.

‘Good. Don’t tell her what I have said. She is too close to birth for these fears.’

‘And … afterwards?’

Tubruk scratched the short crop of hair on the back of his head.

‘Never. Let her believe it was one of his enemies. He has enough of them. Keep it a secret, Clodia. He has supporters who will be calling for blood for years later if the truth comes out. One wrong word from you to another, who then tells a friend, and the guards will be at the gate to take Cornelia and the child away for torture before the next dawn.’

‘I will not tell,’ she whispered, holding his gaze for long seconds. At last, she looked away and he sighed as he sat on the bench next to her.

‘Now, start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out. Pregnant girls often imagine things and before I risk everything I love, I need to be sure.’

They sat and talked for an hour in quiet voices. By the end, the hand she placed on his arm marked the beginning of a shy attraction, despite the ugliness of the subject they discussed.

‘I had intended to be on the next tide out to sea,’ Gaditicus had said sourly. ‘Not to take part in a parade.’

‘You believed me to be a corpse then,’ Governor Paulus had replied. ‘As I am battered but alive, I feel it necessary to show the support of Rome that stands with me. It will discourage … further attempts on my dignity.’

‘Sir, every young fighter on the whole island must have been holed up in that fort – and a fair few from the mainland as well. Half the families in the town will be grieving for the loss of a son or father. We have shown them well enough what disobedience to Rome means. They will not rebel again.’

‘You think not?’ Paulus had replied, smiling wryly. ‘How little you know these people. They have been fighting against their conquerors since Athens was the centre of the world. Now Rome is here and they fight on. Those who died will have left sons to take up arms as soon as they are able. It is a difficult province.’

Discipline had prevented Gaditicus from arguing further. He longed to be back at sea in Accipiter, but Paulus had insisted, even demanding four of the legionaries to stay with him permanently as guards. Gaditicus had nearly walked back to the ship at that order, but a few of the older men had volunteered, preferring the easier duty to pirate hunting.

‘Don’t forget what happened to his last set of guards,’ Gaditicus had warned them, but it was a hollow threat, as well they knew after the rebels’ pyre lifted a stream of black smoke high enough to be seen for miles. The job would take them safely to retirement.

Gaditicus cursed under his breath. He was going to be very short of good men for the next year. The old man Caesar had brought on board with him had turned out to be good with wounds, so a few of the injured might be saved from an early release and poverty. He wasn’t a miracle worker though and some of the crippled ones would have to be put off at the next port, there to wait for a slow merchant ship to take them back to Rome. The galley century had lost a third of its men in Mytilene. Promotions would have to be made, but they couldn’t replace twenty-seven dead in the fighting, fourteen of them competent hastati who had served on Accipiter for more than ten years.

Gaditicus sighed to himself. Good men lost just to smoke out a few young hotheads trying to live the stories their grandfathers told. He could imagine the speeches they had made, whereas the truth was that Rome brought them civilisation and a glimpse of what man could achieve. All they fought for was the right to live in mud huts and scratch their arses, did they but know it. He didn’t expect them to be grateful, he had lived too long and seen too much for that, but he demanded their respect and the ill-planned mess at the fort had shown precious little of that. Eighty-nine enemy bodies had been burned at dawn. The Roman dead were carried back to the ship for burial at sea.

It was with such angry thoughts buzzing around in his head that he marched into the town of Mytilene in his best armour, with the rest of his depleted century shining behind him. Rain threatened in the form of dark, heavy clouds and the stiflingly hot air matched his mood perfectly.

Julius marched stiffly after the battering he had taken the night before. It amazed him how many small cuts and scrapes he had picked up without noticing. His chest was purple all down the left side and a shiny yellow lump stood out on one of his ribs. He would have Cabera look at it back on Accipiter, but he didn’t think it was broken.

He disagreed with Gaditicus over the need for the march. The centurion was happy to break a rebellion and vanish, leaving someone else to handle the politics, but it was important to remind the town that the governor was not to be touched above all else.

He glanced over at Paulus, taking in the heavily bandaged hands and the still-swollen face. Julius admired him for refusing to be carried in a litter, determined to show himself unbeaten after his torture. Fair enough that the man wanted to come back to town at the head of an army. There were men like him all over Roman lands. They had little support from the Senate and were like small kings who nonetheless depended on the goodwill of the locals to make things happen as they wanted. When that goodwill failed, Julius knew a thousand things could make life very difficult. No wood or food delivered except at sword-point, roads damaged and property burnt. Nothing to turn out the guards for, but constant irritations, like burrs caught in the skin.

From what the governor said of the life, Paulus seemed to enjoy the challenges. Julius had been surprised to note that his main feeling was not anger at his ordeal, but sadness that people he had trusted had turned against him. Julius wondered if he would be so trusting in the future.

The legionaries marched through the town, ignoring the stares and sudden movement as mothers cleared playing children from their path. Most of the Romans were feeling the aches of the night before and were pleased to reach the governor’s home in the centre. They formed a square in front of the building and Julius saw one of the benefits of the post Paulus held in the beauty of the white walls and ornamental pools. It was a piece of Rome, transplanted into the Greek countryside.

Paulus laughed aloud as his children came running to greet him. He went down on one knee, letting them embrace him while he kept his broken hands clear. His wife too came out and Julius could see tears in her eyes, even from the second rank. A lucky man.

‘Tesserarius Caesar, stand forward,’ Gaditicus ordered, startling Julius out of his thoughts. Julius moved quickly and saluted. Gaditicus looked him over, his expression unreadable.

Paulus disappeared into his home with his family and all the ranks waited patiently for him, happy enough to stand in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine with no jobs to be done.

Julius’ mind churned, wondering why he had been ordered to stand out alone and how Suetonius would feel if it was a promotion. The governor was not able to order Gaditicus to give him a new post, but his recommendation was unlikely to be ignored.

At last Paulus returned, his wife walking out with him. He filled his lungs to address all the men together and his voice was warm and strong.

‘You have restored me to my position and my family. Rome thanks you for your service. Centurion Gaditicus has agreed that you may take a meal here. My servants are preparing my best food and drink for you all.’ He paused and his gaze fell on Julius.

‘I witnessed great bravery last night, from one man in particular who risked his own life to save mine. To him, I award the honour wreath, to mark his courage. Rome has brave sons and I stand here today to prove it.’

His wife stepped forward and lifted a circlet of green oak leaves. Julius unfroze and when Gaditicus nodded at him, removed his helmet to accept it. He blushed and suddenly the men cheered, though whether it was at the honour to one of their own or the food to come, he wasn’t sure.

‘Thank you, I …’ he stammered.

Paulus’ wife put her hand on his own and Julius could see where face paint had covered dark circles of worry under her eyes.

‘You brought him back to me.’

Gaditicus barked out the orders to remove helmets and follow the governor to where his staff were setting up the meal. He held Julius back for a moment and, when it was quiet, he asked to see the circlet. Julius handed it to him quickly, trying not to shout out loud with the excitement he felt.

Gaditicus turned the band of dark leaves over in his hands.

‘Do you deserve it?’ he asked quietly.

Julius hesitated. He knew he had risked his life and rushed two men on his own down in the lowest room of the fort, but it was a prize he had not expected.

‘Not more than a lot of the men, sir,’ he replied.

Gaditicus looked closely at him, then nodded, satisfied.

‘That’s a good line, though I will say I was pleased to see you when you flanked the bastards last night.’ He grinned at Julius’ rapidly changing expressions, from delight to embarrassment.

‘Will you wear it under your helmet, or perched on top?’

Julius felt flustered. ‘I … I hadn’t thought. I suppose I will leave it on the ship if there’s action.’

‘Are you sure, now? Pirates will run scared of a man with leaves on his head, perhaps?’

Julius flushed again and Gaditicus laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘I’m only teasing you, lad. It is a rare honour. I’ll have to promote you, of course. I can’t have a lowly watch officer with an honour wreath. I will give you a twenty to command.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Julius replied, his spirits lifting even further.

Gaditicus rubbed the leaves between his fingers thoughtfully.

‘You will have to wear this in the city some time. It will be expected of you, at least once.’

‘Why, sir? I don’t know the ritual.’

‘It’s what I would do, anyway. The laws of Rome, lad. If you walk into a public event with an honour wreath, everyone must stand. Everyone, even the Senate.’

The centurion chuckled to himself. ‘What a sight that would be. Come in when you’re settled. I’ll make sure they keep some wine for you. It looks like you could do with a drink.’

CHAPTER THREE

In the grey evening light, Brutus scrambled down the side of the building, tearing most of the climbing roses with him. His foot caught in a loop of thorns at the bottom and he fell flat, his sword skidding over the cobbles with a clatter. Wincing, he freed himself before struggling to his feet. He could hear another roar of anger above his head as Livia’s father approached the window and glared down at the intruder. Brutus looked up at him as he tugged at his bracae, yelping as the cloth snagged on a thorn deep in his thigh.

Livia’s father was a bull-like man who carried a heavy axe like a hatchet and was obviously considering whether he could hit Brutus with a good throw.

‘I’ll find you, whelp!’ the man bellowed down at him, practically frothing through his beard in rage.

Brutus backed away out of range and tried to pick up his fallen gladius without taking his eyes off the red-faced Greek. He hitched up his bracae with one hand and found the hilt with the other, wishing he had kept his sandals on for the athletic tumbling about with Livia. If her father was trying to protect her innocence, he was about three years too late, Brutus thought. He considered sharing the information with the man out of spite, but she’d played fair by the young Roman, though she really should have checked the house before dragging him into her room as he passed. As she’d been naked, it had seemed only politeness for him to remove his sandals before they collapsed on the bed, though that courtesy would make escape through the sleepy town something of a problem.

No doubt Renius was still snoring in the room for which Brutus had paid. After five days sleeping in the open, both men had been happy enough to break the journey with a chance for a hot bath and a shave, but it looked as if only Renius would be enjoying those comforts while Brutus went for the hills.

Brutus shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably as he considered his choices. He cursed Renius under his breath, partly for sleeping during a crisis, but mainly for convincing him that a horse would eat through their savings by the time they reached the coast and found a berth for Rome. Renius had said that a legionary could march the distance without any trouble, but even a thin pony would have been handy for a quick escape.

The angry beard vanished above and while Brutus hesitated, Livia appeared at the window, her skin still flushed from their activities. It was a good healthy glow, Brutus noted idly, appreciating the way she rested her breasts on the sill.

‘Get away!’ she called in a harsh whisper. ‘He’s coming down after you!’

‘Throw my sandals down, then. I can’t run like this,’ he hissed back. After a moment, the articles came flying at him and he laced them in a frenzy, already able to hear the clump of her father’s tread as he came to the door.

Brutus heard the man’s pleased exclamation on finding him still in the yard. Without looking back, he sprinted away, skidding as the iron studs of his soles met the cobbles. Behind, Livia’s father shouted for the town to stop him, which seemed to cause a stir of excitement amongst the locals going about their business. Brutus groaned as he ran. Already there were answering yells and he could hear a number of others had joined the pursuit.

Feverishly, he tried to remember the streets he’d wandered through only hours before, thankful to find anything with cheap rooms and hot food. Livia’s father had seemed pleasant enough then, though he hadn’t been carrying the axe when he showed the tired men to his cheapest room.

Brutus thumped into a wall as he turned a corner at full speed, dodging round a cart and knocking away the grasping hands of its owner. Which way to get out? The town seemed like a labyrinth. He took roads to the left and right without daring to look back, his breath rasping in his throat. So far, Livia had been worth his trouble, but if he was killed, she wasn’t his choice for the last woman in his life. He hoped the father would take his anger out on Renius and wished them both luck.

The alleyway he ran down came to a dead end around a corner. A cat scrambled away from him as he halted against the nearest stone wall and prepared to risk a glance back. There was nowhere to run, but perhaps he’d lost them for the moment. He strained his ears before inching towards the edge, hearing nothing more threatening than the cat’s complaints disappearing into the distance.

He eased one eye around the wall and pulled back at once. The alley seemed filled with men, all heading his way. Brutus dropped down into a crouch and risked a second glance at them, hoping he wouldn’t be seen so low down.

A voice called out in recognition and Brutus groaned again as he pulled back. He’d picked up a little Greek in his time with the Bronze Fist, but hardly enough to talk his way out of the situation.

He made his decision and stood, firming his grip on the sword hilt, his other hand falling to the scabbard where he could fling it away. It was a fine blade that he’d won in a legion tournament and he would have to show the farmers that he’d earned it. He hitched up his bracae one more time and took a deep breath before stepping out into the alley to face them.

There were five of them, their faces filled with the enthusiasm of children as they rushed down the alley. Brutus pulled away the scabbard with a flourish, in case they were in any doubt about his intentions. With great solemnity, he lowered the point at the men and they pulled up as one. The moment held and Brutus thought furiously. Livia’s father had yet to appear and there could be a chance to win free of the younger men before he arrived to encourage them. They might be open to persuasion and even bribery.

The largest of them stepped forward, careful to remain outside the range of the unwavering sword in Brutus’ hands.

‘Livia is my wife,’ he said in clear Latin.

Brutus blinked at him. ‘Does she know?’ he asked.

The man’s face coloured in anger and he produced a dagger from his belt. The others followed his example, revealing clubs and blades that they waved at Brutus whilst beckoning him forward to meet them.

Before they could rush him, Brutus spoke quickly, trying to sound calm and unruffled by the threat.

‘I could kill every one of you, but all I want is to be allowed to go on my way in peace. I’m a legion champion with this pretty blade and not one of you will leave this alley alive if you make the wrong decision.’

Four of them listened with blank faces until Livia’s husband translated the speech. Brutus waited patiently, hoping for a favourable response. Instead, they chuckled and began to edge closer to him. Brutus took a step back.

‘Livia is a healthy girl with normal appetites,’ he said. ‘She seduced me, not the other way around. There is nothing worth killing for in this.’

He waited with the others for the translation to begin, but the husband remained silent. Then the man said something in Greek, which Brutus barely followed. Part of it was certainly to try to keep him alive, which he approved, but the last part involved him being ‘given to the women’, which sounded distinctly unpleasant.

Livia’s husband leered at Brutus. ‘Catching a criminal means a festival for us. You will be the middle … the heart of it?’

As Brutus began to frame a reply, they rushed him with a flurry of blows and, though he pricked one of them with his gladius, a whistling club connected behind his ear and knocked him unconscious.

He woke to a slow creaking and a feeling of dizziness. While his wits returned, he kept his eyes closed, trying to sense his whereabouts without letting unseen watchers know he was alert. There was a breeze playing about a fair portion of his body and he had a sudden suspicion that his clothes had been removed. There could be no reasonable explanation for this and his eyes snapped open despite his intentions.

He was hanging upside down, suspended by the feet from a wooden scaffold in the centre of the town. A surreptitious glance upwards confirmed the fact that he was naked. Everything hurt, and a memory of being hung from a tree when he was a boy came back to make him shudder.

It was dark and somewhere nearby he could hear sounds of revelry. He swallowed painfully at the thought of being part of some pagan ritual and strained at the ropes that held him. Blood pounded in his head with the effort, but there was no give in the knots.

His movement made him spin in a slow circle and he was able to see the whole of the square at intervals. Every house was lit in a show of life far greater than the dull little place he had imagined on arrival. No doubt they were all boiling pig heads and blowing the dust off home-made wines, he thought dismally.

For a moment, he despaired. His armour was back in the room with Renius and his sword had vanished. He had no sandals and his savings would no doubt fund the very celebration that would be the end of him. Even if he could escape, he was naked and penniless in a strange land. He cursed Renius with some enthusiasm.

‘After a refreshing sleep, I have a good stretch and look out of the window,’ Renius said by his ear. Brutus had to wait until he swung round to face him.

The old gladiator was shaved and clean and clearly enjoying himself.

‘Surely, I say to myself, surely that figure hanging by his feet can’t be the same popular young soldier I came in with?’

‘Look, I’m sure you’ll tell a very amusing story to your cronies, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop rehearsing it and just cut me down before someone stops you.’

The creaking ropes carried Brutus away again. Without a word of warning, Renius sliced the ropes and spilled Brutus onto the ground. Shouts sounded around them and Brutus struggled to rise, pulling himself upright against the scaffold.

‘My legs won’t take my weight!’ he said, trying to rub at each one in turn with desperate energy.

Renius sniffed, looking around.

‘They’d better. With one arm, I can hardly carry you and keep them off at the same time. Keep rubbing. We may have to bluff it through.’

‘If we had a horse, you could tie me to the saddle,’ Brutus retorted, rubbing furiously.

Renius shrugged.

‘No time for that. Your armour’s in this bag. They brought your kit back to the rooming house and I swiped it on my way out. Take your sword and brace yourself against the scaffold. Here they come.’ He passed over the blade and, for all his nude helplessness, Brutus felt a little comfort from the familiar hilt.

The crowd gathered quickly, Livia’s father at the head, carrying his axe in both hands. He tensed enormously powerful shoulders and jerked the blade in Renius’ direction.

‘You came in with the one who attacked my daughter. I’ll give you one chance to gather your things and move on. He stays here.’

Renius stood dangerously still, then took a sharp pace forward, sinking his gladius into the man’s chest so that it stood out behind him. He pulled it out and the man fell face down on the cobbles, the axe head clattering noisily.

‘Who else says he stays here?’ Renius said, looking around the crowd. They had frozen at the sudden killing and there was no response. Renius nodded sternly at them, speaking slowly and clearly.

‘No one was attacked. From the noises I heard, the girl was as enthusiastic as my idiot friend.’ Renius ignored Brutus’ sharp intake of breath at his back, keeping his sweeping gaze locked on the crowd. They barely heard him. The gladiator had killed without a thought and that held the people still.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Renius murmured.

Brutus tested his legs gingerly, wincing at the fire of returning circulation. He began to pull his garments on as quickly as possible, the armour clanking loudly as he searched the bag with one hand.

‘As soon as I’m dressed.’

He knew the moment couldn’t last, but still jumped as Livia came shoving through the people, her voice shrill.

‘What are you doing standing there?’ she screamed at the crowd. ‘Look at my father! Who will kill his murderers?’

Behind her back, Brutus rose, his sword ready. The sweet smiles he remembered from the afternoon had twisted into hatred as she screamed abuse at her own people. None of them met her eyes, their desire for vengeance cooled by the sprawled figure at her feet.

At the edge of the crowd, her husband turned his back on her and stalked away into the darkness. As she saw who it was, Livia turned on Renius, raining blows on his face and body. His only arm held the sword and as Brutus saw the muscles tense, he reached forward and pulled her away.

‘Go home,’ he snapped at her. Instead, her hands reached for his eyes and Brutus shoved her roughly. She fell to the floor near her father’s body and clung to it, weeping.

Renius and Brutus looked at each other and the thinning crowd.

‘Leave her,’ Renius said.

Together, the two men crossed the square and made their way in silence through the town. It seemed hours before they reached the edge of the houses and looked out on a valley leading down to a river in the distance.

‘We should push on. By dawn they’ll be swearing blood feud and coming after us,’ Renius said, finally sheathing his sword.

‘Did you really hear …?’ Brutus asked, looking away.

‘You woke me up with your grunting, yes,’ Renius replied. ‘Your quick tumble could still kill us if they send out decent trackers. In her father’s house!’

Brutus scowled at his companion.

‘You killed him, don’t forget,’ he muttered.

‘And you’d still be there if I hadn’t. Now march. We need to cover as much ground as possible before daylight. And the next time a pretty girl looks twice at you, start running. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.’

Silently disagreeing, the two men set off down the hill.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Not wearing your wreath? I heard you slept with it,’ Suetonius sneered as Julius came on watch.

Julius ignored him, knowing that a response would lead to yet another exchange that would bring the two young officers closer to open hostility. For the moment, Suetonius at least made the pretence of courtesy when the other men were near enough to hear, but when they stood watch on their own, each second dawn, the bitterness in the man came to the surface. On the first day at sea after leaving the island, one of the men had tied a circlet of leaves to the tip of Accipiter’s mast, as if the whole ship had earned the honour. More than a few of the legionaries had waited around to see Julius catch sight of it and his delighted grin brought a cheer out of them. Suetonius had smiled with the others, but the dislike in his eyes had deepened even further from that moment.

Julius kept his eyes on the sea and distant African coast, changing balance slightly with the movements of Accipiter as the galley rolled in the swell. Despite Suetonius’ snide remark, he had not worn the circlet since leaving the town of Mytilene, except for trying it on once or twice in the privacy of his tiny bunk below the decks. By now, the oak leaves had become brittle and dark, but that didn’t matter. He had been given the right to wear it and would have a fresh one bound when he next saw Rome.

It was easy to ignore Suetonius with the daydream of striding into the Circus Maximus on a race day and seeing thousands of Romans stand, first only as they saw him, then in waves stretching further away until the whole crowd was on its feet. He smiled slightly to himself and Suetonius snorted in irritation.

Even in the dawn quiet, the oars rose and fell rhythmically below them as Accipiter wallowed through the waves. Julius knew by now that she was not a nimble ship, having seen two pirates disappear over the horizon with apparent ease in the months since Mytilene. The shallow draught had little bite in the water and even with the twin steering oars, Accipiter lumbered through changes in direction. Her one strength was sudden acceleration under the oars, but even with two hundred slaves their best speed was no more than a brisk stroll on land. Gaditicus seemed untroubled by their inability to close with the enemy. It was enough to chase them away from the coastal towns and major trade lanes, but it was not what Julius had hoped for when he joined the ship. He’d had visions of swift and merciless hunting and it was galling to realise that the Roman skill for land war did not extend to the seas.

Julius looked over the side to where the double oars lifted high and dipped in unison, carving their way through the still waters. He wondered how they could work the massive blades so steadily for hour after hour without exhaustion, even with three slaves to each one. He had been down to the oar deck a few times in the course of his duties, but it was crowded and foul. The bilges stank of wastes that were washed through twice a day with buckets of sea water and the smell had made his stomach heave. The slaves were fed more than the legionaries, it was said, but watching the rise and fall of the beams in the water, he could see why it was needed.

On the great deck, the blistering heat of the African coast was cut by a stiff breeze as Accipiter fought through a westerly wind. At least from that vantage point, Julius could feel Accipiter was a ship designed for battle, if not speed. The open deck was clear of any obstruction, a wide expanse of wood that had been whitened by the beating sun over decades. Only the far end housed a raised structure, with cabins for Gaditicus and Prax. The rest of the century slept in cramped quarters below, their equipment stored in the armoury where it could be quickly snatched up. Regular drills meant they could go from sleep to battle-readiness in less than one turn of the sand-glass. It was a well-disciplined crew, Julius mused to himself. If they could ever catch another ship, they would be deadly.

‘Officer on deck!’ Suetonius barked suddenly by his ear and Julius came to attention with a start. Gaditicus had chosen a much older man as his optio and Julius guessed Prax couldn’t have more than a year or two before retirement. He had the beginnings of a soft belly that had to be belted tightly each morning, but he was a decent enough officer and had noted the tension between Suetonius and Julius in the first few weeks on board. It was Prax who had arranged that they stand dawn watch together, for some reason he chose not to share with them.

He nodded to the two of them amiably as he walked the long deck, making his morning inspection. He checked every rope that ran to the flapping square sail above them and went down on one knee to make sure the deck catapults were solidly bound and unmoving. Only after the careful inspection was finished did he approach the young officers, returning their salutes without ceremony. He scanned the horizon and smiled to himself, rubbing his freshly shaved chin in satisfaction.

‘Four … no, five sails,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The trade of nations. Not much of a wind to stir those who rely on it alone, though.’

Over the months, Julius had come to realise that the genial outlook hid a mind that knew everything that went on in Accipiter, above and below decks, and his advice was usually valuable after you had waited through the casual openings. Suetonius thought he was a fool, but appeared to be listening with avid interest, a manner he adopted for all the senior officers.

Prax continued, nodding to himself, ‘We’ll need the oars to get to Thapsus, but it’s a clear run up the coast then. After dropping off the pay-chests, we should make Sicily in a few weeks if we don’t have to chase the raiders off our waters in the meantime. A beautiful place, Sicily.’

Julius nodded, comfortable with Prax in a way that would have been impossible with the captain, despite the moment of familiarity after Mytilene. Prax had not been present at the storming of the fort, but he seemed not to have minded. Julius supposed he was happy enough with the light duties on Accipiter as he waited to retire and be dropped off at a legion near Rome to collect his outstanding pay. That was one benefit of hunting pirates with Gaditicus. The seventy-five denarii the legionaries were paid each month mounted up without much opportunity to spend it. Even after expenses for equipment and the tithe to the widows and burials fund, there would be a tidy sum available for most men when their time was up. If they hadn’t gambled it all away by then, of course.

‘Sir, why do we use ships that can’t catch the enemy? We could clear out the Mare Internum in less than a year if we forced them to close with us.’

Prax smiled, seemingly delighted by the question.

‘Close with us? Oh, it happens, but they’re better seamen than we are, you know. There’s every chance they’ll ram and sink us before we can send our men over. Of course, if we can get the legionaries on their decks, the fight is won.’

He blew air out slowly through puffed cheeks as he tried to explain. ‘It’s more than just lighter, faster ships we need – though Rome won’t be sending funds to lay keels for them in my lifetime – it’s a professional crew to man the oars. Those three vertical banks they use so precisely, can you imagine what our muscular slaves would do with them? They’d be a splintered mess the first time we tried to hit our best speed. With our way, we don’t need to train experts, and from the point of view of the Senate we don’t need to pay salaries to them either. One sum to buy the slaves and the ship practically runs herself thereafter. And we do sink a few of them, though there always seem to be more.’

‘It just seems … frustrating at times,’ Julius replied. He wanted to say it was madness for the most powerful nation in the world to be outsailed by half the ships on the oceans, but Prax kept a reserve that prevented the comment, despite his friendliness. There was a line not to be crossed by a junior, though it was less obvious than with some.

‘We are of the land, gentlemen, though some like myself come to love the sea in the end. The Senate see our ships as transport to take our soldiers to fight on other lands, as we did at Mytilene. They may come to realise that it is as important to rule the waves, but as I said, not in my lifetime. In the meantime, Accipiter is a little heavy and slow, but so am I and she’s twice my age.’

Suetonius laughed dutifully, making Julius wince, but Prax seemed not to notice. Julius felt a breath of memory at Prax’s words. He remembered Tubruk had said something similar once, making him hold the dark earth of the estate in his hands and think of the generations that had fed it with their blood. It seemed a lifetime of experience away. His father had been alive then and Marius had still been a consul with a bright future. He wondered if someone was tending their graves. For a moment, the dark currents of worry that were always washing against his thoughts came to the surface. He reassured himself, as he always did, that Tubruk would look after Cornelia and his mother. He trusted no one else half as much as that man.

Prax stiffened slightly as his gaze swept the coast. His amiable expression disappeared, replaced by hardness.

‘Get below and sound the call-out, Suetonius. I want every man on deck ready for action in five minutes.’

Wide-eyed, Suetonius saluted smartly and strode to the steep steps, climbing nimbly down. Julius looked where Prax pointed and he narrowed his eyes. On the coast, a pall of black smoke was rising into the morning air, almost unmoved by wind.

‘Pirates, sir?’ he asked quickly, guessing the answer.

Prax nodded. ‘Looks like they’ve raided a village. We may be able to catch them as they come away from shore. You could get your chance to “close” with them, Caesar.’

Accipiter stripped for action. Every loose piece of equipment was stowed away securely, the catapults were winched down and stones and oil prepared for firing. The legionaries gathered quickly and a picked team assembled the corvus, hammering iron spikes between the sections until the great boarding ramp was ready, standing high above the deck. When the holding ropes were released, it would fall outwards onto the timbers of an enemy ship, embedding its holding spike immovably. Over it would come the best fighters on Accipiter, smashing into the pirates as fast as possible to make a space where the rest could jump on board. It was a perilous business, but after every action the places for those first over were hotly contested and changed hands in gambling games as a high stake in dreary months.

Below, the slave-master called for double time and the oars moved in a more urgent rhythm. With the wind coming off the coast, the sail was dropped and reefed neatly. Swords were checked for cracks and nicks. Armour was tied tightly and a growing excitement could be felt on board, held down by the long-accustomed discipline.

The burning village was on the edge of a natural inlet and they sighted the pirate ship as it cleared the rocky promontories and reached the open sea. Gaditicus ordered full attack speed to cut down the enemy’s room to manoeuvre as much as possible. Caught as they were against the coast, there was little the pirate ship could do to avoid Accipiter as she surged forward and a cheer went up from the Romans, the boredom of slow travel from port to port disappearing in the freshening breeze.

Julius watched the enemy ship closely, thinking of the differences Prax had explained. He could see the triple columns of oars cut the choppy sea in perfect unison despite their differing lengths. She was taller and narrower than Accipiter and carried a long bronze spike off the prow that Julius knew could punch through even the heavy cedar planking of the Roman ships. Prax was right, the outcome was never certain, but there was no escape for this one. They would close and drop the corvus solidly, putting the finest fighting men in the world onto the enemy deck. He regretted that he hadn’t managed to secure a place for himself, but they had all been allocated since before the landing at Mytilene.

Lost in thought and anticipation as he was, he did not at first hear the sudden changes in the lookout calls. When he looked up, he took a step back from the rail without realising it. There was another ship coming out of the inlet as they passed it in pursuit of the first. It was coming straight at them and Julius could see the ram emerge from the waves as it crashed through them at full speed, with sail taut and straining to aid the oarsmen. The bronze spike was at the waterline and the deck was filled with armed men, more than the swift pirates usually carried. He saw in a second that the smoke had been a ruse. It was a trap and they had sprung it neatly.

Gaditicus didn’t hesitate, taking in the threat and issuing orders to his officers without missing a beat.

‘Increase the stroke to the third mark! They’ll go right by us,’ he barked and the drummer below beat out his second fastest rhythm. The ramming speed above it could only be used in a brief burst before the slaves began to collapse, but even the slightly slower attack pace was a brutal strain. Hearts had torn before in battles and when that happened, the body could foul the other rowers and put an entire oar out of sequence.

The first ship was quickly growing closer and Julius realised they had reversed oars and were moving into the attack. It had been a well-planned ruse to draw the Roman ship close to the shore. No doubt the chests of silver in the hold were the prize, but they would not be won easily.

‘Fire catapults at the first ship on my order … Now!’ Gaditicus shouted, then followed the path of the rocks as they soared overhead.

The lookout at the prow called, ‘Two points down!’ to the two teams and the heavy weapons were moved quickly. Sturdy pegs under them were hammered through their holes and others placed to hold the new angle. All this as the winches were wound back once more, with legionaries sweating as they heaved against the tension of a rope of horsehair twice as thick as a man’s thigh.

The pirate vessel loomed as the catapults released again. This time, the porous stones were drenched in oil and burned as they curved towards the enemy trireme, leaving smoke trails in the air behind. They struck the enemy deck with cracks that could be heard on Accipiter, and the legionaries working the catapults cheered as they wound them back again.

The second trireme rushed towards them and Julius was sure the ram would spear Accipiter in the last few feet of her stern, leaving them unable to move or even counterattack by boarding. They would be picked off by arrow fire, pinned and helpless. As that thought struck him, he called to his men to bring up the shields to pass out. In boarding, they were more of a hindrance than a help, but with Accipiter caught between two ships that were moving into arrow range, they would be needed desperately.

A few seconds later, arrows began to spit into the air from both of the enemy triremes. There was no order or aiming to them, just the steady firing high into the air with the hope of pinning a legionary under one of the long black shafts.

The ramming ship alone would have slid astern in clear seas, but obstructed from the front by the first trireme, Accipiter had to dodge, with all the oars on one side ordered to reverse. The strokes were clumsy, but it was faster than simply having them raised clear while the other side brought Accipiter round. It slowed them down, but Gaditicus had seen the need to head for the outside line, or he would be caught between the two ships as the second pulled alongside.

Accipiter crunched past the prow of the first trireme, shuddering as the speed fell off. Gaditicus had the slave-master ready for the move and below decks the oars were pulled in quickly. The professionals of the trireme were not fast enough. Accipiter snapped the beams in groups of three as she passed, each one crushing a man into bloody pulp, deep in the heart of the enemy vessel.

Before the Roman ship had travelled more than half the length of the trireme’s oars, the bronze ram of the second smashed into Accipiter with the cracking roar of broken timbers. The whole ship groaned at the impact, like a living animal. The slaves below began to scream in a horrific chorus of terror. They were all chained to their benches and if Accipiter went down, so did they.

Arrow fire cut into Accipiter’s deck, but there, if nowhere else, was the evidence of lack of army discipline. Julius thanked his luck that they hadn’t the training to fire volleys as he ducked under a shaft that whined nastily over his head. The shields protected the men from most of the shots and then the heavy corvus was leaning out and over, seeming to hang in the air for a moment when the ropes were cut, then slamming down into the enemy deck, its spike holding it as solid as the retribution to come.

The first of the legionaries ran over the causeway, crashing into those who waited, yelling defiance at them. The usual advantage of numbers was gone against either of the two attacking ships. Both seemed packed with fighters, their armour and weapons a mixture of old and new from the whole of the coastal ports.

Julius found Cabera at his side, his usual smile missing. The old man had taken up a dagger and shield, but otherwise wore his habitual robe, which Gaditicus had allowed as long as it was checked for lice twice a month.

‘Better to stay with you than down in the dark, I think,’ Cabera muttered as he took in the unfolding chaos. Both ducked suddenly under their stiff wooden shields as arrows hummed past them. One shaft struck near Julius’ hand, rocking him back. He whistled softly as he saw the barbed head had come through.

Heavy bronze hooks clattered onto the planking, trailing writhing coils. Men began to leap onto Accipiter’s decks and the noise of battle sounded all around, clashing swords and shouts of triumph and despair.

Julius saw Suetonius spread his men out in a line to meet the attackers. Quickly, he ordered his twenty in to support, though he suspected they would have run in without him if he had been slow. There could be no surrender with Accipiter holed and every man there knew it. Their attacks were ferocious in their intensity and the first over the corvus cleared the decks before them, ignoring wounds.

Cabera stayed with him as he moved in to engage and Julius felt comfort from his presence, reminding him of other battles they had survived together. Perhaps the old healer was a good-luck charm, he thought, and then he was into the arc of enemy blades and cutting them down without conscious will, his body reacting in the rhythms Renius had taught him year after hard year.

Julius ducked under a hatchet and shoved the wielder when he was off balance, sending him sprawling by the feet of Pelitas, who stamped hard without thinking in the legionary’s classic battlefield reaction. If it’s upright, cut it down. If it’s down, stamp it flat.

The corvus was packed with soldiers as they jostled and shoved to get over. They were an easy target for archers and Julius could see a group of them against the far rail of the trireme taking shots when they could see through their own men. It was devastatingly effective fire at that short range and more than a dozen legionaries went down before those on board cut the archers apart like so much wheat, in a bloody frenzy. Julius nodded with pleasure as he saw it. He felt the same hatred for archers that all legionaries felt who had known the terror and frustration of their long-range attacks.

The second trireme had backed oars and pulled almost free of Accipiter, the damage done. Gaditicus watched them manoeuvre as he held back units to repel their assault when it came. The situation was changing too rapidly to predict, though he did know the pirates couldn’t stand off. Accipiter could be sinking, but she would not begin to settle for minutes more and the legionaries could yet fight their way clear onto the other trireme, taking command there. It wasn’t impossible that they could salvage some sort of victory if they had an hour and were left alone, which is why he knew there would be another attack as soon as the second ship could clear its ram and bring its fighters close enough to board. He swore to himself as the last cracking timber sounded and the sharp prow pulled away from Accipiter, with the new orders to their oarsmen shouted quickly in what sounded like a mixture of Greek and dog Latin.

Gaditicus sent his remaining reserve of soldiers to the other side of Accipiter, guessing they would board on the opposite side to split the defenders. It was a sensible move and served its purpose, though if the first trireme could be taken quickly enough, then all his men could be brought to repel the new attack and the day might not be lost. Gaditicus clenched his fist over the hilt of his gladius in what he knew was useless indignation. Should he have expected them to meet him fairly and be cut to pieces by his soldiers? They were thieves and beggars, after the silver in his holds, and it felt as if small dogs were bringing down the Roman wolf. His hand shook with emotion as he saw the bank of oars pulled in on one side and the second trireme sculling towards his beloved ship. He could still hear the screaming of the slaves below in a constant chorus of terror that wore at his nerves.

Julius took a blow on his armour and grunted as he reversed his sword through a man’s face. Before he could take in his position, a bearded giant stepped towards him. Julius felt a touch of fear as he saw the enormous height and shoulders of the warrior carrying a weighty metalworker’s hammer that was stained red with blood and hair. The man’s teeth were bared and he bellowed as he brought the weapon over his shoulder in a downward blow. Julius backed away, bringing his arm up to parry in reflex. He felt the bones of his wrist snap in the impact and cried out in pain.

Cabera darted quickly between them and sank his dagger into the man’s neck, but the warrior only roared and brought the hammer back round to sweep the frail healer away. Julius reached for his own dagger with his left hand, trying to ignore the agony of grating bones. He felt dizzy and suddenly detached, but the enormous man was still dangerous, though blood fountained from the neck wound.

The bull-like figure staggered erect and swung again in blind pain. The hammer connected solidly with Julius’ head with a dull crack and he collapsed. Blood pooled slowly from his nose and ears as the fight went on around him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brutus took a deep breath of clean mountain air as he looked back at their pursuers. With Greece spread out below them and the slopes covered with tiny purple blooms lifting a rich scent into the wind, it seemed wrong to be dwelling on death and revenge. Yet, as Renius had predicted, the group of riders contained at least one good tracker, and over the last five days they had remained doggedly on their trail despite a number of attempts to lose them.

Renius sat on a mossy rock nearby with his shoulder stump exposed, rubbing grease into the scarred flesh as he did every morning. Brutus felt guilty each time he saw it, remembering the fight in the training yard of Julius’ estate. He thought he could even remember the blow that had severed the nerves of the arm, but there was no calling it back after all this time. Though the flesh had formed a pink pad of callus, raw patches would appear that needed to be salved. The only real relief came when Renius was forced to leave the leather cap off and let the air get to the skin, but he hated the curious looks it brought and shoved the cap back on whenever he could.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Brutus said. He didn’t need to explain, the five men following had been in both their thoughts ever since first sighting them.

The sun-hammered beauty of the mountains concealed a poor soil that attracted few farmers. The only signs of life were the small figures of the hunters making their slow way up. Brutus knew they could not stay ahead of horses for much longer and as soon as they reached the plains below the Romans would be run down and killed. Both of them were approaching exhaustion and the last of the dry food had gone that morning.

Brutus eyed the vegetation that clung to life on the craggy slopes, wondering if any of it was edible. He’d heard of soldiers eating the singing crickets that haunted each tuft and clump of grass, but it wouldn’t be worth it to catch one at a time. They couldn’t go another day without food and their waterskins were less than half full. Gold coins still filled his belt pouch, but the nearest Roman city was more than a hundred miles away across the plains of Thessaly and they’d never make it. The future looked bleak unless Renius could come up with an idea, but the old gladiator was silent, apparently content to while away an hour rubbing his stump. As Brutus watched, Renius pulled one of the dark flowers and squeezed its juice onto the hairy pad that hung from his shoulder. The old gladiator was always testing herbs for their soothing effect, but, as usual, he sniffed with disappointment and let the broken petals fall out of his good hand.

Renius’ calm expression suddenly infuriated Brutus. With a pair of horses under them, the pursuers from the village would never have come close. It was not in Renius’ nature to regret past decisions, but every pace gained on the footsore Romans made Brutus grunt in irritation.

‘How can you just sit there while they climb up to us? The immortal Renius, victor of hundreds of bouts to the death, cut to pieces by a few ragged Greeks on a hilltop.’

Renius looked at him, unmoved, then shrugged. ‘The slope will cut down their advantage. Horses aren’t much good up here.’

‘So we’re making a stand then?’ Brutus demanded, feeling vast relief that Renius had some sort of plan.

‘They won’t be here for hours yet. If I were you, I’d sit down in the shade and rest. You’ll find sharpening my sword will calm your nerves.’

Brutus scowled at him, but still took up the older man’s gladius and began to work a stone along the edges in long strokes.

‘There are five of them, remember,’ he said after a while.

Renius ignored him, fitting the leather cup over his stump with a grunt. He held one end of the tying thong in his teeth and knotted it with the ease of long practice while Brutus looked on.

‘Eighty-nine,’ Renius said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I killed eighty-nine men in the bouts in Rome. Not hundreds.’

He rose smoothly to his feet and there was nothing of an old man in his movement. It had taken a long time to retrain his body to balance without the weight of his left arm, but he had beaten that loss as he had beaten everything else that stood against him in his life. Brutus remembered the moment Cabera had pressed his hands into the grey flesh of Renius’ chest and seen the colour change as the body stiffened in a sudden rush of returning life. Cabera had sat back on his heels in silent awe as they watched the old man’s hair darken, as if even death couldn’t keep its grip on him. The gods had saved the old gladiator, perhaps so he in turn could save another young Roman on a hilltop in Greece. Brutus felt his own confidence build, forgetting the hunger and exhaustion that racked him.

‘There are only five today,’ Brutus said. ‘And I am the best of my generation, you know. There is not a man alive who can beat me with a sword.’

Renius grunted at this. ‘I was the best of my generation, lad, and from what I can see, the standard has slipped a bit since then. Still, we may yet surprise them.’

Cornelia groaned in pain as the midwife rubbed golden olive oil into her thighs, helping the muscles to uncramp. Clodia handed her a warm drink of milk and honey wine and she emptied the cup almost without tasting it, holding it out for more even as the next contraction built in her. She shuddered and cried out.

The midwife continued to lather oil over her in wide, slow strokes, holding a cloth of the softest wool in her hands, which she dipped into a bowl of the liquid.

‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘You are doing very well. The honey and wine should help with the pain, but it will soon be time to move you over to the chair for the birth. Clodia, fetch more cloths and the sponge in case there’s bleeding. There shouldn’t be much. You are very strong and your hips are a good size for this work.’

Cornelia could only moan in response, breathing in short gasps as the contraction came on fully. She clenched her teeth and gripped the sides of the hard bed, pushing down with her hips. The midwife shook her head slightly.

‘Don’t start pushing yet, dear. The baby is just thinking about coming out. It’s dropped down into position and needs to rest. I’ll tell you when to start pressing her out.’

‘Her?’ Cornelia gasped between heavy breaths.

The midwife nodded. ‘Boys are always easier births. It’s girls who take as long as this.’ She thanked Clodia as the sponge and cloths were placed next to the wooden birthing chair, ready for the last stages of the labour.

Clodia reached out and took Cornelia’s hand, rubbing it tenderly. A door to the room opened quietly and Aurelia entered, moving quickly to the bed and taking the other hand in her own tight grip. Clodia watched her covertly. Tubruk had told her all about the woman’s problems so that she would be able to deal with any difficulty, but Cornelia’s labour seemed to focus her attention and it was right that she should be present at the birth of her grandchild. With Tubruk gone from the house to complete the business they had discussed, Clodia knew it would fall on her to remove Aurelia if she began her sickness before the birth was over. None of her own servants would dare, but it was not a task Clodia relished and she sent a quick prayer to the household gods that it would not be necessary.

‘We think it will be a daughter,’ Clodia told her as Julius’ mother took up station on the other side.

Aurelia did not reply. Clodia wondered if her stiffness was because she was the lady of the house and Clodia only a slave, but dismissed the idea. The rules were relaxed during a labour and Tubruk had said she had trouble with the small things that people took for granted.

Cornelia cried out and the midwife nodded sharply.

‘It’s time,’ she said, turning to Aurelia. ‘Are you up to helping us, dear?’

When there was no answer, the midwife asked again, much louder. Aurelia seemed to come out of a daze.

‘I’d like to help,’ she said quietly and the midwife paused, weighing her up. Then she shrugged.

‘All right, but it could be hours. If you’re not up to it, send in a strong girl to help in your stead. Understand?’

Aurelia nodded, her attention again on Cornelia as she got into position to help take her weight over to the chair.

As Clodia too began to lift, she marvelled at the confidence the midwife showed. Of course, she was a freedwoman, so the days of her slavery were long behind, but there was not an ounce of deference in her manner. Clodia rather liked her and resolved to be as strong as was needed herself.

The chair was built solidly and had arrived on a cart with the midwife a few days before. Together, the women walked Cornelia to where it stood, close to the bed. She gripped the arms tightly, letting her whole weight fall on the narrow curve of the seat. The midwife knelt in front of Cornelia, pushing her legs gently apart over the deep crescent cut into the old wood.

‘Press yourself against the back of the chair,’ she advised, then turned to Clodia. ‘Don’t let it tip backwards. I’ll have another job for you when the baby is showing her head, but for now, that’s your task, understood?’

Clodia took up position with the weight of her hip braced against the chair back.

‘Aurelia? I want you to push down on the abdomen when I say, not before. Is that clear?’

Aurelia placed her hands on the swollen belly and waited patiently, her eyes clear.

‘It’s starting again,’ Cornelia said, wincing.

‘That’s as it should be, my girl. The baby wants to come out. Let it build and I’ll tell you when to push.’ Her hands rubbed more oil into Cornelia and she smiled.

‘Shouldn’t be long now. Ready? Now, girl, push! Aurelia, press down gently.’

Together, they pressed and Cornelia wailed in pain. Again and again they tensed and released until the contraction had gone and Cornelia was drenched in perspiration, her hair wet and dark.

‘Getting the head out is the worst of it,’ the midwife said. ‘You’re doing well, dear. A lot of women scream all the way through. Clodia, I want you to press a piece of cloth against her bottom during the spasms. She won’t thank us if there are grapes hanging there at the end.’

Clodia did as she was told, reaching down between the chair-back and Cornelia and holding the pad steady.

‘Not long now, Cornelia,’ she said, comfortingly.

Cornelia managed a weak smile. Then the contractions built again, a tightening of every muscle that was frightening in its power. She had never known anything like it and almost felt a spectator in her own body as it moved to rhythms of its own, with a strength she didn’t know she had. She felt the pressure build and build, then suddenly disappear, leaving her exhausted.

‘No more,’ she whispered.

‘I have the head, dear. The rest is easier,’ the midwife replied, her voice calm and cheerful. Aurelia rubbed her hands over the swelling, leaning over the chair to see between Cornelia’s shaking legs.

The midwife held the baby’s head in her hands, which were wrapped in coarse cloth to prevent slipping. The eyes were closed and the head appeared misshapen, distended, but the midwife seemed not to worry and urged them on as the next contraction hit and the rest of the baby slid into her hands. Cornelia sagged back into the chair, her legs feeling like water. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and she could only nod her thanks as Aurelia wiped her brow with a cool cloth.

‘We have a girl!’ the midwife said as she took a small sharp knife to the cord. ‘Well done, ladies. Clodia, fetch me a hot coal to make a seal.’

‘Aren’t you going to tie it?’ Clodia asked as she stood.

The midwife shook her head, using her hands to clear the baby’s skin of blood and membranes. ‘Burning’s cleaner. Hurry up, my knees are aching.’

Another heaving contraction brought a slithering mess of dark flesh out of Cornelia with a final cry of exhaustion. The midwife motioned to Aurelia to clear it away. Julius’ mother attended to the afterbirth without a thought, now used to the woman’s authority. She felt a glow of unaccustomed happiness as the new reality sank in. She had a granddaughter. Aurelia glanced at her hands covertly, relieved to see the shaking was absent.

A cry cut the air and suddenly the women were smiling. The midwife checked the limbs, her movements quick and practised.

‘She will be fine. A little blue, but turning pink already. She will have fair hair like her mother unless it darkens. A beautiful child. Have you the swaddling cloths?’

Aurelia handed them to her as Clodia returned, holding a tiny hot coal in iron tongs. The midwife pressed it to the tiny stump of cord with a sizzle and the baby screamed with renewed vigour as she set about wrapping the child tightly, leaving only her head free.

‘Have you thought of a name for her?’ she asked Cornelia.

‘If it was a boy, I was going to name him after his father, Julius. I always thought it … she would be a boy.’

The midwife stood with the baby in her arms, taking in Cornelia’s pale skin and exhaustion.

‘There’s plenty of time to think of names. Help Cornelia onto the bed to rest, ladies, while I gather my things.’

The sound of a fist striking the estate gates could be heard as a low booming in the birthing room. Aurelia lifted her head and stood.

‘Tubruk usually opens the gate for visitors,’ she said, ‘but he has deserted us.’

‘Only for a few weeks, mistress,’ Clodia replied quickly, feeling guilty. ‘He said the business in the city would not take longer than that.’

Aurelia seemed not to hear the reply as she left the room.

Julius’ mother walked slowly and carefully out into the front yard, wincing at the bright sunlight after so long indoors. Two of her servants waited patiently by the gate, but knew better than to open it without her agreement, no matter who was standing there. It was a rule Tubruk had enforced ever since the riots years before. He seemed to care for the safety of the house, yet had left her alone as he had promised he would never do. She composed her expression, noticing a small drop of blood on her sleeve as she did so. Her right hand shook slightly and she gripped it in the other, willing the fit down.

‘Open the gate!’ came a man’s voice from the other side, his fist banging on the wood yet again.

Aurelia signalled to the servants and they removed the bracing beam, pulling the gate open for the visitor. Aurelia saw they were both armed, another rule of Tubruk’s.

Three mounted soldiers entered, resplendent in gleaming armour and helmet-plumes. They were dressed as if for a parade and the sight of them sent a chill through Aurelia.

Why wasn’t Tubruk here? He would be able to handle this so much better than she could.

One of the men dismounted, his movements easy and assured. Holding the reins bunched in one hand, he handed Aurelia a roll of vellum sealed with thick wax. She took it and waited, watching him. The soldier shuffled his feet as he realised Aurelia was not going to speak.

‘Orders, mistress. From our master the Dictator of Rome.’

Still, Aurelia was silent, gripping the hand that held the scroll with the other, her knuckles showing white.

‘Your daughter by marriage is here and Sulla orders her presence before him in the city immediately,’ the man continued, realising that unless he spoke, she might never open the scroll that confirmed the orders with Sulla’s personal seal.

Aurelia found her voice as the shaking steadied in her for a moment.

‘She has just given birth. She cannot be moved. Return in three days and I will have her ready to travel.’

The soldier’s face hardened slightly, his patience unravelling. Who did this woman think she was?

‘Mistress, she will be made ready now. Sulla has ordered her to the city and she will be on the road immediately, willing or not. I will wait here, but I expect to see her in a few minutes at most. Do not make us come in to fetch her.’

Aurelia paled slightly.

‘Wh … what about the child?’

The soldier blinked. There was no child mentioned in his orders, but careers were not made by disappointing the Dictator of Rome.

‘The child too. Make them both ready.’ His expression softened a little. It would hurt nothing to be kind and the woman looked very fragile suddenly. ‘If you have a cart and horses that can be harnessed quickly, they can travel in that.’

Aurelia turned without another word and disappeared into the buildings. The soldier looked up at his two companions, his eyebrows raised.

‘I told you this would be easy. I wonder what he wants with the woman.’

‘Depends who the father is, I should think,’ one replied, winking lewdly.

Tubruk sat stiffly in the chair, nodding as he took the wine offered to him. The man he faced was his own age and they had been friends for the best part of thirty years.

‘I still have difficulty recognising I am not the young man I was,’ Fercus said, smiling ruefully. ‘I used to have mirrors all round my house, but every time I passed one, I would be surprised at the old man peering out at me. Still, the body fails, but the mind remains relatively sharp.’

‘I should hope so; you are not old,’ Tubruk replied, trying to relax and enjoy his friend’s company as he had so many times over the years.

‘You think not? Many of those we knew have gone on to cause mischief in the silent lands by now. Disease took Rapas and he was the strongest man I ever met. At the end, they say his son put him over his shoulder to carry him out into the sun. Can you imagine anyone putting that great ox over their shoulder? Even a son of his! It is a terrible thing to grow old.’

‘You have Ilita and your daughters. She hasn’t left you yet?’ Tubruk murmured.

Fercus snorted into his wine. ‘Not yet, though she still threatens to every year. In truth, you need a good, fat woman yourself. They hold off the old age wonderfully, you know. And keep your feet warm at night, as well.’

‘I am too set in my ways for new love,’ Tubruk replied. ‘Where would I find a woman willing to put up with me? No, I’ve found a family of sorts at the estate. I can’t imagine another.’

Fercus nodded, his eyes missing nothing of the tension that filled the old gladiator’s frame. He was prepared to wait until Tubruk felt ready to broach the reason for his sudden visit. He knew the man well enough not to hurry him, just as he knew that he would help in any way he could. It wasn’t simply a matter of the debts he owed, though they were many; it was the fact that Tubruk was a man he respected and liked. There was no malice in him and he was strong in ways that Fercus had rarely seen.

Mentally, he tallied up his holdings and available gold. If it was a matter of money that was needed, there had been better times, but he had reserves and debts of his own that could be called in.

‘How’s business?’ Tubruk asked, unconsciously matching Fercus’ own thoughts.

Fercus shrugged, but stopped the light reply before it left his lips.

‘I have funds,’ he said. ‘There is always a need for slaves in Rome, as you know.’

Tubruk looked steadily at the man who had once sold him to be trained for combat in front of thousands. Even then, as a young quarry slave who knew nothing of the world or the training to come, he had seen that Fercus was never cruel to those who passed through his sales. He remembered despairing on the night before he was sent to the training pens, when his mind turned to ways of ending his life. Fercus had stopped by him as he walked his rounds and told him that if he had heart and strength, he could buy himself free and still have most of his life ahead of him.

‘I will come back on that day and kill you,’ Tubruk had said to the man.

Fercus had held his gaze for a long time before replying. ‘I hope not,’ he had said. ‘I hope you will ask me to share a cup of wine.’

The younger Tubruk had been unable to reply, but later the words were a comfort to him, just to know that one day there could be the freedom to sit and drink in the sun, his own master. On the day he was free, he had walked through the city to Fercus’ home and placed an amphora on the table. Fercus had set up two cups next to it and their friendship had begun without bitterness.

If there was anyone in the world outside the estate that he could trust, then Fercus was the man, but still he was silent as he went over the plans he had made since Clodia had come to see him. Surely there was another way? The course he followed sickened him, but he knew if he was prepared to die to protect Cornelia, then he could surely do this.

Fercus stood and gripped Tubruk’s arm.

‘You are troubled, my old friend. Whatever it is, ask me.’ His eyes were steady as Tubruk looked up at him and held the gaze, the past open between them.

‘Can I trust you with my life?’ Tubruk asked.

Fercus gripped his arm all the tighter in response, then settled back into his seat.

‘You don’t have to ask. My daughter was dying before you found a midwife to save her. I would have died myself at the hands of those thieves if you had not fought them off. I owe such a debt to you that I thought I would never have the chance to repay it. Ask me.’

Tubruk took a deep breath.

‘I want you to sell me back into slavery – to the house of Sulla,’ he said quietly.

Julius barely felt Cabera’s hands as they lifted his eyelids. The world seemed alternately dark and bright to him and his head was filled with a red agony. He heard Cabera’s voice from far away and tried to curse him for disturbing the darkness.

‘His eyes are wrong,’ someone said. Gaditicus? The name meant nothing, though he knew the voice. Was his father there? Distant memories of lying in darkness on the estate came to him and merged with his thoughts. Was he still in bed after Renius had cut him in training? Were his friends out on the walls turning back the slave rebellion without him? He struggled slightly and felt hands pressing him down. He tried to speak, but his voice would not obey, though a mushy sound came out, like the moan of a dying bullock.

‘That is not a good sign,’ Cabera’s voice came. ‘The pupils are different sizes and he is not seeing me. His left eye has filled with blood, though that will pass in a few weeks. See how red it is. Can you hear me, Julius? Gaius?’

Julius could not answer even to his childhood name. A weight of blackness pressed them all away from him.

Cabera stood up and sighed.

‘The helmet saved his life, at least, but the blood from his ears is not good. He may recover, or he may remain like this. I have seen it before with head wounds. The spirit can be crushed.’ The grief was clear in his voice and Gaditicus was reminded that the healer had come aboard with Julius and had a history that went back further than the time on Accipiter.

‘Do what you can for him. There’s a good chance we’ll all see Rome again if they get the money they want. At least for a while, we’re worth more alive than dead.’

Gaditicus fought to keep the despair from his voice. A captain who had lost his ship was not likely to find another. Trussed helpless on the deck of the second trireme, he had watched his beloved Accipiter sink beneath the sea in a swirl of bubbles and driftwood. The slaves at the oars had not been released and their screams had been desperate and hoarse until the waters took the ship. His career too had sunk with her, he knew.

The struggle had been brutal, but most of his men had finally been cut down, overwhelmed and attacked on two sides. Again and again, Gaditicus played over the short battle in his mind, looking for ways he could have won. Always he finished by shrugging, telling himself to forget the loss, but the humiliation stayed with him.

He had thought of taking his life to deny them his ransom and the shame it would cause his family. If they could even raise the money.

It would have been easier on them if he had gone down with Accipiter like so many of his men. Instead, he was left to sit in his own filth with the twelve surviving officers and Cabera who had escaped by offering to use his skills as a healer for the pirates. There were always those with wounds that would not close and infections that clung to their genitals after whores in lonely ports. The old man had been busy since the battle and was only allowed to see them once a day to check their own wounds and dressings.

Gaditicus shifted slightly, scratching at the lice and fleas that had infested him since the first night in the cramped and filthy cell. Somewhere above, the men that held them captive swaggered about on the trireme’s decks, rich with prisoners for ransom and the chests of silver stolen from Accipiter’s hold. It had been a profitable risk for them and he grimaced as he recalled their arrogance and triumph.

One of the men had spat in his face after his hands and feet were tied. Gaditicus flushed with anger as he thought of it. The man had been blind in one eye, his face a mass of old scars and stubbly bristle. The white eye had seemed to peer at the Roman captain and the man’s cackle almost made him show his anger and humiliate himself further by struggling. Instead, he had stared impassively, only grunting when the little man kicked him in the stomach and walked away.

‘We should try to escape,’ Suetonius whispered, leaning in close enough for Gaditicus to smell his breath.

‘Caesar can’t be moved at the moment, so put it out of your mind. It will take a few months for the ransom messages to reach the city and a few more for the money to come back to us, if it comes at all. We will have more than enough time to plan.’

Prax too had been spared by the pirates. Without his armour, he seemed much more ordinary. Even his belt had been taken in case the heavy buckle could be used as a weapon and he constantly hitched up his bracae. Of all of them, he had taken the change in fortunes with the least obvious anger, his natural patience helping to keep them all steady.

‘The lad’s right though, Captain. There’s a good chance they’ll just drop us all overboard when they get the silver from Rome. Or the Senate could stop our families making the payment, preferring to forget us.’

Gaditicus bristled. ‘You forget yourself, Prax. The Senate are Romans as well, for all your poor opinions of them. They won’t let us be forgotten.’

Prax shrugged. ‘Still, we should make plans. If this trireme meets another Roman galley, we’ll be sent over the side if they look like boarding us. A bit of chain around our feet would do the job nicely.’

Gaditicus met the eyes of his optio for a few moments. ‘All right. We’ll work out a few things, but if the chance comes, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Caesar has a broken arm as well as the head injury. It will be weeks before he can stand, even.’

‘If he survives,’ Suetonius put in.

Cabera looked at the young officer, his gaze sharp.

‘He is strong, this one, and he has an expert healer tending him.’

Suetonius looked away from the old man’s intense stare, suddenly embarrassed.

Gaditicus broke the silence. ‘Well, we have the time to consider all outcomes, gentlemen. We have plenty of that.’

CHAPTER SIX

Casaverius allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as he surveyed the long kitchen hall. Everywhere, the bustle of the evening was coming to an end, with the last of the orders served hours before.

‘Perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured to himself as he had done every evening for the ten years he had been employed by Cornelius Sulla. Good years, though his once trim figure had swollen alarmingly in the time. Casaverius leaned back against the smooth plaster wall and continued grinding with his pestle and mortar, preparing a mustard seed paste that Sulla loved. He dipped a finger into the dark mixture and added a little oil and vinegar from the row of narrow-necked pots that hung along the walls. How could a good cook resist tasting his own meals? It was part of the process. His father had been even larger and Casaverius took pride in his heaviness, knowing that only a fool would employ a thin cook.

The brick ovens had been closed to the air for long enough and should have cooled. Casaverius motioned to the slaves that they could be raked clean ready for new charcoal in the morning. The air in the kitchen was still thickly sluggish with heat and he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe his brow. With the weight, he seemed to sweat more, he admitted to himself, pressing the already damp cloth against his face.

He considered finishing the paste in one of the cool rooms where iced dishes were prepared, but hated to leave the slaves unattended. He knew they stole food for their families, and in moderation he could forgive them. Left alone, though, they might grow incautious and who knew what would disappear then? He remembered his father complaining about the same thing in the evenings and quickly whispered a prayer for the old man, wherever he was now.

There was a great peace at the end of a day that had gone well. Sulla’s house was known for fine food and when the call came for something special, he enjoyed the excitement and energy that stole over the staff, starting with the moment of anticipation as he opened his father’s sheaf of recipes, untying the leather thongs that bound the valuable parchments and running his finger down the lettering, taking pleasure from the fact that only he could read them. His father had said that every cook should be an educated man and Casaverius sighed for a moment, his thoughts turning to his own son. The lad spent mornings in the kitchens, but his studies seemed to fly from his mind whenever the day was fine. The boy was a disappointment and Casaverius had come to accept that he might never be able to run a grand kitchen on his own.

Still, there were years left before he would leave his plates and ovens for the last time, retiring to his small home in a good district of the city. Perhaps then he might find time to entertain the guests his wife wanted. Somehow, he never managed to bring his expertise into his own home, being satisfied with simple dishes of meat and vegetables. His stomach grumbled a little at the thought and he saw the slaves were removing their own roasted packages of bread and meat from the ashes of the ovens where they had been placed at the end. It was a small loss to the kitchen to be able to send them back to their quarters with a few hot mouthfuls and it made a friendly atmosphere in the kitchens, he was sure.

The new slave, Dalcius, passed him, bearing a metal tray of spice pots, ready to be placed back on their shelves. Casaverius smiled to him as he began unloading the tray.

He was a good worker and the broker at the sales had not lied when he said he knew his way round a kitchen. Casaverius considered that he might allow him to prepare a dish for the next banquet, under his watchful eye.

‘Make sure the spices go in the right places, Dalcius,’ he said.

The big man nodded, smiling. He certainly wasn’t a talker. That beard might have to be cut off, Casaverius thought. His father had never let a beard into his kitchens, saying they made the place look untidy.

He tasted his mustard paste again and smacked his lips appreciatively, noting that Dalcius finished his task quickly and neatly. From his scars, he looked more like an old fighter, but there was nothing bullish about the man. If there had been, Casaverius couldn’t have had him in the kitchens, where the endless rushing and carrying always meant a few would bump into each other. Bad tempers couldn’t survive down below the rich houses, but Dalcius had proved amiable, if silent.

‘I will need someone to help me tomorrow morning, to prepare the pastries. Would you like to do that?’ Casaverius didn’t realise he was speaking slowly, as if to a child, but Dalcius never seemed to mind and his silences invited the manner. There was no malice in the fat cook, and he was genuinely pleased when Dalcius nodded to him before going back into the stores. A cook had to have an eye for good workers, his father had always said. It was the difference between working yourself into an early grave and achieving perfection.

‘… and perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured again to himself.

At the end of the long kitchen hall, the door to the house above opened and a smartly dressed slave entered. Casaverius straightened, laying his mortar and pestle aside without thought.

‘The master sends his apologies for the late hour and wonders if he may be sent something cold before he sleeps, an ice dish,’ the young man said.

Casaverius thanked him, pleased as always with the courtesy.

‘For all his guests?’ he asked quickly, thinking.

‘No, sir, his guests have departed. Only the general remains.’

‘Wait here, then. I will have it ready in a few moments.’

The kitchens went from end-of-evening stupor to alertness in the time it took Casaverius to issue new orders. Two of the kitchen runners were sent down the steps to the ice rooms, far below the kitchens. Casa strode under a low arch and through a short corridor to where the desserts were prepared.

‘A lemon ice, I think,’ he muttered as he walked. ‘Beautiful bitter southern lemons, made sweet and cold.’

Everything was in place as he entered the cool dessert room. Like the main kitchen, the walls were hung with dozens of amphorae filled with syrups and sauces, made and refilled whenever the kitchens were quiet. There was no hint of the oven heat in there and he felt the sweat chill on his heavy body with a pleasurable shiver.

The ice blocks, wrapped in rough cloth, were brought up in minutes and crushed under his direction until the ice was a fine slurry. To this he added the bitter-sweet lemon and stirred it in, just enough to flavour without overpowering. His father had said the ice must not be yellow and Casaverius smiled as he noted the colour and fine texture, using a ladle to scoop the mixture into the glass bowls on a serving tray.

He worked quickly. Even in the cool room the ice was melting and the journey through the kitchens would have to be fast. He hoped that one day Sulla would allow another passage to be cut in the rock under his luxurious home, so that the iced desserts could be brought straight up. Still, with care and speed, the dishes would reach his table almost intact.

After only a few minutes, the two bowls were full of the white ice and Casaverius sucked his fingers, groaning in exaggerated pleasure. How good it was to taste cold in the summer! He wondered briefly how much silver coin the two bowls represented, but it was an unimaginable sum. Drivers and carts transported huge blocks of ice from the mountains, losing half in the journey. They were brought down to the dripping darkness of the ice rooms below him, there to melt slowly, but giving cool drinks and desserts for all the summer months. He reminded himself to check that the supplies were adequate. It was almost time for a new order.

Dalcius entered the room behind him, still carrying his spice tray.

‘May I watch you prepare the ices? My last master never had them.’

Casaverius motioned him in cheerfully.

‘The work is done. They must be rushed through the kitchens before they begin to melt.’ Dalcius leaned over the table and his arm knocked over the jug of sticky syrup in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’ good humour vanished on the instant.

‘Quick, you idiot, fetch cloths to clean it up. There is no time to waste.’

The big slave looked terrified and he stammered, ‘I … I’m sorry. I have another tray here, master.’

He held out the tray and Casaverius lifted the bowls, cleaning them quickly with his own sweat-soaked rag. No time to be sensitive, he thought. The ice was melting. He placed the bowls on the tray and wiped his fingers irritably.

‘Don’t just stand there, run! And if you trip over your own feet, I’ll have you whipped.’ Dalcius moved quickly out of the room, and Casaverius began to wipe up the spilled mess. Perhaps the man was too clumsy for more difficult tasks.

Outside in the corridor, it was the work of a moment for Tubruk to empty the vial of poison into the bowls, stirring it in with a finger. That done, he raced through to the kitchen and handed the tray to the waiting slave.

The eyes that had seemed so nervous looked steadily at the retreating back as the door to the house above closed behind him. Now he must escape, but there was bloody work to do first. He sighed. Casaverius was not a bad man, but one day in the future, even with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognise him.

Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back towards the cool rooms, touching the bone-handled knife under his tunic as he walked. He would make sure it looked like a murder rather than suicide. That should keep Casaverius’ family safe from revenge.

‘Did you give him the tray?’ Casa snapped as Tubruk re-entered the small cool room.

‘I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.’

The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly towards him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. He saw the blade and fear and confusion coursed through him.

‘Dalcius! Put that down!’ he said, but Tubruk shoved the dagger neatly into the fleshy chest, bursting the heart. Twice more he stabbed it home to be sure.

Casaverius fought for breath, but it would not come. His face purpled and his hands flailed, knocking the ladles and jugs off the tables with a crash.

Finally, Tubruk stood, feeling sick. In all his years as a gladiator and a legionary, he had never murdered an innocent and he felt stained by it. Casaverius had been a likeable man and Tubruk knew the gods cried out against those that hurt the good. He steadied himself, trying to drag his gaze away from the fat man’s body where it had slid onto the floor. He left quietly, his footsteps loud in the corridor that led back to the kitchen. Now he had to escape and reach Fercus before the alarm was sounded.

Sulla lolled on a couch, his thoughts drifting away from the conversation with his general, Antonidus. It had been a long day and the Senate seemed to be trying to block his nominations for new magistrates. He had been made Dictator with the mandate of restoring order to the Republic and they had been eager enough to grant his every wish for the first few months. Recently, they had taken up hours of debate with long speeches on the powers and limitations of the office and his advisers had said he should not impose on them too harshly for a while. They were small men, he thought. Small in deed and dreams. Marius would scorn them for fools, if he were still alive.

‘… objections will be raised to the lictors, my friend,’ Antonidus was saying.

Sulla snorted disdainfully.

‘Objections or not, I will continue to have twenty-four of them with me. I have many enemies and I want them to be a reminder of my power as I walk between the Capitol and the Curia.’

Antonidus shrugged.

‘In the past, there have been only twelve. Perhaps it is better to let the Senate have their way on this, to gain strength in more serious negotiation.’

‘They are a pack of toothless old men!’ Sulla snapped. ‘Has not order returned to Rome in the last year? Could they have done it? No. Where was the Senate when I was fighting for my life? What help were they to me then? No. I am their master and they should be made to recognise that simple fact. I am tired of walking carefully around their sensibilities and pretending the Republic is still young and strong.’

Antonidus said nothing, knowing that any objection he made would be met with wilder promises and threats. He had been honoured at first to be taken on as military adviser, but the post had been a hollow one, with Sulla using him only as a puppet for his own orders. Even so, part of him agreed with Sulla’s frustration. The Senate struggled to protect their dignity and old authority, while acknowledging the need for a Dictator to keep the peace in the city and Roman lands. It was farcical and Sulla was quickly tiring of the game.

A slave entered with the ices, placing them on a low table before bowing out of the room. Sulla sat up, his irritation forgotten.

‘You will have to taste these. There is nothing like them for relief from the summer heat.’ He took a silver spoon and ladled the white ice into his mouth, shutting his eyes with pleasure. The bowl was soon empty, and he considered calling for another. His whole body seemed cooler after the ice and his mind was calm. He saw Antonidus had not begun and urged him on.

‘It must be eaten quickly, before it melts. Even then, it can be a wonderfully refreshing drink.’ He watched as the general sampled a spoonful and smiled with him.

Antonidus wanted to finish their business and go home to his family, but knew he could not rise until Sulla became tired. He wondered when that might be.

‘Your new magistrates will be confirmed tomorrow at the Curia,’ he said.

Sulla lay back on his couch, his expression resuming its sulky lines.

‘They had better be. I owe those men favours. If there is another delay, the Senate will regret it, I swear before the gods. I will disband them and have the doors nailed shut!’

He winced slightly as he spoke and his hand drifted to his stomach, rubbing gently.

‘If you choose to disband the Senate, there will be civil war again, with the city in flames once more,’ Antonidus said. ‘However, I suspect you would emerge triumphant at the end. You know you have unwavering support in the legions.’

‘That is the path of kings,’ Sulla replied. ‘It draws and repels me at the same time. I loved the Republic, would still love it now if it was run by the sort of men who ruled when I was a boy. They are all gone now and when Rome calls, the little ones who are left can only run crying to me.’ He belched suddenly, wincing, and as he did so Antonidus felt a worm of pain begin in his own gut. Fear brought him to his feet, his glance falling to the bowls, one empty, one barely touched.

‘What is it?’ Sulla demanded, pulling himself upright, his face twisting in the knowledge even as he spoke. The burning in his belly was spreading and he pressed his hand into himself as if to crush it.

‘I feel it too,’ Antonidus said in panic. ‘It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!’

Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached towards him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.

He pushed a finger into the Dictator’s limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Come on, come on, again,’ Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved drily. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, failing with one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.

The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semi-conscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.

‘Fetch doctors!’ he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.

‘Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!’ he shouted. ‘Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!’ His strength seemed to leave him in that moment and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.

When the doctors rushed in they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.

‘He is gone,’ one of them said, his face white.

‘His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,’ Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.

Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla’s city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.

‘Get back on your way, slave,’ he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance and be gone. The man would recognise him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius – and to the memory of Julius’ father, who had trusted him.

Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier’s throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people, walking their peaceful journeys unknowing as the old wolf moved through them.

He had to reach Fercus to be safe, but there was more than a mile to go and though he moved quickly he could not run for fear of someone spotting and chasing him. Behind, he could hear the familiar clatter of soldiers’ sandals as they took up position and began halting the crowds, searching for weapons, looking for a guilty face.

More legionaries ran past him, their gazes sweeping the crowd as they tried to get ahead and close the road. Tubruk took a side street and then another, trying not to panic. They would not know yet who they were looking for, but he had to shave the beard as soon as he was safe. Whatever happened, he knew they must not take him alive. At least then, with luck, they might never link him to the estate and Julius’ family.

As the soldiers began to close the road, a man in the crowd suddenly ran, throwing aside a basket of vegetables he had been carrying. Tubruk thanked the gods for the man’s guilty conscience and tried not to look back as the soldiers brought him down, though the man’s squeal was desperate as they cracked his head onto the stone street. Tubruk walked through turning after turning with hurried steps and the shouting was left behind at last. He slowed his pace in the darkening shadows as he reached the alley that Fercus had told him to make for. At first, he thought it was deserted, but then he saw his friend step out from an unlit doorway and beckon to him. He went inside quickly, his nerves close to breaking, finally collapsing in the dirty little room that meant safety, at least for a while.

‘Did you do it?’ Fercus asked as Tubruk tried to get his breath back and his racing pulse to slow.

‘I think so. We will know tomorrow. They have closed off the streets, but I made it clear. Gods, it was close!’

Fercus handed him a razor and motioned to a bowl of cold water.

‘You still have to get clear of the city, my friend. And that will not be easy if Sulla is dead. If he is alive, it will be next to impossible.’

‘Are you ready to do what you have to?’ Tubruk said quietly, rubbing the water into the bushy growth that covered his face.

‘I am, though it hurts me to do it.’

‘Not as much as it will hurt me. Do it quickly once I have shaved.’

He noticed his hand trembled as he used the narrow blade and cursed to himself as he cut the skin.

‘Let me do it,’ Fercus said, taking the razor from him. For a few minutes there was silence between them, though their thoughts ran wildly.

‘Did you get out without being seen?’ Fercus asked as he worked at the stubborn bristle. Tubruk didn’t answer for a long time.

‘No. I had to kill two innocent men.’

‘The Republic can stand a little blood on its hem if Sulla’s death restores equality to Rome. I cannot regret what you have done, Tubruk.’

Tubruk remained silent as the blade cut away the last of his beard. He rubbed his face, his eyes sad.

‘Do it now, while I feel numb.’

Fercus took a deep breath, walking around to face the old gladiator. There was nothing left of the shambling Dalcius in his strong face.

‘Perhaps …’ Fercus began hesitantly.

‘It is the only way. We discussed this. Do it!’ Tubruk gripped the arms of the chair as Fercus raised a fist and began to beat his face into an unrecognisable mess. He felt his nose break along old lines and spat onto the floor. Fercus breathed heavily and Tubruk coughed, wincing.

‘Don’t stop … yet,’ he whispered through the pain, wanting it to be over.

When they were finished, Fercus would return with Tubruk to his own home, leaving the rented room behind without a trace of them. Tubruk would be chained into a coffle of slaves leaving the city, his face swollen. His final act before the slave market had been to sign a chit of sale under his own name. Fercus would deliver one more anonymous slave to the estate outside the city, ready for a back-breaking life of work in the fields.

At last, Tubruk raised a hand and Fercus stopped, panting and amazed at how much effort the beating had taken to give. The man who sat in the chair bore only a small resemblance to the one who had come in from the streets. He was satisfied.

‘I never beat my slaves,’ he muttered.

Tubruk raised his head slowly.

‘You have not beaten one now,’ he said, swallowing blood.

Brutus ducked below a ridge of stone, panting. Their pursuers had brought bows and his quick glimpse had shown two archers hanging back while the others crept cautiously towards their position. As soon as he and Renius were forced to show themselves, the shafts would bite into them and it would be over.

Brutus pressed as closely as he could to the dark rock, thinking furiously. He was sure he’d recognised Livia’s husband as one of the archers, so it looked as if the man had been persuaded of her innocence while there was no one to argue with her. No doubt she would welcome him home as a hero if he dragged Brutus’ body behind him.

The thought of her warmed Brutus for a moment. Her dull husband would probably never appreciate what he had.

Renius had given his dagger to the younger man, preferring the solid weight of his gladius. Brutus had his own sword sheathed and a small blade in each hand as he waited. He knew he could throw them well enough to kill, but they would hardly give him a chance to aim before the archers sighted on him. It would be close.

He put his head over the ridge and took in the positions of the men climbing towards him. The archers shouted a warning to their companions, but Brutus was already out of sight and moving to a new position. This time, he rose fully and sent one knife flashing before he threw himself down.

A shaft buzzed overhead, but Brutus grinned as he heard the knife strike flesh. He moved again, further along the ridge near to Renius, the second knife ready in his hand.

‘I think you just scratched him,’ Renius muttered.

Brutus frowned at him for disturbing his concentration, flushing as a stream of raging oaths sounded over the crest.

‘And annoyed him,’ Renius added.

Brutus tensed for another attempt. He would have loved to aim at one of the archers, but the bows could just be picked up by another and they stood furthest from the small ridge that hid the Romans.

He leapt up to find one of them almost on top of him. The man gaped at the sudden apparition and Brutus sank the blade into his exposed throat, dropping back and scrambling away on his stomach, raising dust.

Two more came at Brutus then, swinging blades. He rose to meet them, trying to keep an eye on the archers behind and spoil their aim with sudden steps left and right.

A shaft creased the air by his legs as the first Greek was impaled on his gladius. Brutus hung on to the slumping body, using it as a shield. Though he was dying, the man shouted and swore at Brutus as the young man danced him to one side and then another. An arrow came from nowhere to spear into the man’s back and blood spilled out of his mouth onto Brutus’ face. Brutus swore and heaved the body into the arms of his companion, then whipped his gladius up into the man’s groin in the classic legion thrust. They fell away in silence onto the shrubs and flowers and Brutus found himself looking at Livia’s husband at the moment he released his arrow.

He began to move, but the blurring shaft reached him as he turned, knocking him onto his back. The armour had saved him and Brutus blessed his gods for luck as he rolled. He came up to see Renius punch Livia’s husband flat before facing the last of them, who stood terrified, with his arms quivering under the strain of the bow.

‘Easy, boy,’ Renius called to him. ‘Go down to your horse and go home. If you fire that thing, I’ll bite your throat out.’

Brutus took a pace towards Renius, but the old gladiator held out a hand to stop him.

‘He knows what he has to do, Brutus. Just give him a little time,’ Renius said clearly. The young man holding the taut bow shook his head, looking pale with tension. Livia’s husband writhed on the ground and Renius pressed a foot onto his neck to hold him.

‘You’ve had your battle, boys, now go home and impress your wives with the story,’ Renius continued, gently increasing the pressure so that Livia’s husband began to claw at his foot, choking.

The archer eased his grip and took two paces away.

‘Let him go,’ he said in a heavy accent.

Renius shrugged. ‘Throw your bow away first.’

The young man hesitated long enough for Livia’s husband to go purple and then threw the bow over the rocks behind him with a clatter. Renius removed his foot, allowing Livia’s husband to scramble up, wheezing. The old gladiator didn’t make a move as the two young Greeks put distance between them.

‘Wait!’ Brutus called suddenly, freezing them all. ‘You have three horses you don’t need down there. I want two of them.’

Cornelia sat with her back straight, her eyes bright with worry as she faced Antonidus, the one they called Sulla’s dog.

The man was merciless, she knew, and he watched every change in her face as he questioned her with a terrifying concentration. She had heard nothing good of Sulla’s general and she had to fight not to show fear or relief at the news he had brought. Her daughter was asleep in her arms. She had decided to call her Julia.

‘Your father, Cinna, does he know you are here?’ he asked, his voice clipped as his gaze bored into her.

She shook her head slightly. ‘I do not think so. Sulla called for me from my husband’s home outside the city. I have been waiting in these rooms with my baby for days now, without seeing anyone except slaves.’

The general frowned, as if something she had said didn’t ring true, but his eyes never left hers.

‘Why did Sulla summon you?’

She swallowed nervously and knew he had seen it. What could she tell him? That Sulla had raped her with her daughter crying at her side? He might laugh or, worse, think she was trying to blacken the great man’s name after his death and have her killed.

Antonidus watched her writhe in worry and fear and wanted to slap her. She was beautiful enough for it to be obvious why she had been summoned, though he wondered how Sulla could have been aroused by a body still loose from birth.

He wondered if her father had been behind the murder and almost cursed as he realised there was yet another name to add to the list of enemies. His informants had told him Cinna was on business in the north of Italy, but assassins could have been sent from there. He stood suddenly. He prided himself on his ability to spot a liar, but she was either witless or knew nothing.

‘Don’t travel. Where will you be if I need to bring you back here?’

Cornelia thought for a moment, fighting the sudden elation. She was going to be released! Should she return to the town house or travel back to Julius’ family estate?

Clodia was probably still there, she thought.

‘I will be outside the city at the house where I was sought before.’

Antonidus nodded, his thoughts already on the problems he faced.

‘I am sorry for the tragedy,’ she forced herself to say.

‘Those responsible will suffer greatly,’ he said, his voice hard. Again, she felt the intensity of his interest in her, making her own expression seem false under his scrutiny.

After a moment more, he stood and walked away across the marble floor. The baby awoke and began to whimper to be fed. Alone and deprived of a nurse, Cornelia bared her breast to the child’s mouth and tried not to cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tubruk awoke, cramped and stiff with cold in the darkness of the slave house. He could hear other bodies moving around him, but there was no sign of dawn in the chain room where they slept and were made ready for travel.

From the first hours with Fercus, working out the details, it was this part that he had barely allowed himself to consider. It seemed a small worry with the possibility of torture and death to come if the attempt on Sulla’s life had failed, or if he was caught escaping. There were so many ways for him to suffer a disaster that the night and day he would spend as a slave had been pushed to the back of his mind, almost forgotten.

He looked around him, his eyes making out shapes even in the dark. He could feel the weight of the metal cuffs holding his hands to the smooth chain that clinked at the slightest movement. He tried not to remember what it had been like the first time, but his memory brought back those nights and days and years until they clustered and murmured within him and it was hard not to cry out. Some of the chained men wept softly, and Tubruk had never heard a more mournful sound.

They could have been taken from distant lands, or had slavery forced upon them for crime or debt. There were a hundred ways, but to be born to it was worse than all the rest, he knew. As small children, they could run and play in happy ignorance until they were old enough to understand they had no future but to be sold.

Tubruk breathed in the smells of a stable: oil and straw, sweat and leather, clean human animals who owned nothing and were owned in their stead. He pulled himself upright against the weight of the chains. The other slaves thought he was one of them, guilty of something to have been beaten so badly. The guard had marked him as a troublemaker for the same reason. Only Fercus knew he was free.

The thought brought no comfort. It was not enough to tell himself that he was just a short journey from the estate and freedom. If you are thought a slave and if you are chained in darkness, unable even to rise, where then is precious liberty? If a free man is bound to a slave coffle, he is a slave, and Tubruk felt the old nameless fear he had felt in the same room decades before. To eat, sleep, stand and die at another’s whim – he had returned to that and all his years of pride in winning his way to freedom seemed ashes.

‘Such a fragile thing,’ he said, just to hear his voice aloud and the man next to him grunted awake, almost pulling Tubruk over as he struggled up. Tubruk looked away, thankful for the darkness. He did not want the light to come through the high windows to reveal their faces. They were heading for short, brutal lives in fields, working until they fell and could not rise. And they were like him. Perhaps one or two of the men in this room would be picked out for their strength or speed and trained for the circus. Instead of ending their lives as crippled water-carriers or taken by disease, they would bleed away their futures into the sand. One or two might have children of their own and see them taken for sale as soon as they had their growth.

The light came slowly, despite him, but the chained slaves were still, listless in their confinement. For many, the only sign of wakefulness was a slight noise of the chain as they stirred. With the light came food and they waited patiently.

Tubruk reached to his face and winced as he gauged the swelling from Fercus’ blows the night before. The guard’s surprise had been obvious when Tubruk was brought in. Fercus had never been a cruel man and the guard knew Tubruk must have insulted him grievously to have such an obvious beating on the very night before being delivered to his new owners.

No questions had been asked, of course. Even though the slaves might only pass a few days in the house while Fercus took his profit, he owned them as utterly as the chair he sat in or the clothes he wore.

They were given wooden bowls filled with a slop of cooked vegetables and bread and Tubruk was digging his fingers into his when the door opened again and three soldiers entered with Fercus. Tubruk kept his face down with the others, not daring to meet an eye, even by accident. A murmur of interest swept the room, but Tubruk did not add to it. He guessed why they were there and his belly seemed cold with tension. They would have spoken to all Sulla’s kitchen staff by now and found that one called Dalcius was missing. Fercus had said he would be examined at the gates of the city before leaving, but had not expected them to be so thorough as to search his slave rooms even before setting off.

In the grey light of morning, Tubruk felt he would be spotted immediately, but the soldiers moved without hurry amongst the slaves as they ate, clearly intending to be meticulous with the task they had been given. As well they might be, Tubruk thought sourly. If they missed him here and then he was identified at the gate, they would be severely punished. He wondered if Sulla had eaten the poison and knew that he might not be sure for days or even weeks, if the Senate chose to delay the news. The people of Rome hardly ever saw the Dictator except from a distance over a crowd. They would continue with their lives unknowing and if Sulla survived they might never learn of the attempt at all.

A rough hand reached under his chin as he chewed his food slowly. Tubruk allowed his head to be raised and found himself looking into the hard eyes of a young legionary. He swallowed the mouthful and tried to look unconcerned.

The soldier whistled. ‘This one’s had a kicking,’ he said softly.

Tubruk blinked through his swollen eyes, nervously.

‘He insulted my wife, officer,’ Fercus said. ‘I administered the punishment myself.’

‘Did you now?’ the legionary continued.

Tubruk felt his heart pump powerfully in him as he looked away, remembering too late that he had been meeting the gaze where he should not.

‘I’d have ripped his stomach out if he insulted mine,’ the legionary said, letting Tubruk’s chin fall.

‘And lose my profit?’ Fercus replied quickly.

The officer sneered and spat one word, ‘Merchants.’

He moved on to the next with Fercus, and Tubruk cleaned his bowl, gripping it hard to hide hands that shook with relief. Minutes later, the soldiers were gone and the guards entered to kick them to their feet, ready to be fastened into the cart that would carry them out of Rome and to their new homes and lives.

Julius pressed his head up to the bars of the little cell below the trireme deck, closing his left eye to see what was going on more clearly. With it open, the blur brought on his headaches and he wanted to delay that as long as possible each day. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and turned back to the others.

‘Definitely a port. Warm air, and I can smell fruit or spices. I’d say Africa.’

After a month in the cramped semi-darkness, the words caused a stir of interest in the Romans who sat or lay against the wooden sides of their prison. He looked at them and sighed before shuffling back to his place, levering himself down carefully to avoid putting weight on the splinted arm.

The month had been hard on all of them. Denied razors and water to wash with, the usually fastidious soldiers were a ragged crew, filthy and dark-bearded. The bucket they had been given as their toilet was filled to overflowing and buzzed with flies. It had a corner to itself, but excrement had slimed the floor around it and they had no cloths to wipe themselves. In the heat of the day, the air had the stench of disease and two of the men had developed fevers that Cabera could barely control.

The old healer did what he could for them, but he was searched thoroughly every time he brought their food or tended their sick. The pirates still kept him busy with their own ailments and Cabera said it was clear they had not had a healer on board for years.

Julius felt a headache beginning and stifled a groan. Ever since recovering consciousness the pains had been with him, sapping at his will and strength and making him snap at the others. They were all irritable and what discipline they had once had was being eroded in the darkness day by day, with Gaditicus having to step in more than once to stop blows as tempers frayed.

With his eyes closed, the headache remained quiescent, but Cabera had told him he must not stop using the blurred eye and to spend hours of each day focusing on the near and far or it would be lost to him when they were finally back in the sun. He had to believe it would end. He would return to Rome and Cornelia and the misery would become memories. It helped a little to imagine it had already happened, that he was sitting in the sun on the estate wall, with his arm around Cornelia’s slim waist and cool, clean air off the hills ruffling their hair. She would ask him how it had been in the filth and the stench of the cell and he would make light of all of it. He wished he could remember her face more clearly.

Julius held his hand up and squinted at it, then the barred door, over and over until the headache began to throb in his left temple. He let his hand fall and closed his eyes to its wasted condition after a month on rations that kept them from death but did little more. What he wouldn’t give for a cold oyster to slip down his throat! He knew it was stupid to torture himself, but his mind produced bright visions of the shells, as real as if they hung before him and as sharp as his sight had been before the fight on Accipiter.

He remembered nothing of that day. As far as his memory told the tale, he had gone from healthy and strong to broken and in pain in a moment, and for the first few days of consciousness he had been filled with rage at what had been taken from him. He had been blind in his left eye for long enough to believe he would never see again, and never be able to use a sword with any degree of skill.

Suetonius had told him that one-eyed men couldn’t be good fighters, and he had already found he was missing things as he reached for them, his hand swiping the air as he failed to judge the distance properly. At least that had come back with his sight, though the shimmering outlines he could see with his left infuriated him, making him want to rub the eye clear. His hand rose to do just that again in habit and he caught himself, knowing it would do no good.

The headache seemed to find another channel in his brain and worked its way into it until that spot throbbed in sympathy with the first. He hoped it would stay there and not go on. The thought of what had begun happening to him was a fear he had barely started to explore, but three times now the pain had swelled into flashing lights that consumed him and he had woken with his lips bitter from yellow bile, lying in his own filth with Gaditicus holding him down grimly. In the first fit, he had bitten his tongue badly enough that his mouth filled with blood and choked him, but now they had a strip of grimy cloth torn from his tunic to shove between his teeth as he convulsed, blind.

All the red-eyed, stinking soldiers raised their heads at the tread of steps on the narrow rungs from the deck above. Anything unusual was seized upon to break the endless boredom and even the two who were feverish tried to see, though one fell back, exhausted.

It was the captain, who seemed almost to glow with clean skin and health compared to the men of the Accipiter. He was tall enough to have to duck his head as he entered the cell, accompanied by another man who carried a sword and a dagger ready to repel a sudden attack.

If his head hadn’t been pulsing its sullen sickness, Julius might have laughed at the precaution. The Romans had lost their strength, unable to exercise. It still amazed him how fast the muscles became weak without use. Cabera had shown them how to keep themselves strong by pulling against each other, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

The captain breathed shallowly, his eyes taking in the full slop bucket. His face was tanned and creased from years of squinting against the glare of the sea. Even his clothes carried a fresh smell in with him and Julius ached to be out in the air and the open spaces, so powerfully that his heart hammered with the need.

‘We have reached a safe port. In six months, perhaps you will be put down some lonely night, free and paid for.’ The captain paused to enjoy the effect of his words. Just the mention of an ending to their imprisonment had every man’s gaze fastened to him.

‘The amounts to ask for, now that is a delicate problem,’ he continued, his voice as pleasant as if he addressed a group of men he knew well instead of soldiers who would tear him apart with their teeth if they had the strength.

‘It must not be so much that your loved ones cannot pay. We have no use for those. Yet somehow I don’t believe you will be truthful if I ask you to tell me how much your families will bear for you. Do you understand?’

‘We understand you well enough,’ Gaditicus said.

‘It is best if we reach a compromise, I think. You will each tell me your name, rank and wealth and I will decide you are lying and add whatever I think would be right. It is like a game, perhaps.’

No one answered him, but silent vows were made to their gods and the hatred was clear enough in their expressions.

‘Good. Let us start then.’ He pointed to Suetonius, his gaze drawn as the young man scratched at the lice that left red sores on all their bodies.

‘Suetonius Prandus. I am a watch officer, the lowest rank. My family have nothing to sell,’ Suetonius replied, his voice thick and hoarse with lack of use.

The captain squinted at him, weighing him up. Like the others there was nothing to inspire dreams of wealth in his thin frame. Julius realised the captain was simply enjoying himself at their expense. Taking pleasure from having the arrogant officers of Rome reduced to bargaining with an enemy. Yet what choice did they have? If the pirate demanded too much and their families could not borrow the money or, worse, refused to, then a quick death would follow. It was hard not to play the game.

‘I think, for the lowest rank, I will ask for two talents – five hundred in gold.’

Suetonius spluttered, though Julius knew his family could pay that easily, or ten times that amount.

‘Gods, man. They do not have the money!’ Suetonius said, his unkempt body lending the feel of truth to the words.

The captain shrugged. ‘Pray to those gods that they can raise it or over the side you go with a bit of chain to hold you down.’

Suetonius sank back in apparent despair, though Julius knew he would consider himself to have outwitted the pirate.

‘You, Centurion? Are you from a rich family?’ the captain asked.

Gaditicus glared at him before speaking. ‘I am not, but nothing I say will make any difference to you,’ he growled before looking away.

The captain frowned in thought. ‘I think … yes, for a centurion, a captain no less, like myself … it would be an insult if I asked less than twenty talents. That would be about five thousand in gold, I think. Yes.’

Gaditicus ignored him, though he seemed to sag slightly in despair.

‘What is your name?’ the captain asked Julius.

He too considered ignoring the man, but then his headache throbbed and a spike of anger rose in him.

‘My name is Julius Caesar. I command a twenty. I am also the head of a wealthy house.’

The captain’s eyebrows rose and the others muttered amongst themselves in disbelief. Julius exchanged a glance with Gaditicus, who shook his head in a clear message.

‘Head of a house! I am honoured to meet you,’ the captain said with a sneer. ‘Perhaps twenty talents would be right for you as well.’

‘Fifty,’ Julius said, straightening his back as he spoke.

The captain blinked, his easy manner vanishing.

‘That is twelve thousand pieces of gold,’ he said, awed out of complacency.

‘Make it fifty,’ Julius replied firmly. ‘When I have found you and killed you, I will need funds. I am far from home, after all.’ Despite the pain in his head, he mustered a savage grin.

The captain recovered quickly from his surprise. ‘You are the one that had his head broken. You must have left your wits on my decks. I will ask for fifty, but if it does not come, the sea is deep enough to hold you.’

‘It is not wide enough to hide you from me, whoreson,’ Julius replied. ‘I will nail your men to a line of crosses all along the coast. Your officers I may have strangled out of mercy. You have my word on it.’

The soldiers erupted into a shout of cheers and laughter at the captain, who paled with anger. For a moment, it looked as if he would step further into the cell to strike Julius, but he mastered himself and looked around scornfully at the baying men.

‘I will set high prices on all of you. See if you cheer then!’ he shouted over the jeers as he left with his crewman, who locked the door securely behind him, shaking his head in disbelief at Julius through the bars.

When they were sure there was no one to hear, Suetonius rounded on Julius.

‘What did you do that for, you fool? He’ll beggar our families for your stupid pride!’

Julius shrugged. ‘He’ll set the prices at what he thinks he can get, just as he would have before coming down here, though he might ask fifty for me, out of spite.’

‘Caesar’s right,’ Gaditicus said, ‘he was just playing with us.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Fifty! Did you see his face? That was Rome in you, lad.’ His laughter broke off into coughing, but he still smiled.

‘I think you were wrong to bait him,’ Suetonius continued and one or two of the others muttered agreement.

‘He killed Romans and sank Accipiter and you think we should play his little games? I’d spit on you if I had any,’ Julius snapped. ‘I meant it too. Once I’m free, I will find him and cut him down. Even if it takes years, he will see my face before he dies.’

Suetonius scrambled at him, raging, but was held by Pelitas as he tried to get past.

‘Sit down, you idiot,’ Pelitas growled, shoving him back. ‘There’s no point fighting amongst ourselves and he’s barely recovered as it is.’

Suetonius subsided with a scowl that Julius ignored, scratching idly under his splint as he thought. His eyes took in the sick men lying in damp, stinking straw.

‘This place will kill us,’ he said.

Pelitas nodded.

‘We know they guard the top of the steps with two men. We’d have to get past them. Now we’re docked, it might be worth a go?’

‘Maybe,’ Julius said, ‘but they’re careful. Even if we could dig the hinges out of the door, the deck hatch is bolted from above every time someone comes in here, even Cabera. I don’t see how we could break it fast enough to get out before there’s a crowd waiting for us.’

‘We could use Suetonius’ head,’ Pelitas said. ‘A few sharp blows and one of them would give way. Either way, we win.’ Julius chuckled with him.

The following night, one of the sick men died. The captain allowed Cabera to drag out the body and dump it over the side without ceremony. The mood of those left sank towards complete despair.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I am surrounded by women,’ Tubruk said cheerfully as Aurelia, Cornelia and Clodia entered, bringing life and energy into the quiet triclinium. In the weeks that had followed Fercus’ bringing him inside the gates and passing the bill of sale into his untied hands, Tubruk had regained much of the peace he had lost in the city. Coming together each morning to eat had become a ritual for the four of them, and Tubruk had begun to look forward to the light breakfast. Aurelia was always at her best in the mornings and, if he was any judge, there was true friendship between Cornelia, Clodia and herself. The house had not seen laughter since before the slave riots and they lifted Tubruk’s spirits.

His face had healed with time, though he bore a new scar over his left eye to remember the ordeal. He recalled the relief he’d felt when he first saw the legionaries dressed in black on the city streets, a uniform the city would see for a full year of mourning at the Dictator’s death. Even then, the dark cloth had seemed inappropriate to the mood of Rome. Fercus had told him there was a fresh breeze blowing through the Senate, with Cinna and Pompey working to restore the old Republic and once again lay the ghosts of kings that Sulla had brought back to the streets.

The estate manager travelled only rarely into the city now, and always with caution. He thought the chances were good that he would never be linked with the poisoning of Rome’s leader, but it took only one accusation and the Senate would tear the estate apart looking for evidence. If they found Fercus and tortured him, the broker would give Tubruk to them, he was sure. The man had a family he loved, and honour and friendship crumbled in the face of that. Still, it had been the right thing to do and they had won, even though he would never know a day of complete peace again while Sulla’s friends and supporters searched for the assassin.

A month after his return to the estate, Tubruk had put on a heavy cloak and ridden to the city to make offerings at the temples of Mars and Vesta in thanks for the life of Cornelia. He had also prayed for the souls of Casaverius and the guard he had killed at the gate.

Cornelia had her daughter sitting on her lap and Clodia was reaching out at intervals to tickle the baby under her armpits and make her laugh. Even Aurelia smiled at the childish giggles that came from Julia, and Tubruk spread honey on his bread with a mixture of emotions churning in him. It was good that Aurelia had found a little of the old happiness. She had been too long surrounded by stern men. When she had first held her granddaughter, she had cried without sobbing, tears falling from her.

Yet he was sure she was failing and the thought brought him pain as he saw she had not eaten with the others. Gently, Tubruk pushed a plate of fresh, crusty bread over to her side of the low table and their eyes met for a second. She took a piece and tore a sliver from it, chewing it slowly as he watched. She had said that eating brought on her fits, and left her sick and vomiting. There was no appetite, and before he had watched her closely she had been losing weight alarmingly and hardly taking anything in.

She was wasting before him and no matter what he said when they were alone, she would only weep and say she could not eat. There was no space in her for food.

Clodia tickled the child and was rewarded with a sudden belch of milky vomit. All three women rose as one to help clean it up and Tubruk rose with them, feeling excluded and minding not a bit.

‘I wish her father were here to see her grow,’ Cornelia said wistfully.

‘He will be, love,’ Tubruk said. ‘They have to keep those they ransom alive or the trade would stop. It’s just a business deal to them. Julius will come home and now Sulla is dead, he can start again.’

She seemed to take more hope from his words than he felt himself. No matter what happened, Tubruk knew that even if Julius did make it back, he would not be the same after his experiences. The young lad who had taken ship to escape Sulla had died. Who would return was yet to be seen. Life would be harder for all of them after having to pay such a high ransom. Tubruk had sold some of the land of the estate to Suetonius’ family, who had bargained cruelly over the price, knowing his need from their own demand. Tubruk sighed. At least Julius would be pleased to have a daughter, and a wife to love him. That was more than Tubruk had.

He glanced at Clodia and found her looking back at him, with something in her expression that brought the blood to his face like a boy’s. She winked at him before turning back to help Cornelia and he felt strangely uncomfortable. He knew he should be going out to see the workers who waited for his orders, but he sat and took another slice of bread and ate it slowly, hoping she would look his way again.

Aurelia swayed slightly and Tubruk moved quickly to her, taking her shoulder. She was incredibly pale and her skin looked waxen. He felt the lack of flesh under her stola and the always present grief swelled in him.

‘You should rest,’ he said quietly. ‘I will bring you more food later.’

She did not reply and her eyes had taken on the lost gaze. She moved with him as he walked her away from the table, her steps faltering and weak. He felt her frame shiver against him as the trembling began again, each time leaving her weaker than the last.

Cornelia and Clodia were left alone with the child, who pawed at Cornelia’s dress to find a nipple.

‘He is a good man,’ Clodia said, looking at the doorway they’d gone through.

‘A shame he is too old to make a husband,’ Cornelia replied artlessly.

Clodia firmed her jaw.

‘Old? He is still strong where it matters,’ she said, her voice sharp. Then she saw Cornelia’s bright eyes and blushed. ‘You see too much, my girl. Let the child feed.’

‘She is always hungry,’ Cornelia said, wincing as she allowed Julia to attach herself, pressing her little face deep into the breast.

‘It helps you to love them,’ Clodia said and when Cornelia looked up at her tone, Clodia’s eyes were lined with tears.

In the cool dimness of the bedchamber, Tubruk held Aurelia tightly until the fit had finally passed from her. Her skin burned against him and he shook his head at her thinness. Finally, she knew him again and he lowered her back against soft cushions.

He had held her first on the night of her husband’s funeral and it had become a ritual between them. He knew she took comfort from his strength and there were fewer bruises on her these days, with her thrashing limbs gripped tight in his arms. He found he was breathing heavily and wondered afresh how it was possible that she could have so much strength in such a wasted body.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her eyes half open.

‘It was nothing. I will bring you a cool drink and leave you to rest.’

‘I don’t want you to leave me, Tubruk,’ she said.

‘Didn’t I say I’d care for you? I will be here for as long as you need me,’ he said, trying to force cheerfulness into his tone.

She opened her eyes fully and turned her head to him.

‘Julius said he would stay with me, but he left. Now my son has gone as well.’

‘Sometimes the gods make a mockery of our promises, love, though your husband was a decent man. Your son will come back safe as well, if I know him at all.’

She closed her eyes again and Tubruk waited until natural sleep came before stealing out of the room.

As storms smashed the coast, the moored trireme pitched and rolled heavily despite the shelter of the tiny African bay, far from Roman lands. Several of the officers were retching, though there was no food to come up. Those who had water in their bellies from their meagre ration struggled not to lose a drop, with their hands pressed tightly over their mouths. There was never enough and in the heavy heat their bodies craved moisture of any kind. Most of them cupped their hands as they urinated, gulping the warm liquid back as fast as they could before it was lost.

Julius remained unaffected by the rocking ship and took considerable pleasure from Suetonius’ discomfort as he lay with his eyes shut, moaning softly with his hands on his stomach.

Despite the seasickness, there was a new mood of optimism in the tiny cell. The captain had sent a man to tell them the ransoms had all been paid, travelling by land and sea to a secret meeting spot where an agent for the pirates had completed the last leg of the long trip and brought the gold to this distant port. Julius had felt it was a small victory that the captain had not come down himself. They had not seen him for months since the day he had tried to torment them and that pleased them all. Had he come, he might have been surprised at what he saw. They had come through the lowest point of the captivity and were growing stronger.

The desperate group of the first few months now waited patiently for their release. The fever had claimed two more, lessening the stifling crush a little. The new will to survive came partly from Cabera after that, for he had finally managed to bargain for better rations for them. It had been a dangerous gamble, but the old man saw that little more than half of them would make it to freedom unless they were better fed and cleaned, so he had sat on deck and refused to heal another pirate until they gave him something in return. The captain had been suffering at that time from a virulent rash he had picked up in the port and hardly blustered at all before allowing it. With the food came hope and the men had started to believe they might see Rome and liberty again. Swollen, bleeding gums had begun to heal and Cabera had been allowed to give them a cup of white ship’s tallow to rub on their sores.

Julius too had played his part. When his splint was removed, he was horrified to see the way his muscles had vanished and immediately set about the exercises Cabera had suggested. It had been agony in the cramped space, but Julius organised the officers into two groups of four and five. One would huddle together as close as possible for an hour and let the others have the space to wrestle and lift their comrades as dead weights, building back the muscles they had all lost before changing over and letting the other group work and sweat. The slop bucket had been knocked over too many times to count, but the men grew stronger and no more succumbed to fevers.

The headaches came less often now, though the worst would leave him almost unable to speak with the pain. The others had learned to leave him alone when he went pale and closed his eyes. The last fit had been two months before and Cabera said that might well be the end of them. He prayed that was true. The memories of his mother’s illness had given him a terrible fear of the weakness that threw him down and forced his mind into the dark.

With the news that the ship was ready to set sail and head for a lonely piece of coast to set them down, the officers of Accipiter were jubilant and Pelitas had even slapped Suetonius on the back in excitement. They were still bearded and wild-looking, but now they chattered with fantasies of bath-houses and being rubbed down with oil.

It was strange how things changed. Where once Julius dreamed of being a general like Marius, now he thought of being clean as a greater pleasure. It had not changed his desire to destroy the pirates, however. Some of the others talked of returning to the city, but he knew he could not while his family’s money floated around in the hold of a pirate ship. His anger had pushed him to stand the sickness and pain that came from the hard exercise and he had forced himself to do more and more each day, knowing he had to be strong if his word to the captain was not to be spit in the wind.

The motion of the trireme changed slowly and the Romans gave a low cheer as the rolling steadied and they could hear the beat for the rowers as the ship moved into open sea.

‘We’re going home,’ Prax said, wonderingly, with a catch in his voice. The word had a strange power and one of the men began weeping. The others looked away from him, embarrassed, though they had seen worse in the months together. Many things had changed between them in that time and Gaditicus sometimes wondered if they could work again as a crew even if Accipiter was produced whole and afloat for them. They had kept some semblance of discipline, with Gaditicus and Prax settling disputes and stopping fights, but the awareness of station had been slowly eroded as they judged each other by new rules and found different strengths and weaknesses.

Pelitas and Prax had become good friends, each seeing in the other something of the same phlegmatic outlook on life, despite the difference in ages. Prax had lost his swollen gut in the time in the cell, replacing it with hard muscle after weeks of pushing himself with the others in the daily exercises. Julius suspected that he would be pleased with the new lease of life when he was shaved and clean. He smiled at that thought, scratching a sore in his armpit.

Gaditicus had been one of those who suffered in the choppy waters of the dock, but he was gaining colour as the ship cut through the waves instead of rocking in them. Julius had found a respect and liking for him that had been missing from his automatic obedience to the rank. The man had held the group together and seemed to appreciate what Julius and Cabera had done for them.

Suetonius had not flourished in the captivity. He had seen the bonds that had formed between Pelitas, Prax, Julius and Gaditicus and bitterly resented Julius being included. For a while, he had been friendly with the other four officers and two camps had emerged. Julius had used those groups to compete against each other in the daily training and eventually one of the officers had cuffed Suetonius as he complained to him in whispers.

Shortly after that, Cabera had been able to bring the first decent food they had seen since the beginning and they had all cheered. Typical of the old man to have given the fruit to Julius to hand out. Suetonius couldn’t wait for freedom and order to be restored, wanting to see the moment when Julius realised he was just a junior officer again.

Two weeks after leaving port, they were taken out of the cell in darkness and left on a strange coast, without weapons or supplies. The captain had bowed to them as they were taken to the small boat that would be rowed in to the beach beyond, where they could hear the crash of waves.

‘Goodbye, Romans. I will think of you often as I spend your coin,’ he had called, laughing. They stayed silent, though Julius looked up at him steadily, as if noting every line of his face. He was furious that Cabera had not been allowed to leave with them, though he had known they might hold him. It was just one more reason to find the captain and rip his throat out.

On the beach, their bonds were cut and the sailors backed away carefully, daggers ready.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, now,’ one of them warned. ‘You can work your way home in time.’ Then they were in the boat and rowing hard for the trireme that was black against the moonlit sea.

Pelitas reached down and picked up a handful of the soft sand, rubbing it between his fingers.

‘I don’t know about you lads, but I’m going for a swim,’ he said, stripping off his infested clothes in a sudden rush. A minute later, only Suetonius stood on the shore, then he was dragged in by the shouting, laughing officers, clothes and all.

Brutus used his dagger to skin the hares they’d bought from a farmer, scooping out the guts into a slimy heap. Renius had found some wild onions and with the crusty bread and a half-full wineskin, it would be a suitable feast for their last night in the open. Rome was less than a day’s travel away and with the sale of the horses, they were in profit.

Renius dropped a few heavy pieces of dead wood by the fire and lay down as close as he could, enjoying the warmth.

‘Pass me the wineskin, lad,’ he said, his voice mellow.

Brutus pulled the stopper out and gave it to him, watching as Renius guided the spout to his mouth and gulped.

‘I’d go easy if I were you,’ Brutus said. ‘You have no head for wine and I don’t want you picking a fight with me or weeping or something.’

Renius ignored him, finally gasping as he lowered the skin.

‘It’s good to be home again,’ he said.

Brutus filled their small cooking pot to the brim and lay down on the other side of the fire.

‘It is. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it before the lookout sighted the coast. It brought everything back to me.’

Shaking his head in memory, he stirred the stew with his dagger. Renius raised his head and rested it on his hand.

‘You’ve come a long way from the boy I trained. I don’t think I ever told you how proud I was when you made centurion for the Bronze Fist.’

‘You told everyone else. It got back to me in the end,’ Brutus replied, smiling.

‘And now you’ll be Julius’ man?’ Renius said, eyeing the bubbling stew.

‘Why not? We walk the same path, remember? Cabera said that.’

‘He said the same to me,’ Renius muttered, testing the stew with a finger. Though it was clearly boiling, he didn’t seem to feel the heat.

‘I thought that was why you came back with me. You could have stayed on with the Fist if you’d wanted.’

Renius shrugged. ‘I wanted to be at the heart of things again.’

Brutus grinned at the big man. ‘I know. Now Sulla’s dead, this is our time.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Fercus said. He strained against the ropes that held him to the chair, but there was no give in them.

‘I think you know exactly what I mean,’ Antonidus said, leaning in very close so that their faces almost touched. ‘I have a gift for knowing a lie when I am told one.’ He sniffed twice suddenly and Fercus remembered how they called him Sulla’s dog.

‘You reek of lies,’ Antonidus said, sneering. ‘I know you were involved, so simply tell me and I will not have to bring in the torturers. There is no escape from here, broker. No one saw you arrested and no one will know we have spoken. Just tell me who ordered the assassination and where the killer is and you will walk out unharmed.’

‘Take me to a court of law. I will find representation to prove my innocence!’ Fercus said, his voice shaking.

‘Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? Days wasted in idle talk while the Senate tries to prove it has one law for all. There is no law down here, in this room. Down here, we still remember Sulla.’

‘I know nothing!’ Fercus shouted, making Antonidus move back a few inches, to his relief.

The general shook his head in regret.

‘We know the killer went by the name of Dalcius. We know he had been bought for kitchen work three weeks before. The record of the sale has vanished, of course, but there were witnesses. Did you think no one would notice Sulla’s own agent at the market? Your name, Fercus, came up over and over again.’

Fercus paled. He knew he would not be allowed to live. He would not see his daughters again. At least they were not in the city. He had sent his wife away when the soldiers came for the slave market records, understanding then what would happen and knowing he could not run with them if he wanted them to escape the wolves Sulla’s friends would put on his trail.

He had accepted that there was a small risk, but after burning the sale papers, he had thought they would never make the link among so many thousands of others. His eyes filled with tears.

‘Guilt overwhelms you? Or is it just that you have been found out?’ Antonidus asked sharply. Fercus said nothing and looked at the floor. He did not think he could stand torture.

The men who entered at Antonidus’ order were old soldiers, calm and untroubled at what they were asked to do.

‘I want names from him,’ Antonidus said to them. He turned back to Fercus and raised his head until their eyes met once more. ‘Once these men have started, it will take a tremendous effort to make them stop. They enjoy this sort of thing. Is there anything you want to say before it begins?’

‘The Republic is worth a life,’ Fercus said, his eyes bright.

Antonidus smiled. ‘The Republic is dead, but I do love to meet a man of principle. Let’s see how long it lasts.’

Fercus tried to pull away as the first slivers of metal were pressed against his skin. Antonidus watched in fascination for a while, then slowly grew pale, wincing at the muffled, heaving sounds Fercus made as the two men bent over him. Nodding to them to continue, the general left, hurrying to be out in the cool night air.

It was worse than anything Fercus had ever known, an agony of humiliation and terror. He turned his head to one of the men and his lips twisted open to speak, though his blurring eyes could not see more than vague shapes of pain and light.

‘If you love Rome, let me die. Let me die quickly.’

The two men paused to exchange a glance, then resumed their work.

Julius sat in the sand with the others, shivering as dawn finally came to warm them. They had soaked the clothes in the sea, removing the worst of months of fetid darkness, but they had to let them dry on their bodies.

The sun rose swiftly and they were silent witnesses to the first glorious dawn they had seen since standing on the decks of Accipiter. With the light, they saw the beach was a thin strip of sand that ran along the alien coast. Thick foliage clustered right up to the edge of it as far as the eye could see, except for one wide path only half a mile away, found by Prax as they scouted the area. They had no idea where the captain had put them down, except that it was likely to be near a village. For the ransoms to be a regular source of funds, it was important that prisoners made it back to civilisation and they knew the coast would not be uninhabited. Prax was sure it was the north coast of Africa. He said he recognised some of the trees and it was true that the birds that flew overhead were not those of home.

‘We could be close to a Roman settlement,’ Gaditicus had said to them. ‘There are hundreds of them along the coast and we can’t be the first prisoners to be left here. We should be able to get on one of the merchant ships and be back in Rome before the end of summer.’

‘I’m not going back,’ Julius had said quietly. ‘Not like this, without money and in rags. I meant what I said to the captain.’

‘What choice do you have?’ Gaditicus replied. ‘If you had a ship and a crew you could still spend months searching for that one pirate out of many.’

‘I heard one of the guards call him Celsus. Even if it’s not his real name, it’s a start. We know his ship and someone will know him.’

Gaditicus raised his eyebrows. ‘Look, Julius. I would like to see the bastard again as much as you, but it just isn’t possible. I didn’t mind you baiting the idiot on board, but the reality is we don’t have a sword between us, nor coins to rub together.’

Julius stood and looked steadily at the centurion. ‘Then we will start by getting those, then men to make a crew, then a ship to hunt in. One thing at a time.’

Gaditicus returned the gaze, feeling the intensity behind it. ‘We?’ he said quietly.

‘I’d do it alone if I had to, though it would take longer. If we stay together, I have a few ideas for getting our money back so we can return to Rome with pride. I won’t creep back home beaten.’

‘It’s not a thought I enjoy,’ Gaditicus replied. ‘The gold my family sent will have pushed them all into poverty. They will be happy to see me safe, but I will have to see how their lives have changed every day. If you aren’t just dreaming, I will listen to those ideas of yours. It can’t hurt to talk it through.’

Julius put out his hand and gripped the older man’s shoulder, before turning to the others.

‘What about the rest of you? Do you want to go back like whipped dogs or take a few months more to try and win back what we have lost?’

‘They will have more than just our gold on board,’ Pelitas said slowly. ‘They wouldn’t be able to leave it anywhere and be safe, so there’s a good chance the legion silver will be in the hold as well.’

‘Which belongs to the legion!’ Gaditicus snapped with a trace of his old authority. ‘No, lads. I’ll not be a thief. Legion silver is marked with the stamp of Rome. Any of that goes back to the men who earned their pay.’

The others nodded at this, knowing it was fair.

Suetonius spoke suddenly in disbelief.

‘You are talking as if the gold is here, not on a distant ship we will never see again while we are lost and hungry!’

‘You are right,’ Julius said. ‘We had better get started along that path. It’s too wide to be just for animals, so there should be a village hereabouts. We’ll talk it out when we have a chance to feel like Romans again, with good food in our bellies and these stinking beards cut off.’

The group rose and walked towards the break in the foliage with him, leaving Suetonius alone, his mouth hanging open. After a few moments, he closed it and trotted after them.

The two torturers stood silently as Antonidus viewed the wreck that had been Fercus. The general winced in sympathy at the mangled carcass, glad that he had been able to enjoy a light sleep while it was going on.

‘He said nothing?’ Antonidus asked, shaking his head in amazement. ‘Jupiter’s head – look what you’ve done to him. How could a man stand that?’

‘Perhaps he knew nothing,’ one of the grim men replied.

Antonidus considered it for a moment.

‘Perhaps. I wish we could have brought his daughters to him so I could be sure.’

He seemed fascinated by the injuries and inspected the body closely, noting each cut and burn. He whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Astonishing. I would not have believed he had such courage in him. He didn’t even try to give false names?’

‘Nothing, General. He didn’t say a word to us.’

The two men exchanged a glance again, hidden behind the general’s back as he bent close to the bound corpse. It was a tiny moment of communication before they resumed their blank expressions.

Varro Aemilanus welcomed the ragged officers into his house with a beaming smile. Although he had been retired from legion life for fifteen years, it was always a pleasure to see the young men the pirates left on his small stretch of coast. It reminded him of the world outside his village, distant enough not to trouble his peaceful life.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, indicating couches that were thinly padded. They had been fine once, but time had taken the shine from the cloth, he noted with regret. Not that these soldiers would care, he thought as they took the places he indicated. Only two of them remained standing and he knew they would be the leaders. Such little tricks gave him pleasure.

‘Judging by the look of you, I’d say you have been ransomed by the pirates that infest this coastline,’ he said, his voice drenched in sympathy. He wondered what they would say if they knew that the pirate Celsus often came to the village to talk to his old friend and give him the news and gossip of the cities.

‘Yet this settlement is untouched,’ said the younger of the two.

Varro glanced sharply at him, noting the intense blue stare. One of the eyes had a wide, dark centre that seemed to look through his cheerful manner to the real man. Despite the beards, they all stood straighter and stronger than the miserable groups Celsus would leave nearby every couple of years. He cautioned himself to be careful, not yet sure of the situation. At least he had his sons outside, well armed and ready for his call. It paid to be careful.

‘Those they have ransomed are left along this coast. I’m sure they find it useful to have the men returned to civilisation to keep the ransoms coming in. What would you have us do? We are farmers here. Rome gave us the land for a quiet retirement, not to fight the pirates. That is the job of our galleys, I believe.’ He said the last with a twinkle in his eye, expecting the young man to smile or look embarrassed at failing in that task. The steady gaze never faltered and Varro found his good humour evaporating.

‘The settlement is too small for a bath-house, but there are a few private homes that will take you in and lend you razors.’

‘What about clothes?’ said the older of the two.

Varro realised he didn’t know their names and blinked. This was not the usual way of such conversations. The last group had practically wept to find a Roman in such a strange land, sitting on couches in a well-built stone house.

‘Are you the officer here?’ Varro asked, glancing at the younger man as he spoke.

‘I was the captain of Accipiter, but you have not answered my question,’ Gaditicus replied.

‘We do not have garments for you, I am afraid …’ Varro began.

The young man sprang at him, gripping his throat and pulling him out of his seat. He choked in horror and sudden fear as he was dragged over the table and pressed down onto it, looking up into those blue eyes that seemed to know all his secrets.

‘You are living in a fine house for a farmer,’ the voice hissed at him. ‘Did you think we wouldn’t notice? What rank were you? Who did you serve with?’

The grip lessened to let him speak and Varro thought of calling to his sons, but knew he didn’t dare with the man’s hand still on his throat.

‘I was a centurion, with Marius,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How dare you …’ The fingers tightened again and his voice was cut off. He could barely breathe.

‘Rich family, was it? There are two men outside, hiding. Who are they?’

‘My sons …’

‘Call them in here. They will live, but I’ll not be ambushed as we leave. You will die before they reach you if you warn them. My word on it.’

Varro believed him and called to his sons as soon as he had the breath. He watched in horror as the strangers moved quickly to the door, grabbing the men as they entered and stripping their weapons from them. They tried to shout, but a flurry of blows knocked them down.

‘You are wrong about us. We live a peaceful life here,’ Varro said, his voice almost crushed from him.

‘You have sons. Why haven’t they returned to Rome to join the armies like their fathers? What could hold them here but an alliance with Celsus and men like him?’

The young officer turned to the soldiers who held Varro’s sons.

‘Take them outside and cut their throats,’ he said.

‘No! What do you want from me?’ Varro said quickly.

The blue eyes fastened on his again.

‘I want swords and whatever gold the pirates pay you to be a safe place for them. I want clothes for the men and armour if you have it.’

Varro tried to nod, with the hand still on his neck.

‘You will have it all, though there’s not much coin,’ he said, miserably.

The grip tightened for a second.

‘Don’t play false with me,’ the young man said.

‘Who are you?’ Varro wheezed at him.

‘I am the nephew of the man you swore to serve until death. My name is Julius Caesar,’ he said quietly.

Julius let the man rise, keeping his face stern and forbidding while his spirits leapt in him. How long ago had Marius told him a soldier had to follow his instincts at times? From the first instant of walking into the peaceful village, noting the well-kept main street and the neat houses, he had known that Celsus would not have left it untouched without some arrangement. He wondered if all the villages along the coast would be the same and felt a touch of guilt for a moment. The city retired their legionaries to these distant coasts, giving them land and expecting them to fend for themselves, keeping peace with their presence alone. How else could they survive without bargaining with the pirates? Some of them might have fought at first, but they would have been killed and those that followed had no choice.

He looked over to Varro’s sons and sighed. Those same retired legionaries had children who had never seen Rome, providing new men for the pirate ships when they came. He noted the dark skin of the pair, their features a mingling of Africa and Rome. How many of these would there be, knowing nothing of their fathers’ loyalties? They could never be farmers any more than he could, with a world to see.

Varro rubbed his neck as he watched Julius and tried to guess at his thoughts, his spirits sinking as he saw the strange eyes come to rest on his beloved sons. He feared for them. He could feel the anger in the young officer even now.

‘We never had a choice,’ he said. ‘Celsus would have killed us all.’

‘You should have sent messages to Rome, telling them about the pirates,’ Julius replied distantly, his thoughts elsewhere.

Varro almost laughed. ‘Do you think the Republic cares what happens to us? They make us believe in their dreams while we are young and strong enough to fight for them, but when that is all gone, they forget who we are and go back to convincing another generation of fools, while the Senate grow richer and fatter off the back of lands we have won for them. We were on our own and I did what I had to.’

There was truth in his anger and Julius looked at him, taking in the straighter bearing.

‘Corruption can be cut out,’ he said. ‘With Sulla in control, the Senate is dying.’

Varro shook his head slowly.

‘Son, the Republic was dying long before Sulla came along, but you’re too young to see it.’

Varro collapsed back into his seat, still rubbing his throat. When Julius looked away from him, he found all the officers of Accipiter watching him, waiting patiently.

‘Well, Julius?’ Pelitas said quietly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We gather what we need and move on to the next village, then the next. These people owe us for letting the pirates thrive in their midst. I do not doubt there are many more like this one,’ he replied, indicating Varro.

‘You think you can keep doing this?’ Suetonius said, horrified at what was happening.

‘Of course. Next time, we will have swords and good clothes. It will not be so hard.’

CHAPTER TEN

Tubruk swung the axe smoothly into the cut in the dying oak. A sliver of healthy wood jolted out under the blow, but the dead branches showed it was time for the old tree to come down. It wouldn’t be long until he reached the heartwood and he was sure the core was rotten. He had been working for more than an hour and sweat plastered his linen bracae to him. He had removed his tunic after warming up and felt no need for it, despite the breeze that blew through the woods. The drying perspiration cooled him and he felt at peace. It was difficult not to think about the problems of running the estate after the ransom payment, but he pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating on the swing and strike of the heavy iron blade.

He paused, panting, and rested his hands on the long axe handle. There had been a time when he could have swung an axe all day, but now even the hairs on his chest had turned a winter grey. Foolish to keep pushing himself perhaps, but old age came fastest to those who sat and waited for it and at least the exercise kept his belly flat.

‘I used to climb that tree,’ a voice sounded behind him. Tubruk jumped at the interruption to the quiet of the woods, turning with the axe in his hands.

Brutus was there, sitting on a stump with his arms folded and the old grin making his eyes bright. Tubruk laughed with the pleasure of seeing him and rested the axe against the wide trunk of the oak. For a moment, they didn’t speak, then Tubruk crossed the space to him and gripped him in a great hug, lifting him off the stump.

‘By all the gods, Marcus, it’s good to see you, lad,’ Tubruk said as he let Brutus go. ‘You’ve changed. You’re taller! Let me look at you.’

The old gladiator stepped back and pulled on his tunic.

‘That’s a centurion’s armour. You’ve prospered.’

‘Bronze Fist,’ Brutus replied. ‘Never lost a battle, though we came close once or twice when I was giving the orders.’

‘I doubt it. Gods, I’m proud of you. Are you back for good now, or on your way through?’

‘My posting is over. There are a few things I want to do in the city before finding a new legion.’

For the first time, Tubruk noticed how dusty the young man was.

‘How far have you walked?’

‘Halfway across the world, it feels like. Renius doesn’t like to part with his money for horses, though we found a couple of nags for part of it.’

Tubruk chuckled as he picked up the axe and rested it on his shoulder.

‘He came back with you then? I thought he’d given up on the city when they burned his house in the riots.’

Brutus shrugged. ‘He’s gone to sell the plot and find a place to rent.’

Tubruk smiled in memory. ‘Rome is too quiet for him now. I should think he’d hate it.’ He clapped a hand on Brutus’ shoulder. ‘Come down the hill with me. Your old room is just as it was and a good soak and rub-down will take the dust of the road out of your lungs.’

‘Is Julius back?’ Brutus asked.

Tubruk seemed to slump a little as if the axe had suddenly become heavier.

‘We had to raise a ransom for him when pirates took his galley. We’re still waiting to hear if he’s safe.’

Brutus looked at him in amazement. ‘Gods, I haven’t heard this! Was he wounded?’

‘We know nothing. All I’ve had was the order for the money. I had to pay for guards to load it onto a merchant ship at the coast. Fifty talents, it was.’

‘I didn’t think the family had that kind of money,’ Brutus said quietly.

‘We don’t now. All the businesses had to be sold, as well as some of the estate land. There’s just the crop revenue left. The years will be hard for a while, but there is enough to live on.’

‘He’s had his share of bad luck. Enough for a lifetime.’

‘I doubt he’ll be down for long. Julius and you are the same. Money can always be made again, if you live long enough. Did you know Sulla was dead?’

‘I heard. Even in Greece, the soldiers at the ports wore black. Is it true he was poisoned?’

Tubruk frowned for a second, looking away before replying. ‘It’s true. He made a lot of enemies in the Senate. His general, Antonidus, is still searching for the killers. I don’t think he will ever give up.’

As he spoke, he thought of Fercus and the terrible days that had followed after hearing he had been taken. Tubruk had never known fear like it, waiting for soldiers to march from the city and take him back for trial and execution. They had not come and Antonidus continued to question and search. Tubruk didn’t even dare look for Fercus’ family in case Antonidus was watching them, but he had sworn the debt would be repaid somehow. Fercus had been a true friend but, more than that, he had believed in the Republic with a passion that had surprised the old gladiator when he had first broached the plan for killing Sulla. Fercus had hardly needed to be persuaded.

‘… Tubruk?’ Brutus broke into his thoughts, looking curious.

‘I’m sorry. I was thinking of the past. They say the Republic has returned and Rome is once again a city of law, but it isn’t true. They sink their teeth into each other to prevent anyone taking over from Sulla. Only recently, two senators were executed for treason on nothing more than the word of their accusers. They bribe and steal and give out free corn to the mob, who fill their bellies and go home satisfied. It is a strange city, Marcus.’

Brutus put his hand on Tubruk’s shoulder.

‘I did not know you cared so much about it,’ he said.

‘I always did, but I trusted more when I was younger. I thought that men like Sulla and, yes, Marius could not harm her, but they can. They can kill her. Do you know that free corn wipes out small farmers? They cannot sell their crops. Their lands are put up for sale and added to the swollen holdings of the senators. Those farmers end up on the city streets being given the very corn that ruined them.’

‘There will be better men in the Senate in time. A new generation, like Julius.’

Tubruk’s expression eased a little, but Brutus was shocked at the depth of the bitterness and sadness he had seen revealed. Tubruk had always been a pillar of certainty in the lives of the boys. He struggled to find the right words to say.

‘We will make a Rome that you can be proud of,’ he said.

Tubruk reached up and gripped his outstretched arm.

‘Oh, to be young again,’ he said, smiling. ‘Come on home, Aurelia will be thrilled to see you so tall and strong.’

‘Tubruk? I …’ Brutus hesitated. ‘I won’t stay for long. I have enough coin to get lodgings in the city.’

Tubruk glanced at him, understanding. ‘This is your home. It always will be. You stay as long as you want.’

The silence stretched again as they walked towards the estate buildings.

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d expect me to make my own way now. I can, you know.’

‘I know, Marcus,’ Tubruk replied, smiling as he called out for the gates to be opened.

The young man felt a weight lift from him. ‘They call me Brutus now.’

Tubruk put out his hand and Brutus took it in the legionary’s grip.

‘Welcome home, Brutus,’ Tubruk said.

He led Brutus into the kitchens while the water was heated for his bath, motioning him to a chair while Tubruk cut meat and bread for him. He was hungry himself after the axe work and they ate and talked with the ease and comfort of old friends.

The heat seemed to batter at his skin as Julius inspected the six new recruits. The African sun even made his armour painful to touch and anywhere the metal made contact with his skin was an agony until he could shift it.

Nothing of his discomfort showed in his expression, though the first doubts tugged at his concentration as he looked at the men he’d found. They were strong and fit enough, but not one of them had been trained as a soldier. For his plan to work, he needed a force of fifty at least and had begun to believe that he would get them. The trouble was, they needed to take orders and make war with the sort of discipline the Accipiter officers took completely for granted. Somehow, he had to impress upon them the simple fact that they would die without it.

Physically, they were impressive enough, but only two of the six had volunteered and these from the last village. He expected there to be more as they came to resemble a proper Roman half-century, but the first four had come because he had insisted on it and they were still angry. The second village had seemed happy to be rid of the largest of them and Julius guessed he was a troublemaker. His expression seemed set in a constant sneer that irritated Julius every time he saw it.

Renius would have beaten them into shape for him, he thought. That was a start. He had to think what Renius would do. Gaditicus and the others from Accipiter had followed him this far, hardly believing how easy it had been after the first settlement. Julius wondered how many Romans in all the hundreds of retirement farms had sons who could be taught to fight. There was an army out there and all that was needed was for someone to find them and remind them of the call of blood.

He stopped next to the troublemaker, and saw how the eyes met his with polite enquiry and not a trace of fear or respect. He towered over most of them, his limbs long and lithely muscled, shining with sweat. The biting flies that tormented the officers of Accipiter seemed not to trouble him at all and he stood like a statue in the heat. The man reminded him of Marcus to some extent. He looked every inch a Roman, but even the Latin he spoke was a corrupted mix of African dialect and phrases. Julius knew his father had died and left him a farm which he had neglected to the point of ruin. Left alone, he would have been killed in a fight or joined the pirates when the last of the money and wine ran out.

What was the man’s name? Julius prided himself on learning them quickly as he had once seen Marius could do for every man under his command, yet under the cool stare, he couldn’t think of it at first. Then it came to him. He had told them to call him Ciro, giving no other. He probably didn’t even know it was a slave name. What would Renius do?

‘I need men who can fight,’ he said, looking into the brown eyes that returned his glare so steadily.

‘I can fight,’ Ciro replied, his confidence obvious.

‘I need men who can keep their temper in a crisis,’ Julius continued.

‘I can …’ Ciro began.

Julius slapped him hard across the face. For a moment, anger flared in the dark eyes, but Ciro held himself still, the muscles of his bare chest twitching like a great cat. Julius leaned close to him.

‘Do you want to take up a sword? Cut me down?’ he whispered harshly.

‘No,’ Ciro replied, and the calm was back once more.

‘Why not?’ Julius asked, wondering how to reach him.

‘My father … said a legionary had to have control.’

Julius stayed where he was, though his thoughts spun wildly. There was a lever here.

‘You didn’t have control in the settlement where we found you, did you?’ he said, hoping he had guessed correctly about Ciro’s relationship with the villagers. The big man said nothing for a long time and Julius waited patiently, knowing not to interrupt.

‘I wasn’t … a legionary then,’ Ciro said.

Julius eyed him, looking for the insolence he had come to expect. It was missing and silently he cursed the Senate for wasting men like these, who dreamed of being legionaries while wasting their lives in a strange land.

‘You are not a legionary,’ Julius said slowly and saw the mouth begin to twist in response to the rejection, ‘but I can make you one. You will learn brotherhood with me and from me, and you will walk the streets of the distant city with your head high. If anyone stops you, you will tell them you are a soldier of Caesar.’

‘I will,’ Ciro said.

‘Sir.’

‘I will, sir,’ he said and stood tall.

Julius stood back to address the recruits, standing with the waiting officers of Accipiter.

‘With men like you, what can’t we achieve? You are the children of Rome and we will show you your history and your pride. We will teach you the gladius and battle formations, the laws, the customs, the life. There will be more to come and you will train them, showing what it means to be of Rome. Now we march. The next village will see legionaries when they see you.’

The line of pairs was ragged and out of step, but Julius knew that would improve. He wondered if Renius would have seen the need in the new men, but dismissed the thought. Renius wasn’t here. He was.

Gaditicus waited with him, falling in beside as they brought up the rear of the column.

‘They follow you,’ he noted.

Julius turned quickly to him. ‘They must, if we are ever to crew a ship and take back our ransoms.’

Gaditicus snorted softly, clapping his hand on Julius’ armour.

Julius faltered and stopped. ‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Tell them we’ll catch them up. Quickly!’

Gaditicus gave the order and watched as the double file of Romans marched away along the path. They were quickly out of sight around a bend and Gaditicus turned to Julius enquiringly. He had gone pale and shut his eyes.

‘Is it the sickness again?’ Gaditicus asked.

Julius nodded weakly.

‘Before … the last fit, I tasted metal in my mouth. I can taste it now.’ He hawked and spat, his expression bitter. ‘Don’t tell them. Don’t …’

Gaditicus caught him as he fell and held him down as his body jerked and twisted, his sandals cutting arcs in the undergrowth with the violence of their movement. The biting flies seemed to sense his weakness and swarmed around them. Gaditicus looked around for something to jam between Julius’ teeth, but the cloth they had used on Accipiter was long gone. He wrenched up a heavy leaf and managed to get the fibrous stalk across Julius’ mouth, letting it fall in as the mouth champed. It held and Gaditicus bore down with all his weight until the fit was over.

Finally, Julius was able to sit up and spit out the stalk he’d almost bitten through. He felt as if he had been beaten unconscious. He grimaced as he saw his bladder had released and thumped his fists into the earth in fury, scattering the flies before they darted back at his exposed skin.

‘I thought it was over.’

‘Perhaps that was the last one,’ Gaditicus replied. ‘Head wounds are always complicated. Cabera said it might go on for a while.’

‘Or for the rest of my life. I miss that old man,’ Julius said, his voice bleak. ‘My mother used to have shaking fits. I never really understood what it was like before. It feels like dying.’

‘Can you stand? I don’t want to lose the men, and after your speech they could well march all morning.’

Gaditicus helped the young officer to his feet and watched him take a few deep breaths to steady himself. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but the words didn’t come easily.

‘You will beat this,’ he said. ‘Cabera said you were strong and nothing I’ve seen makes me think differently.’

‘Maybe. Let’s move on, then. I’d like to stay close to the sea, so I can wash.’

‘I could say I told you a joke and you pissed yourself laughing,’ Gaditicus said. Julius chuckled and Gaditicus smiled at him.

‘There, you see. You are stronger than you realise. Alexander the Great had the shaking sickness, they say.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and Hannibal. It is not the end, just a burden.’

Brutus tried to hide his shock when he saw Aurelia the following morning. She was plaster-white and thin, with a web of wrinkles that had not been there when he’d left for Greece years before.

Tubruk had seen his distress and filled the gaps in the conversation, telling Aurelia the answers to the questions she did not ask. The old gladiator was not sure she even recognised Brutus.

Aurelia’s silence was covered by the laughter of Clodia and Cornelia as they tended Julius’ baby at breakfast. Brutus smiled dutifully at the child and said she looked like her father, though in truth he could see no resemblance to anything human. He felt uncomfortable in the triclinium, aware that these people had formed bonds that excluded him. It was the first time he had ever felt like a stranger in that house and it saddened him.

Tubruk left with Aurelia after she had eaten only a little food and Brutus tried hard to take part in the conversation, telling the women about the blue-skinned tribe he had fought in his first few months with the Bronze Fist in Greece. Clodia laughed when he told them of the savage who had waved his genitals at the Romans, believing he was safe. Cornelia covered Julia’s ears with her hands and Brutus blushed, embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry. I am more used to the company of soldiers. It has been a while since I was in this house.’

‘Tubruk told us you grew up here,’ Clodia broke in to put him at his ease, knowing somehow that it was important she did so. ‘He said you always dreamed of being a great swordsman. Did you reach your dream?’

Shyly, Brutus told them of the sword tourney he had won, against the best of the legion centuries.

‘They gave me a sword made with harder iron that keeps a better edge. It has gold in the hilt. I will show it to you.’

‘Will Julius be safe?’ Cornelia asked without warning.

Brutus responded with a quick smile. ‘Of course. The ransom has been paid. There is no danger for him.’ The words came easily and she seemed reassured. His own worries were untouched.

That afternoon, he walked back up the hill to the oak with Tubruk, each of them carrying axes on their shoulders. They took up positions on each side of the trunk and began the slow rhythm of blows that ate a deeper and deeper gash into the wood as the day wore on.

‘There is another reason for my coming back to Rome,’ Brutus said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his hand.

Tubruk laid down his axe and breathed heavily for a few moments before replying.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I want to find my mother. I am not a boy any longer and I want to know where I came from. I thought you might know where she was.’

Tubruk blew air out of his lips, taking up the axe again.

‘It will bring you grief, lad.’

‘I must. I have family.’

Tubruk hammered his axe blade into the oak with enormous power, wedging it deeply.

‘Your family is here,’ he said, levering it out.

‘These are my blood. I never knew my father. I just want to know her. If she died without me seeing her, I’d always regret it.’

Tubruk paused again, then sighed before speaking.

‘She has a place in the Via Festus, on the far side of the city, near the Quirinal hill. Think hard before you go there. It could disappoint you.’

‘No. She deserted me when I was only a few months old. Nothing she could do would disappoint me now,’ Brutus said softly, before taking up his axe again and continuing to cut at the old tree.

As the sun set, the oak fell and they walked back to the estate house in the twilight. Renius was there, waiting in the shadow of the gate.

‘They’ve built where my house stood,’ he said angrily to Brutus, ‘and some young legionaries marched me out of the city as a troublemaker. My own city!’

Tubruk let out an explosive shout of laughter.

‘Did you tell them who you were?’ Brutus asked, trying to remain serious.

Renius was clearly nettled by their amusement and practically snarled, ‘They didn’t know my name. Pups, fresh from their mother’s milk, every one of them.’

‘There is a room here, if you want it,’ Tubruk said.

Renius looked at his old pupil for the first time, then.

‘How much are you asking?’ he said.

‘Just the pleasure of your company, old friend. Just that.’

Renius snorted. ‘You’re a fool then. I’d have paid a fair rate.’

At Tubruk’s call, the gate was opened and Renius stalked in ahead of them. Brutus caught Tubruk’s eye and grinned at the affection he saw there.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brutus stood at the crossroads at the base of the Quirinal hill and let the bustling crowd pass around him. He had risen early and checked his armour, thankful for the clean undertunic Tubruk had laid out. Some part of him knew it was ridiculous to care, but he had oiled each segment and polished the metal until it shone. He felt garish in the darker colours of the crowd, but he took comfort from the solid weight, as if it protected him from more than weapons.

The Bronze Fist had their own armourer, and like everyone else in the century, he had been the best. The greave Brutus wore on his right leg was skilfully shaped to follow the muscles. It was inscribed with a pattern of circles cut with acid and Brutus had given a month’s pay for it. Sweat trickled behind the metal sheath and he reached down to try and scratch the skin beneath without success. Practicality had made him leave the plume of his helmet back at the estate. It would not do to be catching it on lintels inside the house where his mother lived.

It was the sight of the building that had made him pause and take stock. He had been expecting a tenement of four or five storeys, clean, but small. Instead the front was covered in a façade of dark marble, almost like a temple. The main buildings were set back from the dust and ordure of the streets, visible only through a high gate. Brutus supposed Marius’ house had been larger, but it was difficult to be sure.

Tubruk hadn’t told him anything more than the address, but as he took in his surroundings Brutus saw it was a rich area, with a good part of the crowd made up of servants and slaves running errands and carrying goods for their masters. He had expected his mother to be impressed by the son who had become a centurion, but when he saw the house he realised she might think of him as just a common soldier and hesitated.

He thought of going back to the estate. He knew Renius and Tubruk would welcome him without judging his failure, but hadn’t he planned the meeting all the way from Greece? It would be ridiculous to turn back with the grand building in sight.

He took a deep breath and checked his armour one last time for imperfections. The leather laces were tied and there was not a blemish to be seen. It would do.

The crowd parted around him without jostling as he moved forward. Up close, the gate brought back memories of Marius’ house on the other side of the city. He had barely reached it before it was swung open before him, a slave bowing and waving him in.

‘This way, sir,’ the slave said, fastening the gate closed and walking before him down a narrow corridor. Brutus followed, his heart thumping. Was he expected?

He was taken into a room that was as lavish as any he had ever seen. Marble columns supported the ceiling and were gilded at the head and foot. White statues lined the walls and couches were gathered around a pool in the centre, where he caught a glimpse of heavy fish swimming almost motionlessly in the cool depths. His armour seemed clumsy and loud in the stillness and Brutus wished he had unlaced the greave to have a good scratch before coming in.

The slave vanished through a doorway and he was alone with only the soft rippling of the water to distract him. It was peaceful enough, and after a moment’s thought he removed his helmet and ran his hands through his damp hair.

He felt the air move as another door opened behind him and then stood abruptly in surprise as a beautiful woman walked towards him. She was painted like a doll and about his age, he judged. Her dress was of some fabric he had never seen and through it he could make out the outline of her breasts and nipples. Her skin was perfectly pale and the only ornament she wore was a heavy chain of gold that ran around her throat.

‘Do sit,’ she said. ‘You should be comfortable.’ As she spoke, she sat down on the couch he had leapt from and crossed her legs delicately, making the dress move and reveal enough to bring a flush to his cheeks. He sat down beside her, trying to find a scrap of the resolution he had summoned before.

‘Do I please you?’ she said softly.

‘You are beautiful, but I am looking for … a woman I used to know.’

She pouted and he wanted to kiss her with a terrible ache, to gather her into his arms and make her gasp. The image of it made his senses reel and he realised the air had filled with a perfume that made him dizzy. Her hand reached out and touched him just at the top of the greave, where inches of his bare brown leg were revealed. He shivered slightly and then came to his senses in shock. He rose to his feet in a sudden movement.

‘Are you expecting payment from me?’

The girl looked confused and younger than he had first thought.

‘I don’t do it for love,’ she said, a good deal of the softness in her voice suddenly missing.

‘Is Servilia here? She will want to see me.’

The girl slumped into the couch, her flirtatious manner gone in an instant.

‘She doesn’t see centurions, you know. You have to be a consul to have a go with her.’

Brutus stared at her in horror.

‘Servilia!’ he shouted, striding past the pool to the other side of the room. ‘Where are you?’

He heard a clatter of running feet approaching behind one door, so quickly opened another and slipped through, closing it on the laughter of the girl on the couch. He found himself in a long corridor with a gaping slave bearing a tray of drinks.

‘You can’t come through here!’ the slave shouted, but Brutus pushed him aside, sending the drinks flying. The slave bolted away, then two men blocked the corridor at the end. Both held clubs and together they filled the narrow walkway, their shoulders brushing the walls as they strode towards him.

‘Had a bit too much to drink, have you?’ one of them grated as they closed.

Brutus drew his gladius in one smooth movement. It glittered, the blade etched like the greave with swirling designs that caught the light. Both men paused, suddenly uncertain.

‘Servilia!’ Brutus yelled at the top of his voice, keeping the sword levelled at the men. They drew daggers from their belt sheaths and advanced slowly.

‘You cocky little bugger!’ one said, waving his blade. ‘Think you can come in here and do what you like? I never got the chance to kill an officer before, but I’m going to enjoy this.’

Brutus stiffened.

‘Stand to attention, you ignorant bastards,’ he snapped at them. ‘If I see a blade pointing my way, I will have you hanged.’

The two men hesitated as he glared at them, responding to the tone almost as a reflex. Brutus took a furious step towards them.

‘You tell me how men of your age have left their legion to guard a whorehouse. Deserters?’

‘No … sir. We served with Primigenia.’

Brutus held his face stiff to mask his surprise and delight.

‘Under Marius?’ he demanded.

The older of the pair nodded. By now, they were standing erect before him and Brutus looked them up and down as if it was an inspection.

‘If I had time, I would show you the letter he wrote to send me to my century in Greece. I marched with him to the steps of the senate house to demand his Triumph. Do not shame his memory.’

The two men blinked in discomfort as Brutus spoke. He let the silence stretch for a moment.

‘Now, I have business with a woman named Servilia. You can fetch her to me, or take me to her, but you will act like soldiers while I’m here, understood?’

As the two men nodded, a door slammed open at the end of the corridor and a female voice snapped out.

‘Stand away from him and give me a clear line of sight.’

The two guards didn’t move, their eyes locked on the young centurion. The tension showed in their shoulders, but they remained still.

Brutus spoke clearly to them. ‘Is this the one?’

The older man was sweating with strain. ‘She is the lady of the house,’ he confirmed.

‘Then do as she tells you, gentlemen.’

Without another word, the two guards stepped aside to reveal a woman sighting down the length of an arrow at Brutus.

‘Are you Servilia?’ he said, noting the slight shake of her arms as they began to tire.

‘The name you have been yelling like a street brat selling fish? I own this house.’

‘I am no danger to you,’ Brutus replied. ‘And I’d ease off on that bow before you shoot someone by accident.’

Servilia glanced at her guards and seemed to find comfort in their presence. With a release of breath, she unbent the bow, though Brutus saw she held it so it could be quickly drawn and fired if he rushed at her. She had known the threats of soldiers before, he guessed.

The woman Brutus saw there was nothing like the one from the room of statues. She was as tall and slim as he was, with long dark hair that hung loose about her shoulders. Her skin glowed with sun and health and her face was not beautiful, in fact was almost ugly, but the wide mouth and dark eyes had a knowing sensuality that he thought would ensnare many men. Her hands were wide and strong on the bow and gold bangles chimed on her wrists as she moved.

He took in every detail of her and felt pain as he recognised a touch of himself in the line of her perfect throat.

‘You don’t know me,’ he said quietly.

‘What did you say?’ she said, coming closer. ‘You disrupt my home and carry a blade into my rooms. I should have you whipped raw, and do not think your pretty rank will save you.’

She walked superbly, he thought. He had seen that sort of sexual confidence in a woman only once before, at the temple of Vesta, where the virgins moved with insolence in every stride, knowing it was death to any man who touched them. She had something of that and he felt himself becoming aroused, sickened by it, but not knowing how to feel like a son. Blood rushed into his face and neck and she smiled sensually, showing sharp white teeth.

‘I thought you would look older,’ he murmured and a look of irritation came into her eyes.

‘I look how I look. I still don’t know you.’

Brutus sheathed his sword. He wanted to say who he was and have shock break through her confidence, to see her eyes widen in amazement as she realised what an impressive young man he was.

Then it all seemed worthless. A long-suppressed memory came to him of overhearing Julius’ father talking about her and he sighed to have it confirmed. He was in a whorehouse, regardless of how rich it seemed. It didn’t really matter what she thought of him.

‘My name is Marcus. I am your son,’ he said, shrugging.

She froze as still as one of her statues. For a long moment, she held his gaze, then her eyes filled with tears and she dropped the bow with a clatter and ran back down the corridor, slamming the door behind her with a force that shook the walls.

The guard was looking at Brutus with his mouth open.

‘Is that true, sir?’ he said, gruffly. Brutus nodded and the man flushed with embarrassment. ‘We didn’t know.’

‘I didn’t tell you. Look, I’m going to leave now. Is anyone waiting to put a bolt in me as I go through the door?’

The guard relaxed slightly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Me and the lad are the only guards. She doesn’t need them, as a rule.’

Brutus turned to leave and the guard spoke again.

‘Sulla had Primigenia cut off the rolls in the Senate. We had to take what work we could find.’

Brutus turned back to him, wishing he had more to offer.

‘I know where you are now. I can find you again if I need you,’ he said. The guard stretched out his hand and Brutus took it in the legionary grip.

On his way out, Brutus passed through the room with the pool, thankful to find it empty. He paused only to collect his helmet and splash a little of the water on his face and neck. It didn’t help cool his confusion. He felt dazed by events and desperately wanted to find somewhere quiet where he could think through what had happened. The thought of struggling in the busy crowds was an irritation, but he would have to get back to the estate. He had no other home.

At the gate, a slave came running towards him. He almost drew his sword again at the footsteps, but the slave was another young girl, unarmed. She panted as she reached him and he noticed the rise and fall of her chest almost absently. Another beauty. It seemed the house was full of them.

‘The mistress told me you should return here tomorrow morning. She will see you then.’

Inexplicably, Brutus felt his spirits lift at the words.

‘I will be here,’ he said.

The pattern along the coast suggested the next settlement would be further than the soldiers could march in a day. They made better time when they crossed the tracks of heavy animals and could follow them until they turned away from the coast. Julius was unwilling to travel too far from the sound of crashing surf for fear of getting completely lost. When they turned off a trail, it was hard, sweaty work to cut their way through stalks and thornbushes as high as a man’s head and tipped with red thorns as if already marked in blood. Away from the sea, the air was thick with moisture and stinging insects plagued them all, rising unseen from the heavy leaves as the Romans disturbed them.

As they made camp for the evening, Julius wondered if the isolation of the Roman settlements was evidence of some far-sighted plan of the Senate to prevent these disparate villages banding together as the generations passed, but guessed it was just to give them room to grow. He supposed he could have pushed the men on through the dark, but the officers from Accipiter were far less comfortable in the hot African night than those who had grown up on that coast. Strange animal calls and screams woke them and had hands reaching for their swords, while the recruits slept on, oblivious.

Julius had given Pelitas the task of selecting guards for the watches, matching new men with those he trusted, in pairs. He was well aware that every mile along the narrow game tracks was a chance for the young villagers to desert. With weapons scarce, they went unarmed during the day, but swords had to be given to those on watch, and one or two of them eyed the old iron blades with something like avarice. Julius hoped it was a greed for the things of their fathers, not a desire to steal what they could and run.

Gathering food had presented similar problems. It was crucial that the Accipiter men did not become dependent on their charges to eat. It would be a subtle but significant shift in the ladder of authority Julius had set up. He knew that those who dispensed food were the masters, regardless of rank. That was a truth older than Rome herself.

He thanked the gods for Pelitas, who seemed able to trap small animals in those strange lands as once he had poached from the woodlands of Italy. Even the recruits had been impressed, watching him rejoin the group after only a few hours, bearing the limp bodies of four hares. With fifteen healthy men to feed, the evening hunt had become a vital skill and Pelitas had helped to prevent them splitting into two camps of those who could stalk and those who had to wait to be fed.

Julius looked over to his friend, busy carving slices of pork from the side of a young pig he had caught earlier in the day, breaking its leg with a swiftly thrown rock as it rushed from cover almost on top of them. The mother had not been seen, though squeals had come to them from the distant shrubbery. Julius wished she had come closer so that they could be looking forward to a feast instead of a few hot mouthfuls. There was no spare fat on any of the men from Accipiter and it would be a while before they lost their gaunt appearance completely. His mouth twitched as he supposed he had the same look. It had been such a long time since he had seen a mirror and he wondered if his face had changed for better or worse. Would Cornelia be pleased if she saw him, or shocked and upset by the grim look he imagined in his eye, mute evidence of the horrors of imprisonment?

He chuckled to himself at the flight of fancy. He would be the same, no matter how his face had changed.

Suetonius looked up sharply at the laugh, always seeing insult where there was none. It was hard to resist baiting the young man, but in this Julius had set rigid restrictions on himself. He sensed the spite came from fear that Julius would use his new authority to strike back for old injuries. He could not afford to enjoy even a moment of that luxury, in case it broke up the unit he was trying to make. He knew he had to become the sort of leader who was above small grievances, to appear to them as Marius had once appeared to him – cut from better stone. He nodded to Suetonius briefly then looked away at the rest.

Gaditicus and Prax supervised the camp, marking the perimeter with fallen branches, for want of anything better. Julius heard them go over the sentry rules with the men and smiled in a moment of nostalgia.

‘How many times do you challenge?’ Prax was saying to Ciro, as he had for all the men.

‘Once, sir. They call to approach the camp and I say, “Approach and be recognised.”’

‘And if they don’t call to approach the camp?’ Prax said cheerfully.

‘I wake someone else up, wait for them to get close and chop their heads off.’

‘Good lad. Neck and groin, remember. Anywhere else and they can still have enough strength to take you with them. Neck and groin is fastest.’

Ciro grinned, taking in every scrap of information Prax threw at him. Julius liked the big man’s heart. He wanted to be a legionary, to know what his father had once loved. Prax too had discovered that he enjoyed teaching all the things he had learned in his decades of marching and sailing for Rome. Given time, the new men would be able to deceive anyone. They would look like legionaries and speak with the same casual slang and expressions.

Julius frowned to himself as he tried to find a comfortable position to lie down. Whether they would stand when all around them had been cut down and the enemy brought certain death to them with screaming triumph … that they couldn’t know for sure until it happened. It didn’t help that the men of Accipiter weren’t even sure themselves where such wild courage came from. A man could spend a lifetime avoiding every conflict, then throw his life away to protect someone he loved. Julius closed his eyes. Perhaps that was the key, but not many men loved Rome. The city was too big, too impersonal. The legionaries Julius had known never thought of the republic of free voters, carved out on seven hills by a river. What they fought for was their general, their legion, even their century or their friends. A man standing next to his friends cannot run, for shame.

Suetonius yelped suddenly, leaping to his feet and beating at himself.

‘Help! There’s something on the ground here!’ he shouted.

Julius jumped to his feet and the other men closed in on the fire, swords drawn. A part of Julius noted with pleasure that Ciro stayed at his post.

In the light of the fire, a black line of enormous ants moved like oil over the ground, disappearing back into the shadows beyond the light. Suetonius was becoming frantic and began to tear off his clothes.

‘They’re all over me!’ he wailed.

Pelitas stepped forward to help him and as his foot stepped near the column, part of it slid towards him and he scrambled back with a shout, pulling at his legs with his bare fingers.

‘Gods, get them off!’ he cried.

The camp dissolved into chaos. Those who had been brought up on the coast were far calmer than the Accipiter officers. The ants bit as deeply as rats and when the soldiers found them, their bodies broke away to leave the jaws still attached and tearing into the skin in death spasm. The grip was too strong to be pulled away with fingers and Suetonius was soon covered in the dark heads, his hands bloody with tugging at them.

Julius called Ciro over and watched as he calmly checked the two Romans, breaking off the remaining bodies with his powerful hands.

‘They’re still in me! Can’t you get the heads out?’ Suetonius pleaded with him, shuddering in terror as he stood almost naked while the big man searched his skin for the last of them.

Ciro shrugged. ‘The jaws must be dug free with a knife, they can’t be prised apart. The tribes use them to close wounds, like stitches.’

‘What are they?’ Julius asked.

‘Soldiers of the forest. They guard the column on the march. My father used to say they were like the outriders Rome uses. If you stay clear, they will not attack you, but if you are in their path, they’ll make you jump like Suetonius.’

Pelitas turned a baleful eye on the column that still streamed through the camp.

‘We could burn them,’ he said.

Ciro shook his head sharply. ‘The line is endless. Better just to move away from them.’

‘Right, you heard him,’ Julius said. ‘Pack up and get ready to move a mile down the coast. Suetonius, I want you clothed and ready to go. You and Pelitas can work the jaws out of your skin when we’re settled again.’

‘It’s agony,’ Suetonius whimpered.

Ciro looked at him and Julius felt a pang of shame and irritation that the young officer was showing such a poor face to the recruits.

‘Move, or I’ll tie you down over the ants myself,’ he said.

The threat seemed to have an effect and before the moon moved far in the sky, a new camp was set up with Ciro and two others finishing their watch. They would all be tired from lack of sleep in the morning after the excitement.

Julius’ head throbbed slowly, seeming to match the rhythms of the droning insects all around them. Every time he drifted into sleep, he’d feel the sting of an insect settling onto his exposed skin. They left smears of his own blood as he caught and cracked them, but there were always more waiting for him to lie still. He made a pillow of his kit and used a rag to cover his face, longing for the distant skies of Rome. He could see Cornelia in his mind and he smiled. Exhaustion hit him moments later.

With itching red swellings on their skin and shadows under their eyes, they reached the next settlement before noon, less than a mile from the coast. Julius led the men into the square, taking in the sights and smells of a touch of civilisation. He was struck again by the absence of fortifications of any kind. The old soldiers who had taken their lands on this coast must have little fear of attack, he thought. The farms were small, but there must be trade between these isolated places and native villages further into the interior. He saw a number of black faces among the Romans who gathered to see his men. He wondered how long it would take for the Roman blood to mingle and be lost, so that distant generations would know nothing at all of their ancient fathers and their lives. The land would return to whatever state it had been in before they came and even the stories around campfires would falter and be forgotten. He wondered if they remembered the empire of Carthage here, when thousands of ships had explored the world from ports along this very coastline. It was a chilling thought and he put it aside for later reflection, knowing he had to focus his mind if he was to come away from this place with more of what he needed.

As they had been told to do, his men stood to attention in the double line, their expressions serious. With Julius’ sword, only eight more of the men were armed and only three had proper armour. Spots of blood marked Suetonius’ tunic and his fingers twitched to scratch the scabs the ants had left all over him. Most of the Accipiter officers were raw from the sun and insects and only the new recruits seemed unaffected.

Julius guessed they looked more like a troop of bandits or pirates than Roman legionaries, and saw more than a few of the people arm themselves surreptitiously, nervousness showing in all of them. A butcher paused in the process of cutting up what looked like a cousin of the young pig they had eaten the previous evening. He came out from behind his table with the cleaver resting on his arm, ready for a sudden attack. Julius let his gaze drift over the crowd, looking for whoever had the command. There was always someone, even in the wilderness.

After a tense wait, five men approached from the far end of the houses. Four were armed, three of them with long-handled wood axes and the last carrying a gladius that had snapped in some old battle, leaving him with little better than a heavy dagger.

The fifth man walked confidently to the newcomers. He had iron-grey hair and was as thin as a stick. Julius guessed he was pushing sixty, but he had the upright bearing of an old soldier and when he spoke, it was in the fluent Latin of the city.

‘My name is Parrakis. This is a peaceful village. What do you want here?’ he asked.

He addressed his question to Julius and seemed unafraid. In that moment, Julius changed his plan of browbeating the leader as he had the first. The village may have dealings with the pirates, but there was little evidence that they had profited from it. The houses and people were clean but unadorned.

‘We are soldiers of Rome, lately of the galley Accipiter. We were ransomed by a pirate named Celsus. We mean to gather a crew and find him. This is a Roman settlement. I expect your aid.’

Parrakis raised his eyebrows.

‘I am sorry, there is nothing here for you. I haven’t seen Italy for twenty years or more. There is no debt to be paid by the families here. If you have silver, you may buy food, but then you must go.’

Julius stepped a little closer, noting the way Parrakis’ companions tensed while ignoring them conspicuously.

‘These lands were given to legionaries, not to pirates. This coast is infested with them and you have a duty to help us.’

Parrakis laughed.

‘Duty? I left all that behind a lifetime ago. I tell you again, Rome has no call on us here. We live and trade in peace, and if pirates come we sell our goods to them and they leave. I think you are looking for an army? You won’t find it in this village. There’s nothing of the city here, amongst farmers.’

‘Not all the men with me are from the ship. Some are from villages to the west. I need men who can be trained to fight. Men who are not willing to spend their lives hiding in this village as you do.’

Parrakis flushed with anger.

‘Hiding? We work the land and struggle against pests and disease just to feed our families. The first ones came from legions that fought with honour in lands far from home and finally received the last gift of the Senate – peace. And you dare to say we are hiding? If I was younger I would take a sword to you myself, you insolent whoreson!’

Julius wished he had just grabbed the man at the start. He opened his mouth to speak quickly, knowing he was losing the initiative. One of the men with axes broke in first.

‘I’d like to go with them.’

The older man whirled on him, spittle collecting whitely at the corners of his mouth.

‘To go and get yourself killed? What are you thinking?’

The axe carrier pursed his lips against the anger coming from Parrakis.

‘You always said they were the best years of your life,’ he muttered. ‘When the old men get drunk, you always talk about those days like they were gold. All I have is the chance to break my back from dawn to dusk. What will I tell people when I am old and drunk? How good it was to slaughter a pig at festival? The time I broke a tooth on a piece of grit in the bread we make?’

Before the stupefied Parrakis could reply, Julius broke in. ‘All I ask is that you put it to the people of the village. I’d prefer volunteers, if there are more like this one.’

The anger sagged from Parrakis, making him look exhausted.

‘Young men,’ he said with a note of resignation. ‘Always looking for excitement. I suppose I was the same, once.’ He turned to the axe carrier. ‘Are you sure, lad?’

‘You’ve got Deni and Cam to work the farm, you don’t need me as well. I want to see Rome,’ the young man replied.

‘All right, son, but what I said was true. There’s no shame in making a life here.’

‘I know, Father. I’ll come back to you all.’

‘Of course you will, boy. This is your home.’

In all, eight from the village volunteered. Julius took six of them, turning down a pair who were little more than children, though one of them had rubbed soot onto his chin to make it look like the shadow of stubble. Two of the newcomers brought their own bows with them. It was beginning to feel like the army he needed to crew a ship and hunt the seas for Celsus. Julius tried to control his optimism as they marched out of the lush trees towards the coast for the first of the day’s drills. He tallied what they needed in his head. Gold to hire a ship, twenty more men and thirty swords, enough food to keep them alive until they reached a major port. It could be done.

One of the bowmen tripped and fell flat, bringing most of the column to a staggering halt. Julius sighed. About three years to train them would be useful, as well.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Servilia sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight. The tension was clear in every line of her, but Brutus felt he should not speak first. He had been awake for most of the night without resolving anything. Three times he had decided not to visit the house near the Quirinal hill, but each time had been an empty gesture of defiance. There had never really been a moment when he wouldn’t have come to her. He felt nothing like a son’s love, yet some nebulous ideal made him return, with all the fascination of picking scabs and watching himself bleed for her.

He had wanted her to come for him when he was a child, when he was alone and frightened of the world. When Marius’ wife had smothered him with her need for a son, he had recoiled from it, unnerved by emotions he didn’t really understand. Still the woman who faced him had a call on him that no one else had, not Tubruk, not even Julius.

In the unnatural stillness, he drank her in, looking for something he couldn’t name or even try to understand. She wore a pure white stola against sun-dark skin without any jewellery. As it had been the day before, her long hair was unbound, and when she moved it was with a lithe grace that made it a pleasure just to watch her walk and sit, much as he might admire the perfect gait of a leopard or deer. Her eyes were too large, he decided, and her chin too strong for classical beauty, yet he could not look away from her, noting the lines that marked her eyes and around her mouth. She seemed coiled and taut, ready to leap up and run from him as she had before. He waited and wondered how much of the tension showed in his own features.

‘Why did you come?’ she asked, breaking the awful silence. How many answers to that question had he thought through! Scene after scene had played in his imagination in the night: scorning her, offending her, embracing her. None of it had prepared him for the actual moment.

‘When I was a child, I used to imagine what you were like. I wanted to see you, even once, just to know who you were. I wanted to know what you looked like.’ He heard his voice tremble and a spasm of anger rushed through him. He would not shame himself. He would not speak like a child to this woman, this whore.

‘I have always thought of you, Marcus,’ she said. ‘I started many letters to you, but I never sent them.’

Brutus took a grip on his thoughts. He had never heard his name from her mouth in all his years of being alive. It made him angry and anger allowed him to speak calmly to her.

‘What was my father like?’ he asked.

She looked away at the walls of the simple room where they sat.

‘He was a good man, very strong and as tall as you are. I only knew him for two years before he died, but I remember he was very pleased to have a son. He named you and took you to the temple of Mars to have you blessed by the priests. He became ill that year and was taken before winter. The doctors couldn’t treat him, but there was very little pain at the end.’

Brutus felt his eyes fill and brushed at them angrily as she continued.

‘I … couldn’t bring you up. I was a child myself and I wasn’t ready or able to be a mother. I left you with his friend and ran away.’ Her voice broke completely on the last phrase and she opened her clenched hand to reveal a crumpled cloth that she used to wipe her eyes.

Brutus watched her with a peculiar sense of detachment, as if nothing she did or said could touch him. The anger had drained away and he felt almost light-headed. There was a question he had to ask, but it came easily now.

‘Why didn’t you come for me while I was growing up?’

She didn’t answer for a long time, using the cloth to touch away the tears until her breathing had steadied and she was able to look at him again. She held her head with a fragile dignity.

‘I did not want you to be ashamed.’

His unnatural calm gave way to the emotions sweeping him, revealed as straw in a storm.

‘I might have been,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I heard someone talking about you a long time ago and I tried to pretend it was a mistake, to put you out of my mind. It is true then, that you …’

He couldn’t say the words to her, but she straightened still further, her eyes glittering.

‘That I am a whore? Perhaps. I was once, though when the men you know are powerful enough they call you a courtesan, or even a companion.’ She grimaced, her mouth twisting.

‘I thought you might be ashamed of me and I couldn’t face seeing that in my son. Do not expect me to feel that shame. I lost that too long ago to even remember. I would live my life differently if I could go back, but I don’t know anyone who hasn’t the same useless, idle dream. I will not live my life now with my head bowed in guilt every day! Even for you.’

‘Why did you ask me to come back today?’ Brutus asked, suddenly incredulous that he had answered the call so easily.

‘I wanted to see if your father would still be proud of you. I wanted to see if I was proud of you! I have done many things in my life that I regret, but having you has comforted me whenever it was all too much to bear.’

‘You left me! Don’t say it comforted you, you never even came to see me. I didn’t even know where you were in the city! You might have gone anywhere.’

Servilia held up four rigid fingers to him, folding her thumb under them.

‘Four times I have moved house since you were a baby. Each time I sent a message to Tubruk to say where I was. He has always known how to contact me.’

‘I didn’t know,’ he replied, struck by her intensity.

‘You never asked him,’ she said, dropping her hand back into her lap.

The silence began again as if it had never been broken, suddenly swelling into the spaces between them. Brutus found himself looking for something he could say that would finally confound her, allowing him to walk out and away with dignity. Cutting remarks came and went in his thoughts until he finally saw that he was being a fool. Did he despise her, feel shame about her life or her past? He looked inside for an answer and found one. He felt not a scrap of shame. He knew in part it was because he had led men as an officer in a legion that lifted him. If he had come to her when he had done nothing, he might hate her, but he had stood and measured his worth in the eyes of enemies and friends and was not afraid to measure it in hers.

‘I … don’t care what you have done,’ he said slowly. ‘You are my mother.’

She burst into a guffaw of laughter, rocking back into the couch. Once again he was lost in front of this strange woman, who was able to shatter every moment of calm he could summon.

‘How nobly you say it!’ she said through laughter. ‘Such a stern face to give me absolution. Did you not understand me at all? I know more about the way this city runs than any senator in his little robe and trim beard. I have more wealth than I could ever spend and more power in my word than you can imagine. You forgive me for my wicked life? My son, it breaks my heart to see how young you are. It reminds me of how young I was, once.’

Her face became still and the laughter died from her lips.

‘If I wanted you to forgive me anything, it would be for the years I could have had with you. Who I am, I would not change for anything and the paths I have travelled to reach this day, this hour! They cannot be forgiven. You don’t have the right, or the privilege to do it.’

‘Then what do you want with me? I can’t just shrug and tell you to forget that I grew to manhood without you. I needed you once, but those I trust and love are the ones who were with me then. You were not there.’

He stood and looked down at her, confused and hurt. She stood with him.

‘Will you leave me now?’ she said quietly.

Brutus threw up his hands in despair.

‘Do you want me to come back?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ she said, reaching out to touch him on the arm.

The contact made the room waver and blur.

‘Good. Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she confirmed, smiling through tears.

Lucius Auriga hawked and spat irritably. There was something about the air of central Greece that always dried his throat, especially when the sun was warm. He would much rather have been enjoying an afternoon sleep in the shade of his house than be summoned to this vast plain, where the constant breeze wore at his temper. It wasn’t fitting for a Roman to be at the call of Greeks, no matter what their standing, he thought. It would no doubt be another complaint for him to deal with, as if he had nothing more to fill the days than to listen to their griping. He tugged his toga into position as they approached him. He must not seem discomfited by their choice of meeting place. After all, they were forbidden to ride, whereas he could simply mount up and be back inside the walls of Pharsalus before dark.

The man who had sent the summons walked unhurriedly towards him with two companions. His enormous shoulders and arms hung loosely, swinging slightly with his long stride. He looked as if he was fresh down from the mountains that broke the horizon all around them and for a moment Lucius shivered delicately. At least they had not come armed, he thought. Mithridates was not usually a man who remembered to obey the laws of Rome. Lucius studied him as he walked over the scrub grass and wild flowers. He knew the locals still called him the king, and at least he walked like one, with his head unbowed, despite his disastrous rebellion.

All history now, Lucius thought, and before my time, like everything else in this uncomfortable country. Even if the chance came to take the post of governor, he knew he would refuse it. They were such an unpleasant people. It baffled him how such coarse and vulgar farmers could have produced mathematics of such extraordinary complexity. If he hadn’t studied Euclid and Aristotle, he would never have accepted the posting out of Italy, but the thought of meeting such minds had been intoxicating to the young commander. He sighed to himself. Not a Euclid to be found in a city of them.

Mithridates didn’t smile as he halted before the small group of eight soldiers Lucius had brought with him. Turning on the spot, he gazed into the distance all around, then took a deep breath of the air, filling his powerful chest and closing his eyes.

‘Well? I have come here as you requested,’ Lucius said loudly, forgetting for a moment that he must appear calm and unruffled.

Mithridates opened his eyes.

‘Do you know what this place is?’ he said.

Lucius shook his head.

‘This is the very spot where I was defeated by your people three years ago.’ He raised his thick arm with the fingers outstretched, pointing.

‘That hill, can you see that? They had archers in the woods there, pouring down fire on us. We got to them in the end, though they had trapped and spiked the ground. A lot of men were lost in removing them, but we couldn’t leave them at our back, you see? It destroys morale.’

‘Yes, but …’ Lucius began.

Mithridates raised his hand with the palm flat.

‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Let me tell the story.’ The man stood a foot higher than Lucius and seemed to carry a strength that forbade interruption. His bare arm reached out again, the corded muscles moving under the skin with his fingers.

‘Where the land creases there, I had sling men, the best I have ever fought with. They brought down many of your people and then took up swords to join their brothers at the end. The main lines were behind you and my men were astonished at the skill they saw. Such formations! I counted seven different calls in the battle, though there could have been more. The square, of course, and horns to encircle. The wedge, oh it was something to see them form a wedge in the midst of my men. They used the shields so well. I think the men of Sparta would have held them, but on that day we were destroyed.’

‘I don’t think …’ Lucius tried again.

‘Over there was my tent, not forty paces from where we stand today. The ground was mud then. Even now, these flowers and grasses look strange to me when I imagine that battle. My wife and daughters were there.’

Mithridates the king smiled, his eyes distant. ‘I shouldn’t have let them come, but I never thought the Romans would cover so much distance in a single night. As soon as we realised they were in the area, they were on us, attacking. My wife was killed at the end, and my daughters dragged out and murdered. My youngest girl was only fourteen and she had her back broken first before they cut her throat.’

Lucius felt the blood draining from his face as he listened. There was such an intensity in the man’s slow movements that he almost took a step back into the arms of his soldiers. He had heard the story when he first arrived, but there was something chilling in listening to the calm voice describe such horrors.

Mithridates looked at Lucius and his finger pointed at the younger man’s chest.

‘Where you are standing is where I knelt, tied and battered, surrounded by a ring of legionaries. I thought they would kill me then, and I invited it. I had heard my family screaming, you see, and I wanted to go with them. It started to rain, I remember, and the ground was sodden. Some of my people say rain is the tears of gods, have you ever heard that? I understood it then.’

‘Please …’ Lucius whispered, just wanting to ride away and not hear any more.

Mithridates ignored him or didn’t hear him through the memories. At times it seemed as if he had forgotten the Romans were there at all.

‘I saw Sulla arrive and dismount. He wore the whitest toga I have ever seen. You have to remember that everything else was covered in blood and mud and filth. He looked … untouched by it all and that …’ He shook his head slightly. ‘That was the strangest thing to see. He told me the men who had killed my wife and daughters had been executed, did you know that? He didn’t have to hang them, and I didn’t understand what he could want from me until he offered me a choice. Live and not raise arms again while he lived, or die at that moment, by his sword. I think if he hadn’t said that about the men who killed my girls, I would have chosen death, but I took the chance he gave me. It was the right choice. I was able to see my sons again at least.’

Mithridates turned to the two men with him and smiled at them. ‘Hoca here is the eldest, but Thassus looks more like his mother, I think.’

Lucius did take a step back as he realised what Mithridates was saying.

‘No! Sulla didn’t … you can’t!’ He broke off as men suddenly appeared from every direction. They came over the crest of every hill and walked from the woods where Mithridates had said the Roman archers had hidden. Horses thundered up to halt near the legionaries, who had all drawn their swords, waiting grimly and without panic for the end. Dozens of arrows pointed at them, waiting for the word.

Lucius grabbed Mithridates’ arm in fear.

‘That is past!’ he shouted hopelessly. ‘Please!’

Mithridates took him by the shoulders and held him fast. His face was twisted in rage.

‘I gave my word not to take arms while Cornelius Sulla lived. Now my wife and daughters are safely in the ground and I will have the blood owed to me!’

With one hand, he reached behind him and withdrew a dagger from where it had been concealed. He pressed it against Lucius’ throat and pulled the edge across quickly.

The legionaries died in seconds, impaled on shafts and unable even to return a blow.

The youngest of his sons nudged Lucius’ body with his foot, his face thoughtful.

‘That was a dangerous game, my king,’ Thassus said to his father.

Mithridates shrugged, wiping blood from his face.

‘There are spirits we love in this place. It was all I could do for them. Now give me a horse and a sword. Our people have been asleep for too long.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Julius sat in the shadows of the drinking house and curled his fingers around the first cup of wine he had seen in nearly a year. The street noise of the Roman port drifted in from outside and the murmur of conversation all around brought a feeling of home to him, especially if he closed his eyes.

Pelitas tipped his wine down his throat without ceremony, holding it high until he was sure every drop had come out before putting the vessel back on the table. He sighed appreciatively.

‘I think if I was here on my own, I would sell my armour and drink till I went blind,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’

The others nodded, sipping or gulping at their own cups, bought with the last coins they had between them.

The rest of their men, new and old, were miles away up the coast, well hidden from casual patrols. Only the five of them had come into the port to decide where to go from there. It had been strange to be met and challenged by legionaries as they approached the first warehouses, but for most of the five officers the main feeling had been relief. The months along the coast were made into a distant adventure by the first clear order in Latin to identify themselves. At least the story of being taken by pirates had not caused more than a raised eyebrow as the soldiers took in the clean armour and serviceable weapons they wore. For that alone, their pride made the officers thankful. It would have been unpleasant to arrive as beggars.

‘How long before the quaestor gets here?’ Prax asked, looking at Gaditicus. As centurion, it was he who had spoken to the Roman officer in charge of the port, agreeing to meet later at the inn near the docks. It was a small point of tension that they all felt. The other officers had become so used to looking to Julius for the way forward that the reminder of their ranks sat awkwardly with them. Suetonius could barely keep himself from smiling.

Gaditicus sipped at his wine, grimacing slightly as it stung a sore on his gums.

‘He said by the fourth hour, so we have a little time yet. He will have to send a report back to Rome that we are alive and well. No doubt he will offer us a berth on a merchant ship going that way.’

He seemed lost in thought like the others, barely able to accept they had come back to civilisation. Someone in the crowd brushed against him as he passed behind and Gaditicus stiffened. They had been away from the bustle of towns and ports for a long time.

‘You can take a ship home if you want,’ Julius said quietly, looking around the table at the five men. ‘I’m going on, though.’

For a moment, no one responded, then Prax spoke.

‘Including us, we have thirty-eight. How many of those have the skill and discipline to fight, Julius?’

‘With the Accipiter officers, I would say no more than twenty. The rest are what we found, farmers with swords.’

‘Then it can’t be done,’ Pelitas said, gloomily. ‘Even if we could find Celsus, and the gods know that won’t be easy, we don’t have enough men to be sure of beating him.’

Julius snorted angrily. ‘After everything we have achieved, do you think I’m dropping it all now? Those are our men out in the woods, waiting for the word to start coming in. Do you think we should just leave them and take ship for Rome? No honour in that, Peli, none at all. You go home if you want. I’m not holding any of you here, but if you do go, I will share your ransoms out amongst them when we find and beat Celsus.’

Pelitas chuckled at the angry words from the younger man.

‘You think we can do it? Honestly? You got us this far and I’d never have believed that if I hadn’t been there to see you handle those settlements. If you say we go on, then I’ll see it through.’

‘It can be done,’ Julius said, firmly. ‘We need to get on board a merchant ship and take it out to sea. Away from the coast, we’ll try to make ourselves as tempting as possible. We know the pirates work this coast; they’ll take our bait. At least our men look like Roman legionaries, even if some are poor quality. We can put the good fighters in the front and bluff it through.’

‘I’m staying to the end,’ Prax said. ‘I need my ransom back to enjoy my retirement.’

Gaditicus nodded in silence. Julius looked around the table, his gaze fastening on the one he had known the longest.

‘What about you, Suetonius? Are you for home?’

Suetonius drummed his fingers on the wooden table. He had known this moment would come right from the start and had vowed then that he would take the first chance to go back. Of all of them, his family could easily stand the loss of his ransom, but the thought of returning in failure was a bitter draught. Rome had many young officers and the future did not look as bright as it had when he first stood on the decks of Accipiter. His father had expected quick promotion for his son and when that hadn’t happened, the senator had simply stopped asking. Now to have him back in the family estate with nothing but defeat in his record would be hard on all of them.

An idea formed in his mind as they watched him and he struggled to keep any sign of it from showing. There was a way for him to return to the city in triumph if he was careful. Deliciously, it would involve the destruction of Julius, as well.

‘Suetonius?’ Julius repeated.

‘I’m in,’ he replied firmly, already planning.

‘Excellent. We need you, Tonius,’ Julius replied.

Suetonius kept his face still, though he seethed inwardly. None of them thought much of him, he knew, but his father would approve of what he was about to do, for the good of Rome.

‘To business, gentlemen,’ Julius said, lowering his voice so that it wouldn’t carry outside their small group. ‘One of us will have to go back to the men and tell them to come into the port. The soldiers here seemed to have no problem with the ransom story, so we will have them use that if they are questioned. We must be careful there. It will do us no good if a few are held for the quaestor to examine in the morning. I want to be at sea on the first dawn tide, with all of them on board.’

‘Can’t we bring them in at night?’ Pelitas asked.

‘We can get past the few legionary guards, but a large group of soldiers boarding a merchant ship will be reported to the pirates. I’ve no doubt they have spies in this place, reporting which ships are carrying gold and cargoes they want. It’s what I would do and Accipiter put in here before we were attacked. They have the wealth to pay a few bribes, after all. The problem is getting nearly forty men aboard without making the trap obvious. We’ll be better off with small groups of two or three at a time, over the whole night.’

‘If you’re right, they will have watchers at the docks who will see us,’ Gaditicus said quietly.

Julius thought for a moment. ‘Then we will split the men. Find out who can swim and have them reach the ship in the water, where we can bring them up on ropes. There is only a crescent moon tonight, so we should be able to do that without being spotted. The armour and swords will have to be carried on board like another package of goods to be sold. It has to be you, Pelitas. You swim like a fish. Can you bring them around the spit as soon as it gets dark?’

‘It’s a long swim, but without armour, yes. These boys grew up on the coast, after all. They should be able to make it,’ Pelitas replied.

Julius reached into his belt pouch and withdrew two silver coins.

‘I thought you said the money was gone!’ Prax said cheerfully. ‘I’ll have another cup of the same, if you don’t mind.’

Julius shook his head, unsmiling.

‘Perhaps later. I kept these so a couple of you can come in here tonight and buy a few drinks. I want someone to play the part of a guard on his last night before sailing a valuable cargo – something that will be reported back to the pirates by their contacts. Whoever it is must not get drunk, or killed, so I need someone solid and dependable, perhaps with a few more years under his belt than most of us.’

‘All right, you don’t have to beat the point to death,’ Prax said, smiling. ‘I could enjoy a job like that. You up for it, Gadi?’

The centurion shook his head slightly, looking at Julius.

‘Not this one. I want to stay with the men in case something goes wrong.’

‘I’ll join you,’ Suetonius said suddenly.

Prax raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.

‘If there’s no one else,’ Suetonius continued, trying not to seem too eager. It would give him the chance he needed away from the others. Prax nodded reluctantly at him and Suetonius sat back, relaxing.

‘I saw you watching the ships as we came in,’ Gaditicus prompted Julius. The younger man leaned closer and they all brought their heads forward to hear his words.

‘There was one loading supplies,’ he muttered. ‘The Ventulus. Trireme and sail. A small crew we can take over without too much trouble.’

‘You realise,’ Suetonius said, ‘that if we steal a ship from a Roman port, that makes us pirates as well?’ Even as he spoke, he realised it was a mistake to warn them, but part of him couldn’t resist the little barb. They would remember later and know who had saved them from Julius’ wild schemes. The others froze slightly as they considered the words and Julius glared at the young watch officer.

‘Only if we’re seen. If it matters to you, then pay the captain for his losses out of your share,’ he said.

Gaditicus frowned. ‘No. He’s right. I want it understood that none of the crew will be killed and the cargo will be left untouched. If we are successful, the captain must be paid for his time and lost profits.’

He locked eyes with Julius and the rest of them could feel the tension between the two men making the silence uncomfortable. The issue of who commanded them had been ignored for so long that they had almost forgotten it, but it was still there and Gaditicus had ruled Accipiter with discipline once. Suetonius fought not to grin at the silent struggle he’d brought about.

At last, Julius nodded and the tension vanished.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘But one way or another, I want control of that ship by nightfall.’

A new voice spoke suddenly over them, making them all lean back.

‘Who is the commanding officer here?’ it said, unconsciously echoing much of their private thoughts. Julius examined his wine cup.

‘I was the captain of Accipiter,’ Gaditicus said in reply, standing up to greet the newcomer. The man was a reminder of Rome even more than the legionaries that guarded the port. He wore a draped toga over bare skin, held in place by a silver brooch with an eagle etched in the metal. His hair was cut short and the hand he offered Gaditicus had a heavy gold ring on the fourth finger.

‘You look healthier than most of the ransom men we get in this port. My name is Pravitas, the quaestor here. I see your cups are empty and I’m dry myself.’

He signalled to a serving slave, who came quickly and filled their cups again with a better wine than the first. Obviously, the quaestor was well known in the port town. Julius noticed he had arrived without guards, another sign that the laws of Rome held firm there. He did have a long dagger in his belt, however, which he shifted slightly to allow him to sit down on the bench with them.

When the wine was poured, the quaestor held up his cup for a toast. ‘To Rome, gentlemen.’

They chorused the words and sipped the wine, unwilling to waste such quality in gulps without knowing if the man would order another.

‘How long were you held?’ he said as the cups were brought down again.

‘Six months, we think, though it was hard to keep track of the time. What month is it now?’ Gaditicus replied.

Pravitas raised his eyebrows.

‘A long time to be held prisoner. It is just after the kalends of October.’

Gaditicus worked it out quickly. ‘We were held for six, but it has taken three months to reach this port.’

‘You must have been dropped far away,’ Pravitas said with interest.

Gaditicus realised that he didn’t want to explain how long they had spent training new soldiers to fight and respond to orders, so he just shrugged.

‘Some of us were injured. We had to take it slowly.’

‘The swords and armour, though? I am surprised the pirates didn’t take those,’ Pravitas pressed.

Gaditicus thought of lying, but the quaestor could easily have had the five men locked up if he thought they were hiding something. He appeared to be suspicious already, despite his light tone, so Gaditicus tried to stay close to the truth.

‘We picked these up at a Roman settlement, from an old armoury. They made us work for them, but we needed to regain fitness, so it worked out well for us.’

‘Very generous. The swords alone must be worth a fair amount. Which settlement was it, do you know?’

‘Look, sir. The old soldier who let us have them was helping Romans who had fallen on hard times. You should leave it at that.’

Pravitas leaned back, his face still curious. It was a difficult situation and the five officers watched him closely. Although in theory all Roman citizens in the province were under his authority, he had limited power over soldiers. If he chose to have them arrested without evidence, the local legion commander would be furious.

‘Very well. I will leave you your mystery. Perhaps I should make you prove your right to equipment worth a year’s pay, but I imagine you will not be staying here long enough to force me to investigate thoroughly?’

‘We intend to take the first ship out,’ Gaditicus replied.

‘Make sure you do, gentlemen. Do you need me to arrange passage, or did this “old soldier” also give you money for the trip?’

‘We will make our own arrangements, thank you,’ Gaditicus said tensely, barely managing to hide his irritation any longer.

‘Then I will take your names for the report to Rome and leave you in peace,’ Pravitas replied. They gave them quickly and he repeated each one to fix it in his memory. He stood and inclined his head stiffly.

‘Good luck on the return journey, gentlemen,’ he said, before making his way out through the busy inn onto the streets.

‘Suspicious sod,’ Pelitas muttered when he had gone. The others murmured agreement.

‘We have to move quickly now,’ Julius said, ‘I don’t doubt the quaestor will have someone watching us until we are out of his province. It will be a little harder to make the plan work.’

‘Well, it was too easy before,’ Prax said. ‘We needed another challenge.’

Julius smiled with the others. No matter what happened, they had developed a friendship that would never have come about if they were still on Accipiter.

‘Go quickly back to the men, Peli. If you are followed, I expect you to lose them well before you get close. If you can’t get clear, then have the men catch and tie the watchers until the night is over. It won’t matter if they are missed tomorrow when we’re gone.’

Pelitas stood and drained his cup, belching softly. He left without another word and Julius looked around at the three men who were left.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, mimicking the quaestor’s tone, ‘we have to get ourselves a merchant ship.’

Captain Durus of the Ventulus was a contented man. He had a hold full of skins and exotic wood that would bring a small fortune back in Italy. The pride of the cargo was ten ivory tusks, each as long as a man. He had never seen the animals that died to provide them, but had bought them from a trader in the port, who in turn had bartered with hunters deeper inland. Durus knew he would triple his price on them at least and congratulated himself silently on the round of strong bargaining. Nearly two hours it had taken, and he had been forced to accept some worthless bolts of cloth as part of the sale. Even they would fetch a few bronze coins for slave clothing, he supposed, so he couldn’t complain. It had been a successful trip and, even with the expenses of port fees and provisions for the crew and slaves, he should clear enough to buy his wife the pearls she wanted and perhaps a new horse for himself. A good stallion that would breed with his wife’s mare if he could get one for the right price.

His thoughts were interrupted by four soldiers walking along the dock to where Ventulus was tied up. He assumed they were from the meddling quaestor who controlled the port and sighed to himself, careful to smile as they drew close to him.

‘Permission to come aboard?’ one said.

‘Of course,’ Durus replied, wondering if the man would try to squeeze yet another tax or bribe out of him. It really was too much.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked as they stepped onto the deck. He frowned as two of them ignored him, their eyes taking in every detail of the small merchant ship. Most of the men were enjoying shore leave, of course, so it was practically deserted, with only two others in sight on the deck where they stood.

‘We need to ask you a few questions, in private,’ one of the soldiers said.

Durus struggled to look calm. Did they think he was a smuggler, a pirate? He tried not to look guilty, but there was always something to be found. There were so many regulations these days that it was impossible to remember them all.

‘I have an excellent wine in my cabin. We can talk there,’ he said, forcing a smile.

They followed him without a word.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Wait! Something’s wrong,’ Suetonius hissed, holding Prax back as he was about to leave the shadow of the dock buildings.

The optio shook off the restraining fingers in irritation.

‘I can’t hear anything. We need to get to Julius. Come on.’

Suetonius shook his head, his gaze sweeping the empty dock. Where was the quaestor? Surely the man wouldn’t have ignored the warning he’d sent? It had been so easy to whisper a message to a legionary as the man emptied his bladder in the dark outhouse of the inn. Before the soldier could finish and turn, Suetonius had vanished back into the press and lights of the crowd inside, his heart hammering with excitement. Had the man been too drunk to pass it on? As Suetonius recalled, he had been swaying slightly as he emptied the night’s wine into the stone gutters.

The young Roman clenched his fists in frustration. The quaestor would reward a man who foiled piracy in the heart of a Roman port. Julius would be destroyed and Suetonius could return to Rome with his dignity intact, the humiliations he’d suffered behind him at last. Unless the drunken legionary had forgotten the message he’d whispered, or passed out on his way back to the barracks. He realised he should have made sure, but there had only been moments to pick his man before slipping away.

‘What is it?’ Prax said. ‘The ship is there. I’m going to run for it.’

‘It’s a trap,’ Suetonius said quickly, stalling desperately. ‘There’s something wrong, I can feel it.’ He dared not say more in case Prax began to suspect. His senses strained for some sign of the port soldiers, but he could hear nothing.

Prax squinted at the young man in the shadows.

‘Well, I can’t sense anything. If you’ve lost your nerve, then stay here, but I’m going.’

The burly optio broke into a run towards the dim bulk of the merchant ship, skirting the flickering pools of light as he went. Suetonius watched him go, frowning. Better to be on his own, but if the quaestor didn’t come, he would have to follow. He couldn’t let them leave him behind to beg for a passage.

Tense and nervous as he gripped the railing, Julius peered out into the docks from the side of Ventulus. Where were Prax and Tonius? His eyes swept the open space between the ships and the warehouses, looking for his men, willing them to come quickly. The crescent moon had risen steadily and he was sure dawn could not be more than a few hours away.

He heard a slithering thump behind him and risked a glance to see another of the swimmers reach the shadows of the deck, lying on his back and blowing with exhaustion. Without lights to guide them, they had swum out into the deep waters along the spit of rock that formed the natural harbour, denied even a handhold on it by spined urchins and razor surfaces that skinned them at the slightest contact. Many had arrived with blood on their legs, the terror of sharks showing in their eyes. It had been hard on them, but Julius worried more for the others who couldn’t swim, the giant Ciro among them. They had to make the run into port in darkness without alerting the quaestor’s guards and they were late.

There was only a glimmer of light from the cloud-covered moon, but there were torches at points all along the docks, flickers of dark yellow that moved and jumped in the breeze blowing away from the coast. The wind had changed an hour before and all Julius wanted to do was have the anchors pulled up, cut the holding ropes and be gone. The captain was tied and bound in his cabin, his crew accepting the presence of a few extra soldiers without comment or alarm. It had gone almost better than Julius had hoped, but as he watched the torches snap and flutter, he felt a sudden fear that the quaestor had captured his men and it was all for nothing.

He wished he hadn’t sent Prax and Suetonius to the inn. A fight could have started, or they could have raised suspicion with a clumsily told tale of riches on board. It had been too much of a risk, he admitted to himself, his knuckles white against the rail of Ventulus.

There! He recognised the figure of his old optio rushing towards the ship. Julius froze as he searched for Suetonius, but there was no sign. What had gone wrong?

Prax clambered on board, panting.

‘Where is he?’ Julius snapped at him.

‘Behind me. I think his nerve went. We’re better off leaving him,’ Prax replied, looking back to the dark port town.

In the distance, Julius heard a shout and leaned forward in that direction. Another came, but in the breeze he couldn’t be sure what it was. He turned his head left and right, and then he heard the rhythmic beat of legionaries on the move, their iron-shod sandals making a noise on the cobbles that he would recognise anywhere. Ten, maybe twenty, men. Definitely not his. With Suetonius, there were only six others who were coming to the docks on foot. His mouth went dry. It had to be the quaestor, on his way to arrest them all. He knew the man had been suspicious.

Julius turned and looked at the narrow plank that shifted with Ventulus, anchoring the merchant ship to the dockside. Only a few damp sandbags held it steady. He could have the thing up in a second and order the ship underway. Gaditicus was guarding the captain. Pelitas would be with the slave master, ready for the signal to go. He felt terribly alone on the deserted deck and wished they were there with him.

Julius shook his head in irritation. It was his decision and he would wait until he could see who was coming. He squinted at the dock buildings, praying his men would show, but there was nothing and he heard the unseen legionaries break into double time, the crash of their steps coming louder and louder.

When they came out of the dark alleys onto the torch-lit docks, Julius’ heart sank. The quaestor was there himself and he led what looked like twenty of his men, armed and moving fast, straight for the line of dark ships and Ventulus.

Suetonius sagged in relief as he heard the clatter of soldiers. He would wait until they had captured the others and slip away at dawn. The quaestor would be pleased then to speak to the man who had given the warning. Suetonius smiled to himself. It would be tempting to stay for Julius’ execution, just to catch his eye in the crowd. For a moment, Suetonius felt a pang of regret at the others, but shrugged unconsciously. They were pirates and not one of them had prevented Julius destroying discipline with his obscene flattery and promises. Gaditicus wasn’t fit to command and Pelitas … he would enjoy seeing Pelitas brought down.

‘Suetonius!’ a voice shouted behind him, almost stopping his heart in shock. ‘Run, the quaestor’s brought soldiers – go!’

Suetonius panicked as he felt his shoulder grabbed by the rush of men out of the shadows. A terrified glance showed him that the giant Ciro was bearing him along without slowing. Yanked out into the open, he could only gape as he saw the grim soldiers of the port streaming towards them, swords bared. He swallowed, staggering onwards. There was no time to think. He could be cut down before they knew he had helped them. Swallowing his fear in fury, he ran with the others. There was no chance now for the private meeting between gentlemen he had imagined with the quaestor. He had to get through the chaos alive first. He clenched his jaw as he sprinted, passing Ciro in a few paces.

Julius almost cried out in relief as he saw the last of them running towards the ship. The quaestor’s men spotted them immediately and bellowed out orders to halt.

‘Come on!’ Julius shouted to his men. He flicked his head from one side of the dock to the other, groaning as he saw how close the quaestor’s legionaries were to his own men. There wasn’t enough time. Even if Ciro and the others made it onto the deck, they would be followed straight on by the first of the port soldiers.

Julius’ heart hammered, making him feel light-headed as he watched both groups make for him. He held still, forcing himself not to move too soon, then turned and yelled over the decks.

‘Now! Go, Peli! Now!’

Below him, deep in the body of the ship, he heard Pelitas answer with orders of his own. The Ventulus shuddered as the oars were shoved out of their resting blocks and pressed against the stones of the dock, starting the ship moving over the dark water. Julius sawed furiously at the rope that held them, cutting a gash in the rail as it parted. More shouts sounded below as the crew came awake with the movement, no doubt thinking they had come adrift. Julius knew they had expected another few days in the port and he had only seconds before the deck would be filled with them. He ignored that problem as the plank to the docks shifted with the ship, the sandbags falling away.

Had he called too soon? The soldiers were less than fifty feet away from his men as the first ones leapt on, turning at bay then and unsheathing their swords. Suetonius moved like a ferret, his feet barely touching the plank as he threw himself onto the ship.

‘Come on, Ciro. We’re moving!’ Julius shouted, waving his sword over his head. The big man was too slow. Without thinking, Julius started to move towards the plank, ready to jump onto the docks with him.

Drawing to a halt, Ciro unsheathed his gladius to meet the charge of the port soldiers.

‘Ciro! There are too many!’ Julius bawled at him, caught between jumping down to certain capture and his desire to help the last of his men. The oars heaved out again and the plank fell.

Ciro took slow steps to the edge of the dock, not daring to turn his back. The quaestor’s men rushed at him and Ciro lashed out with his fist at the first, a crunching blow that knocked the soldier over the edge and into the water. The legionary’s armour dragged him down in a stream of silver bubbles. Ciro spun round then and gasped as a sword took him in the back. His arms flailed, but he roared and launched himself at the departing ship, catching the rail with one hand. Julius grabbed his wrist, looking down into dark eyes mad with pain and energy.

‘Help me get him up!’ Julius called as he struggled to keep his grip on the sweating skin. It took two more of them to heave Ciro up over the rail and he gasped as his back tore and bled, leaving a dark smear on the wood where he lay.

‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ Ciro said between rasping breaths.

Julius knelt by him and took his hand. ‘You had no choice.’

Ciro’s eyes were closed with the pain and he didn’t see Julius’ grim expression as he stood up and strode back to the rail. It began to swing away from the dock as the slaves found room to drop their oars into the water.

Not twenty feet away, the legionaries glared back, the hatred clear in their expressions. Despite being so close, it was a slowly widening gulf that they were powerless to cross and, as Julius watched them in silence, one of them spat on the stones in disgust.

The quaestor stood with them, his toga exchanged for a dark tunic and kilt of leather. His face was red with fury and exertion as he was forced to watch the ship move out of the harbour and finally be swallowed in the night. A couple of his men swore softly, as they too stared after Ventulus.

‘Orders, sir?’ one of them said, looking at the quaestor.

Pravitas did not reply until his breathing had settled and some of the redness was gone from his face.

‘Run to the captain of the galley that put in yesterday. Tell him my orders are to set sail immediately to hunt the merchant ship Ventulus. I want him moving within the hour, on this tide.’

The soldier saluted. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Should I give him an explanation?’

Pravitas nodded quickly. ‘Tell him a legionary has been murdered and the ship stolen by pirates.’

Julius gathered his men in the darkness of the moving deck. Only Ciro was absent, left in a cabin to rest after his wound had been bound. The cut was deep under his shoulder blade, but it looked clean and with luck he would live.

The crew had been locked away below until their new situation could be explained to them. At least his officers could set sail and keep her moving without difficulty. Still, it rankled to have to keep innocent men prisoner. It was too close a reminder of their own captivity and Julius sensed rather than saw the anger from the men of Accipiter.

‘Things have changed,’ he said, trying to order his tumbling thoughts. ‘For those of you who haven’t heard, one of the quaestor’s soldiers drowned in the struggle to get ours on board. That means he will have every galley in the area looking out for us. We must stay as far from shore as we can and run from every sail for a while, until things settle down. I didn’t plan for this, but there’s no way back now. If we’re caught, we’re dead.’

‘I won’t be a pirate,’ Gaditicus interrupted. ‘We started this to fight them, not to join the bastards.’

‘That quaestor has our names, remember?’ Julius said. ‘The message he will send to Rome will describe how we stole a ship and drowned one of his men. Whether you like it or not, we are pirates until we can think of a way out of this mess. Our only hope is to follow through and capture Celsus. At least then we can show goodwill. It might stop them nailing us all up.’

‘Look where your ideas have brought us!’ Suetonius snarled, shaking his fist. ‘This is disaster! There’s no way back for any of us.’

Arguments broke out from every side and Julius let them shout, fighting against his own despair. If only the quaestor had spent the night in bed, they would have been clear and away to find their captors.

Finally, he felt calm enough to interrupt.

‘When you are finished arguing, you’ll see we have no choices left. If we turn ourselves in, the quaestor will bring us to trial and execution. That is inescapable. I have one thing to add.’

A hush fell and he felt sick as he saw the hope in their faces. They still thought he could bring about some change and all he had left were promises he wasn’t even sure he believed himself. He caught the eye of one after the other of the officers from Accipiter, including them all.

‘In that stinking prison, we would have thought it was a dream to be here with a ship, ready to take the battle back to our enemies. It has come at a price, but we’ll deal with it when Celsus lies at our feet and his gold is ours. Straighten your backs.’

‘Rome has a long memory for her enemies,’ Gaditicus said, his voice bleak.

Julius forced himself to smile.

‘But we are not the enemies of Rome. We know that. All we have to do is convince them as well.’

Gaditicus shook his head slowly and turned his back on Julius, walking away across the deck. The first touch of dawn was in the sky and grey dolphins played and leapt under the blunt bowsprit as Ventulus rode the waves, the oars cutting a fast stroke to take them away from land and retribution.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Servilia walked slowly through the forum with her son, deep in thought. He seemed content with the gentle pace, his gaze lingering on the senate house as they drew close to it. She barely noticed the great arches and domes, having seen them all a thousand times.

She glanced at Brutus without letting him see it. At her request, he had arrived for their meeting in the full polished uniform of a legion centurion. She knew the gossips would note him and ask his name, assuming the young man to be a lover. By now, more than a few would be able to confide in whispers that her son had returned to her, a mystery they would thrill to explore. He would not pass unnoticed through the heart of the city, she knew. There was something feral in the way he walked, his head bent to listen, a confidence that made the crowd part before him almost unconsciously.

They had met every day for a month, first in her house and then strolling together through the city. At first the journeys had been stiff and uncomfortable, but as the days passed they were able to converse without tension and even to laugh, though the moments were rare.

It had surprised her how much pleasure she took from being able to show him the shrines and tell the stories and legends that surrounded them all. Rome was full of legends and he took them all in with an avid interest that stimulated her own.

She ran a hand through her hair, pulling it back behind her head in a casual motion. A passing man stopped to stare at her and Brutus frowned at him, making her want to giggle. At times, he tried to be protective, forgetting that she had survived in this city for all of his young life. Yet somehow she didn’t mind it from him.

‘The Senate are in session today,’ she said as she saw him looking through the bronze doors into the shadowed halls.

‘Do you know what they are discussing?’ he asked.

He had come to accept that there was little involving the Senate that she did not know. He hadn’t asked if she had lovers in the nobilitas, but his suspicions were clear from the way he delicately skirted the subject. She smiled at him.

‘Most of it is terribly dull: appointments, city ordinances, taxes. The dusty ones seem to enjoy it. I should think it will be dark before they are done.’

‘I would love to hear it,’ he said wistfully. ‘Dull or not, I would enjoy a day spent listening to those people. They reach so far across Roman lands, and all from that little place.’

‘You would be bored within an hour. Most of the real work is done in private. What you would see is the last stage as they draft the laws they have chewed over for weeks. It is not something a young man would enjoy.’

‘I would,’ he replied and Servilia could hear the yearning in his voice. She wondered again what to do with him. He seemed content to spend each morning with her, but neither of them had discussed the future. Perhaps it was right to simply enjoy each other’s company, but sometimes she saw his desire to move on, as yet without a place for which to aim. She knew he was drifting when he was with her, having stepped off the path of his life for a while. She could not regret a moment of it, but perhaps he would need a push to get him back to himself.

‘In a week, they move on to the appointments of the highest posts,’ she said lightly. ‘Rome will have a new pontifex maximus and officials. Legion commands will be allocated over those days as well.’ She saw his head turn sharply towards her out of the corner of her eye as she spoke. There was still ambition there, then, underneath his relaxed exterior!

‘I … should sign on with a new legion,’ he said slowly. ‘I can take a centurion post almost anywhere.’

‘Oh, I think I can manage something better than that for a son of mine,’ she said carelessly.

He stopped and took her arm gently. ‘What … how?’ he began.

She laughed at his confusion, making him blush.

‘Sometimes I forget how innocent you can be,’ she said, softening the words with her smile. ‘You have spent too long marching and fighting, I think. Yes, that’s probably it. Mixing with savages and soldiers and not a breath of politics in your life.’

She reached up to where he held her and pressed her hand over his with affection.

‘The Senate are simply men and men rarely do what is right. Most of the time, they do what they are persuaded, or ordered, or frightened into doing. Golden bribes will change hands, but the true currency of Rome is influence and favours. I have the first and I am owed many favours. Half those appointments will have been decided on already, in those private meetings. The rest can be bargained for or demanded.’

She expected a smile at her words, but Brutus looked pained and she let her hand fall from his.

‘I thought it was … different,’ he said quietly.

Servilia composed herself, caught between a desire not to shatter his illusions and an urgent need to wake the young soldier to reality before he got himself killed.

‘Do you see that enclosure? You remember I told you it is where the people of Rome come to vote for the appointments of the Senate, the tribunes, the quaestors, even the praetors? It is a secret vote and they take it seriously, yet time and again the same men are elected, the same families, with few changes. It seems fair, but the voters would not know an outsider. Only the Senate have fame enough and wealth enough to have their names in the mouths of the lowliest free men of the city. It is all an illusion, but an elegant one. What is astonishing is that a few of the Senate do try to be just, earnestly improving the city and the welfare of her citizens.’ Servilia pointed over to the senate house. ‘There are great men in that building, men who light up the city with their works. Most of the others, though, lack strength of any kind. They use the power of the Senate for riches and greater authority for themselves. That is the simple reality. The Senate is neither evil nor blessed, but a mixture, like everything else we set our hands to in this life.’

Brutus studied her as he listened to her intensity. Whether she knew it or not, Servilia was not as detached and world-weary as she liked to appear. Her generally cynical air had vanished as she talked of the venal senators, the dislike obvious. She was not a simple woman, he thought to himself, not for the first time.

‘I understand you. It’s just that when I met Marius he was like a god. Small things were beneath him. I’ve met so many who couldn’t see further than their work or their rank, and when I look back he had a vision for the city and everything he did was to make it a reality, no matter what it cost him. He risked everything he owned to bring Sulla down and he was right to! Sulla set himself up like a king in Rome the moment Marius was dead.’

Servilia looked quickly around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear. She lowered her voice.

‘Don’t say those names so loudly in public, Brutus. Those men may be dead, but the wounds are still fresh and they haven’t found Sulla’s killers yet. I’m glad you met Marius. He never came to my house, but even his enemies had respect for him, I know that. I wish there were more like him.’ Her tone lightened as she seemed to shrug away the seriousness of the subject. ‘Now let’s walk on before the gossips start to wonder what we’re talking about. I want to climb the hill up to the temple of Jupiter. Sulla had it rebuilt after the civil war, you know, shipping the pillars from the remains of the temple to Zeus in Greece. We will make an offering there.’

‘In his temple?’ Brutus asked as they walked.

‘The dead don’t own temples. It belongs to Rome, or the god himself, if you want. Men try so hard to leave something behind. I think that’s why I love them.’

Brutus looked at her, struck again by the feeling that this woman had seen and lived lifetimes for his one.

‘Do you want me to take a legion post?’ he asked.

She smiled at the safer topic.

‘It would be the right thing to do. There is little point in me having favours owed if I never call them in, is there? You could spend your whole career as a centurion, overlooked by blind commanders, finishing your days with a little farm in a barely tamed new province, having to sleep with your sword. Take what I can give you. It pleases me to be able to help you after being gone from your life for so long. You understand? It is a debt I owe you and I always pay my debts.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked.

‘Ah, the interest sharpens, does it? Good. I would hate to think a son of mine lacked ambition. Let’s see. You are barely nineteen years old, so religious posts are out for a few years. It should be military. Pompey will have his friends vote any way I want. He is an old companion. Crassus too will throw in with me for past favours. Cinna would clinch it. He is … a more current friend.’

Brutus spluttered in amazement.

‘Cinna, Cornelia’s father? I thought he was an old man!’

Servilia chuckled, the sound deep and sensual. ‘Sometimes he is, sometimes he’s not.’

Brutus went crimson with embarrassment. How could he look Cornelia in the eye the next time he met her?

Servilia continued, her mouth twitching upwards as she ignored his confusion.

‘With their support, you could have command of a thousand men in any of the four legions they will review. What do you think?’

Brutus almost stumbled. What she offered was astonishing, but he realised he would have to stop being surprised at every revelation from Servilia. She was a very unusual woman in many ways, especially to have as a mother. A thought struck him and he stopped walking. She turned and looked at him with her eyebrows raised in enquiry.

‘What about Marius’ old legion?’

Servilia frowned. ‘Primigenia are finished. Even if the name was brought back, there can’t be more than a handful of survivors. Use your head, Brutus. Every one of Sulla’s friends would learn your name. You’d be lucky to survive a year.’

Brutus hesitated. He had to ask or he would always wonder about not taking the chance.

‘Is it possible, though? If I accept the risk, can those men you mentioned order it reformed?’

Servilia shrugged and another passer-by stared at her, captured for a moment. Brutus touched the hilt of his gladius and the man moved on.

‘If I asked it, yes, but Primigenia were disgraced. Marius was declared an enemy of the state. Who would come to fight under that name? No, it’s impossible.’

‘I want it. Just the name and the right to gather and train new soldiers. I can’t think of anything I would want more.’

Servilia looked into his eyes, searching them. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Can Crassus, Cinna and Pompey do it?’ he said firmly.

Servilia smiled, still amazed at how this young man could send her emotions swinging from anger and amusement to pride in moments. She could not refuse him anything.

‘It would take every favour I have, but they do owe me. For my own son, they would not deny me Primigenia.’

Brutus wrapped his arms around her and she returned the embrace laughingly, swept up in his happiness.

‘You will need to raise enormous capital if you are to bring a legion back from the dead,’ she said as he put her down. ‘I will introduce you to Crassus. I don’t know anyone richer – I don’t think there is anyone with more wealth – but he is not a fool. You will have to convince him of some return for his gold.’

‘I will give it some thought,’ Brutus said, looking back at the senate building behind them.

Remembering his frustration on Accipiter, Julius never thought he would be thankful for the heavy weight and slow speed of a Roman galley. As dawn had arrived with the sudden glare of the tropical coast, his men had cried out in fear as the square Roman sail was first sighted. Julius had watched it for the first few hours of light, until he was certain the gap was closing. Grimly, he gave orders to send the cargo over the side.

At least the captain hadn’t had to witness it as he was still bound to a chair in his cabin. Julius knew the man would be raging when he found out, and more of Celsus’ gold would have to be handed over to him if they were ever successful. There really wasn’t a choice, though it had been an uncomfortable hour as his men brought out small groups of the crew to help them drop the valuable goods of a continent into their wake. Some of the rare woods bobbed in the waves where they fell, but the skins and bolts of cloth went quickly to the bottom. The last items to be thrown were enormous tusks of yellow ivory. Julius knew they were valuable and considered keeping them before his resolve firmed and he gave the reluctant signal to drop them overboard with the rest.

He had the men stand ready then, watching the sail on the horizon against the glare of the rising sun. If it still came closer, he knew the only thing left was to strip the ship of anything that could be torn out, but as the hours passed, the galley that followed them grew smaller and smaller until it was lost against the reflected light of the sea.

Julius turned to his men as they worked amongst the crew. He noticed Gaditicus was not with them, having stayed below decks when the call came to move the cargo. He frowned slightly, but decided not to go to him and force the situation. He would eventually see they had to continue with the original plan. It was their only hope. He would take Ventulus clear of the coast for a few weeks, continuing to train his recruits in sea warfare. He would have liked to have a corvus made, but they must look like any other merchant to tempt a pirate into an attack. Then he would see if he had managed to turn farmers into legionaries, or whether they would break and force him to see Ventulus sunk under him as Accipiter had been. He clenched his jaw and sent a short prayer to Mars. They must not waste this second chance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Alexandria looked around the small room she had been offered. It wasn’t much, but at least it was clean and it was hardly fair to take up space at Tabbic’s tiny house now that her jewellery was bringing in a wage. She knew the old craftsman would let her stay longer, even to pay a small rent if she insisted, but there was barely enough room for his own family in the cramped second-floor home.

She hadn’t told them of her search, intending to surprise them with an invitation to dinner when she found a place. That was before almost a month of searching. They might have thought it strange that a woman who had been born a slave would turn anything down, but for the money she was willing to pay the rooms offered had been dirty, damp or infested with scurrying inhabitants she had not waited to examine closely.

She could have paid for more than one room, even a small house of her own. Her brooches were selling as fast as she could make them and even with most of the profits going into new and finer metals, there was enough to add to her savings each month. Perhaps being a slave had taught her to value money when it came, as she begrudged every bronze coin that went on food or a roof over her head. Paying a high rent seemed like the ultimate idiocy, with nothing owned after years passing over hard-earned coin. Better to spend as little as possible and one day she could buy a house of her own, with a door to shut against the world.

‘Do you want the room?’ the owner asked.

Alexandria hesitated. She was tempted to try and bargain the price down still further, but the woman looked exhausted after a day working in the markets and it was an honest price. It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of the family’s obvious poverty. Alexandria saw the woman’s hands were stained and sore with colour from the dye vats, leaving a faint blue mark over her eye as she brushed her hair back unconsciously.

‘I have two more to see tomorrow. I will let you know then,’ Alexandria replied. ‘Shall I call here in the evening?’

The woman shrugged, her expression resigned. ‘Ask for Atia. I should be around. You won’t find better for the price you want, you know. This is a clean house and the cat deals with any mice that get in. Up to you.’ She turned away to begin the evening’s work preparing the food brought from the markets as part of her wage. Most of it would be near to spoiling, Alexandria knew, yet Atia seemed unbowed by the grind of her life.

It was a strange thing to see a free woman on the edge of poverty. On the estate where Alexandria had worked, even the slaves were better fed and dressed than this woman’s family. It was a view of life she had never explored before and she had the oddest feeling of shame as she stood there in good clothes, wearing one of her own silver brooches as a pin for her cloak.

‘I will see the others, then return to you,’ Alexandria said firmly.

Atia began to chop vegetables without comment, putting them into an iron pot over a clay stove built against the wall. Even the knife she held had a blade as narrow as a finger, worn down but still used for want of anything better.

Outside in the street, a chorus of high-pitched yelling broke out and a grubby figure skidded through the open doorway, running straight into Alexandria.

‘Whoa, lad! You almost had me over then!’ Alexandria said, smiling.

He looked at her with a quizzical expression in his blue eyes. His face was as dusty as the rest of him, but Alexandria could see his nose was dark and swollen, with a trace of blood at the end, smeared over his cheek as he wiped it, sniffing.

The woman threw down the knife and gathered him into her arms. ‘What have you been up to now?’ she demanded, touching his nose.

The boy grinned and squirmed to get away from her embrace.

‘Just a fight, Mam. The boys who work at the butcher’s chased me all the way home. I tripped one of them when he went for me and he landed one on my nose.’ The boy beamed at his mother and reached under his tunic, pulling out two bare chops, dripping blood. His mother groaned and snatched them with a quick dart of her hand.

‘No, Mam. They’re mine! I didn’t steal them. They were just lying in the street.’

His mother’s face went white with anger, but he still clutched at her as she moved to the door, jumping as high as he could to retrieve his prizes from her grasp.

‘I’ve told you not to steal and not to lie. Take your hands off me. These must go back to where they came from.’

Alexandria was between Atia and the door, so she stepped out into the street to let her out. A group of boys stood around with a vaguely threatening air. They laughed to see the little boy jumping around his mother and one of them held out a hand for the chops, which were slapped into his palm without a word.

‘He’s fast, missus. I’ll give him that. Old Tedus told me to say he will summon the guard if your lad steals anything else.’

‘There’s no call for that,’ Atia snapped in irritation, wiping the blood from her hands on a piece of cloth she pulled out of a sleeve. ‘Tell Tedus he’s never lost anything he hasn’t had back and I’ll spread the word not to use his shop if he tries it. I will discipline my son, thank you.’

‘Fine job you’re doing,’ the older boy sneered.

Atia raised her hand swiftly and he backed away, guffawing and pointing at the humiliated figure that still clung to her skirt.

‘I’ll give your little Thurinus a belting myself, if I see him anywhere near the shop. See if I don’t.’

Atia flushed with anger and took a step forward, giving them the excuse they wanted to run off, calling back insults as they scattered.

Alexandria stood by the pair, wondering if she should just walk away. The scene she had witnessed was none of her business, but she was curious to see what would happen now the mother was alone with her rascal of a son.

The little boy snivelled and rubbed his nose gingerly.

‘I’m sorry, Mam. I just thought you would be pleased. I didn’t think they would follow me all the way back here.’

‘You never think. If your father was alive, he’d be ashamed of you, boy. He would tell you we never steal and we never lie. Then he would warm your backside properly with his strap, which I should do myself.’

The boy struggled to get away, kicking out at her as he found his arm held firmly.

‘He was a money-changer. You say they’re all thieves, so he must have been too.’

‘Don’t you dare say that!’ Atia said through whitened lips. Without waiting for a response, she upended the boy on her knee and smacked him hard, six times. He struggled through the first three and lay silently still for the last. When she put him down, he skittered around the two women, pelting down the narrow street and disappearing around the nearest corner.

Atia sighed as she watched him run. Alexandria clasped her hands together nervously, embarrassed to have witnessed such a private moment. Atia seemed to remember her suddenly and flushed as she met her eye.

‘I’m sorry. He is always stealing and I can’t seem to make him understand not to do it. He’s always caught, but the next week he tries again.’

‘Is his name Thurinus?’ Alexandria asked.

The woman shook her head. ‘No. They call him that because the family moved to the city from Thurin. It’s an insulting nickname they have for him, but he seems to like it. His given name is Octavian, after his father. Little terror. Only nine years old, but more at home on the streets than in his own house. I do worry about him.’ She glanced at Alexandria, taking in the clothes and brooch properly.

‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with our troubles, miss. I don’t mind admitting we could use the rent for the room. He wouldn’t steal from you, and if he did I’d give it straight back, on my family’s honour. You wouldn’t know it, but there’s good blood in his veins, Octavii and Caesar, if the little bugger would only realise it.’

‘Caesar?’ Alexandria said sharply.

The woman nodded.

‘His grandmother was a Caesar, before she married into my family. No doubt she’d weep if she saw him steal meat from a butcher not three streets away. I mean, it’s not as if they don’t know his face! They’ll break his arms if he does it again and where will I be then?’ Tears spilled from her eyes and Alexandria stepped forward without thinking to put an arm around her.

‘Let’s go inside. I think I will take that room of yours.’

The woman straightened and glared at her.

‘I don’t want charity. We get by and the boy will learn in time.’

‘It’s not charity. Yours is the first clean room I have seen and I used to … work for a Caesar a few years ago. Could be the same family. We’re almost relations.’

The woman wiped her eyes with the cloth, producing it again from where it made a lump in her sleeve.

‘Are you hungry?’ she said, smiling.

Alexandria thought of the small pile of vegetables that waited to be chopped.

‘I’ve already eaten. I’ll pay you for the first month and then go back to where I’m staying and collect my things. It’s not far off.’

If she walked quickly and didn’t dawdle at Tabbic’s, Alexandria thought she could make it back to her new home before dark. Perhaps by then they would have been able to buy a little meat with her rent.

The senators shifted uncomfortably in their seats. It had been a long session and many of them had reached the point where they were ignoring the complications of the arguments and simply voting whichever way they had agreed earlier.

With the evening shadows lengthening, torches were lit using tapers on long poles. The glow of the small flames was reflected in the polished white marble walls and the air filled with the soft smell of scented oil. A large number of the three hundred senators who had gathered that morning had already left, letting the last few votes pass without their presence.

Crassus smiled to himself, having made sure his own supporters would remain until the torches were snuffed and the long day reached its official conclusion with the prayer for the safety of the city. He listened intently to the list of appointments, waiting for the one he and Pompey had included to be brought to the vote. Almost unwillingly, his eyes strayed to the legion list, cut into the white marble. Where Primigenia had been inscribed, there was now a blank space. It would be pleasing to undo another small piece of Sulla’s legacy, even if he hadn’t been asked to by his old friend.

At this thought, he looked across at Cinna and their eyes met for a moment. Cinna nodded to the legion list and smiled. Crassus returned the smile, noting his friend’s whitening hair. Surely Servilia could not favour such a winter father over himself? Just the thought of her stirred his blood, making him miss the end of a section in reminiscence. He watched the way Cinna voted and then raised his own hand with him.

More of the Senate rose, excusing themselves quietly, heading for homes and mistresses all over the city. Crassus watched Cato heave his bulk out of his seat. The man had been close to Sulla and it would sting him to miss the vote to come. Crassus tried not to let his face show his pleasure as Cato drew close and passed him, deep in discussion. It would be easier with Sulla’s supporters gone, but even with every Sullan in the building, he doubted if Cinna, Pompey and himself could not force it through in their teeth. Restoring Primigenia would infuriate them. He reminded himself to thank Servilia for the idea when they next met. Perhaps a small gift to show his appreciation.

Pompey rose to answer a question concerning the new commander of a legion in Greece. He spoke with an engaging confidence of the new names, recommending them to the Senate. Crassus had heard there was another rebellion and the losses meant chances for friends and relatives of the men in the senate hall. He shook his head sadly, remembering the day when Marius had forced a vote that took Sulla away from Rome to put Mithridates down the first time. If Marius were here now, he would make them look up from their feet and do something about it! Instead, these fools argued and discussed the days away, when they should have been diverting a couple of the precious legions to shore up the Greek ones.

Crassus smiled wryly as he realised he was one of the fools he criticised. The last rebellion had led to civil war and a dictator. Not one of the generals in the room dared put himself forward for fear of the others uniting against him. They did not want another Sulla and nothing was done as a result. Even Pompey waited and he was almost as impetuous as Marius himself. It would be suicidal to volunteer as Marius and Sulla had. There was too much spite and envy to let any one of their number have a victory over Mithridates. Sulla’s fault, for letting him go free the first time. The man couldn’t do anything right.

Pompey sat down and the vote was passed quickly, leaving only the last item of the day’s business, proposed by Crassus and seconded by Pompey. They had kept Cinna’s name out of the records at that point as there were rumours he had been involved in Sulla’s poisoning. Baseless, of course, but no one could stop the gossip mongers of Rome plying their trade.

For a moment, Crassus wondered if they were baseless, but then dismissed the thought. He was a practical man and Sulla and the past had gone. If Cinna’s daughter had avoided becoming Sulla’s reluctant mistress, as he had heard whispered, that was surely proof that the gods looked with favour on Cinna’s house – or the Caesars, perhaps. Definitely one of them.

He had heard some headway had been made in finding the slave who carried the poison, but nothing yet was known about whoever ordered the death in the first place. Crassus looked around the half-empty room. It could have been almost any of them. Sulla had made enemies with a complete absence of caution. And caution should be the first rule of politics, Crassus thought. The second rule of politics should be to avoid attractive women needing favours, but a man didn’t have too many chances for joy in his life and Servilia had provided some memories he cherished.

‘Restoration of Primigenia to legion rolls,’ the master of debate announced, making Crassus sit up straight and concentrate.

‘Licence to recruit, train, take oaths and appoint officers under Senate authority to be given to Marcus Brutus of Rome,’ the speaker continued in a drone that didn’t match the murmur of excitement that swept through the remaining hundred senators in their seats. One of the Sullans left quickly, no doubt to bring his friends back for the vote. Pompey frowned as he saw Calpurnius Bibilus and two others stand to speak on the matter. The man had been a staunch supporter of Sulla and still swore his killers would be rooted out whenever he had the opportunity to do so.

It looked as if they had an old trick in mind. One after the other, they would speak to the Senate at great length until the session finished, or at the least until enough of their followers could be summoned to vote the motion down. If the proposal was pushed to the following session, it might not pass at all.

Crassus looked over to Cinna and caught his eye in commiseration. To his surprise, the older man flickered a wink in his direction. Crassus relaxed and settled back in his seat. Money was a powerful lever; he knew that as well as anyone. To hold up the vote, the Sullans had to be allowed to begin and the master of debate recited the details of the proposal without once looking up at the benches where they stood, clearing their throats noisily for his attention.

When the details had all been described, the master of debate called immediately for a vote. One of the Sullans swore loudly and walked out of the senate hall, a gross breach of etiquette. The appointment passed easily and the session was declared closed. During the final prayer, Crassus sneaked a glance at Pompey and Cinna. He would have to choose his gift to Servilia with care. No doubt those two had similar ideas.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Julius waited in the black hold, his sword drawn with the others around him. They were silent, waiting for the signal, and in that unnatural quiet, the creaking timbers of Ventulus seemed almost like muttered voices over the slap of waves against the hull.

Above them, the soldiers could hear the pirates laugh and swear as they tied their fast trireme to Ventulus and gathered on her decks without resistance. Julius strained to hear every sound. It was a tense time for them all, but most dangerous for those who remained above, where they could be cut down as an example or in simple cruelty. Julius had been surprised at first that any of the crew of Ventulus were willing to be on deck when the pirates boarded them. Their initial suspicion and anger at his men had vanished when he told them of the plan to attack pirates and he believed in their enthusiasm. They had taken great pleasure in choosing those who would surrender on the decks and Julius had realised that to these men a chance to strike back at the pirates they feared and hated would be the opportunity of a lifetime. Not for them the might of a legion galley. A merchant ship like the Ventulus always had to run for protection and many of the crew had lost friends over the years to Celsus and his brother raiders.

Despite this, he had left Pelitas and Prax with them, dressed in rough clothes. It did not pay to trust strangers with their lives and one of his officers would be able to shout the signal even if the crewmen betrayed them. He preferred not to leave anything to luck.

Voices sounded faintly through the hatches above their heads. His men shuffled, packed tightly, but not daring even to whisper. There was no way to be sure how many of the enemy stood on the deck. A pirate crew was usually smaller than the forces of a Roman galley and rarely more than thirty swords, but after witnessing the packed decks of the two ships that sank Accipiter, Julius knew he could not depend on superior numbers. He had to have surprise to be certain. With the remaining crew, a full fifty men waited with him. Julius had decided to allow the sailors their choice of weapons, reasoning that he could not spare men to guard them. The best he could manage was to have them mingle with his own soldiers, preventing a sudden attack on their rear as they rushed the deck.

One such stood close to him, carrying a rusting iron bar as a weapon. There was no hint of deception in the man, as far as Julius could see. Like the others, his gaze was fixed on the dark hatches, outlined with sunlight shining through the cracks in wide golden beams that swirled and glittered with dust. The beams moved almost hypnotically as Ventulus pitched and rolled in the swell. More voices spoke above and Julius tensed as he saw the light blocked by moving shadows, with the boards creaking under the weight. His own men would not stand on the hatches. It had to be the pirates, moving about their prize.

Julius had waited as long as he could before going below with the others, wanting to see how the pirates operated with his own eyes for the next time. To make it look real, he had to order the Ventulus rowers to a good stroke speed, but was ready to have some of the oars foul each other if the pirates couldn’t close the gap. It hadn’t been necessary. The enemy ship must have been stripped right down and drew steadily closer as the day wore on.

When they were close enough to count the oars, Julius had gone below to join his men. His greatest worry was that the enemy would employ a trained crew as Celsus did. If they were wage-men they might not be chained to the benches and the thought of a hundred muscular rowers storming up to take on his men would mean disaster, armed or not. He’d seen the enemy ship carried a spiked ram that could anchor them if they smashed head-on into their prey, but guessed they wouldn’t use it, preferring to come alongside and board. No doubt they felt secure so far from the coast and patrolling galleys, able to take their time off-loading cargo and possibly claiming Ventulus for their own rather than sinking her. Raiders didn’t have shipyards, after all. He hoped they would have brought only a token force onto the decks of Ventulus. With the enemy tied securely, neither ship could escape, which was just as Julius wanted it. He sweated with anxiety as he waited for the signal. There were so many things that could go wrong.

Above, a strong wind was blowing, scattering tiny droplets of salt spray into the faces of the crew of Ventulus and their captors. Knowing the plan, the crew had surrendered without complaint, calling for the oars to be brought in and the sail dropped. Ventulus bobbed and rocked in the waves without sail and oars to make her move. A flight of arrows arced over as the pirates tied up and Pelitas had to step aside not to be hit. He saw some of the crew sitting down on the deck, their hands in the air. No arrows were landing near them, so he copied the action, pulling Prax down with him. The shafts stopped flying as soon as they were all sitting. Pelitas heard laughter from the men waiting to board them and he smiled grimly, waiting for the right moment. Julius had said to hold until the enemy had split their force between the two ships, but it was impossible to judge how many they had in reserve. Pelitas decided he would shout when twenty men had crossed over their rail. More than that might not break in the first charge and the last thing they wanted was a pitched battle on the decks. Too many of Julius’ men were novices and if the pirates didn’t surrender quickly, the fight could turn and they would lose everything.

The first ten of the enemy reached the main deck of Ventulus. Though they were confident, Pelitas noted how they moved as a unit, protecting each other from a sudden lunge. They spread out slightly to the sitting crew and he saw long leather cords hanging from their belts, ready for tying the prisoners. No doubt these ten were the best fighters, veterans who knew their business and could cut their way out of trouble. Pelitas wished Julius had let him bring a sword on deck. He felt naked without one.

The crew allowed themselves to be tied without a struggle and Pelitas hesitated. With only ten on deck, it was too early to call, but they were working with efficiency and if they trussed the rest as quickly, they would be no help at all when the fight started. He saw four more clamber over the rail to Ventulus and then looked into the serious face of the man who approached him, thongs ready in his hands. Fourteen would have to do.

As the man met Pelitas’ eye, the Roman shouted loudly, making him jump and raise his sword.

‘Accipiter!’ Pelitas yelled, scrambling up.

The pirate looked confused and snapped a response, but then the hatches banged open and Roman legionaries swarmed out amongst them, their armour gleaming in the sun.

The man by Pelitas swung round to see them, his jaw dropping. Without hesitating, Pelitas leapt onto his back, pulling his forearm across the man’s throat with all his strength. The man staggered forward a couple of steps, then reversed the sword in his hand and rammed it back into Pelitas’ chest. The Roman fell away in agony.

Julius led the charge. He killed the first man in front of him, swearing as he saw Pelitas had called it too soon. The archers were still on the other ship and dark shafts struck the deck, killing one of the bound crew. There was no way to avoid them without shields and Julius could only hope the charge wouldn’t falter. His men had never been under fire and it was hard even for experienced soldiers, when every instinct said to dive and hide. His blade clanged against another and he punched around it, knocking his opponent flat. One quick shove into the exposed throat and he was over him.

In the space, Julius glanced left and right, taking in the scene. Most of the pirates on Ventulus were down. His men were fighting well, though one or two were struggling to pull arrows from their limbs, howling in pain.

A buzzing shaft struck Julius in the chest, knocking him back a step. He felt winded, but the vicious thing fell to the wooden deck with a clatter and he realised his armour had saved him.

‘Board them!’ he bellowed and his men surged with him towards the pirate ship. More arrows cut through them with little damage and Julius thanked the gods for the tough Roman plate. He jumped onto the rail of Ventulus and skidded, his iron-shod sandals slipping on the wood.

He landed at the feet of the enemy with a crash of metal and swearing. He batted away a jabbing sword with his forearm, taking a cut from the edge. His gladius was under him and he had to roll to free it. Another blade clanged against his shoulder, snapping off the plate.

The other Romans roared as they saw him fall, cutting wildly through the pirates who faced them. They threw themselves into the enemy ship without caution, pushing the line past Julius. Gaditicus grabbed his arm and heaved Julius to his feet.

‘One more you owe me,’ Gaditicus growled as they rushed over the enemy deck together. Julius ran up to a pirate and lunged forward with his gladius, holding himself ready to avoid a counterthrust. Instead, the man lost his footing as he skipped back out of range and threw his sword out of his hand, sending it spinning over the planking. He looked terrified as Julius slowly lowered a heavy gladius to his throat.

‘Please! Enough!’ he shouted in terror. Julius paused, risking another flashing glance around him. The pirates were faltering. Many were dead and those remaining had their arms in the air, calling for peace. Swords clattered to the deck. The archers that still lived put their bows down, careful with them even as they surrendered.

Taking a step back, Julius looked behind him and his heart lifted in pride.

His recruits stood there in shining uniform, swords drawn and held in first position. They looked every inch a legion fifty, fresh and disciplined.

‘Get up,’ he said to the fallen man. ‘I claim this ship for Rome.’

The survivors were tied using the same cords brought for the crew of Ventulus. It was quickly done, though Julius had to order one of the crew restrained after he kicked his erstwhile captor in the head when the man had been bound.

‘Ten lashes for that man,’ Julius said, his voice firm and strong. His men gripped the sailor firmly, while the rest of the crew of Ventulus exchanged glances. Julius stared them down, knowing it was important that they accept his orders. Left alone, they would probably have cut the prisoners to pieces, taking out years of hatred in an orgy of torture and violence. None of them met his eyes and instead they drifted apart from the congratulatory groups that had formed. Finally, Julius turned away to supervise the rest of the capture. The rowers he had feared could be heard below decks, yelling in terror at the sounds of the battle above. He would send men to quieten them.

‘Sir, over here!’ a voice called.

Prax held the body of Pelitas, his hand pressing against an open wound high in the chest. There was blood around his friend’s mouth and Julius knew as he saw him that there was no hope. Cabera might have saved him, but nothing else could.

Pelitas was choking, his eyes open without focus. Each tearing breath brought more blood dribbling from his lips. Julius crouched by the pair and many of the others gathered around them, blocking the sun. In the silence as they watched, the passing seconds seemed to last a long time, but finally the laboured breathing ceased and the bright gaze faded into glassy stillness.

Julius stood, looking down at the body of his friend. He signalled to two of the others.

‘Help Prax take him below. I’m not putting one of ours into the sea with them.’ He walked away without another word and, of them all, only the officers from Accipiter understood why he had to show such a stern front. The commander would not reveal weakness in front of the men and not one of them doubted who led them any more. Even Gaditicus kept his head bowed as Julius strode past him, walking alone.

When both of the ships were secure that night, Julius met with the other officers of Accipiter and they drank a toast to Pelitas, who had not made it to the end of his path.

Before sleep, Gaditicus walked on the moonlit deck of Ventulus with Julius. They were silent for a long time, lost in memories, but as they reached the head of the steps leading below, Gaditicus took his arm.

‘You are in command here.’

Julius turned to him and the older man could feel the force of his personality. ‘I know,’ he said simply.

Gaditicus formed a wry smile. ‘It was when you fell that I realised. All the men went after you without waiting for orders. I think they will follow you anywhere.’

‘I wish I knew where I was leading them,’ Julius said quietly. ‘Perhaps one of the men we captured will know where Celsus is. We’ll see in the morning.’ He looked away to the place on the deck where Pelitas had fallen. ‘Peli would have a grand laugh about me slipping like that. It would have been a ridiculous way to die.’

As he spoke, he chuckled without humour. The brave charge straight at the feet of the enemy. Gaditicus didn’t laugh. He clapped his hand on Julius’ shoulder, but the young man didn’t seem to feel it.

‘He wouldn’t have died if I hadn’t wanted to find Celsus. You all would be back in Rome by now, with your names clear from disgrace.’

Gaditicus took the shoulder and turned it gently until Julius faced him once more.

‘Weren’t you the one who told us there was no point fretting over what might have been? We’d all like to go back and make better choices, but that just isn’t the way it works. We have one chance, even if the world rests on it. I might not have sailed Accipiter down that piece of coast, but if I hadn’t, who knows? I might have become ill or been stabbed in an inn, or fallen down steps and broken my head open. There just isn’t any point in worrying about it. We take each day as it comes and make the best decisions we can.’

‘And if they turn out badly?’ Julius muttered.

Gaditicus shrugged. ‘I usually blame the gods.’

‘Do you believe in them?’ Julius asked.

‘You can’t sail a ship without knowing there’s something more than men and stones. As for all the temples, I’ve always played it safe with my offerings. It doesn’t hurt anyone and you never know.’

Julius smiled slightly at the practical philosophy.

‘I hope … that I will see Pelitas again,’ he said.

Gaditicus nodded. ‘We all will, but not for a while yet,’ he replied. He dropped his hand onto Julius’ shoulder as he went below, leaving him there with his face turned into the sea breeze.

When he was alone, Julius closed his eyes and stood still for a long time.

The following morning, Julius split his men into two crews. He was tempted to take the captain’s post in the faster pirate ship but, going on instinct, gave it to Ventulus’s captain-owner, Durus. The man had missed the fight completely, locked in his cabin, but when he understood the situation, he stopped shouting about the cargo they had thrown overboard. He hated the pirates as much as any of the crew and took great pleasure from seeing them bound as he had been only a few hours before.

When Julius made the offer, Durus took his hand to seal the bargain.

‘Both ships are mine when you’ve found the man you want?’

‘Unless one of them is sunk when we attack Celsus. My men will need a vessel to get back to Roman lands. I’d like it to be his, but he knows his business and taking it won’t be easy, if we can find him at all,’ Julius replied, wondering how far he could trust the captain. To be certain of his loyalty, he would let only a few of the Ventulus crew go with him onto the other ship. His legionaries would keep the captain’s nerve for him, if it faltered.

Durus looked pleased, as well he might. Selling the captured ship would bring him far more than the value of the cargo he had lost, though he had groaned when he heard the ivory had been dropped overboard.

The main problem was what they were going to do with the pirates who had survived the fight. The wounded had been dispatched and dumped overboard with the dead on Julius’ orders. They had chosen their life and he had no sympathy for their cries. That still left seventeen to be guarded day and night. Julius set his jaw firmly. Their fate rested on his shoulders.

He had the pirates brought separately to the captain’s cabin, where he sat calmly at the heavy table. Each one was tied and held tightly by two of his men. Julius wanted them to feel helpless and the face he turned to them was as hard and cruel as he could make it. They had claimed their captain had been killed in the battle, which Julius wondered about. No doubt the man would prefer not to be known if he was amongst them.

‘Two questions,’ he said to the first of them. ‘If you can answer them, you live. If not, you go over the side to the sharks. Who is your captain?’

The man spat on the floor by Julius’ feet, looking away as if uninterested. Julius ignored it, though he felt warm specks of liquid touch his ankle underneath the table.

‘Where is the man Celsus?’ he continued.

There was no response, though Julius noted the prisoner had begun to sweat.

‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘Let the sharks have him and bring me the next.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the soldiers said together.

The man seemed to come to life then, struggling and yelling madly all the way to the railing. They held him there for a few moments, while one of the recruits took a knife from his belt. The other looked at him questioningly. He shrugged, and cut the cords holding the pirate’s hands before heaving him over to hit the sea with a great splash, screaming.

The soldier put away his dagger and joined the other watching the pirate’s frantic struggles in the water below.

‘I just thought he should have a chance,’ he said.

They watched three dark shadows ease towards the struggling man. The sharks had trailed the ships since the first bodies had been thrown overboard. The pirate saw them coming and went berserk in the water, beating it into foam around him. Then he was snatched from the surface and the two soldiers turned back to fetch the next man to be questioned.

The second one couldn’t swim at all and just sank. The third cursed them all the way in, through the questions and out over the rail, right until he was taken under. More sharks had gathered in the water, sliding over each other in a bloody froth as they fought over the meat.

The fourth man spoke as soon as Julius asked the questions.

‘You’ll kill me anyway,’ he said.

‘Not if you tell me what I want to know,’ Julius replied.

The man sagged in relief. ‘Then I am the captain. You won’t kill me?’

‘If you can tell me where Celsus is, you have my word,’ Julius said, leaning towards the man.

‘In winter, he goes to Samos, in Asia. It’s on the far side of the Greek sea.’

‘I don’t know the name,’ Julius said, doubtfully.

‘It’s a big island off the coast – near Miletus. The Roman ships don’t patrol near it, but I’ve been there before. I’m telling you the truth!’

Julius believed the man and nodded.

‘Excellent. Then that is where we will go. How far away is it?’

‘A month straight, two at the most.’

Julius frowned at the answer. They would need to stop for provisions and that meant more risk. He looked up at the two soldiers.

‘Throw the others to the sharks.’

The pirate captain scowled at the order. ‘Not me, though. You said I wouldn’t be killed.’

Julius stood up slowly. ‘I have lost good friends to your people, as well as a year of my life.’

‘You gave your word! You need me to guide you there. You couldn’t find it without me,’ the man said quickly, his voice breaking in fear.

Julius ignored him, speaking to the soldiers holding his arms.

‘Lock him somewhere safe for the moment.’

When they had gone, Julius sat alone in the cabin and listened as the remaining pirates were dragged out and over the side. He looked down at his hands as the noise finally came to an end and again he could hear the creaks and groans of a ship under sail. He expected to feel shame or remorse for what he had ordered, but surprisingly it did not come. Then he closed the door so he could weep for Pelitas.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alexandria sighed in irritation as she saw her brooch had been taken from the clothes she’d folded the night before. A quick look in the other rooms revealed that Octavian had left the house early and she firmed her jaw as she closed the door behind her on her way to Tabbic’s workshop. It wasn’t just the valuable silver, or even the many hours she had put in shaping and polishing the brooch. It was the only one she had made for herself alone and many of those who became buyers had seen and commented on it when they met her. The design was a simple eagle, which she wouldn’t have chosen for her own shoulder if it hadn’t become the symbol of all the legions and universally desirable. It was mainly officers who stopped her and asked about it, and to have it stolen by a grubby urchin made her clench and unclench her fists as she walked, her cloak falling loose around her shoulders and needing to be hitched up without the brooch.

Not only was he a thief but an idiot, she thought. How could he expect not to be caught? One worrying possibility was that the boy was so used to punishment that he had discounted it for the prize of her brooch, willing to take whatever came his way as long as he could keep it. Alexandria shook her head in irritation, muttering to herself what she would do when she saw him. He couldn’t be shamed, even in front of his mother. She had seen that when the butcher’s boys came for the meat he had taken.

Perhaps it would be better not to mention it to Atia. The thought of seeing the humiliation on her face was painful and even after less than a week in her new room Alexandria had come to like the woman. She had pride and a sort of dignity. It was such a pity that none of it seemed to reach the son.

Tabbic’s shop had been damaged towards the end of the riots two years before. Alexandria had helped him to rebuild, learning a little carpentry as he remade the door and workbenches. His livelihood had been saved by the timely removal of all the valuable metals to his own home above, well barricaded against the gangs of raptores that had run wild while the city was in chaos. As Alexandria approached the modest little premises, she resolved not to burden him with her irritation. She owed him a great deal, and not only for letting her stay safe with his family during the worst of it. It didn’t seem to need saying, but there was a debt owed to Tabbic that she had vowed would be paid.

As she opened the oak door, the sound of high-pitched yelling filled the air. Her eyes glittered in satisfaction as she saw Tabbic was holding the struggling figure of Octavian in the air with one brawny arm. The metalworker looked up as the door opened and turned the boy to face her when he saw it was Alexandria.

‘You won’t believe what this one just tried to sell me,’ he said.

Octavian struggled even more ferociously when he saw who had come in. He kicked at the arm that held him suspended apparently without effort. Tabbic ignored him.

Alexandria darted across the shop to the two of them.

‘Where’s my brooch, you little thief?’ she demanded.

Tabbic opened his other hand and revealed the silver eagle, which she pinned back in place.

‘Walked in as bold as anything and told me to make him an offer!’ Tabbic said angrily. Completely honest himself, he hated those who saw thieving as an easy life. He shook Octavian once more, taking out his indignation on the boy, who whimpered and kicked, his eyes looking around for escape.

‘What shall we do with him?’ Tabbic asked her.

Alexandria thought for a few moments. Tempting as it might be to beat the boy all the way down the street, she knew her possessions could still be snatched up by his little fingers at any time. She needed a more permanent solution.

‘I think I could persuade his mother to let him work for us,’ she said thoughtfully.

Tabbic lowered Octavian until his feet touched the floor. Immediately, the boy bit his hand and Tabbic hoisted him again with casual strength, leaving him to dangle in futile rage.

‘You have to be joking. He’s little better than an animal!’ Tabbic said, wincing at the white tooth marks on his knuckles.

‘You can teach him, Tabbic. There’s no father to do it and the way he’s going, he won’t live to grow up. You said you needed someone to work the bellows and there’s always sweeping up and carrying.’

‘Let me go! I’m not doing nothing!’ Octavian yelled.

Tabbic looked him over. ‘The boy’s skinny as a rat. No strength in those arms,’ he said slowly.

‘He’s nine, Tabbic. What do you expect?’

‘He’ll run as soon as the door opens, I’d say,’ Tabbic continued.

‘If he does, I’ll fetch him back. He’ll have to come home some time and I’ll wait for him there, spank him and turn him round. Being here will keep him out of trouble and it’ll be useful for both of us. You’re not getting any younger and he could help me at the forge.’

Tabbic let Octavian touch the floor again. This time he did not bite, but watched the two adults warily as they discussed him as if he wasn’t in the shop.

‘How much will you pay me?’ he said, scrubbing angry tears out of his eyes with his dirty fingers, doing little more than smearing his face.

Tabbic laughed.

‘Pay you!’ he said, his voice filled with scorn. ‘Boy, you’ll be learning a trade. You should pay us.’

Octavian spat a stream of oaths and tried to bite Tabbic once again. This time, the metalworker cuffed him with the flat of his other hand without looking.

‘What if he steals the goods?’ he said.

Alexandria could see he was coming round to the idea. That was the problem, of course. If Octavian ran off with silver, or worse, the small store of gold that Tabbic kept locked away, it would hurt them all. She put on her sternest expression and took Octavian’s chin in her hand, turning his face to her.

‘If he does,’ she said, fixing the little boy with her gaze, ‘we will have a perfect right to demand he is sold as a slave to pay the debt. His mother too if it comes to it.’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Octavian said, shocked out of struggling by her words.

‘My business is not a charity, lad. We would,’ Tabbic replied firmly. Over Octavian’s head, he winked at Alexandria.

‘Debts are paid in this city – one way or another,’ she agreed.

Winter had arrived quickly and both Tubruk and Brutus were wearing heavy cloaks as they cut the old oak into firewood ready to be carted back to the estate stores. Renius didn’t seem to feel the cold and had left his stump bare to the wind away from the sight of strangers. He had brought a young slave boy from the estate to place the branches steady for him to swing his axe. The boy hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival at Renius’ heels, but he stood well clear when Renius swung and his wind-reddened face fought to conceal a smile when the blade slipped and sent Renius staggering and swearing under his breath. Brutus knew the old gladiator well enough to wince in silent appreciation of what would follow if Renius saw the child’s amusement. The work was making them all sweat and breathe frosty plumes in the winter air. Brutus watched critically as Renius swung, sending two smaller pieces spinning into the air. He raised his own axe again, looking over at Tubruk.

‘What worries me most is the debt to Crassus. Just the quarters alone cost four thousand aurei.’

Brutus swung smoothly as he spoke, grunting as the stroke fell cleanly.

‘What does he expect in return?’ Tubruk said.

Brutus shrugged. ‘He just says not to worry, which means I can’t sleep for thinking about it. The armourer he hired is turning out more sets than I have men for, even after scouring Rome. On my centurion’s wage, I’d have to work for years just to pay him back for the swords alone.’

‘Amounts like that don’t mean a great deal to Crassus. The gossip says he could buy half the Senate if he wanted to,’ Tubruk said, pausing to lean on his axe. The wind swirled leaves around them. The air they drew in bit at their throats with cold that was almost a pleasure.

‘I know. My mother says he already owns more of Rome than he knows what to do with. Everything he buys makes a profit, which is all the more reason to wonder where the profit is in buying Primigenia.’

Tubruk shook his head as he raised his axe again.

‘He hasn’t bought it, or you. Don’t even say it. Primigenia is not a house or a brooch and only the Senate can command it. If he thinks he is raising his own private legion, you should tell him to set a new standard on the rolls.’

‘He hasn’t said that. All he does is sign the bills I send him. My mother thinks he is hoping to secure her approval with the money. I want to ask him, but what if it’s true? I won’t prostitute my own mother to that man or anyone, but I must have Primigenia.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time for Servilia,’ Tubruk remarked with a chuckle.

Brutus placed his axe carefully on a log. He faced Tubruk and the old gladiator paused as he saw his angry expression.

‘You can say that once, Tubruk. Don’t do it again,’ Brutus said. His voice was as cold as the wind that wrapped around them and Tubruk rested again on his axe as he met the piercing eyes.

‘You mention her a lot these days. I didn’t teach you to drop your guard so easily with anyone. Neither did Renius.’

Renius snorted softly in reply as he kicked a piece of branch from under his feet. His pile of split logs was barely half the size of the others, though it had cost him more.

Brutus shook his head. ‘She is my mother, Tubruk!’

The older man shrugged. ‘You don’t know her, lad. I just want you to be careful until you do.’

‘I know enough,’ Brutus said, picking up his axe again.

For almost an hour, the three men worked in silence cutting the wood and piling it onto the small handcart that stood nearby. Finally, seeing that Brutus wasn’t going to speak, Tubruk swallowed his irritation.

‘Will you go to the legion field with the others?’ he asked without looking at Brutus. He knew the answer, but at least it was a safe topic to continue their conversation. Every year in winter, all the boys who had turned sixteen went to the Campus Martius where new legions planted their standards. Only the lame and the blind would be turned away. Freshly restored to the rolls of the Senate, Primigenia qualified to plant their eagle with the others.

‘I’ll have to,’ Brutus replied, the words grudgingly wrung from him. His frowning expression eased as he talked. ‘With the ones from other cities, there could be as many as three thousand there. Some of them will contract with Primigenia. The gods know I need to raise the numbers, and quickly. Those barracks that Crassus bought are practically empty.’

‘How many do you have already?’ Tubruk asked.

‘With the seven that came in yesterday, nearly ninety. You should see them, Tubruk.’ The younger man looked into the distance as he saw their faces again in his mind. ‘I think every man who survived the battle against Sulla has rejoined. Some had gone to other trades in the city and they just threw down their tools and walked away when they heard Primigenia was being reformed. Others we found guarding houses and temples and they came without any argument. All for the memory of Marius.’

He paused for a moment and his voice sharpened. ‘My mother had a guard who was an optio in Primigenia. He asked her if he could rejoin and she let him go. He’ll help Renius to train the new ones as we get them.’

Tubruk turned to Renius. ‘You’ll be going with him?’ he said.

Renius laid his axe down. ‘I’ve no future as a woodcutter, lad. I’ll do my part.’

Tubruk nodded. ‘Try not to kill anyone. You’ll have a hard enough job getting them in as it is. The gods know Primigenia isn’t one they dream of joining any more.’

‘We have a history,’ Brutus replied. ‘The new legions they’re raising won’t be able to match that.’

Tubruk looked sharply at him. ‘A shameful history, some think. Don’t glare at me, that’s what they’ll say. They will have marked you as the legion that lost the city. You’ll have a hard time of it.’ He looked around at the piles of wood and the full cart and nodded to himself.

‘That’s enough for today. The rest will keep. There’s a hot cup of wine waiting for us back at the estate.’

‘Just one more then,’ Renius said, turning to the boy at his side without waiting for a response.

‘I think my swing’s a little smoother than when I started, don’t you, boy?’

The slave rubbed his hand quickly under his nose, leaving a silvery smear along his cheek. He nodded, suddenly nervous.

Renius smiled at him.

‘One arm isn’t as steady as two with an axe, mind. Bring up that branch and hold her still while I cut her.’

The boy dragged a piece of oak to Renius’ feet and began to stand away.

‘No. Hold her steady. One hand on either side,’ Renius said, his voice hardening.

For a second, the boy hesitated, glancing at the other two who were watching with silent interest. There was no help there. Wincing, the boy placed his hands against the rounded sides of the log and leaned back out of range, his face terrible in anticipation.

Renius took his time finding a grip he liked. ‘Hold her tight, now,’ he warned, beginning the swing as he spoke. The axe head came round in a blur and split the wood with a crack. The boy yanked his hands under his armpits, clenching his jaw against the sudden pain.

Renius sank into a crouch at the boy’s side, resting the axe on the ground. He reached out and gently pulled one of the hands out to be inspected. The boy’s cheeks were flushed with relief and as Renius saw there was no wound, he grinned and ruffled his hair cheerfully.

‘It didn’t slip,’ the boy said.

‘Not when it mattered,’ Renius agreed with him, laughing. ‘That was courage in you. It’s worth a cup of hot wine, I’d say.’

The boy beamed at this, his stinging hands forgotten.

The three men met each other’s eyes in memories and pleasure at the boy’s pride as they took the handles of the cart and began walking back down the hill to the estate.

‘By the time Julius gets back, I want Primigenia strong,’ Brutus said as they reached the gate.

Julius and Gaditicus peered through the bushes on the steep mountainside down at the distant, tiny ship moored below in the calm island bay. Both men were hungry and almost unbearably thirsty, but their waterskin was empty and they had agreed not to begin the trip back until it was dark.

It had taken longer than they expected to climb the gentler slope to the peak, where the ground fell away sharply. Each time the pair thought they had reached the summit, another was revealed and in the end dawn had stopped them moving just after beginning the descent. By the time they caught their first view of the ship, Julius had been wondering if his pirate informer had been lying to save himself from the sharks. For the whole of the long journey to the island, the man had been chained at the oars of his own ship, and it looked as if he had earned his life with the details of Celsus’ winter mooring.

Julius sketched what they could see in charcoal on parchment to have something to show the others when they were picked up. Gaditicus watched him in silence, his face sour.

‘It can’t be done, not with any certainty,’ Gaditicus muttered as he took another look through the low foliage. Julius stopped drawing from memory and rose up onto his knees to view the scene once more. Neither man wore armour, both for speed and to prevent the sun flashing off it and giving away their position. Julius settled back down again to finish his sketch, looking at it critically.

‘Not by ship,’ he said after a while, disappointment etching his features. For a month of fast travel, the crews had drilled day and night, ready for the battle with Celsus. Julius would have bet his last coin on their ability to board and take him quickly with only a few casualties. Now, looking at the little bay that nestled between three mountains, all their planning seemed wasted.

The island had no central land, just three cold and ancient volcanic peaks that sheltered a tiny bay. From their high vantage point, they were able to see that deep-water channels ran between the mountains, so that whichever way Celsus was attacked, he could choose one of the others and disappear out to sea without hurry or danger. With three ships, they could have bottled him up neatly, but with only two it was a straight gamble.

Far below, Julius saw the dark shapes of dolphins swimming around the ship in the bay. It was a beautiful place and Julius thought he would like to return if he ever had the chance. From far away, the mountains looked grim and sharp, grey-green in the rays of the sun, but perched as high as they were, it was glorious. The air was so clear he could see details on the other two jagged peaks, which was why he and Gaditicus dared not move. If they could make out the movement of men on the deck of Celsus’ ship, they could be seen in their turn and their only chance for revenge would vanish.

‘I would have expected him to winter in one of the big cities, far from Rome,’ Julius said thoughtfully. The island seemed uninhabited except for the moored ship and he was surprised the hard-bitten crew of pirates didn’t find it dull after months of preying on merchants.

‘No doubt he visits the mainland, but you can see this place would be safer than anywhere for him. That lake in the foothills is probably freshwater and I’d guess they could find enough birds and fish to have a feast or two. Who could he trust to look after his ship while he’s away, though? All his men would have to do is pull up their anchors and he’d have lost it all.’

Julius looked at Gaditicus with raised eyebrows. ‘The poor man,’ he said, rolling up his map.

Gaditicus grinned and looked up at the sun. ‘Gods. It’ll be hours before we can get back over the crest and my throat is full of dust.’

Julius stretched himself out with his arms behind his head.

‘Rafts could get us close, with our ships following us in to block his escape. The next moonless night will give us enough time to lash a few together and plan. Now I’m going to get some sleep until it’s dark enough to go back,’ he murmured, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, he was snoring softly and Gaditicus looked at him in amusement.

The older man was too tense to sleep, so he carried on watching the movements of the men on board the ship in the bay, far below. He wondered how many would die if Celsus had the sense to post good lookouts each night and wished he had the young man’s confidence in the future.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The black water was bitterly cold, soaking into the Romans as they lay completely flat on the rafts and paddled slowly towards the dark hulk of Celsus’ ship. Though they ached for speed, each man held himself steady, moving numb hands through the still water with gentle ripples. Julius’ crews had worked feverishly to lash rafts together, stripping away boards and ropes from the two ships that sheltered on the sea coast outside the bay. When they were done, five platforms moved slowly through the deep channels towards the beach where Celsus was moored, with swords bundled together in cloth to balance the weight. They had no armour with them. For all the advantage it would give them, Julius guessed there would be no time to tie it all in place, and instead his men shivered in wet tunics and leggings, hardly protected from the night breeze.

Celsus awoke suddenly in his cabin and listened for whatever sound had wakened him. Had the wind turned? The bay was a perfect shelter, but a storm could send a surge down the channels that might weaken his anchors’ grip on the clay bottom. For a moment, he thought of turning over in his narrow bunk and letting sleep come again. He had drunk too much with the others that evening and the slippery grease of roasted meat had hardened into wax spatters on his skin. He rubbed idly at a spot, scratching off the residue of the feast with a fingernail. No doubt his officers were sleeping off the drink and someone had to patrol the ship each hour. He sighed and reached around him in the dark for his clothes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale wine and food that wafted from them.

‘Should know better,’ he muttered to himself, wincing as a flare of bitter acid made its presence felt up his throat. He wondered if it was worth waking Cabera to make him mix some of the chalky gruel that seemed to help.

There was a sudden scuffling outside his door and the sound of a body striking the deck. Celsus frowned, taking his dagger from the hook out of habit rather than alarm as he opened the door and looked out.

There was a shadow there, featureless and dark against the starlight above.

‘Where’s my money?’ Julius whispered.

Celsus shouted in shock, barging forward and hammering his arm against the figure as he went. He felt hard fingers grab his hair as he came out onto the deck and his head was jerked back for a moment before they slipped. He scrambled away, bellowing, wary of the blade he imagined coming for his unprotected back.

The main deck was a confused mass of struggling figures, but no one answered him. Celsus saw that his men were down, too sodden with drink and sleep to put up much of a fight. He skirted the knots of men and raced aft to his armoury. They would make a stand there. It wasn’t lost yet.

Something heavy thumped into his neck and he staggered. His feet tangled in a roped figure and he fell with a crash. The silence was eerie. There were no shouts or orders in the dark, just the grunts and breathing of men who fought for their lives without mercy, using anything that came to their hands. Celsus had a glimpse of one of his men struggling with a thick rope around his neck, clawing at it, then he was up and moving again in the blackness, shaking his head to clear it of panic, his heart racing with wasted strength.

The armoury was surrounded by strangers, their wet skins catching glimmers of starlight as they turned to him. He couldn’t see their eyes and raised his dagger to stab as they slid towards him.

An arm circled his throat from behind and Celsus slashed at it madly, making it fall away with a moan. He spun wildly, waving the blade before him, then the shadows parted and a spark lit the scene like a stroke of lightning, showing him their gleaming eyes for a moment before the dark returned, worse than before.

Julius struck again to light the oil lamp he had taken from Celsus’ own cabin and Celsus cried out in horror as he recognised the young Roman.

‘Justice for the dead, Celsus,’ Julius said as he played the light over the man’s stricken features. ‘We have almost all your men, though some have barricaded themselves in down below. They’ll keep.’

His eyes glittered in the lamplight and Celsus felt his arms gripped with awful finality as the others moved in on him, yanking the dagger from his fingers. Julius leaned in close until they were almost touching.

‘The oarsmen are being chained to their benches. Your crew will hang from crosses as I promised you. I claim this ship for Rome and for the house of Caesar.’

Celsus gazed at him in stupefied fascination. His mouth hung loosely as he tried to understand what had happened, but the effort was beyond him.

Without warning, Julius punched him hard in the belly. Celsus could feel the acid leap in his stomach and choked for a second as his throat filled with bitterness. He sagged in the arms of his captors and Julius stood back. Celsus lunged at him suddenly, breaking the relaxing grip of the men behind. He crashed into Julius and they both went down, the lamp spilling its oil over the deck. In the confusion, the Romans moved to put out the fire with the instinctive fear of those who sailed wooden ships. Celsus landed a blow on the struggling figure beneath him and then leapt for the side of his ship, desperate to get away.

The giant figure of Ciro blocked him and he never saw the blade he ran onto. In agony, he looked up at the face of his killer and saw nothing there, only blankness. Then he was gone, sliding off the sword onto the deck.

Julius sat up, panting. He could hear the crack of timbers nearby as his men forced their way into barricaded cabins. It was nearly over and he smiled, wincing as his lips bled from some blow he’d taken in the struggle.

Cabera walked towards him over the wooden deck. He looked a little thinner, if that were possible, and the wide smile had at least one more tooth missing than the one Julius remembered. Still, it was the same face.

‘I told them over and over you would come, but they didn’t believe me,’ Cabera said cheerfully.

Julius stood and embraced him, overwhelmed by relief at seeing the old man safe. There were no words that needed to be said.

‘Let’s go and see how much of our ransoms Celsus managed to spend,’ he said at last. ‘Lamps! Lamps over here! Bring them down to the hold.’

Cabera and the others followed him quickly down a flight of steps so steep as to be almost a ladder. Every jostling man there was as interested as he was in what they might find. The guards had been drunk and easily taken in the first attack, but the barred door was still closed as Julius had ordered. He paused with his hand on it, breathless with anticipation. The hold could be empty, he knew. On the other hand, it could be full.

The door gave easily to axes and as Julius was followed in, the oil lamps lit the hollow space which lay just below the oar decks. The angry muttering of the rowers sounded as ghostly echoes in the confined space. Their reward for allegiance to Celsus would be slavery, the only trained crew in Rome’s service.

Julius took a sharp breath. The hold was lined with great shelves of thick oak, running all the way around its walls from the floor to the high ceiling. Each shelf held riches. There were crates of gold coins and small silver bars in stacks, placed carefully so as not to affect the balance of the ship. Julius shook his head in disbelief. What he saw in front of him was enough to buy a small kingdom in some parts of the world. Celsus must have been driven mad with worry over such treasures. Julius doubted he ever left his ship, with so much to lose. The only thing he couldn’t see was the packet of drafts that Marius had given him before his death. He’d always known they would be worthless to Celsus, who could never have drawn the large sums from the city treasury without his background becoming known. Part of Julius had hoped they hadn’t gone down with Accipiter, but the money lost was nothing compared to the gold they had won in return.

The men who entered with him were struck dumb at what they saw. Only Cabera and Gaditicus moved further into the hold, checking and appraising the contents of each shelf. Gaditicus paused suddenly and pulled a crate out with a grunt. It had an eagle burned onto the wood and he broke the lid with his sword hilt with all the enthusiasm of a child.

His fist came out holding bright silver coins, freshly minted. Each was marked with the characters of Rome and the head of Cornelius Sulla.

‘We can clear our names returning these,’ he said with satisfaction, looking at Julius.

Julius chuckled at the older man’s sense of priorities.

‘With this ship to replace Accipiter, they should welcome us as long-lost sons. We know she’s faster than most of ours,’ Julius replied. He saw that Cabera was slipping a number of valuable items into the folds of his robe, held from falling by the tight belt that cinched his waist. Julius raised his eyes in amusement.

Gaditicus began to laugh as he let the coins trickle back through his fingers into the crate.

‘We can go home,’ he said. ‘Finally, we can go home.’

Julius refused to allow Captain Durus to take the two triremes he’d been promised in exchange for his lost cargo, knowing it would be foolish to strip their defences until they were safe in a Roman port. While Durus raged at this decision, Gaditicus visited Julius in the cabin that had belonged to Celsus, now scrubbed clean and bare. The younger man paced up and down its length as they talked, unable to relax.

Gaditicus sipped at a cup of wine, savouring Celsus’ choice.

‘We could land at the legion port at Thessalonica, Julius, and hand over the legion silver and the ship. When we’re cleared, we could sail round the coast, or even march west to Dyrrhachium and take ship for Rome. We’re so close now. Durus says he’ll swear we had a business arrangement, so any charges for piracy won’t run.’

‘There’s still that soldier Ciro killed on the docks,’ Julius said slowly, deep in thought.

Gaditicus shrugged. ‘Soldiers die and it’s not as if he butchered him. The man was just unlucky. They won’t be able to make anything stick now. We’re free to return.’

‘What will you do? You have enough to retire on, I should think.’

‘Perhaps. I was thinking of using my share to pay the Senate for the slaves that went down with Accipiter. If I do that, they might even send me back to sea as captain. We’ve taken two pirate ships, after all, which they can’t overlook.’

Julius rose and took the other man’s arm.

‘I owe you a great deal more than that, you know.’

Gaditicus gripped the arm that held him.

‘There’s no debt to me, lad. When we were in that stinking cell … and friends died, my will went with them for a while.’

‘You were the captain, though, Gadi. You could have stood on your authority.’

Gaditicus smiled a little ruefully.

‘A man who needs to do that may find he isn’t standing very high after all.’

‘You’re a good man, you know – and a fine captain,’ Julius said, wishing he had better words for his friend. He knew it had taken a rare strength for Gaditicus to swallow his pride, but without that they would never have been able to take back their lives and honour.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘If it’s what you want, we’ll cross to Greece and rejoin civilisation.’

Gaditicus smiled with him. ‘What will you do with your share of the gold?’ he asked, a little warily.

Only Suetonius had complained when Julius had claimed half for himself, with the rest to be shared equally. After taking out the Roman silver and the ransoms for the Accipiter officers, the shares they would get were still more money than they would ever have expected to see. Suetonius had not spoken a word to Julius since being given his allotted sum, but his was the only sullen face on the three ships. The rest of them looked on Julius with something like awe.

‘I don’t know what I’ll do, yet,’ Julius said, his smile fading. ‘I can’t go back to Rome, you remember.’

‘Sulla?’ Gaditicus said, recalling the young man who had joined his galley just before the tide at Ostia, his face soot-streaked from the burning city behind him.

Julius nodded grimly.

‘I can’t return while he lives,’ he muttered, his mood darkening as quickly as it had lifted.

‘You’re young to be worrying about that, you know. Some enemies can be beaten, but some you just have to outlive. Safer too.’

Julius thought about the conversation as they slipped through the deep-water channel that sheltered Thessalonica from the storms of the Aegean Sea. The three ships ran abreast before the gusting wind with their sails cracking and every spare hand on the decks to clean and polish. He had ordered three flags of the Republic made for the masts and when they rounded the last bay to the port, it would be a sight to lift Roman hearts. He sighed to himself. Rome was everything he knew. Tubruk, Cornelia and Marcus, when they met again. His mother. For the first time he could remember, he wanted to see her, just to say that he understood her illness and that he was sorry. A life in exile was not to be borne. He shivered slightly as the wind cut at his skin.

Gaditicus came up to the rail by his elbow. ‘Something’s not right, lad. Where are the trading ships? The galleys? This should be a busy port.’

Julius strained his eyes to see the land they approached. Thin streams of smoke lifted into the air, too many to be cooking fires. As they came close enough to dock, he could see that the only other ships in the port were listing badly, bearing signs of fire. One was little better than a gutted shell. The water was covered in a scum of sodden ashes and broken wood.

The rest of the men came to stand at the rail and watched the unfolding scene of desolation in stricken silence. They could see bodies rotting in the weak sunlight. Small dogs tugged at them, making the splayed limbs twitch and jump in a vulgar parody of life.

The three ships moored and the soldiers disembarked without breaking the unnatural stillness, hands ready on their swords without having to be ordered. Julius went with them, after telling Gaditicus to stay ready for a fast retreat. The Roman captain accepted the order with a nod, quickly assembling a small group to stay with him to handle the rowers.

On the faded brown stone of the docks, women and children lay together, great wounds in their flesh filled with clouds of buzzing flies that rose humming at the approach of the soldiers. The smell was appalling, even with the chill breeze coming off the sea. Most of the bodies were Roman legionaries, their armour still bright over black tunics.

Julius walked past the clumps of them with the others, recreating the action in his mind. He saw many bloodstains around each group of the dead, no doubt where the enemy had fallen and been dragged away for burial. To leave the Roman bodies where they lay was a deliberate insult, an act of contempt that began to kindle a rage in Julius that he saw reflected in the eyes of those around him. They walked with swords held ready, stalking the streets in growing anger and chasing rats and dogs away from the corpses. But there was no enemy to challenge. The port was deserted.

Julius stood breathing heavily through his mouth, looking at the broken body of a small girl in the arms of a soldier who had been stabbed in the back as he ran with her. Their skin had blackened from exposure, the hardening flesh creeping back to reveal their teeth and dark tongues.

‘Gods, who could have done this?’ Prax whispered to himself.

Julius’ face was a bitter mask. ‘We’ll find out. These are my people. They cry out to us, Prax, and I will answer them.’

Prax glanced at him and felt the manic energy pouring off the younger man. When Julius turned to face him, he looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

‘Form a burial crew. Gaditicus can say the prayers over them when they are in the ground.’ Julius paused and looked at the horizon, where the sun burned a dull winter copper.

‘And get the rest of them out cutting down trees. We’ll do the crucifixions here, along this coast. It will serve as a warning to whoever is responsible for this.’

Prax saluted and ran back to the mooring point, pleased to get away from the stench of death and the young officer whose words frightened him, for all he thought he’d known the man before.

Julius stood impassively while the first five men were nailed to the rough-cut trunks. Each cross was raised with ropes until the upright slid into the holes to hold them, made steady with hammered wooden wedges. The pirates screamed until their throats were raw and no more sound came but the whistle of air. From one of them, bloody sweat dribbled from his armpits and groin, thin crimson lines that wrote ugly patterns on his skin.

The third man spasmed in agony as the iron spike was thumped through his wrist into the soft wood of the crossbeam. He wept and pleaded like a child, pulling his other arm away with all his strength until it was gripped and held for the blows of the hammer and the nail that speared him through.

Before his men completed the brutal task with his shuddering legs, Julius walked forward as if in a daze, drawing his sword slowly. His men froze at his approach and he ignored them, seeming to speak his thoughts aloud.

‘No more of this,’ he muttered, thrusting his sword into the man’s throat. There was a look of relief in the eyes as they glazed and Julius looked away as he wiped his sword, hating his own weakness, but unable to stand watching any longer.

‘Kill the rest quickly,’ he ordered, before walking alone back to the ship. His thoughts ran wildly as he strode across the dock stones, sheathing his sword without being aware of it. He’d promised to put them all on crosses, but the reality was an ugliness he could not bear. The screaming had cut through his nerves and made him ashamed. It had taken all his will to see the first few nailed after the horror of the first.

He grimaced in anger at himself. His father would not have weakened. Renius would have nailed them himself and not lost sleep. He felt his cheeks burn with shame and spat on the dock as he reached the edge. Still, he could not have stood with his men and watched any longer, and walking away from them alone would have damaged him in their eyes, after his own orders began the cruel deaths.

Cabera had refused to join the legionaries on the dock for the executions. He stood at the rail of the ship with his head on one side in unspoken question. Julius looked at him and shrugged. The old healer patted him on the arm and produced an amphora of wine in his other hand.

‘Good idea,’ Julius said distantly, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Fetch a second, though, would you? I don’t want dreams tonight.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

Only a few of the port buildings had roofs and walls secure enough to be used by Julius’ men. Too many of the others had been torched, with just their stone walls standing as empty shells. Alternating between the warehouses and the three ships, Julius sent his men scouring the local area for supplies. Though Celsus had laid in enough to last him most of a winter, it would hardly serve to feed so many active soldiers for long.

The legionaries walked warily as they searched, never alone and always with an eye for a surprise attack. Even with the bodies cleared and in the earth, the port was a silent, brooding place and they lived with the thought that whoever had destroyed the peaceful Roman settlement could still be close, or coming back.

They found only one man alive. His leg had been gashed and infection had set in quickly. They found him when they heard him move to kill a rat that came too close to the smell of blood. He smashed its head with a stone and then yelled in terror as Julius’ men took him by the arms and brought him out into the light. After days in darkness, the man could hardly bear even the weak morning sun and he babbled crazily at them as they dragged him back to the ships.

Julius summoned Cabera as soon as he saw the swollen leg, though he guessed it was useless. The man’s lips were rimed dry crusts and he wept without tears as they tipped a bowl of water into his mouth. Cabera probed the puffy flesh of the leg with his long fingers, finally shaking his head. He stood to one side with Julius.

‘It has turned poisonous and reached right up to his groin. It’s too late to take it off. I can try to ease the pain of it, but he hasn’t much time left.’

‘Can’t you … put your hands on him?’ Julius asked the old man.

‘He’s gone too far, Julius. He should be dead already.’

Julius nodded with bitter resignation, taking the bowl from his men and helping the man to hold it to his lips. The skeletal fingers shook too much to keep it still and as Julius held one of them, he almost recoiled from the fever heat that burned through the taut skin.

‘Can you understand me?’ he asked.

The man tried to nod as he sipped and choked horribly, turning bright red with the efforts that tore at his remaining strength.

‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Julius pressed, willing the man to breathe.

Finally the spasms died and the man let his head fall onto his chest, exhausted.

‘They killed everyone. The whole country’s in flames,’ he whispered.

‘A rebellion?’ Julius asked quickly. He had expected some foreign invader, rampaging through a few coastal towns before returning to their ships. It happened all too often in that part of the world. The man nodded, motioning with his quivering fingers for the water bowl. Julius passed it to him, watching as he emptied it.

‘It was Mithridates,’ the man said, his voice hoarse and raw. ‘When Sulla died, he called them …’ He coughed again and Julius stood in shock, walking out onto the deck and away from the ripe smell of sickness that had filled the room. Sulla was dead? He gripped the rail of Celsus’ ship until his hands cramped. He hoped it had been a slow agony for the man who had taken Marius from him.

Some part of him had imagined scenes where he would return to Rome with his new men, rich and growing in power, to battle Sulla and revenge Marius. In his quieter moments he knew it for a child’s fantasy, but it had sustained him for a long time, a dream that made the months in the cell, the fits, all of it bearable.

As the day wore on, Julius threw himself into the thousand tasks that needed to be organised as they secured the port area. The orders he gave and the men he spoke to seemed distant, as he tried to think his way through the news he had heard from the dying man. At least organising the provisions and billets gave him something to occupy him. Sulla’s death left a hole in his future, an emptiness that mocked his efforts.

The merchant Durus found him clearing a well of poison with three of the legionaries. It was common enough for an invading force to sour local water with rotting animals and Julius was working numbly with the others, pulling up slimy dead chickens and trying not to gag at the smell as they were thrown aside.

‘I need to have a word with you, sir,’ Durus said.

At first, Julius didn’t seem to hear him and he repeated it more loudly. Julius sighed and crossed over to him, leaving the other soldiers to drop the hooked ropes for another try. Julius wiped his stinking hands on his tunic as he walked and Durus saw that he was exhausted, suddenly realising how young the man was. With tiredness banking the fires in him, he looked almost lost. The merchant cleared his throat.

‘I’d like to leave with my two triremes, sir. I’ve put my name to a letter saying you hired Ventulus to hunt pirates. It’s time for me to get back to my family and my life.’

Julius looked steadily at him without replying. After a pause, Durus started again. ‘We did agree that when you found Celsus I would have my ship and the other trireme to make up for the lost cargo. I don’t have any complaints, but I need you to give the order to have your men leave my ships so I can sail home. They won’t take orders from me, sir.’

Julius felt torn and angry. He had never realised how hard it could be to keep some semblance of honour alive. He had promised Durus the two ships, but that was before he found the Greek port ravaged by a war. What did the man expect? Every martial instinct drummed into Julius said to refuse flatly. How could he think of giving up two of his most valuable assets with Mithridates cutting everything Roman from the flesh of Greece?

‘Walk with me,’ he said to Durus, striding past him so that the captain had to break into a trot to keep up. Julius walked quickly back to the docks where the three ships were moving gently in the swell. His guards saluted him as he approached and Julius returned the gesture, halting suddenly at the edge, where the galleys loomed over them both.

‘I don’t want you to go home,’ he said curtly.

Durus coloured with surprise. ‘You gave me your word I could leave when you had taken Celsus’ ship,’ he snapped.

Julius turned to him and the captain gulped silently at his expression.

‘I do not need to be reminded, Captain. I will not stop you leaving. However, Rome needs these ships.’ He thought for a long time, his eyes dark as he watched the ships rise and settle in the dirty waters.

‘I want you to take them round the coast as fast as you can and find whichever port Rome is using to land the legions in the west. Hand over the legion silver in my name … and in the name of Captain Gaditicus of Accipiter. They will put you on the run back to Rome for more soldiers, I should think. There’s no profit for you in that, but both ships are fast and they’ll need anything that can float.’

Durus shifted his weight from one foot to another, astonished.

‘I am months overdue. My family and creditors will think I’m dead as it is,’ he said, playing for time.

‘Romans have died, did you not see the bodies? Gods, I’m asking you for a service to the city that bore and raised you. You’ve never fought for her or bled for her. I’m giving you a chance to pay back a little of what you owe.’

Durus almost smiled at the words, but stopped himself as he realised the young man was completely serious. He wondered what his city friends would make of this soldier. He seemed to have a view of the city that had nothing to do with beggars and rats and disease. He realised that Julius saw the city as something greater than he did, and for a moment, he felt a touch of shame in the face of that belief.

‘How do you know I won’t take the money and head straight for northern Italy and home?’ he asked.

Julius frowned slightly, turning his cold eyes on the merchant.

‘Because if you do, I will be your enemy and you know well enough that I will find you eventually and destroy you.’ The words were casually spoken, but after watching the executions and hearing how Celsus had been thrown over the side of his own ship, Durus wrapped his robe tightly around himself against the chill wind.

‘Very well. I will do as you say, though I curse the day you first stepped onto Ventulus,’ he replied through gritted teeth.

Julius called up to the guards at the prows of Durus’ ships.

‘My men to disembark!’

The soldiers in sight saluted and disappeared to fetch the others. Durus felt a wave of relief leave him giddy.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Julius paused as he began to walk back to the storehouses. Behind him, where the stone docks faded into soil, five figures hung from crosses.

‘Don’t forget,’ he said, then turned his back on the captain and strode away.

Durus doubted that was possible.

As night fell, the men gathered in the best of the storehouses. One of the walls was scorched, but the fire hadn’t taken. Apart from the acrid smell in the air, it was warm and dry. Outside, it had begun to rain, a low drumming on the thin wooden roof.

The oil lamps came from Celsus’ ship and once they were gone, the men would be reduced to finding private supplies in the abandoned houses of the port. As if to prepare the soldiers for that moment, the flames guttered low, barely lighting the empty space of the store. Corn kernels spilled by looters littered the floor and the soldiers sat on torn sacking, making themselves comfortable as best they could.

Gaditicus rose to speak to the huddled men. Most had been working all day, either repairing the roof or shifting supplies to and from the ships that would leave on the dawn tide.

‘It is time to consider the future, gentlemen. I’d wanted to rest for a while in a solid Roman port before contacting home. Instead, a Greek king has butchered our soldiers. It must not go unpunished.’

A mutter ran through the men, though whether in agreement or frustration it was difficult to tell. Julius looked over them as he sat by Gaditicus. They were his men. He had spent so long with the simple goal of finding and killing Celsus that he had never given much thought to what would come afterwards, barring the distant dream of one day confronting the Dictator of Rome. If he brought a new century into a legion, the Senate would have to recognise his authority with an official post.

He grimaced silently in the shadows. Or they might not, putting Gaditicus in charge and reducing Julius back to commanding only twenty of them. The Senate were not the sort to recognise the unusual authority he possessed over the motley group, though his new wealth could give him influence if he used it wisely. He wondered if he could be satisfied with such a position and smiled to himself, unnoticed by the men watching Gaditicus. There was a simple answer. He’d learned there was nothing finer than leading and nothing more of a challenge than having no one to ask for help. At the worst times, they had looked to him to know the way forward, to see the next step. The gods knew it was far easier to follow, without thought, but not half so satisfying. Part of him longed for that security, the simple pleasure in being part of a unit. But in his heart he wanted the heady mixture of fear and danger that came only with command.

How could Sulla be dead? The thought returned again and again to nag at him. The wounded man on board Celsus’ ship had known nothing of it, just that the soldiers had been told to wear black for a whole year. When the man had fallen unconscious, Julius had left him in Cabera’s hands and as the sun sank, the man died, his heart failing at last. Julius had ordered him buried with the other Roman corpses and it shamed him when he thought he had never even asked the man’s name.

‘Julius? Do you want to speak to them?’ Gaditicus said, breaking into his thoughts and making him jump. Guiltily, he realised he hadn’t heard anything the older officer had said. He stood slowly, marshalling his thoughts.

‘I know most of you hoped to see Rome and you will. My city is a strange place: marble and dreams, borne up with the strength of the legions. Every legionary is bound by oath to protect our people anywhere you find them. All a Roman has to do is say “I am a Roman citizen” and be guaranteed our shelter and authority.’ He paused and every eye in the storehouse was on him.

‘But you have not taken that oath and I cannot compel you to fight for a city you have never seen. You have more wealth than most soldiers would see in ten years. You must make a free choice – to serve under oath, or to leave. If you leave us, you will go as friends. We have fought together and some have not made it this far. For others of you, it may be far enough. If you stay, I will give Celsus’ treasure into the care of Captain Durus, who will meet us on the west coast when Mithridates is beaten.’

Another low rumble of voices filled the room as he paused again.

‘Can you trust Durus?’ Gaditicus asked him.

Julius thought for a moment, then shook his head.

‘Not with so much gold. I will leave Prax to keep him honest.’ He searched out his old optio and was pleased to see him signal consent. With that settled, Julius took a deep breath as he looked over the seated men. He could name them all.

‘Will you take the legion oath and be sworn to my command?’

They roared their agreement at him.

Gaditicus whispered harshly, leaning close to Julius’ ear, ‘Gods, man. The Senate will have my balls if I do!’

‘You should leave then, Gadi, join Suetonius back at the ship while I give them the oath,’ Julius replied.

Gaditicus looked at him coolly, weighing him up. ‘I wondered why you left him there. He’ll take no oath he wouldn’t break,’ he said. ‘Have you thought where you will lead them?’

‘I have. I’m going to raise an army and lead them straight down Mithridates’ throat.’

He held out his hand and Gaditicus hesitated, then took it in a brief grip that was almost painful.

‘Then our path is the same,’ he said and Julius nodded his understanding.

Julius raised his arms for quiet, smiling as it came. His voice carried clearly in the sudden silence. ‘I never doubted you,’ he said to the men. ‘Not for a moment. Now stand and repeat these words.’

They rose as one and stood to attention, with heads raised and backs straight.

Julius looked round at them and knew he was committed to his course. There was nothing in him to say turn back, but with the oath, his life would change until Mithridates was dead.

He spoke the words his father had taught him when the world was simple.

‘Jupiter Victor, hear this oath. We pledge our strength, our blood, our lives to Rome. We will not turn. We will not break. We will not mind suffering or pain.

‘While there is light, from here until the end of the world, we stand for Rome and the command of Caesar.’

They chanted the words after him, their voices clear and firm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alexandria tried to watch without being obvious as Tabbic explained a technique to Octavian, his voice a constant low murmur accompanying each movement of his powerful hands. On the workbench in front of them, Tabbic had laid a thick piece of gold wire on a square of leather. Both ends of the wire were trapped in tiny wooden clamps and Tabbic was gesturing to show how Octavian should move a narrow wooden block over the wire.

‘Gold is the softest metal, boy. To make a pattern in the wire, all you have to do is press the marking block gently against it and run it back and forth, keeping your arm very straight as I showed you. Try it.’

Octavian brought the block down slowly, letting the ridged teeth of the underside rest on the fragile-looking line of precious metal.

‘That’s the way, now use a little more pressure. That’s it, back and forth. Good. Let’s see it, then,’ Tabbic continued. Octavian lifted the block clear and beamed as he saw the regular series of beads that had been formed by the pressure. Tabbic peered at it, nodding.

‘You have a light touch. Too much pressure will snap the wire and you have to go back to the beginning. Now I’ll free the clamps and turn it over for you to finish the beading. Line the block up carefully and be as gentle as you can this time; the joints will be thin as the hairs of your head.’

Tabbic caught Alexandria’s eye as he stretched his back, aching after bending so long at the low bench he had made for Octavian. She winked at him and he blushed slightly, clearing his throat gruffly to hide a smile. She knew he had begun to enjoy the lessons with Octavian. It had taken a long time for him to lose a portion of his mistrust for the little thief, but she had known from his work with her how much he enjoyed teaching his skill.

Octavian cursed as the narrow wire gave under his hand. Ruefully, he lifted the block to reveal three cut pieces. Tabbic brought his heavy eyebrows together and shook his head, gathering the broken pieces up carefully to be melted and rolled once more.

‘We’ll try again later, or tomorrow. You nearly had it that time. When you can mark the full wire neatly, I’ll show you how to fix it as a rim for one of the lady’s brooches.’

Octavian looked downcast, and Alexandria held her breath as she waited to see if he would throw one of the violent tantrums with which he’d plagued them for the first few weeks. When it didn’t come, she let the air out of her lungs with a slow rush of relief.

‘All right. I’d like that,’ he said slowly.

Tabbic turned away from him, searching through the packages of finished work that had to be taken back to their owners.

‘I have another job for you,’ he said, handing over a tiny pouch of leather, folded and tied. ‘This is a silver ring I repaired. I want you to run over to the cattle market and ask for Master Gethus. He runs the sales, so he won’t be hard to find. He should give you a sesterce for the work. You take the coin and run straight back here, stopping for nothing. Understand? I’m trusting you. If you lose the ring or the coin, you and I are finished.’

Alexandria could have laughed out loud at the little boy’s earnest expression. Such a threat would have been worthless for the first weeks of the apprenticeship. Octavian wouldn’t have minded being left alone. He had struggled mightily against the combined efforts of his mother, Tabbic and Alexandria. Twice she’d had to search the local markets for him, and the second time she’d dragged him to the slave blocks to have him valued. He hadn’t run again after that, instead adopting a sullenness Alexandria thought might be permanent.

The change had come midway through the fourth week of work, when Tabbic showed him how to make a pattern on a sheet of silver with tiny droplets of the molten metal. Though the little boy had burned his thumb when he tried to touch it, the process had fascinated him and he’d missed his dinner that night, staying to watch the final piece being polished. His mother Atia had arrived at the shop with her tired face full of apology. Seeing the tiny figure still working with the graded polishing cloths had left her speechless, but Alexandria woke the next morning to find her clothes had been cleaned and mended neatly in the night. No other thanks were necessary between them. Though the two women saw each other for only an hour or two each day before sleep, they had both found friendship of the kind that can surprise two reserved and private people, working so hard that they never realised they were lonely.

Octavian whistled as he trotted through the crowds at the cattle market. When the farmers brought their animals into the city for bidding and slaughter, it was a busy place, rich with the warm scents of manure and blood. Everyone seemed to be shouting to each other, making complicated gestures with their hands to bid when they couldn’t be heard.

Octavian looked for one of the sellers, to ask for Gethus. He wanted to pass over the mended ring and get back to Tabbic’s shop faster than the adults would believe.

As he wove around the shifting mass of people, he entertained himself by imagining Tabbic’s surprise at his speedy return.

A hand grabbed suddenly at his neck and the little boy was lifted off his feet with a lurch, his feet slipping. He let out a blast of shocked wind at the interruption to his thoughts, struggling wildly in instinct against his attacker.

‘Trying to steal someone’s cow, are you?’ a hard, nasal voice sounded by his ear.

He jerked his head around, groaning as he saw the heavy features of the butcher’s boy he’d crossed before. What had he been thinking? Like a fool, he’d dropped his usual guard for predators and they’d caught him without the slightest effort.

‘Let me go! Help!’ he yelled.

The older boy smacked him hard across the nose, making it bleed.

‘Shut up, you. I owe you a beating anyway, in return for the one I got for not stopping you last time.’ The burly arm was wrapped around Octavian’s neck, squeezing his throat as he was dragged backwards into an alleyway. He strained to get away, but it was hopeless and the rushing crowd didn’t even look in his direction.

There were three other boys with the butcher’s apprentice. All of them had the long-armed rangy growth of children used to hard physical work. They wore aprons stained with fresh blood from their labours at the market and Octavian panicked, almost fainting with terror at their cruel expressions. The boys jeered and punched at him as they turned a corner in the alley. There, the din of the market was cut off by the high walls of tenements that leaned out above, almost meeting the ones opposite and creating an unnatural darkness.

The butcher’s boy threw Octavian into the sluggish filth that was ankle deep in the alleyway, a combination of years of refuse and human waste thrown from the narrow windows above. Octavian scrambled to one side to escape, but one of them kicked him hard enough to shove him back into place, lifting the small body and grunting with the impact. Octavian screamed with pain and fear as the other two joined the first, kicking with hard feet at whatever part of him they could reach.

After a minute, the three boys rested with their hands on their knees, panting with effort. Octavian was barely conscious, his body curled into a tight ball of misery, hardly distinguishable from the dirt he lay in.

The butcher’s boy pulled back his lips into a sneer, raising his fist and laughing coarsely as Octavian flinched from him.

‘Serves you right, you little Thurin bastard. You’ll think twice before stealing from my master next time, won’t you?’ He took careful aim and kicked Octavian in the face, whooping as the small head was rocked back. Octavian lay senseless with his eyes open and his face half submerged. Some dirty water flowed between his lips and, even unconscious, he began to cough and choke weakly. He didn’t feel the fingers that searched him or hear the pleased shout when the older boys found the silver ring in its protective pouch.

The butcher’s boy whistled softly as he tried on the metal band. The stone was a simple dome of heavy jade, held to the metal with tiny silver claws.

‘I wonder who you stole this from?’ he said, glancing at the prone figure. Each of them kicked the boy once more on behalf of the owner of the ring, then they walked back to the market, thoroughly pleased with the upturn in their fortunes.

Octavian woke hours later, sitting up slowly and retching for minutes as he tested his legs to see if they could hold him. He felt weak and too sore to move for a long time, crouched over and spitting elastic strands of dark blood onto the ground. When his head cleared enough, he searched his pocket for the ring, then the ground all around him. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had lost it and fresh tears cut through the dirt and crusted blood on his face. He staggered back to the main road and sheltered his eyes against the painful sunlight. Still crying, on unsteady feet, he made his way back to Tabbic’s shop, his mind blank with despair.

Tabbic tapped his foot on the wood of the shop floor, anger in every line of his frowning face.

‘By hell, I’m going to kill the brat for this. He should have been back ages ago.’

‘So you’ve been saying for the last hour, Tabbic. Perhaps he was delayed, or couldn’t find Master Gethus,’ Alexandria replied, keeping her voice neutral.

Tabbic thumped a fist on the worktop. ‘Or perhaps he’s sold the ring and run away, more likely!’ he growled. ‘I’ll have to make it good, you know. Jade stone, as well. It’ll cost me a day of work and most of an aureus in materials to make Gethus a new one. No doubt he’ll claim his dying mother gave it to him and want compensation on top of that. Where is that boy?’

The thick wooden door to the shop creaked open, letting in a swirl of dust from the street. Octavian stood there. Tabbic took one look at his bruises and torn tunic and crossed over to him, his anger vanishing.

‘I’m sorry,’ the little boy cried as Tabbic guided him deeper into the shop. ‘I tried to fight them, but there was three and no one came to help me.’ He yelped as Tabbic probed his heaving chest, looking for broken bones.

The metalsmith grunted, whistling air through his closed teeth.

‘They did a fair job on you, right enough. How’s your breathing?’

Octavian wiped his running nose gingerly with the back of a hand.

‘It’s all right. I came back as quick as I could. I didn’t see them in the crowd. Usually I keep a lookout for them, but I was hurrying and …’ He broke off into sobs and Alexandria put her arm around him, waving Tabbic away.

‘Go on with you, Tabbic. He doesn’t want an examination. He’s had a bad time and he needs care and rest.’

Tabbic stood clear as she took the boy into the back room and up the stairs to his home above the shop. Alone, he sighed and rubbed his grizzled face with a hand, scratching at the grey stubble that had come through since his morning shave. Shaking his head, he turned to his bench and began selecting the tools he would need to remake the ring for Gethus.

He worked in silence for a few minutes, then paused and looked back at the narrow stairs as a thought struck him.

‘I’ll have to make you a decent knife, my lad,’ he muttered to himself, before taking up the tools once more. After a while, as he was sketching the setting with chalk, he murmured, ‘And teach you to use the thing, as well.’

Brutus stood on the Campus Martius, with the eagle standard of Primigenia in the ground at his side. He had been pleased to see that some of the other recruiting legions had to use banners of woven cloth, whereas the old standard Marius had made had been found for him. Hammered gold over copper, it caught the morning sun and he hoped it would catch the eye of more than a few of the crowd of boys who had been gathering since before dawn. Not all of them would be signing on with a legion. Some had come just to watch, and for those the food-sellers had set up stalls before first light. The smells of grilled meat and vegetables made him hungry and he thought of getting an early lunch, jingling the coins in his pouch as he eyed the crowd around the line of standards.

He’d expected it to be easier. Renius looked every inch a lion of the old Rome and the ten men they’d brought with them were impressive in new armour, polished to a high sheen for the admiration of the crowd. Yet Brutus had been forced to watch as, all along the line, hundreds of young Romans signed up to be legionaries without one of them coming near his post. A few times, smaller groups had gathered, pointing and whispering, then moved on. He’d been tempted to grab a couple of the lads and find out what they’d said, but he held his temper. With noon close, the crowd had halved and, as far as he could see, Primigenia was the only standard not to be surrounded by windfalls from the new generation.

He gritted his teeth. The ones who had already joined would attract more to those eagles. By now, he imagined people asking what was wrong with Primigenia that no one wanted to join it. Hands would cover mouths and they would whisper with puerile excitement of the traitor legion. He cleared his throat and spat on the sandy soil. The testing finished at sundown and there was nothing to do but stand and wait for it to end, hoping perhaps to pick up a few stragglers as the light faded. The thought made him burn with embarrassment. He knew if Marius had been there, he would have been walking amongst the young men, cajoling, joking, and persuading them to join his legion. Of course, back then there had been a legion to join.

Brutus resumed his sullen appraisal of the crowd, wishing he could make them understand. Three young men wandered towards his standard and he smiled at them as welcomingly as he could.

‘Primigenia, is it?’ one of them said.

Brutus watched as the others hid smiles. They were there for sport, he guessed. For a fleeting instant, he considered knocking their heads together, but he controlled himself, sensing the eyes of his ten men on him. He could feel Renius bristle at his side, but the older man kept his peace.

‘We were the legion of Marius, Consul of Rome,’ he said, ‘victors in Africa and all over Roman lands. There is a glorious history here, for the right men who join us.’

‘What’s the pay like then?’ the tallest said, with a mock-serious tone.

Brutus took a slow breath. They knew the Senate set the pay for all legions. With Crassus to back him, he would have loved to offer more, but the limit was there to prevent wealthy sponsors undermining the whole system.

‘Seventy-five denarii, same as the others,’ he replied quickly.

‘Hold on, Primigenia? Weren’t they the ones who smashed the city up?’ the tall boy asked as if he had been given a sudden revelation. He turned to his grinning friends, who were happy to let him give the show.

‘It is!’ he said, delighted. ‘Sulla broke them, didn’t he? They were led by some traitor or other.’

The tall one paused as he caught the change in his friends’ expressions, realising he had gone too far. As he turned back, Brutus swung his fist, but Renius blocked the blow with an outstretched arm. The three young men all flinched at the threat, but their leader quickly recovered his confidence, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

Before he could speak, Renius stepped in close to him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Germinius Cato,’ he replied haughtily. ‘You will have heard of my father.’

Renius turned to the soldiers behind him.

‘Put his name down. He’s in.’

The arrogance faded into amazement as Germinius watched his name inked onto the bare scroll.

‘You can’t do that! My father will have your …’

‘You’re in, boy. In front of witnesses,’ Renius replied. ‘These men will swear it was voluntary. When we dismiss you, you’ll be free to run and tell your father how proud you are.’

Cato’s son glared at the older men, his confidence surging back.

‘My name will be off that scroll before sundown,’ he said.

Renius stepped close to him again.

‘Tell him Renius took the name. He’ll know me. Tell him you’ll always be known as the boy who tried to back out of serving the city in the legions. He’ll be destroyed if something like that gets out, wouldn’t you say? You think you’ll follow in his footsteps after shame like that? The Senate don’t like cowards, boy.’

The young man paled with anger and frustration. ‘I will …’ He paused and a terrible doubt crept into his face.

‘What you’ll do is stand by this eagle until we’re ready to give you the oath. Until I’m told different, you’re the first recruit of the day.’

‘You can’t stop me leaving!’ Germinius replied, his voice cracking.

‘Disobeying a lawful order? I’ll have you whipped if you take another step away from me. Stand to attention before I lose my patience!’

The bark of an order held Germinius in impotent rage. Under Renius’ eye, he drew himself straight. At his side, his friends began to edge away.

‘Your names!’ Renius snapped, freezing them. They looked mutely at him and he shrugged.

‘Mark them down as legionaries two and three of the day. That will serve, now I know your faces. Stand straight for the crowd, boys.’ He turned to the soldiers of Primigenia behind him for a moment, ignoring their amazement.

‘If they run,’ he said clearly, ‘I want them dragged back and flogged on the field. It’ll cost us a few recruits, but the others might as well see there’s a hard side to all that glory.’

The three young Romans faced the crowd stiffly and Renius looked surprised as Brutus drew him a few steps out of their hearing.

‘Cato will go berserk,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Of all legions, he won’t want his son in this one.’

Renius cleared his throat and spat on the dusty grass of the field. ‘He won’t want him branded a coward, either. It’s your choice, but you’ll gain nothing by letting them go now. He may try to buy you off or he may endure it. We’ll know in a day or two.’

Brutus looked closely at the old gladiator and shook his head in disbelief.

‘You’ve forced this on me now, so I’ll see it through.’

Renius glanced at him. ‘If you’d hit him, his father would have killed you.’

‘You didn’t know who he was when you stopped me!’ Brutus retorted.

Renius sighed. ‘I taught you better, lad, I really did. What else should I think when a boy wears his father’s crest on a gold ring big enough to buy a house with?’

Brutus blinked at him, then walked over to the three new recruits and examined Germinius’ hand for a moment without speaking. He was about to return to Renius when three more boys detached themselves from the crowd and approached the Primigenia eagle.

‘Sign your names on the scroll there and stand with the others, lads,’ Renius told them. ‘We’ll give you the oath when there’s enough of a crowd.’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he waved them over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Between the heat of Greece and the excuses, Julius was finding it hard to keep his temper. He was desperate for recruits, but the walled Roman city had forgotten its founding duty and every demand was met with delay and discussion.

‘I have the young men. Now bring out the veterans,’ Julius said to the city elder.

‘What? Would you leave us defenceless?’ the man spluttered in indignation.

Julius remained silent, waiting a few moments before replying, as Renius used to. He’d found the small pauses gave weight to his words like nothing else.

‘My men are going directly from here to attack Mithridates. There is no one else for you to defend against. I do not have time to train more farmers to be legionaries, and, from what you say, there is no other Roman force within a hundred miles of here.

‘Every man within these walls who has ever held a sword in service of Rome, I want out here, armed and armoured as best you can.’

The besieged elder began to speak again and Julius interrupted him, raising his voice slightly. ‘I do not expect to have to mention the conditions of their retirement. It would be an attack on their honour for me to remind them that they were given land on the understanding that if Rome called them, they would answer. She calls. Fetch them out.’

The elder turned away, almost running back to the council hall. Julius waited with his men standing to attention at his back. He had suffered enough of the council’s delays and part of him had no sympathy at all. They were in a conquered land and the constant worry of rebellion had become a reality. Did they expect to sit it out behind their fine walls? He wondered what might have happened if Mithridates had reached them first. Hardly worth betting that they would have declared loyalty to him out of fear for their families, throwing open the gates and kneeling in the dust.

‘Someone’s coming up the main street,’ Gaditicus said behind him.

Julius turned to his left and listened to the measured step of at least a century of legionaries. He swore under his breath. The last thing he needed at that moment was to come face to face with another officer from the regular legions.

As they came into sight, Julius’ spirits leapt.

‘Legionaries … halt!’ came a gravelled voice, its bark echoing back from the walls of the small square.

One of Julius’ men whistled softly in surprise at what they saw. The men were old. They wore armour that dated back almost fifty years in some cases, with simpler designs of plate and mail. Their bodies showed the results of decades of war. Some lacked an eye or a hand. Others showed ancient puckered scars on their faces and limbs, poorly stitched, seaming their skin in long crescents.

The commander was a burly man with a shaven head and a powerful set of shoulders. His face was deeply wrinkled, but he still gave an impression of strength that reminded Julius vaguely of Renius as he saluted, judging Julius’ command instinctively by the distance he kept from the others.

‘Quertorus Far reporting, sir. We thought the council would talk all day, so we sent out the call without them. The veterans are ready to be inspected, sir.’

Julius nodded and followed the man, watching as more and more of them entered the square and lined up in neat formation.

‘How many are there?’ he asked, trying to judge the worth of the whitebeards he saw standing straight in the winter sun.

‘Altogether, nearly four hundred, sir, though some are still making their way in from outlying farms. We should be all in by dark tonight.’

‘And the average age?’ Julius continued.

Quertorus stopped and turned to face the young officer before him.

‘They’re veterans, sir. That means old. But they’re all volunteers and they’re as hard and tough as you’re going to need to smoke out Mithridates. They need a few days to drill together, but remember, they’ve all been tested and they’ve all come through. A lot of men have died for Rome over the years. These are the ones that won.’

The man had an insolent expression, but Julius could hear the belief in his words as he tried to reassure the stern young officer who had come to their city for an army.

‘And you, Quertorus? Do you command them?’

The bald man laughed, a short chop of sound, quickly cut off.

‘Not me, sir. The council thinks it does, I suppose, but these men go their own way and have done for a long time, most of them. Mind you, when Mithridates took the port, they began polishing their swords again, if you understand me.’

‘You don’t talk as if you were one of them,’ Julius said, turning it into a question.

Quertorus raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t mean to, sir. I did my twenty years with the First Cyrenaica, ten of them as optio.’

Some instinct prompted Julius to ask, ‘The last ten?’

Quertorus cleared his throat and looked away for a moment.

‘More like ten in the middle, sir. Lost my rank towards the end for excessive gambling.’

‘I see. Well, Quertorus, it seems we’re gambling again, you and I,’ Julius said quietly.

Quertorus beamed at him, revealing missing teeth in his lower jaw. ‘I wouldn’t bet against them, sir, not if you knew them.’

Julius eyed the massed ranks with less confidence than he showed.

‘I hope you’re right. Now step into rank yourself and I’ll address them.’

For a second, he thought Quertorus might refuse and he wondered if the man had lost his rank for more than just gambling, a fairly common occupation of legionaries not on duty. Then the bald man stepped into the ranks and came to attention, his eyes on Julius with interest. Julius filled his lungs with air.

‘Veterans of Rome!’ he bellowed, making those closest to him jump. He’d always had a powerful voice, but part of him wondered if it would be enough if some of them were deaf.

‘My men and I passed two villages to the south before we came here, collecting recruits. The news we heard is that Mithridates is camped about a hundred miles to the west. You can be sure that fresh Roman legions will be on the march as I speak, coming east from the coast ports at Dyrrhachium and Apollonia. I intend to force him towards them; to be the hammer for the Roman anvil.’

He had their interest, all right. Every eye was on him, from his own men and the grizzled veterans. He thanked his gods for the decision to march ten miles north to recruit at the city.

‘With you, I have a thousand at my command to attack Mithridates. Some from this city and the villages are untrained. Others I have brought with me are used only to fighting at sea in Roman galleys. You were the land legions and you must be the backbone as we march. I will give each of you a sword brother from my men to train.’

He paused, but there was silence and he knew then that the veterans still remembered the old discipline. He wondered how many would last the miles before they even saw action. With young, fresh soldiers, he could cover the distance in three or four days, but with these? There was no way of knowing.

‘I need one of you to be quartermaster, preparing packs, equipment and food from what you can find within the city walls.’

Quertorus stepped forward, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

‘Quertorus?’ Julius said to him.

‘Quartermaster, sir, with your permission. I’ve been wanting a chance to poke the eye of the council for a long time.’

‘Very well, but their complaints will come to me and I will treat them seriously. Take three of my men and start readying the supplies. We need a shield for every man and any spears or bows you can find. I want a field kitchen outside the walls with a meal ready for all of them before dark. There’s still light enough for drill and I want to see how well these men can move. They will be hungry when we’re done.’

Quertorus saluted and marched smartly over to Gaditicus, who remained at attention where Julius had left him with the others. Julius watched as two more were selected to go with him and tried to ignore forebodings that he had just let the wolf loose amongst the geese. As they hurried away, Julius saw the city elder come rushing out of the council hall, making his way directly to the assembled veterans. Julius turned away from him without interest. Whatever the council had decided was no longer of importance.

‘I’ve seen you can stand and I know from your scars that you can fight,’ he shouted along the ranks. ‘Now I need to see if you can remember your formations.’

At his order, they turned and marched along the main street to the gate that led out of the small city. Those who had waited in the side roads filed in behind the others with precision and Julius signalled Gaditicus to bring up the rear. The two men exchanged glances as they joined the column marching out, leaving the council elder calling behind them, his voice fading as he finally realised they would not listen to him any longer.

It took a while for the legionaries to form four equal lines, the veterans mixed with the younger men. Julius walked stiffly up and down the rows, judging the quality of the men who had gathered in his name. As he frowned at them, he fought to remember the lessons on field tactics and routines that Renius had drummed into him so many years ago. None of them had dealt with starting a legion from scratch, but some of it came easily to him as soon as he thought about the practical problems of having the large group move and respond to orders. The worry that would not leave him was that one of the veterans would realise he had never commanded infantry before. He deepened his frown. He would just have to bluff it through.

Beginning with the corner men, he set up a simple square, working through the figures in his head while they waited. He separated the others into thirty numbered rows, then directed the corner men to take their positions. When they were ready, Julius shouted the order, ‘Slow march to square formation!’

It was ragged, but the men moved with solemn concentration until they stood again in silence.

‘Now look around you, gentlemen. I want a veteran next to a younger man wherever possible. We will mix speed with experience. Move!’

Once more, they changed position, the shuffle of feet eerie without accompanying chatter. Julius saw that his men were taking the lead from the veterans in manner and smiled slightly, even as he remembered Renius telling him that the man who led should be respected but cold. He must not smile. He could not be liked. They had loved Marius, but they had fought for him for years and Julius didn’t have that kind of time.

‘We have two cohorts of four hundred and eighty. Split at the fifteenth line and leave a row between you.’ Once again they moved and a long avenue opened up in the dusty earth.

‘The first cohort will be named Accipiter, the hawk. The other will be Ventulus, the breeze. Accipiter will be commanded by my second, Gaditicus, Ventulus by myself. Say the names to yourselves. When you hear them in battle, I want you to react without thought.’ He decided not to mention that one was a merchant ship and the other lay at the bottom of the sea. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

‘Before we begin the formation drills, we must have a name.’

He paused, thinking desperately as his mind went blank. The veterans watched him impassively, perhaps guessing at his sudden lack of confidence. The right name would lift them as they charged and Julius began to panic as nothing came to him, overwhelmed by the importance of getting it absolutely right the first time.

Come on! he urged himself. Speak the name and give them an identity. His eyes raked them, angry with his indecision. They were Romans, young and old. He had it.

‘You are the Wolves of Rome,’ he said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried to the furthest of them. One or two of the veterans stood straighter as he spoke and he knew he had chosen well.

‘Now. Ventulus cohort, form up in four maniples to my right. Accipiter, break to the left. We have three hours before dark. Position drill until you drop.’

He could not resist clenching a fist in fierce satisfaction as they moved smoothly apart. He called Gaditicus from the ranks of Accipiter and returned his salute.

‘I want you to run through every formation you know until dark. Don’t give them a moment to think. I will do the same with mine. Change your unit commanders if they are obviously unfit or to reinforce your discipline, but with care. I want them working well by the time we eat.’

‘Are you thinking of marching tomorrow?’ Gaditicus asked, keeping his voice too low to carry to the men nearby.

Julius shook his head.

‘Tomorrow we will run battle games, yours against mine. I want the old ones to remember and the young ones to get used to following orders in the field, under pressure. See me tonight and we’ll work out the details. Oh, and, Gaditicus …’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Work yours hard, because tomorrow Ventulus will take them to pieces and make you start again.’

‘I look forward to seeing you try, sir,’ Gaditicus retorted with a small smile, saluting once more before returning to his new command.

As Julius gave the order to march two days later, he felt a surge of pride, making his feet light on the foreign earth. His right eye was almost closed where one of Gaditicus’ men had caught him with an axe handle, but he knew the pain would pass.

More than a few of both cohorts limped from the battering they had taken at each other’s hands in the mock battles, but they had changed from strangers into Wolves and Julius knew they would be hard to kill, harder still to break. They would cross a hundred miles of wood and plain and Mithridates would need a lot of his rebellious farmers to withstand what would be thrown at him, Julius was certain. He felt as if there was good wine in his stomach, making him want to laugh with excitement.

Alongside him, Gaditicus sensed his mood and chuckled, wincing as he cracked his swollen mouth once again.

‘One thing about the galleys. You didn’t have to carry this much metal and kit on your back,’ he complained in an undertone.

Julius clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. ‘Think yourself lucky. They used to call my uncle’s men “Marius’ mules” for the weight they could bear.’

Gaditicus grunted in reply, shifting his heavy pack to ease his muscles. The legs had the worst of it. Many of the veterans had huge calves, showing a strength built over years of marching. Gaditicus made a silent oath that he would not call his cohort to rest until Julius did or one of his veterans dropped. He wasn’t sure which was more likely.

Julius began lengthening his stride through the ranks up to the front. He felt as if he could march all day and night and the Romans at his back would follow him. Behind, the city dwindled into the distance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A lifetime of fighting in foreign lands did not make for soft men, Julius reflected as he marched on towards the end of the second day, half blinded with dust and sweat. If the veterans had let themselves go in their retirement, he doubted they could have matched the eager pace of the younger men. It looked as if the hard labour of clearing land for farming had kept them strong, though some of them seemed made of sinew and skin under their old armour. Their leather tunics were cracked and brittle after so long lying in chests, but the iron straps and plates of their armour gleamed with oil and polish. They could call themselves farmers, but the speed with which they had responded to his summons showed their true natures. They had once been the most disciplined killers in the world and every stride of the long march brought back something of their old fire. It showed in their posture and their eyes as the enthusiasm for war was rekindled. They were men for whom retirement was death, who felt most alive in the camaraderie of soldiers, when they could spend their fading energies in sudden blows and the dry-mouthed terror of meeting the enemy charge.

Julius carried an old shield on his back, torn from its hangings over someone’s door by Quertorus. It was prevented from chafing by a heavy waterskin against his shoulder blades that gurgled musically with every step. Like the others from the galleys, he felt the lack of fitness that comes from having your movements restricted to a deck, but his lungs were clear and there was no trace of the shuddering fits that had plagued him since the head wound. He didn’t dare to dwell on them, but he still worried at what would become of his authority if they started again. There was nowhere private on a forced march.

For most of the first day, Julius had set a comfortable pace. They had too few men to risk losing more of the veterans than was inevitable and they had all made it to the first camp. Julius had used the younger men for sentry duty and none of them had complained, though Suetonius had clearly bitten back a comment before taking his post with surly obedience. There were times when Julius would have been happy to have him flogged and left on the trail, but he held his temper. He knew he had to form bonds with the men. Bonds strong enough to withstand the first hectic moments of battle. They had to see him as he had once seen Marius – a man to follow into hell.

On the second day, Julius had matched pace with Gaditicus at the front of the two cohorts for most of the morning. They had little breath for discussion, but they agreed to take turns at the head, allowing the other to drift back among the units, assessing weaknesses and strengths. For Julius, the trips back were valuable, and it was during them that he had begun to see the light of excitement even in the expressions of the weakest of his men. They had shrugged off the petty laws and restrictions of city life, returning to the simplest world they had ever known.

Julius had marched abreast of a line about halfway back in Ventulus cohort for the best part of an hour. One of the veterans had caught his attention, the only one he passed not to meet his eye. The man had to have been one of the oldest there, hidden from easy sight by the bulk of the soldiers around him, which Julius guessed could be deliberate. Instead of a helmet, he wore the ragged skin of an old lion that covered his entire head and ended in a neatly sliced line at his shoulders. The dead cat’s eyes were dark, sunken holes and, like its owner, it looked too far gone to be useful. The old man marched while staring straight ahead, his eyes screwed up to wrinkled slits against the dust. Julius examined him with interest, taking in the hard lines of sinew that stood out in his neck and the swollen knuckles of his hands that looked more like clubs of bone than fingers. Though the veteran kept his mouth pursed shut, it was obvious from his sunken cheeks that there were few teeth left in the old jaw. Julius wondered what spirit could keep such an ancient marching through the miles, always staring towards a destination neither of them could see.

As noon approached and Julius was ready to call a halt for food and an hour of blessed rest, he saw the man develop a limp in his left leg and noted the knee had swollen in the short time he had been with him. He bellowed the halt and the Wolves crashed to a stop in two paces, together.

As Quertorus collected the cooking equipment, Julius found the old man sitting with his back to a stunted tree. His seamed face tightened as he bound the weak knee in a strip of cloth, winding on so many layers that it could hardly bend at all. He had removed the lion-head skin, placing it carefully to one side. His hair was wispy and grey, sticking to him in sweaty strands.

‘What’s your name?’ Julius asked him.

The old man spoke as he wound the cloth, testing the movement and grunting in discomfort with each try.

‘Most of them call me Cornix, the old crow. I’m a hunter, a trapper in the forests.’

‘I have a friend who could ease that knee for you. A healer. He’s probably older than you are,’ Julius said quietly.

Cornix shook his head. ‘Don’t need him. This knee’s taken me on a lot of campaigns. It will last one more.’

Julius didn’t insist, impressed by the stubbornness of the man. Without another word, he fetched some of the warm bread and bean stew that Quertorus had heated through. It would be their last hot meal as they drew within scouting range of Mithridates and couldn’t risk smoke being seen. Cornix took it, nodding his thanks.

‘Strange sort of commander you are,’ he said through mouthfuls, ‘bringing me food.’

Julius watched him eat without replying for a moment.

‘I’d have thought you would have left soldiering behind you. It must be, what, twenty years since you were with a legion?’

‘More like thirty, and you know it,’ the man replied, smiling to reveal a mash of unchewed bread. ‘Still miss it sometimes.’

‘Do you have a family?’ Julius asked, still wondering why the man wasn’t safe in the hills instead of breaking the last of his strength with the others.

‘They moved north and my wife died. Just me now.’

Julius stood and looked down at the placidly chewing figure, watching him wince as he flexed the bound knee. Julius’ gaze strayed to where Cornix had rested his shield and sword against the tree and the old man followed his eyes, choosing to answer the unspoken question.

‘I can still use it, don’t you worry.’

‘You’ll need to. They say Mithridates has a great host of an army.’

Cornix sniffed disdainfully. ‘Yes, they always say that.’ He finished a mouthful of the stew and took a long pull from his waterskin. ‘Are you going to ask me, then?’

‘Ask you what?’ Julius replied.

‘I could see it was eating you up all the time you was marching near me. What’s a man of my age doing going to war? That was it, wasn’t it? You were wondering if I could even lift that old sword of mine, I’d guess.’

‘It crossed my mind,’ Julius chuckled, responding to the gleam of humour in the dark eyes.

Cornix laughed with him, a long wheezing series of hard sounds. Then he fell silent and looked straight at the tall young commander with all the confidence of youth and all his life in front of him.

‘Just to pay my debts, lad. That old city gave me a lot more than I gave back. I should think this last one’ll make us even at the end.’

He winked as he finished speaking and Julius smiled faintly, realising suddenly that Cornix had come with him to die, perhaps preferring a quick end to a lonely drawn-out agony in some desolate hunter’s cabin. He wondered how many of the others wanted to throw their lives away with the last of their courage, rather than wait for a death that crept up on them in the night. Julius shivered slightly as he walked back to the campfires, though the day was not cold.

There was no way to be sure where Mithridates camped with his irregulars. The reports Julius had from Roman survivors behind them could be mistaken, or the Greek king could have moved many miles while the Wolves were marching into the area. The biggest worry was that the two forces would stumble on each other’s scouts and be forced into action before Julius was ready. His own scouts understood that all their lives depended on not being spotted, and Julius had the fastest and fittest of them travelling out for miles looking for fresh signs of the enemy while the bulk of the Wolves concealed themselves in the scrub woodland. It was a frustrating time. Forbidden fire and unable to hunt widely, they were cold and damp each night and barely warmed by the weak sun that came to them through the trees during the day.

After four days of inaction, Julius was practically ready to order the men into the open and take the consequences. All but three of his scouts had come in past the outer line of guards and were eating cold food with the others in miserable silence.

Julius chafed as he waited for the last three. He knew they were in the right area, having found a slaughtered Roman century stripped of armour and weapons only five miles to the east, caught unawares as they guarded a lonely fort. The bodies looked pitiful in death and no words Julius might have said could have fired his men’s determination so thoroughly.

The scouts came in together, thudding through the wet leaves with the slow trot they used to cover miles without a rest. Ignoring the cold stew that waited for them, they came straight to Julius, their faces tired but animated with excitement. All three had been out for the whole four days and Julius knew immediately that they had found the enemy at last.

‘Where are they?’ he asked, standing quickly.

‘Thirty miles further west,’ one replied, eager to get the news out. ‘It’s a heavy camp. It looks as if they’re preparing to defend against the legions coming from Oricum. They’ve dug in at a narrow point between two sharp slopes.’ He paused for breath and one of the others took up the report.

‘They’ve spiked the slopes and the ground to the west. They had a wide line of scouts and guards out, so we couldn’t get too close, but it looked good enough to stop cavalry. We saw archers practising and I think we saw Mithridates himself. There was a big man giving orders to his units. He looked like the one in command.’

‘How many were there?’ Julius snapped, wanting this detail more than all the rest.

The scouts glanced at each other and then the first spoke again.

‘We think about ten thousand, at a rough guess. None of us could get close enough to be sure, but he had the whole valley between the hills covered in leather tents – maybe a thousand of them. We guessed at eight or ten men to each one …’ The other two nodded, watching Julius to see how he took the news. Julius kept his face carefully blank, though he was disappointed. No wonder Mithridates felt confident enough to stand against the legionaries on their way to him. The Senate had sent only Sulla before against a smaller rebellion. If they sent one legion again, Mithridates could well be victorious, gaining himself another year before the Senate heard the news and dragged back every spare man from the other territories. Even then, they might be reluctant to leave the rest of Roman lands exposed. Surely they would not dare to lose Greece? Every Roman-held city that hid from the king behind high walls could be destroyed before the Senate finally gathered a crushing force. The rivers would run red before the last of Rome was cut from Mithridates’ lands and if he could unite all the cities, it could mean war for a generation.

Julius dismissed the scouts to fetch food and get some well-deserved rest. It would be little enough, he knew.

Gaditicus came to his side, his eyebrows raised in interest as the scouts left.

‘We’ve found him,’ Julius confirmed. ‘Ten thousand of them at the highest estimate. I’m thinking of moving ten miles tonight and then the last twenty or so when it gets dark tomorrow. Our archers will drop the sentries and we’ll hit the main force before dawn.’

Gaditicus looked worried.

‘The veterans will be close to exhaustion if you push them that far in darkness. We could be slaughtered.’

‘They’re a great deal fitter than when we left their city. It will be hard and we’ll lose a few, I have no doubt, but we have surprise with us. And they have marched all their lives. I will want you to organise a fast retreat after that first attack. I don’t want them to think about a death struggle against so many. Pitch it to them as a running blow – straight in, kill as many as we can and away. We get as far away as possible before dawn and, well, I’ll see what shape we’re in then.’ He looked up through the mossy trunks at the sky above.

‘Not long till darkness, Gadi. Make your men ready to move. I’ll halt them as close as I can for tomorrow night, but we must not be seen. We’ll work on the tactics when we’re closer. There’s no point planning the details until I can see how they have set themselves. We don’t need to beat them, just force them to break camp and move west towards the legions coming from the coast.’

‘If they are coming,’ Gaditicus replied quietly.

‘They will be. No matter what happened after Sulla’s death, the Senate can’t afford to let Greece go without a fight. Form the ranks, Gadi.’

Gaditicus saluted, his features smoothing. He was aware that any attack would be risky against such numbers, but he thought the night strike Julius suggested was the best choice, given the men they had available. In addition, Mithridates had assembled an army from untrained irregulars who were about to meet a force that included some of the most experienced gladius fighters alive. Against ten thousand, it wasn’t much of an edge, but it would make a difference.

As he gave Accipiter cohort the order to break camp, he watched how the younger men and veterans worked together, quickly and quietly assembling in loose formation until they cleared the woods. Wolves indeed, some of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mithridates had lost his perimeter guards and didn’t yet know it. Julius had watched his outer ring for almost an hour, smiling at last when he saw the simple system the Greek king used. Each of his guards stood next to a burning torch set atop a wooden pole. At random intervals, they would detach it and wave the flame above their heads, answered by the inner ring and the others spaced around them.

Mithridates may have been a king, but he was no tactician, Julius had realised. The Wolves had broken the defence with pairs of archers, one to down the sentry as soon as he had signalled, the other to take his place. It was quickly done and they were able to draw in to the inner circle. Those men were closer to each other, and replacing them took almost an hour. Julius had urged caution, but even he was growing tense as the time wore on waiting for the last to make his signal, the man completely unaware that only Romans could answer him.

Cabera loosed the final silent arrow and the enemy soldier fell in a shadowy heap without a sound. Moments later, the spot of light illuminated another dark figure who stood calmly as if all was well. There was no alarm and Julius clenched a fist in excitement.

The camp at the foot of the hills was lit by pole torches like the ones the sentries used. Seen from afar, the dark winter night was broken by a sea of golden spots, unwinking eyes that glowed at the Romans as they waited for Julius’ signal. For the young commander, the whole world seemed to be hanging on his word. He approached the nearest of his false sentries and nodded to Cabera, who lit an oil-soaked arrow from the torch, firing it quickly as the flames spread towards his fingers.

Gaditicus saw the splinter of flame launch upwards and pointed his sword at the camp before them. His men moved in from their staggered position without a single shout or battle cry. They ran in eerie silence towards the pools of light that marked the camp, converging with Ventulus on two sides to cause maximum panic and disruption.

The Greek army had retired with the coming of night, depending on their far-flung rings of guards to warn them of an attack. The first many of them knew of danger was when their leather tents were ripped open and unseen swords stabbed through at their sleeping bodies, killing dozens in the first few seconds. Shouts mingled with screams and the sleeping camp began to wake and take up weapons.

‘Wolves!’ Julius bellowed, judging the time for silence was over. The excitement swept him as he and his men ran through the camp, killing anyone who stumbled out of their tents. He had told his men to kill two each of the enemy and then fight their way out, but three had fallen to his own blade and he was barely at the end of the first rush. He could feel the panic of Mithridates’ men. Their officers were slow to respond to the attack and, without orders, a hundred individuals tried to take the battle to the shadowed attackers, dying in scores on veteran blades. Julius’ cry was echoed by Gaditicus’ cohort, hundreds of voices adding to the confusion and fear of the enemy. Cabera fired his remaining arrows into dark tents and Julius cut a naked man down as he tried to bring his sword to bear. It was chaos and in the confusion Julius almost missed the moment he’d sworn he would not ignore.

It came after many minutes, when horns sounded and the running Greeks began to gather in their units. In the tents the Roman forces had missed, the enemy had armed themselves and now began to fight back, orders in Greek heard over the hack and thump of blows.

Julius spun round to take off a man’s hand at the wrist as he leapt at him. Every cut with the heavy blade caused awful damage, but his next blow was blocked neatly and he found two men against him and more running in from all sides. They had recovered and it was time to retreat before his Wolves were cut to pieces.

‘Disengage!’ he bellowed, even as he swung low with the gladius, cutting deeply into the ankle of the man closest to him. The second sprawled over the body as he rushed in and Julius stepped clear, turning in the space and suddenly sprinting away, his sandals skidding in the bloody dust. His men came with him on the instant, turning and running as soon as they could get free of the press.

Outside the torches of the camp, the night was a black hiding place. As Julius called the disengage, all the sentry torches had been extinguished and the Romans scattered invisibly, disappearing rapidly from the edge of the camp, leaving wreckage and bodies behind them.

The Greek units halted at the edge of the camp lights, unwilling to run into a darkness that seemed to contain thousands of the enemy – a foe they had been told were more than a week of marching away in a different direction. Confused orders were shouted back and forth as they hesitated and the Wolves ran clear.

Mithridates raged. He had been torn from sleep by screams at the furthest end of his camp. His own tent was in the mouth of the narrow pass and, as his sleepy mind cleared, he realised they were under attack from the safe side, where he knew his men had cleared out Roman settlements all the way from the encampment to the frightened cities along the eastern coast.

His ten thousand men covered a vast stretch of the valley and by the time he had brought his captains to the scene of the attack and begun restoring order, the Romans were gone.

Grimly, they tallied the dead. The officers who survived estimated a full five thousand had come against them, leaving more than a thousand Greek dead on the ground. Mithridates roared in grief as he saw the bodies piled in tents, killed before they had even had a chance to face the enemy. It was carnage and he knew again the frustration he had felt when Sulla had come for him years before.

How could they have got behind him? he wondered silently as he walked amongst the ungainly dead. He looked into the dark scrub and was overcome with anger, throwing his sword into the night. The darkness swallowed it almost as soon as it left his hand.

‘The sentries are dead, sir,’ an officer reported.

Mithridates looked at him with eyes made red from smoke and interrupted sleep.

‘Post more and break the camp ready for a dawn march. I want them hunted down.’ As the man ran to fulfil his orders, Mithridates looked again at the desolation around him. A thousand men had been lost and he had seen only a few of the Romans on the ground amongst them. Why did they retreat? Whichever legion it was, it looked as if they could have run right over the camp before light came, such had been the panic and disarray of his men. Where would they be safe, if not in the heart of their own land, their own camp?

When he had retired that night, it had been with the confidence of leading the biggest army he had ever gathered, ever seen. Now, he knew he would not sleep again without fear that their strength would be mocked, their lives cut from them with savage ease. He watched the faces around him, seeing the fading shock and terror, and doubt crept into him. He’d thought himself surrounded by lions, but found they were lambs.

He tried to shrug off despair, but it pressed heavily on him. How could he hope to take on Rome? These men had come to his banner after a few quick victories against the hated Romans, but they were young men filled with dreams of Sparta, Thebes and Athens. Dreams of Alexander that he might not be able to bring about. His head bowed and his heavy fists clenched as the men scurried around him, not daring to speak to the furious king.

‘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 honour, 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’ 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 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’ 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 ground 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 from the coast. If he moved west towards the Roman ports, he would have these night killers to harry his rearguard. 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 hedgehogs, 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 skin, 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.

Julius had found Cornix chewing amiably as he sat close to the cooking fires, obviously enjoying the warmth in his old bones.

‘You survived, then,’ Julius said, genuinely pleased the old man had lived through the chaos of the attack. The knee was still heavily wrapped and flat against the ground to rest.

Cornix gestured in welcome, waving a piece of meat vaguely. ‘They couldn’t kill me, right enough,’ he agreed, sucking dry the meat he held before pressing it into his cheek to soften enough for chewing. ‘There were a lot of them, I noticed.’ His eyes searched out Julius’, full of interest in the young man.

‘Eight or nine thousand left, we think,’ Julius said.

Cornix frowned. ‘It’ll take for ever to kill that many,’ he observed seriously as he worked the piece of meat around his mouth, ruminating.

Julius grinned at the old man. ‘Yes, well. Craftsmen take time over their work,’ he said.

Cornix nodded in agreement, a smile breaking over his wrinkled face despite himself.

Julius left him with his meal and found Gaditicus. Touring the camp together, they visited each of the sentries, who stood in threes so that there would always be one to give warning of an attack. Each group was in clear sight of the next all the way around the camp. It used a lot of men, but Julius had ordered short watches of only two hours, so the changes came quickly and the night passed without alarm.

The following day, as darkness fell early in the winter evening, they marched out of the woods and once again attacked the camp of Mithridates.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Antonidus paced up and down the lushly furnished room, his skin mottled with anger. The only other occupant, lounging on a soft purple couch, was the corpulent figure of the senator, Cato. The eyes that watched Antonidus seemed small, lost in the fleshy expanse of the sweating face. They gleamed with intrigue as they followed the steps of Sulla’s erstwhile general, tracking up and down the marble. Cato grimaced slightly as he saw the road dust that clung to Antonidus. The man should have known better than to demand a meeting before he had even washed himself.

‘I have no new information, Senator. Not a scrap of it,’ Antonidus said.

Cato sighed theatrically, reaching out a pudgy hand to the arm of his couch and pulling himself upright. The fingers that gripped the wood were slick and sticky with sugary residues from the dinner Antonidus had interrupted. Idly, Cato sucked them clean as he waited for the irritable man to find calm. Sulla’s dog had never been a patient man, he knew. Even when the Dictator had been alive, Antonidus had conspired and wheedled for more authority and action where none was needed. After the rather sordid assassination, Antonidus had acted outrageously, far exceeding his authority as he searched for the killers. Cato had been forced to throw his support behind the man when his activities were discussed in Senate, or see him brought down by those he had offended. It was a fragile protection even then and Cato wondered if the pacing general knew how close he was to destruction. Antonidus had offended almost everyone that mattered in the city in the previous months, questioning even those who were above suspicion.

Cato wondered to himself how Sulla had been able to stand the grim company of his general. He soon tired of it himself.

‘Have you considered that you may not find whoever ordered the assassination?’ he asked.

Antonidus stopped his pacing as he spoke, spinning to face the senator.

‘I will not fail in this. It has taken longer than I thought, but eventually someone will talk or some evidence will be found that will point a bloody finger, and I will have my man.’

Cato watched him carefully, noting the manic glitter of his eyes. Dangerously obsessive, he thought, considering having the man quietly removed before he caused any more trouble. The public efforts had been made and if Sulla was not avenged, well, the city would continue regardless, whether Antonidus was successful or not.

‘It could take years, you know,’ Cato continued. ‘Or you could die without finding your culprit. It would not be so strange. If anyone was going to reveal themselves or be betrayed, I thought it would happen soon after the deed, but nothing points that bloody finger of yours and may never do so. It may be time to give up the chase, Antonidus.’

The black eyes bored into him, but Cato was unaffected. He cared nothing at all for the man’s obsession, for all he had been content to let him run wild around the houses of Rome for a while. Sulla was dead and ashes. Maybe it was time to bring the dog to heel.

Antonidus seemed to sense the thoughts in the flat, bored expression with which Cato returned his glare.

‘Give me a little longer, Senator,’ he asked, his angry looks replaced by a sudden wariness.

Perhaps, after all, he did know how Cato protected him from the outrage of the other senators, the fat man mused. Dismissively, he looked away and Antonidus spoke hurriedly.

‘I am almost sure the killing was at the order of one of three men. Any one of them could have arranged it and they were all supporters of Marius before the war.’

‘Who are these dangerous men?’ Cato inquired archly, though he could have reeled off the names as easily as the general. The informers reported to him before Antonidus after all, as well they should have, with Cato’s money in their purses.

‘Pompey and Cinna are most likely, I think. Perhaps Cinna most of all, as Sulla was … interested in his daughter. And Crassus, the last of them. Those three had the money and influence to buy a murder and they were no friends to Sulla. Or they could have acted together, with Crassus providing the money and Pompey the contacts, for example.’

‘You have named some powerful men, Antonidus. I trust you have not mentioned your suspicions to anyone else? I would hate to lose you,’ Cato said with mockery in his tone.

Antonidus seemed not to notice. ‘I have kept my thoughts to myself until I had proof to accuse them. They have profited by Sulla’s death and openly vote against his supporters in Senate. My instinct tells me it was one of them, or they were consulted. If I could only question them to be sure!’ He was practically grinding his teeth in anger and Cato had to wait as the general’s skin lost its mottling and the spasm of rage faded.

‘You may not approach them, Antonidus. Those three are well protected by Senate tradition and their guards. Even if you are correct, they may yet escape you.’

He said this mainly to see if Antonidus could be taunted into a complete loss of control and was gratified to see the purpling veins in the man’s forehead and neck. Cato laughed and the general snapped out of his anger, bewildered by the sudden sound. How had Sulla been able to bear him? Cato wondered. The man was as open as a child and as easy to manipulate.

‘The solution is an easy one, Antonidus. You hire your own assassins, being careful not to let them know you.’ He had the man’s complete attention now, he noted with satisfaction. Cato felt the beginnings of a wine headache and wanted the angry little fellow to leave him.

‘Send your killers to the families, Antonidus. Choose a loved wife, a daughter, a son. Leave a mark on them to show it was done for Sulla’s memory. One of your arrows will hit home and the others …? Well, they were never friends of mine. There will be advantages in having them made vulnerable for a time. Then let it be finished and imagine Sulla is at rest in a sensible fashion, as good ghosts should be.’

He smiled as Antonidus mulled over the idea, the thin face lighting with bright cruelty. The lines of worry eased from the general’s forehead where they had been carved over the months since the poisoning. Cato nodded, knowing he had reached his man. His thoughts turned to the possibility of a little cold meat before he slept and he barely noticed as Antonidus bowed out of the room, moving with quick, excited steps.

Later, as he pressed food into his slowly chewing mouth, Cato sighed with irritation as his thoughts turned to the problem of his idiot son and Renius. He remembered watching the man fight in the arena and shivered deliciously as he pictured a controlled savagery that had shocked even the baying crowd of Rome to silence. A man who risked his life so cheaply would not be easy to turn. What could he offer for his son? The boy general Brutus was heavily in debt. Perhaps gold would sway him. Power was such a fickle thing and where money and influence failed, as he thought they must, he would need such useful tools as Antonidus. It would have been a shame to lose him.

Alexandria paused before knocking on the gate of the estate she had known so well. The five miles from the city had been a little like turning back time for her. She had last stood there as a slave and memories flooded her. Being whipped by Renius, kissing Gaius in the stables, working until she dropped in wind and rain, killing men with a kitchen knife in the darkness under the walls at the height of the riots. If Julius hadn’t taken her into the city, she could be working there still, broken by the years.

Old faces came back to her and the intervening time seemed to vanish so that it took every bit of her courage to raise her hand and thump it into the heavy wood.

‘Who is there?’ a strange voice called, accompanied by quick footsteps to the top of the wall within. A face she did not know looked down at her, carefully blank as the slave took in her appearance and the little boy who held her hand. She raised her head defiantly under this scrutiny, looking back as confidently as she could despite her racing heartbeat.

‘Alexandria. I have come to see Tubruk. Is he here?’

‘Please wait for a moment, madam,’ the slave replied, disappearing.

Alexandria took a quick breath. He had judged her as a free woman. She straightened her shoulders further, her confidence growing. It would be hard to face Tubruk, and she had to force herself to be calm as she waited. Octavian remained silent, still angry at the decision they had made for him.

When Tubruk pushed open the gate and came out to her, she almost wilted, gripping Octavian’s hand hard enough to make him yelp. The man seemed unchanged, still the same as the rest of the world swept wildly onwards. His smile was genuinely friendly and she felt some of her tension ease.

‘I heard you were doing well,’ he said. ‘I can have some food brought if you’re hungry.’

‘Thirsty, after the walk, Tubruk. This is Octavian.’

Tubruk bent down to look at the small boy as he edged behind Alexandria, looking worried.

‘Good morning, lad. I expect you are hungry?’ Octavian nodded convulsively and Tubruk chuckled. ‘I never knew a boy who wasn’t. Come inside, I’ll have refreshments brought to us.’

Tubruk paused in thought for a moment.

‘Marcus Brutus is here,’ he said, ‘and Renius with him.’

Alexandria stiffened slightly. The name of Renius carried bitter memories. Brutus, too, was a name from her forgotten past; sweetness mixed with pain. She gripped Octavian tightly as they passed through the gate, more for her own comfort than his.

The shadows of the courtyard made her shudder. She had stood … there, to stab a man who grabbed at her and Susanna had died over by the gate. She shook her head and took a deep breath. It was too easy to become lost in the past, here of all places.

‘Is the mistress at home?’ she asked.

Tubruk’s expression changed slightly as he replied, making him look older.

‘Aurelia is very unwell. You won’t be able to see her if that’s what you want.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but it was you I came to see.’

He led them into a quiet room that she had rarely entered in her time as a slave. The floor was warm and the room felt comfortable and lived in. Tubruk left them to arrange a meal and she began to relax even further as they waited alone. Octavian fidgeted irritably, scuffing his sandals on the rug until Alexandria stopped his swinging feet with a firm grip on his knee.

When Tubruk returned, he put down a tray with a jug and bowls of freshly sliced fruit. Octavian fell on it with delight, and Tubruk smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm as he sat down and waited for Alexandria to speak.

‘It’s about Octavian that I want to speak to you,’ she said after a pause.

‘Would you like me to have someone show him the stables?’ Tubruk replied quickly.

She shrugged. ‘He knows what I’m going to say.’

Tubruk filled a cup with cool apple juice for her and she sipped at it as she collected her thoughts.

‘I own a part share in a metalsmith’s in the city and we took Octavian on as an apprentice. I won’t lie to you and say he was perfect. He was almost wild for a while, but he’s a different boy now.’ She was interrupted by the sight of Octavian trying to cram melon slices into his mouth.

Tubruk saw her look and stood suddenly.

‘That’s enough for now, lad. Go and find the stables. Take a couple of the apple pieces for the horses.’

Octavian looked at Alexandria and when she nodded, he grinned and scooped up a handful of the fruit, disappearing out of the room without another word. His footsteps echoed for a moment then all was still again.

‘He doesn’t remember his father and he was a street urchin when we took him in. You should see how he’s changed, Tubruk! The boy is fascinated by the skills Tabbic teaches him. He’s good with his hands and in time I think he could make a fair craftsman.’

‘So why have you brought him to me?’ Tubruk prompted gently.

‘We haven’t been able to let him out onto the street for nearly a month now. Tabbic has to walk him home each evening and then come back alone in the dark. The streets aren’t safe even for him these days, but Octavian has been badly beaten three times since we took him on. The first time, he had a silver ring stolen and we think they look for him in case he is carrying something else. There’s a gang of boys involved. Tabbic has complained to their masters when he knows who they are, but the third beating came right after that. It’s breaking the lad, Tubruk. Tabbic made him a knife but he wouldn’t take it. He said they’d kill him with it if he pulled a blade on the gang and I think he’s probably right.’ She took a deep breath to continue.

‘His mother is desperate and I said I would ask you if you’d take him and teach him a trade. We hoped you could have him work around the estate for a year or two, then when he’s older, we could take him back to the shop and he could continue with the apprenticeship.’ She felt she was babbling and came to a halt. Tubruk looked down at his hands and she went on hurriedly, unwilling to let him speak and refuse.

‘His family are related to Julius distantly. Their grandfathers were brothers or something, or brothers-in-law. You’re the only one I know who can get him away from the street gangs, Tubruk. It will save his life. I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else, but …’

‘I’ll take him,’ Tubruk said suddenly. Alexandria blinked in surprise and he chuckled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t? I remember when you risked your life for this house. You could have run away and hidden in the stables, but you didn’t. That is enough for me. There’s always work around an estate like this, even though we’ve lost a bit of land since you were last here. He’ll earn his food, don’t worry. Will you leave him here today?’

Alexandria felt like throwing her arms around the old gladiator.

‘Yes, if you like. I knew I could depend on you. Thank you. Will you let his mother visit him from time to time?’

‘I will have to ask Aurelia, but it should be possible as long as it isn’t too frequent. I’ll tell her about the family link. She’ll probably love the idea.’

Alexandria sighed with relief.

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

They both turned their heads as quick footsteps approached from outside. Octavian came running in, his face flushed and excited.

‘There are horses in the stables!’ he announced, making them both smile.

‘It’s been a long time since there were boys in this old place. It will be good to have him here,’ Tubruk said.

Octavian looked from one to the other, shifting his feet nervously.

‘I’m staying then?’ he asked quietly.

Tubruk nodded. ‘Lots of hard work waiting for you, lad.’

The little boy leapt in pleasure. ‘It’s beautiful here!’ he said.

‘He hasn’t been outside the city since he was a baby,’ Alexandria said, embarrassed. She took Octavian’s hands in hers and held him still, her expression serious.

‘Now, you do as you’re told. Your mother will come out to see you as soon as you’re settled. Work hard here and learn all the skills you can. Understand?’

Octavian nodded, beaming at her. She let him go.

‘Thank you, Tubruk. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.’

‘Look, lass,’ he said gruffly. ‘You are a free woman now. You’ve walked the same path that I have. Even if you hadn’t fought in the riot, I’d help if I could. We look out for each other now and then.’

She looked at him with sudden understanding. For most of her young life, he had been the estate manager. She had forgotten he knew as much about slavery as she did, that they shared a bond she had never realised. She walked with him to the gate, the tension vanishing from her.

Brutus and Renius were there, leading two young mares and talking in low tones. Brutus looked sharply at Alexandria as he caught sight of her. Without a word, he handed the reins to Renius and rushed over to her, lifting her off the ground in a great hug.

‘Gods, girl, it’s been years since I saw you last.’

‘Put me down,’ she replied furiously and Brutus almost dropped her at the icy tone.

‘What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased to see me after …’

‘I won’t be handled like one of your slave girls,’ she snapped. Her cheeks burned. Part of her wanted to laugh at her sudden attack of dignity, but everything was happening too quickly. Mute with embarrassment, she held up her hand, bare of the iron finger ring that marked a slave.

Brutus laughed at her.

‘I didn’t mean to offend, mistress,’ he said, bowing low.

She was tempted to kick him, but with Octavian and Tubruk looking on, she had to bear his cheerful mockery. Insufferable, as he always had been. A memory of something Julius had said flashed into her mind and, as Brutus rose, she swung to slap his face.

He began to move to hold her wrist, then clearly thought better of it and let her connect. His smile never faded.

‘Whatever that was for, I hope it’s over now,’ he said. ‘I …’

‘Julius told me what you boasted about me,’ she broke in. This was all wrong. She wanted to sit and laugh with this young wolf of a man that she’d known, but every expression and word he spoke seemed to enrage her.

Brutus’ face cleared in sudden understanding.

‘He said I boasted …? Oh. The clever bastard. No, I never did. He thinks ahead, does Julius. When we see him, I’ll have to let him know how well it came out. He’ll love this. Slapping me in front of Renius! Beautiful.’

Renius cleared his throat.

‘I’ll take your horse to the stables until you’ve finished playing,’ he muttered, leading the mares away into the gathering gloom.

Alexandria frowned after him, noting the way he wrapped both sets of reins around his wrist with the ease of practice. No welcome from him.

Without warning, tears pricked into her eyes. Except for Octavian, nothing seemed to have changed since the night of the attack on the estate. They were all there and she was the only one who seemed to feel the years behind them.

Tubruk shifted from one foot to the other, looking down at Octavian’s fascinated expression.

‘Close your mouth, boy. There’s work to be done before you sleep tonight.’ He nodded to Alexandria. ‘I’ll leave you two alone to talk while I show Octavian his duties.’ He shook his head at Brutus, then led Octavian away with a firm grip.

Left alone in the darkening courtyard, Brutus and Alexandria spoke at the same time, broke off and started to speak again.

‘Sorry,’ Brutus tried again.

‘No, I acted a fool. It’s been such a long time since I was here and with Tubruk and you … and Renius, it all came back.’

‘I never told Julius we’d slept together,’ he continued, stepping closer. She was very beautiful, he noted, one of those women who looked best in the twilight. Her eyes were large and dark and the way her head tilted up at him made him want to kiss her. He remembered how they had, once, before Marius had given him his papers for the legion post in Greece.

‘Tubruk didn’t say Julius was here,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘We’re still waiting for news. He was ransomed in Africa, but he should be on his way back by now. Nothing is really the same as it was, you know. You’re a free woman, I’ve been a centurion and Renius has lost the ability to juggle.’

She giggled suddenly at the image and he took the moment to gather her in once more. This time, she returned the embrace, though when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head slightly away.

‘I can’t even give you a proper welcome?’ he said in astonishment.

‘You are a terrible man, Marcus Brutus. I haven’t been pining away waiting for you, you know,’ she replied.

‘I have. I’m half the man I used to be,’ he replied with a sad shake of his head. ‘I want your permission to see you and if I don’t get it, I may waste away altogether.’

He sighed like a broken bellows and they laughed together easily, without embarrassment.

Before she could answer, a call sounded from the lookout on the gate, making Alexandria jump.

‘Riders and cart approaching,’ the slave called down.

‘How many?’ Brutus responded, stepping away from her. All trace of his flirtation vanished and, if anything, Alexandria preferred his new manner to the old.

‘Three men on horses – one cart pulled by oxen. The men are armed.’

‘Tubruk! Renius! Primigenia to the gate,’ Brutus ordered. Soldiers came out of the estate buildings, a file of twenty men in armour that made Alexandria gasp.

‘So Marius’ old legion is with you now,’ she said, wonderingly.

Brutus flashed a glance at her. ‘Those who survived. Julius will need a general when he returns,’ he said. ‘Best if you don’t go near the gate until we know what this is about, all right?’

As she nodded, he left her and, away from him, she felt suddenly alone. Memories of blood came back to her and she shuddered delicately, moving towards the light of the buildings.

Tubruk came out from the stables with Octavian beside him, forgotten. Leaving the boy to wander around the stone courtyard, the estate manager climbed the gate steps and looked down at the clatter of arriving soldiers.

‘Late for a visit, isn’t it?’ he called down. ‘What is your business here?’

‘We come from Cato to see Marcus Brutus and the gladiator Renius,’ a deep voice rumbled back.

Tubruk looked down, nodding in satisfaction as he saw his archers were in position around the courtyard. They were well drilled and anyone who tried to assault the house would be destroyed in seconds. Brutus had his soldiers in a defensive ring as Tubruk signalled to him to open the gate.

‘Move slowly now, if you value life and health,’ he warned Cato’s men.

The gate opened and closed quickly as the cart and riders came in. Covered by drawn bows, the riders dismounted slowly, tension showing. Renius and Brutus approached them and the leader nodded as he recognised the one-armed gladiator.

‘My master Cato believes a mistake has been made. His son was wrongly sworn to Primigenia when in fact he was promised to another legion. My master understands how youthful enthusiasm could have carried him away in the Campus Martius, but regrets that he cannot serve with you. The cart is full of gold in compensation for the loss.’

Brutus moved around the sweating oxen and threw back the covering on the cart, revealing two heavy chests. He opened one and whistled softly at the gold coins within.

‘Your master places a high value on his son’s worth to Primigenia,’ he said.

The soldier looked impassively at the vast wealth he had revealed.

‘The blood of Cato is without price. This is just a token. Is Germinius here?’

‘You know he is,’ Brutus replied, tearing his gaze away from the gold. It would be quickly swallowed by what he owed to Crassus, but it was a huge amount to turn down, nonetheless. He looked at Renius, who shrugged, knowing it had to be Brutus’ decision. It would be easy to unlock the door of Germinius’ room and hand him over. Rome would appreciate the beauty of such a move and Brutus would be known as an astute bargainer to have brought Cato to this position. He sighed. Legionaries were not the property of their commanders, to be bought and sold.

‘Take it back,’ he said, taking a last, wistful look at the gold. ‘Thank your master for the gesture and tell him his son will be well treated. There should be no enemies here, but Germinius took the oath and it cannot be broken except by death.’

The soldier inclined his head stiffly. ‘I will bear the message, but my master will be most displeased that you cannot see a way to end this unfortunate mistake. Good night, gentlemen.’

The gates were opened again and without another word the small party of guards trundled out into the darkness, the cattle lowing mournfully as their driver poked and prodded them to turn their backs on the estate.

‘I would have taken the gold,’ Renius said as the gates closed.

‘No, you wouldn’t, old friend. And neither could I,’ Brutus replied. In silence, he wondered what Cato would do when he heard.

Pompey called for his daughters as he walked into his home on the Aventine Hill. The house was filled with the scent of hot bread and he took a deep appreciative breath as he went through into the gardens, looking for them. After a long day of reports on the continuing offensive against Mithridates, he was exhausted. If it hadn’t been so desperately important, the situation would have been almost farcical. After weeks of debate, the Senate had finally allowed two generals to take their legions to Greece. As far as Pompey could see, they had chosen the least able and least ambitious of any of the men under Senate command. The reasoning was all too clear, but such cautious generals had advanced slowly into the mainland, unwilling to take even the smallest risk. Painstakingly, they had encircled small settlements, laid siege if necessary and moved on. It made Pompey want to spit.

He had wanted the command of a legion himself, but that desire instantly raised the hackles of the Sullans and they had voted down his appointment in a block the moment his name had appeared on the lists. The struggle to protect their careers at the expense of the city was an obscene display, as far as Pompey was concerned, yet they had forced him into line. If he raised a force of ‘volunteers’ himself, with Crassus making the purse, he knew they’d declare him an enemy of the Republic before he’d reached the ships. Daily, the frustration grew as the reports revealed an almost complete lack of achievement. They hadn’t even found the main army yet.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose to relieve some of the pressure. It was cool in the gardens, at least, though the breezes failed to calm his temper. To have the robe of the Senate gripped by such small dogs! Angry little terriers with no imagination and no sense of glory. Shopkeepers, and Rome was run by them.

Pompey walked slowly through the gardens, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, lost in thought. Gradually, he felt the tensions of the day disperse. For years, it had been his habit to separate the working day from his home life with a short stroll in the peaceful gardens. Refreshed, he could join his family at the evening meal and laugh and play with his daughters, the miserable Senate forgotten until the new dawn.

He almost missed the body of his youngest girl, lying face-down in the bushes near the outer wall. When his eyes glanced that way, he began a smile of recognition, expecting her to leap up and embrace him. She loved to surprise him as he came home, dissolving into fits of laughter as he jumped in shock.

He saw blood on her dress in dark brown stains and his face went slowly slack, drooping in a grief he couldn’t begin to resist.

‘Laura? Come on, girl, get up now.’

Her skin was very white and he could see a butcher’s cut where her neck met the patterned cloth of her child’s dress.

‘Come on, darling, up you get,’ he whispered.

He crossed to her and sat down in the damp leaves by her small limbs.

He stroked her hair for a long time as the sun set and the shadows lengthened slowly around them. He knew vaguely that he should be calling for help, shouting, crying, but he didn’t want to leave her, even for the time it would take to summon his wife. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders in the summer and the way she would copy everything he said in her high clear voice. He had sat with her through teething fevers and sickness and now he was with her for the last of it, gently murmuring to her, tugging the collar of the dress higher to cover the red-lipped wound that was the only bright colour of her.

After a time, he stood and walked stiffly into his house. Time passed and a woman screamed in grief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mithridates looked out into the dawn mists, wondering if another attack would come. He pulled his heavy cloak around his shoulders and shivered, telling himself it was just the morning cold. It was hard not to feel despair.

The night attacks had grown in daring and hardly anyone slept easily in the sprawling camp any more. Each evening, they would decide the sentries with lots and those who were chosen would turn their red-rimmed eyes to each other and shrug, already expecting death. If it did not come, they would walk back into the protection of the main camp with a return of confidence that would last until they next took the wrong token from the pot as it was passed around.

Too often, they did not return. Hundreds of sentries missed the roll call each dawn. Mithridates was sure more than half were quietly deserting him, but it looked as if the camp was surrounded by an invisible enemy who could pick and choose each kill on a whim. Some of the sentries were found with arrow wounds, the barbs carefully taken from their flesh to be used again. It did not seem to matter how many men stood watch together, or where he placed them, each day brought fewer men back into the camp.

The king glared into the damp mist that seemed to clog his lungs with winter cold. Some of his men believed they were being attacked by the ghosts of old battles, spreading tales of ancient white-bearded warriors glimpsed for a moment before they disappeared, silently. Always in silence.

Mithridates began to pace along the line of his men. As exhausted as their king, they nonetheless had their weapons ready and stood alertly waiting for the mist to lift. He tried to smile at them and raise their morale, but it was hard. The impotence of having lives whittled away for week after week had taken the heart out of too many of his men. He shuddered again and cursed the white mist that seemed to linger over the tents while the rest of the world woke. Sometimes he thought if he could just find a horse and ride quickly away, he would break into sunshine and look back to see only the valley covered in the shroud.

A body lay untouched between tents. The king paused and looked down at it, angry and ashamed that the young warrior had not been buried. That, even more than the listless stares of his men, told him how far things had gone since they first staked the hills and toasted success and the destruction of Rome. How he hated that name.

Perhaps he should have marched his army away, but always came the nagging thought that moving them onto the plains was what the enemy hoped for most of all. Somewhere, hidden from his scouts, was a legion of men with a commander who was like no one Mithridates had ever met. He seemed to want to destroy them in pieces. Sudden flights of arrows would spit the bodies of anyone wearing an officer’s helmet or carrying a standard. It had reached the point where men had refused to take up the flags and bore the punishment whipping rather than invite a death they saw as inevitable.

It was an evil thing to watch the morale fall from such heights. He’d given orders to the groups of sentries to kill any man who tried to desert, but even more had disappeared the night after, and he still didn’t know if they were dead or had run away. Sometimes, he would see just a pile of their armour, as if they had shrugged off the metal with their honour, but occasionally the piles were spattered with blood.

Mithridates the king rubbed his tired face roughly, bringing colour to his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, not daring drunkenness now, with the chance of attack at any time in the night. They were like ghosts, he thought leadenly. Deadly, quick-moving spirits that left white flesh on the grass behind them.

His sons had worked out units of reinforcement, so that there were always fresh fighters in support, but it hadn’t worked. Mithridates wondered if his men were hanging back, unwilling to be the first to reach the enemy and be killed. When the Romans had vanished, the reinforcements would arrive with a great roaring and crashing of shields and swords, forming rings around the wounded and shouting insults into the night, but it seemed like a futile kind of spite, a coward’s final blow or sneer when safe.

The mist began to thin and Mithridates pinched his cheeks with his powerful thumbs to ward off the cold. Soon he would receive the night’s report of sentries lost and he hoped it would be one of those times when every man arrived back dazed at his good fortune, staggering from the relief after hours of tension and fear. Those were rare nights now.

On one occasion, he had tried to ambush the enemy with a force of a hundred hidden near two of the sentry positions. Every one of them had been found long dead and cold the following day. After that, he hadn’t tried again. Ghosts.

A breeze lifted around him and he pulled his cloak even tighter. The mist swirled and boiled away in minutes, revealing the dark plain. Mithridates froze in fear as he saw the lines of soldiers waiting in silence. Perfect ranks of legionaries, their armour glittering painfully in a silver blur. Two cohorts. A thousand men. Two thousand feet away, waiting for him.

His heart thudded painfully under the wide muscles of his chest, making him feel light-headed. He heard the shout go through the camp as his surviving officers roused the men to stand and run to their positions. Panic touched him then. A thousand men on one side. Where were the rest?

‘Send out the scouts!’ he bellowed.

Runners raced to the backs of horses, galloping through the lines of the camp.

‘Archers to me!’ he continued, his order passed down the line.

Hundreds of bowmen began to converge on the cloaked figure. He gathered their officers around him.

‘It’ll be a ruse, a trick. I want you to protect this side of the camp. Send every shaft you have at them to keep them away. Kill them all if you can. I will guard the head, where the main attack must come. Spend every arrow without stinting. They must not hit our rear as the others attack. Morale would not survive it.’

The officers nodded and bowed, stringing their bows expertly even as they straightened up. Their faces showed the first touches of excitement, the joy of power that comes from sending death in stinging swarms while your own men stand safe.

Mithridates left their units to form and took his horse from the groom who held it, cantering through the camp to the head. The despair lifted from him and he sat straighter in the saddle as he saw his men standing ready all around. It was day and even ghosts could be killed in the day.

Julius stood in the right flank of the veterans, at the head of Ventulus cohort. Three lines of one hundred and sixty men stood with him; six centuries of eighty, with the veterans in the first and third and the weakest fighters in the second rank, where they could not waver or run. With Gaditicus and the men of Accipiter, they covered nearly a mile of land, silent and still. There were no more games to be played. Every one of the Wolves knew they could be dead before the sun was high, but they stood without fear. Their prayers were all said and now there was only the killing to come.

It was bitterly cold and some of the men shivered as they waited for the mist to lift. They did not speak and it was not even necessary for the newly appointed optios to crack their staffs into any of the younger men to keep them quiet. They all seemed to sense the moment, as the mist finally moved on a freshening breeze. Their heads came up almost like dogs with a scent, knowing the effect the sight of them would have.

Some of the veterans had wanted to charge while the morning mist was still thick, but Julius had told them he wanted the enemy to know fear before the final attack and they had accepted his orders without question. After three weeks of destructive attacks on the camp, they looked with something like awe on the young commander as he marched alongside them. He seemed to be able to guess every move that Mithridates would make and counter them brutally. If Julius said it was time for one last open blow to break the Greeks, they would march where he marched, without complaint.

Julius surveyed the tent lines with curiosity, savouring the moment. He wondered which of the scurrying figures was the king, but he couldn’t be sure. As the sunlight lit the valley, doubt clawed at him for a moment. Even with the losses and desertions by the hundred over the last few nights, it was still a huge expanse that made his own force look small in comparison. He bared his teeth slightly in anticipation, pressing his doubts aside and knowing he had their measure. Many of those tents were empty.

Every day of waiting had been an agony of indecision for Julius. Captured deserters told stories of plummeting morale and poor organisation. He knew everything of their officers, their equipment and their appetite for a battle. At first, he had been content with the idea of night attacks and tearing pieces from the army until Mithridates lost his nerve and ran straight into the legions coming from the coast. But the weeks had passed without a sign of the Greeks breaking camp or Roman support appearing on the horizon.

Around the beginning of the third week, Julius had faced the possibility that the legions might not come before Mithridates snapped out of his defensive lethargy and began to think like a real commander. On that night, with the Greek sentries deserting in dozens and passing only feet from his own men unknowing, Julius started to make plans for a full attack.

Now, the bulk of the Greek army was forming into wide blocks ten deep and Julius nodded grimly, remembering lessons from his old tutor. They would not be able to bring as many swords to bear as his own wide line, but the ten ranks would prevent a rout as the enemy that had been killing them forever in the dark faced them at last on the plain. He swallowed painfully as he scrutinised the terrain, waiting for the perfect moment to give the order. He saw a tall man leap astride a horse and gallop away and then hundreds of archers form into units. They would make the air black with arrows.

‘A thousand of them,’ he whispered to himself. His men had shields now, many of them stolen from the Greeks they had killed night after night. Even so, each successful flight would bring down a few, even as they linked the shields and sheltered under them.

‘Sound the advance – quickly!’ he snapped at the cornicen, who raised an old battered horn and blew the double note. The two cohorts stepped forward as one, thumping the Greek earth together. Julius glanced right and left and grinned savagely as he saw the veterans dress the line as they moved, almost without noticing it. No one lagged behind. The old men had hungered for the sort of attack they understood almost as much as Julius and now their impatience could finally be released.

At first, they closed slowly. Julius waited for the archers to fire and almost froze as thousands of long black splinters hummed into the air at him. The aim was good, but the veterans had faced archers all around the Roman lands. They moved without haste, crouching low and pulling in limbs, each man’s shield touching his brother’s beside him. It formed an impenetrable wall and the arrows thumped uselessly into the laminated wood and brass.

For a moment, there was silence, then the veterans rose as one, shouting wildly. The shields were bristling with spent shafts, but they hadn’t lost a man. They moved forward twenty quick paces and then the air hummed again and they ducked down under the shields. Somewhere, a Roman cried out in pain, but they moved on three more times, losing only a few pale bodies on the field behind them.

They were close enough to charge. Julius gave the order and the triple note sounded along the line. The Wolves broke into a fast run and suddenly they were only a few hundred feet from the archers and the black cloud was passing over them.

The Greek archers held their position too long, desperate to kill the ones who had hurt them so badly. Their front rank tried to turn away from the charging Romans, but there was no order to it and the Wolves roared into their confusion, turning it into terror as they fought to get away.

Julius exulted as the Roman line went through them, cutting its way into the squares with bloody skill. The ranks of Greeks dissolved into screaming chaos after only seconds. Julius ordered Ventulus to press them and Gaditicus moved his men out slightly to the left to widen the angle of the rout.

The panic spread like a gale through the Greek ranks. With their own men yelling in terror and sprinting away from the front line and the air filled with the screams of the dying, they began to edge away from the line of Wolves, peeling off from their units and throwing their weapons away as their officers shouted helplessly at them.

More and more began to run and then suddenly there were enough of them fleeing for even the bravest to turn and join the rushing throng.

The Wolves attacked in a frenzy, the veterans slicing through the enemy with all the skill and experience of a hundred battles and the younger men with raw energy and the coursing joy that made their hands shiver and their eyes wild as they cut the Greeks down, red-limbed and terrible in their killing.

The enemy streamed away in all directions. Twice, officers tried to rally them and Julius was forced to support Accipiter to break the largest gathering of men. The knot of frightened soldiers held for less than a minute and then broke again.

The camp became a carnage of trampled bodies and broken equipment and the veterans began to tire, arms aching after hundreds of blows.

Julius ordered the saw formation for Ventulus, where the middle rank moved right and left against the others to block gaps and support the weakest places. His cohort swept through the camp and they seemed to have been killing all day.

Gaditicus had advanced further and it was his men who came on Mithridates and his sons, surrounded by nearly a thousand men. They seemed to act as an anchor on the deserters who ran around them, slowing their headlong flight and pulling them back to join the last stand. Julius ordered the wedge to break the line, and his men shrugged off their tiredness one last time. Julius took the second row himself, behind Cornix on point. They had to break the last stand quickly. These men had not run and they stood under the eyes of their king, fresh and waiting.

Ventulus formed the wedge as if they had fought together all their lives. The shields came up to protect the edges of the arrowhead and they crashed into the Greek lines, sending them reeling back into each other. Only the man at the head was unprotected and Cornix fell in the first flurry of strikes. He rose lathered in blood and holding his stomach in with one hand while the other struck and struck until he fell again, this time not to rise. Julius took the point position, the giant Ciro moving to his side.

Julius could see Mithridates moving through his own men towards the Romans, his expression manic. As Julius felt rather than saw the forward thrust begin to falter, he could have cheered as the king shoved his own men aside to get to them. He knew the Greek king should have hung back and the Romans would not have reached him. Instead, Mithridates was roaring orders and those closest stepped back to allow him the kill.

He was a huge man, wrapped in a heavy purple cloak. He made no attempt at defence, but brought his sword down from above his head with terrible force. Julius ducked away and his answering blow was blocked with a clang that numbed his arm. The man was strong and fast. More Greeks fell all around them as the veterans roared once more and moved on, pushing the guards back and cutting them down with scores of blows. Mithridates seemed unaware as the line pressed past him and he bellowed as he brought his sword round again in a vicious sweep at Julius’ chest, sending the young man staggering back, his armour dented in a line. Both men were blowing air raggedly with exertion and anger. Julius thought one of his ribs had cracked, but now Mithridates was deep behind the front rank and Julius knew he had only to call and the king would be cut down from all sides.

With their king alone and embattled, the guards were struggling desperately to reach him. The veterans tired and fell against them, their strength faltering. Mithridates seemed to sense it.

‘To me, my sons!’ he shouted. ‘Come to me!’ And their efforts doubled into a frenzy.

Julius leaned back around the outside of a blow and then cut in fast, tearing his jagged blade through the shoulder. Mithridates stumbled as Ciro stabbed him in his powerful chest, shouldering into him with an explosion of strength. The king’s blood poured out and he dropped his sword from limp fingers. His eyes met Julius’ for a moment, then he slipped down into the press of mud and bodies. Julius raised a red sword in triumph and Accipiter hit the Greek flank, breaking them utterly and sending them running with the last of their brothers.

They had no oil to burn the bodies, so Julius ordered great pits to be dug at the rear of the camp. It took a week to make them deep enough to hold Mithridates’ dead. Julius had forbidden celebration with so many of the broken army still alive. The irony of having to set up an armed perimeter of the very camp he had attacked for so long did not escape him, but he knew that with the charismatic king dead, there was little chance of the survivors gathering for another attack. He hoped the nerve had been cut out of them, but though Mithridates’ sons had been killed at the end, Gaditicus thought more than four thousand others had escaped and Julius wanted to get away from the valley as soon as the last of his wounded had recovered or died.

Less than five hundred of the Wolves had survived the attack on the camp, most of their number lost in the last battle around the Greek king. Julius had them buried separately and no one complained about the work. They gave them a full funeral that lasted most of a day and the funeral torches gave off a stinking black smoke that seemed fitting for their sacrifice.

When all the dead were in the ground and the camp was clear of wreckage, Julius gathered his officers to him. From the veterans, he chose the ten most senior centurions to represent their voice and was sad that Cornix had not survived the fight to join them, though he knew the ancient warrior had chosen the manner of his death without regret. Quertorus came with the others and it was only as they sat down together that Julius noticed Suetonius too had joined them, though he held no command. The young man’s arm was heavily bound where it had been cut and the sight of it prevented Julius from sending him away. He had earned his place, perhaps, though Julius wondered if he had enjoyed it half so much as the night attacks he seemed to relish.

‘I want to move on to the coast and rejoin Durus and Prax. Somewhere between here and the sea must be a legion, unless the Senate has lost its mind completely. We will deliver Mithridates’ body to them and set sail for home. There’s nothing more to hold us here.’

‘Will you disband the men?’ Quertorus asked.

Julius looked at him and smiled.

‘I will, but at the coast. There are too many survivors from the Greek army for me to be sending ours away now. As well as that, a number of the men I brought to your city died in the fighting and I have gold to share out amongst the survivors. I think it would be fair to give shares to all those who survived.’

‘Will you take the shares from your half, then?’ Suetonius said quickly.

‘No, I will not. The ransoms will all be given back to their rightful owners as I promised. Whatever remains from the half will be shared out amongst the Wolves. If you don’t like that, I suggest you put it to them. Tell them how they don’t deserve a little gold to take back to their city and villages for what they have done here.’

Suetonius subsided with a frown and the veterans watched him with interest. He didn’t meet their eyes.

‘How much gold are we talking about?’ Quertorus asked interestedly.

Julius shrugged.

‘Twenty, maybe thirty aurei per man. I will have to work it out when we meet Durus.’

‘This man has all that gold in his ship,’ one of the others broke in, ‘and you expect him to be there?’

‘He gave his word. And I gave mine to find and kill him if he broke it. He’ll be there. Now, I want everyone ready to march within the hour. I’ve had enough of this camp. I’ve had enough of Greece.’

He turned to Gaditicus with a wistful expression.

‘Now we can go home,’ he said.

They found the first of two legions only eighty miles inland under the command of Severus Lepidus. In the heavily fortified camp, Julius and Ciro presented the body of Mithridates to Lepidus on a bier of cut wood. Ciro remained silent as they laid the body on a low table in an empty tent, but Julius saw that his lips were moving in silent prayer, showing respect for a vanquished enemy. As Ciro finished, he felt Julius’ gaze on him and returned the look without embarrassment.

‘He was a brave man,’ Ciro said simply and Julius was struck by the change in him since they had first met in a tiny village on the African coast.

‘Did you pray to Roman gods?’ Julius asked him.

The big man shrugged. ‘They do not know me yet. When I reach Rome, I will speak to them.’

The Roman legate sent an escort of soldiers to guide the Wolves to the sea. Julius did not protest the decision, though the escort felt more like a prisoner detail than a guarantee of their own safe passage.

Durus was aboard his ship when they finally arrived at the docks and called him out. He didn’t seem overjoyed that they had survived, but quickly mellowed when Julius told him he would be paid for his time as well as the passage back to Brundisium, the closest port on the Roman mainland.

It was strange to be back on a ship again and Julius spent some of his new wealth on buying every barrel of wine in the port for a final celebration. Despite Suetonius’ objections, the wealth of Celsus was shared out amongst the surviving Wolves and many would return home rich by their previous standards, even after an expensive trip in the comfort of a caravan ride or on horseback.

The veterans had asked to see Julius privately one last time before they left for home in the east. He had offered them ranks with him back in Rome, but they had only chuckled and looked at each other. It was difficult to tempt men of their age who had gold in their pouches and he hadn’t really expected them to come. Quertorus had thanked him for all of them and they had cheered him, filling the ship with the noise. Then they had gone.

Durus caught the dawn tide out without fanfare or announcement. The young survivors of the Wolves had all stayed on and they relished the short experience as sailors, with the easy enthusiasm of the young. The seas were calm and it was only a few short weeks before they tied up at the Brundisium port and stepped down onto the land.

Those who had been there from the beginning looked at each other dazedly for long moments as three centuries of the Wolves formed into a column for the march to Rome. Freshly promoted to command a fifty, Ciro dressed the line and stood in wonder as he considered finally seeing the city that had called him. He shivered, rolling his shoulders. It was colder than his tiny farm on the African coast, but still he felt a rightness to the land. He sensed the ghosts of his line had come out to greet their son and were proud.

Julius went down on his knees and kissed the dusty ground with tears in his eyes, too overwhelmed to speak. He had lost friends and suffered injuries he would carry for the rest of his life, but Sulla was dead and he was home.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cato wiped a pudgy hand across his brow. Even with the chill of winter still gripping Rome, the senate building was full and the air heavy with the heat of three hundred of the nobilitas packed into the small space. Cato held up his hands for silence and waited patiently as the babble of noise slowly stilled.

‘This Caesar, this reckless young man, has shown nothing but disdain for Senate will. Acting alone, he has caused the deaths of hundreds of Roman citizens, many of them veterans of our legions. As I understand it, he assumed an authority he was never granted and behaved throughout as I would expect a nephew of Marius to behave. I call on the body of the Senate to censure this little cockerel – to show our repugnance at his waste of Roman lives and his disregard of our authority over him.’

He resumed his seat with a satisfied grunt and the master of debate stood, looking relaxed. He was a large, florid man with little patience for fools. Though his authority was nominal, he seemed to enjoy controlling the more powerful men of the Senate.

Cinna had risen at Cato’s words, his face flushed in anger. The master of debate nodded for him to speak and Cinna swept the rows with his gaze, holding their attention.

‘As many of you know, I am related to Caesar through my daughter’s marriage,’ he began. ‘I came here not to speak in his defence, but to take part in what I expected to be our just and proper congratulation.’ A wave of muttering from Cato’s supporters prevented him from carrying on for a moment, but he waited with icy patience until they subsided.

‘Should we not congratulate a man who broke one of the enemies of Rome? Mithridates lies dead, his army dispersed and some of you speak of censure? It is beyond belief. Instead of counting the lives of his men lost in a battle against a larger force, think instead of those innocents who live because Mithridates was crushed. How many more of our people would have died by the time our cautious legions finally edged close enough to engage the enemy? By the reports, it seems as if they might never have reached the Greek forces at all!’

Another storm of muttering broke out, with jeers and shouts rising over the rest. Many of the senators on both sides rose to speak and fidgeted as they waited. The master of debate caught Cinna’s eye and raised his eyebrows in question. Cinna gave way with ill grace and resumed his seat.

Senator Prandus stood at Cato’s side. He was a tall, spare figure next to the bulk of his patron and he cleared his throat slightly as he was signalled to speak.

‘My son Suetonius was one of those taken by pirates with this Caesar. I have his reports on which to base my opinions and they point to the danger of this Roman to everything we stand for. He acts without consultation of any kind. He rushes into conflict without a thought for other methods to solve a problem. His first and last answer to everything is blind attack. I have details of executions and torture carried out in his name, unsanctioned by the Senate. He compelled old soldiers into battle for little more than personal glory. I must agree with the honourable Cato that this Caesar should be called here for a just punishment for his actions. We should not forget the allegations of piracy that have been levelled against him by Quaestor Pravitas. If he is commended, as some seem to think would be correct, we may well create another Marius and come to regret our generosity in time.’

Cato pushed a nervous-looking man to his feet. Senator Bibilus almost stumbled as he rose under the pressure of the heavy hands. His face was pale and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his brow. Breaking custom, he began to speak before he had received permission and his first words were lost in the hoots of derision that followed.

‘… should consider the withdrawal of Senate membership,’ he said and gulped saliva from his throat. ‘Or possibly a ban on holding army rank. Let him be a merchant with the looted gold he has brought back with him.’

As he spoke, the master of debate glared stonily at him and a brief gesture sent Bibilus back to his seat, his face burning with embarrassment. The master of debate looked grim and turned to face the opposing benches, clearly determined to redress the balance with his choices. Crassus was given leave to speak. He nodded thanks and stared calmly around the packed rows until there was a proper stillness once more.

‘How you do reveal your secret fears!’ he snapped. ‘Another Marius, you say. His nephew! How we must tremble! It sickens me. Did you think our precious Republic could survive without military power? How many of you here have commanded men in successful battles?’ His gaze swept the rows, knowing that Cato had served only the two-year minimum to see him up the political ladder. Other heads nodded while Cato stifled a yawn and looked away.

‘We have a young man who knows how to lead soldiers,’ Crassus continued. ‘He gathered a small army and routed a force eight or nine times their size. True, he acted without first seeking our approval, but he could hardly have waited a year or two until we had finished discussing it!’

The master of debate caught his eye, but Crassus ignored him.

‘No, what causes such poisonous spite in some of us is the shameful fact that this young man has shown our choice of legion commanders to be wrong. His success is proof that we did not act with enough energy and speed to defend our possessions in Greece. That is what rankles with these gentlemen. That is the only reason for their anger against him. Let me remind you that he won the oak wreath for his bravery at Mytilene. He is a gifted, loyal soldier of Rome and it would shame us not to recognise that publicly. I hear Bibilus murmuring about having him stripped of legion rank and I ask myself, what victories has Bibilus brought to us? Or Cato? And there is Prandus hinting at piracy when he knows the charges were proven idiocy when the full facts came to light. No wonder he skirts such a difficult issue when his own son was one of those accused! We should laud Caesar with honours for what he has done.’

‘Enough, Crassus,’ the master of debate said sternly, satisfied he had allowed enough time to repair the outburst by Bibilus. ‘Both sides of the debate have spoken. We can move on to a vote.’

Those still standing sat down reluctantly, looking around the hall and trying to gauge the result before it had started. Before the vote could begin, the massive bronze doors to the chamber swung open and Pompey entered, causing a new stir of interest. Since the death of his daughter, he had not been seen anywhere near the forum or the Senate and there were many whispered questions about his tragedy and what would come of it.

The master of debate motioned to Pompey, indicating a seat for him in the rows. Instead of sitting, Pompey walked to his place and stood waiting to be recognised.

Sighing, the master of debate raised his hand towards him. All noise ceased as every eye fastened on the new arrival.

Cato in particular watched him with glittering intensity, taking in every detail. The daughter’s ashes could not have been long in the ground, but no signs of that grief showed on the man’s face. He seemed calm as he looked around at the packed benches.

‘Forgive my absences and my lateness, senators. I have buried my daughter,’ he said quietly, without a trace of infirmity in his voice. ‘I make a vow before you that those responsible will regret using the innocent in games of power, but that is a problem for another day.’ He spoke reasonably, but those close to him could see every muscle in his shoulders was rigid as if he held a great rage barely in check.

‘Tell me, what is the vote this morning?’ he asked the master of debate.

‘It is to decide censure or approval for the actions of Julius Caesar in Greece,’ the man replied.

‘I see. How does Cato stand on the issue?’ Pompey asked without looking over to the sprawling figure that straightened suddenly in his seat.

The master of debate risked a glance at Cato.

‘He has argued for censure,’ he replied, bewildered.

Pompey joined his hands behind his back and those near him could see the whiteness of the knuckles as he spoke.

‘Then I shall vote against him.’

For a long moment, he held Cato’s gaze in the stillness until everyone there was aware of the new enmity between them. Whispers began as the older ones sat up with fresh interest.

‘Furthermore, I call on my supporters to vote against him. I call on every vote owed me in debt. Discharge them here and clear your slate with me.’

The Senate erupted into chatter as they discussed the implications of such a move. It was practically a declaration of war and Cato set his fleshy mouth in a thin line of irritation as the master of debate announced the vote. By calling in all his favours at the same time, Pompey was throwing away years of careful arrangements and alliances, simply to show his contempt in public.

Crassus paled slightly. It was a foolhardy thing for Pompey to do, though he thought he understood it. No one there could doubt that Pompey had subtly identified the man responsible for his daughter’s murder. Cato would lose a lot of his power while those around him weighed up this new threat and decided whether to distance themselves. He sighed. At least the vote would be won and Cato damaged by the decision. Though the numbers reflected many long-held obligations to Pompey, it was still difficult for the fat senator to stand almost alone with hundreds of his colleagues ranged against him.

The vote passed quickly and Pompey resumed his seat to engage in the discussion for the legion rank Julius would be given on his return to Senate. With most of the senators wanting to get out of the building into the cool fresh air, it was surprisingly quick and Cato hardly took part, stunned into immobility by the humiliation forced on him.

As they filed out through the bronze doors, Cato grimaced and inclined his head in Pompey’s direction, acknowledging the victory. Pompey ignored him and left quickly for home without speaking to anyone.

Tubruk climbed the inner steps up the wall of the estate, thankful for the early warning brought in by the field slaves. He strained to see details of the marching column coming along the road towards them.

‘Two or three centuries, it looks like,’ he called down to Cornelia who had come out from the buildings at the summons. ‘I can’t see standards, but they’re in full armour. It could be part of the Roman garrison.’

‘Will you turn out the men?’ Cornelia asked nervously.

Tubruk didn’t reply at first, intent on his scrutiny of the approaching force. They were well disciplined and armoured, but the absence of standards worried him immensely. The death of Pompey’s daughter had brought a tension back to the old families of Rome that had been missing since the death of Sulla. If such a powerful senator could suffer an attack in his own home, then no one was safe. Tubruk hesitated. If he summoned Brutus and his soldiers to guard the gate, it could be seen as provocation, or an insult to a legitimate force. He gripped the hard stone of the wall as he came to a decision. He would rather offend someone than be found vulnerable and the approaching centuries could be assassins with all legion marks removed.

‘Call Brutus. Tell him I need his men out here now!’ Tubruk shouted down to Cornelia.

She abandoned dignity to run back into the estate buildings.

By the time the approaching column was less than a thousand paces away, Brutus had his men in formation by the gate, ready to rush out into the attack. There were only twenty with him and Tubruk wished they’d had room for more, though he’d laughed at the young commander travelling with even that many at first.

Brutus felt the old anticipation tighten his stomach. The child in him wished he hadn’t left Renius in the city barracks, but it was a momentary weakness. As he bared his gladius, his confidence swelled and his men responded, their tension giving way to tight smiles. They could all hear the tramp of soldiers moving closer to the estate, but there was not a trace of fear in them.

A small figure ran out of the stables and skidded to a stop almost at Brutus’ feet.

‘You’re not coming with us,’ Brutus snapped to forestall the request. He knew very little about the urchin Tubruk had rescued, and at that moment he lacked the patience for an argument. Octavian opened his mouth and Brutus barked an order at him, made angry by the sight of a glinting dagger in the boy’s hand.

‘Get away from here!’

Octavian froze, his eyes wide, then turned on his heel and stalked away without a word. Brutus ignored him, instead watching Tubruk for news of what was happening outside. It was frustrating to be waiting blind, but Brutus understood that soldiers sent by the Senate should not be met with drawn swords. Bloodshed would certainly follow, even if the original errand was an innocent one.

On the top of the wall, Tubruk squinted as the approaching army came closer, marching steadily along the road to the estate. With a deep expulsion of breath, all the tension went out of him in an instant, unseen by those below.

‘Marcus Brutus,’ he called down, ‘I request that you have your men open the gate and go out to meet them.’

Brutus looked up at him quizzically. ‘Are you sure? If they’re hostile, we can defend better from within the walls.’

‘Open the gates,’ Tubruk replied quietly, with a peculiar expression on his face.

Brutus shrugged and gave the order to the men of Primigenia, who drew their swords as they moved forward. His heart pounded and he felt the wild joy that came from his certainty. There was no one alive who could beat him with a blade, not since a day with Renius in the same yard, many years before.

‘All right, you old devil, but if I get killed, I’ll be waiting for you when it’s your time!’

Julius saw the armed men come out of the gates and stiffened. What had happened?

‘Ready weapons!’ he snapped and his men lost their cheerful expressions on the instant. What had seemed a victorious return had suddenly become edged with danger. Cabera jumped at the order, scanning the unknown force with a squint. He reached out a hand to catch Julius’ attention, but thought better of it and grinned to himself, raising his dagger and gesticulating furiously with it. He was enjoying himself tremendously, but his mood wasn’t shared by the soldiers around him. They had been expecting a hero’s welcome after too many hard months of travel and killing. Their expressions were savage as their swords came out one more time.

‘Line formation!’ Julius ordered, seething. If his house had been taken, he would destroy them, leaving nothing alive. His heart twinged for his mother and Tubruk.

He ran a professional eye over the soldiers deploying before the walls. No more than twenty, though they could have others hidden inside. Legionaries. They moved well, but he would trust his Wolves against any other soldiers anywhere and they had the numbers. He put all thoughts of his family aside and prepared to give the order to charge.

‘Sweet Mars! They’re going to attack!’ Brutus exclaimed as he saw the column swing out into an offensive formation. As he saw the numbers against him, he was tempted to order his men back into safety, but there wouldn’t be time to close the gates and the enemy would cut them to pieces as they retreated.

‘Secure the gates, Tubruk!’ he bellowed. The old fool had completely misjudged the threat and now there was a price to be paid.

To Brutus’ pride, the men of Primigenia didn’t falter as they understood the fact of their inevitable destruction. They took their positions close to the estate wall and readied weapons, unstrapping javelins to throw as the charge came. Each man carried four of the long spears and many of the enemy would fall to them before they were close enough for swords.

‘Steady …’ Brutus called over the heads of his men. Just a few more paces and the advancing lines would be in range.

Without warning, the order to halt rang out and the opposing ranks shuddered to a disciplined stop. Brutus raised his eyebrows in surprise, scanning the faces of the enemy. He caught sight of Julius and suddenly laughed out loud, to the bemusement of those around him.

‘Stand down!’ he ordered his twenty and watched as they restrapped their javelins and sheathed their swords. When everything was back in place, he marched them towards the halted soldiers, chuckling.

Julius spoke first.

‘Have you any idea how close I just came to carving you up?’ he asked, grinning.

‘I was thinking much the same thing. My men would have dropped a couple of spears through you before you came ten paces closer. Still lucky, I see.’

‘I recognised you,’ Cabera interjected smugly.

Brutus whooped to see the old man still alive. All three embraced, to the complete confusion of the battle lines surrounding them. Julius broke away first and noticed the three linked arrows on Brutus’ chestplate.

‘Gods! That’s Primigenia, isn’t it?’

Brutus nodded, his eyes bright.

‘I have command, though we’re a little under strength at present.’

‘How much under strength?’

‘By about four thousand men, as it happens, but I am working on it.’

Julius whistled softly.

‘We have a lot to talk about. Does Tubruk know I’m back?’

Brutus looked over his shoulder at the white walls of the estate. The figure of the estate manager raised an arm in greeting from the top. Cabera waved back enthusiastically.

‘Yes, he knows,’ Brutus replied, smiling wryly.

‘I’m going to have to find barracks in the city for my men,’ Julius said. ‘They can set up tents on the estate while I see to a few matters, but I need somewhere permanent for them as well as training facilities.’

‘I know just the place and the man to train them,’ Brutus responded. ‘Renius came back with me.’

‘I’ll need him, and you,’ Julius replied, already planning.

Brutus smiled. His heart felt light as he looked on his old friend. There were new scars on his face that gave him a harsher look than he remembered, but it was still the same man. On impulse, he put out his arm and Julius gripped it firmly, caught up in the same emotion.

‘Is my wife safe?’ Julius asked, searching his oldest friend’s face for news.

‘She’s here, with your daughter.’

‘I have a daughter?’ Julius’ smile stretched right across his face in a foolish beam. ‘Why are we standing here? A daughter! Come on!’

He called a quick order to set up camp around the walls and rushed off, with Brutus marching his twenty behind, his mind whirling. There was so much to tell Julius. About Sulla’s murder, and Pompey’s daughter, the Senate gossip his mother told him. Julius would have to meet Servilia! With Julius back, it seemed as if the world was steady again and Brutus felt his worries lift away. With his old friend there to help him, he would remake Primigenia back to its old strength, beginning with the men Julius had brought with him. Julius made problems seem easy and he of all people would understand why the ‘Traitor’s Legion’ had to be reborn.

Brutus laughed as he came face to face with Tubruk, who had waited for him inside the gate with a wry expression of amusement.

‘Good eyes for a man of your age,’ he said to the old gladiator.

Tubruk chuckled. ‘A soldier pays attention to details, like who the commander is,’ he said cheerfully.

Brutus shrugged off his embarrassment.

‘Where’s Julius rushed off to?’

‘He’s with his wife and daughter, lad. Give him a little time alone with them.’

Brutus frowned slightly. ‘Of course. I’ll take my men back to the city barracks and stay the night there. Let him know where I am.’

‘I didn’t mean … you don’t have to leave, lad,’ Tubruk said quickly.

Brutus shook his head. ‘No. You’re right. This is a time for him to be with his family. I’ll see him tomorrow.’ He turned stiffly and ordered his men into a marching column outside the gates.

Cabera wandered into the estate yard, beaming at everything.

‘Tubruk!’ he called. ‘You are going to feed us well, yes? It’s been such a long time since I had good wine and those civilised little dishes you Romans are so proud of. Do you want me to see the cook? I liked that man, he was a fine singer. Are you well?’

Tubruk lost the frown that had creased his forehead as Brutus marched away. It was impossible not to be touched by the wave of enthusiasm Cabera seemed to bring with him wherever he went. He had missed the old man as much as anyone and came down the steps to greet him.

Cabera saw the old gladiator glance after Brutus and patted his shoulder.

‘Let the boy go. He always was a prickly one, remember? They will be like brothers again tomorrow, but Julius has a lot of catching up to do first.’

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks and gripped the slender shoulders of the healer with rekindling enthusiasm.

‘The cook will despair when he sees how many he has to feed, but I promise you, it will be better than the rations you’re used to.’

‘Aim much higher than that,’ Cabera replied seriously.

Cornelia turned quickly when she heard running footsteps. For a second, she didn’t recognise the officer standing there, tanned and thin from his travels. Then his face lit with pleasure and he stepped forward to wrap his arms around her. She held him tightly, breathing in the smell of his skin and laughing as he lifted her to the points of her feet.

‘It’s been such a long time without you,’ he said, his eyes sparkling over her shoulder as he pressed the air out of her. Her ribs ached by the time he let go, but she didn’t care at all.

For a long time, Julius was able to forget everything but the beautiful woman in his arms. At last, he put her down and stepped back, holding her hand as if unwilling to let her stray from him again.

‘You’re still gorgeous, wife,’ he said. ‘And I hear we have a daughter.’

Cornelia pursed her lips in irritation.

‘I wanted to tell you myself. Clodia, bring her in now,’ she called and her nurse entered quickly enough to make it obvious that she had been standing outside waiting for them to finish.

The little girl looked around with interest as she was brought to her parents in Clodia’s arms. Her eyes were the same soft brown as her mother’s, but her hair was as dark as Julius’ own. He smiled at the child and she beamed back at him, her cheeks dimpling.

‘She’s almost two now and a terror round the house. She knows a lot of words already when she’s not too shy,’ Cornelia said proudly, taking her from Clodia.

Julius wrapped his arms around both of them and applied a gentle pressure.

‘I used to dream of seeing you again at the worst times. I didn’t even know you were pregnant when I left,’ he said as he released them. ‘Does she walk yet?’

Both Clodia and Cornelia nodded and smiled at each other. Cornelia set her daughter down and they watched as she trotted around the room, stopping to examine everything she came across.

‘I called her Julia, after you. I wasn’t sure if you were coming back and …’ Cornelia’s eyes filled with tears and Julius held her tightly again.

‘All right, wife, I made it home. That’s an end to it.’

‘Things were … difficult for a while. Tubruk had to sell some of the land to pay the ransom.’

She hesitated before telling him everything. Sulla was dead, thank all the merciful gods. It would only hurt Julius to know what she had suffered at his hands. She would warn Tubruk to say nothing.

‘Tubruk sold some of the land?’ Julius said in surprise. ‘I had hoped … no, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get it back. I want to hear everything that has happened in the city since I left, but it will have to wait until I have had a long bath and changed my clothes. We came straight here from the coast without entering the city.’ He raised a hand to stroke her hair and she shivered slightly at the touch. ‘I have a surprise for you,’ he said, calling in his men.

Cornelia waited patiently with Clodia and her daughter while Julius’ men brought in their packs, piling them in the centre of the room. Her husband was still the same whirlwind of energy she remembered. He called for servants to show the men the way to the wine stores with orders to take as much as they needed. More were dispatched on a dozen errands and the house came to scurrying life around him. Finally, he closed the door and beckoned Cornelia over to the leather packs.

She and Clodia let out unwilling gasps as they saw the shine of gold coins inside as he undid the flap. He laughed with pleasure and showed them more and more of them, full of bars or coin in silver and gold.

‘All the ransom and four times as much again,’ he said cheerfully as he retied the packs. ‘We will buy our land back.’

Cornelia wanted to ask where he had found such wealth, but as her eyes travelled over the white scars on his dark arms and the deep one on his brow, she stayed silent. He had paid heavily for it.

‘Tata?’ came a little voice and Julius laughed as he looked down and found the small figure with her hands upraised to be held.

‘Yes, my darling girl. I am your father, come home from the ships. Now I am for a good soak and a fine meal before sleep. The thought of being in my own bed is a pleasure I can hardly describe.’

His daughter laughed at his words and he hugged her.

‘Gently! She’s not one of your soldiers, you know,’ Clodia said, reaching up to take her.

Julius felt a pang as the child left his arms and he sighed with satisfaction as he looked at them all.

‘There’s so much to do, my darling,’ he said to his wife.

Too impatient in the end to wait, Julius had called for Tubruk to report to him while he bathed the dust and filth of the journey from his body. The hot water turned a dark grey after moments of scrubbing and the heat made his heart thump away some of the weariness.

Tubruk stood at the end of the narrow pool and recited the financial dealings of the estate over the previous three years as once he had for Julius’ father. When Julius was finally clean, he seemed younger than the dark warrior who had first come into sight at the head of a column. His eyes were a washed-out blue and when the rush of energy from the hot water faded, Julius could barely stay awake to listen.

Before the young man could fall asleep in the pool, Tubruk handed him a soft robe and towels and left him. His step was light as he walked down the corridors of the estate, listening to the songs of the drunken soldiers outside. For the first time since the event, the guilt that had plagued him over his part in the death of Sulla lifted as if it had never existed. He thought he would tell Julius when all the business of his return to Rome was settled and things were quiet again. The murder had been done in his name after all, and if Julius knew, Tubruk would be able to send anonymous gifts to the families of Casaverius, Fercus and the parents of the young soldier who had stood against him at the gate. Especially Fercus, whose family were almost destitute without him. Tubruk owed them everything for their father’s courage and he knew Julius would feel the same.

He passed Aurelia’s door and heard a low keening from inside the room. Tubruk hesitated. Julius was too tired to rouse and he hadn’t yet asked after his mother. Tubruk wanted nothing more than to go to his own bed after a long day, but then he sighed and went in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The messenger from the Senate arrived the following dawn. It took Tubruk some time to rouse Julius and when he finally greeted the Senate runner, he was still less than fully alert. After so many months of tension, the one night in his own home had done little to remove the bone-deep exhaustion.

Yawning, Julius rubbed a hand through his hair and smiled blearily at the young man from the city.

‘I am Julius Caesar. Deliver your message.’

‘The Senate require you to attend a full council at noon today, master,’ the messenger said quickly.

Julius blinked. ‘That’s all?’ he asked flatly.

The messenger shifted slightly.

‘That is the official message, master. I do know a little more, from the gossip amongst the runners.’

‘Tubruk?’ Julius said and watched as the estate manager passed over a silver coin to the man.

‘Well?’ Julius asked when the coin had disappeared into a hidden pouch.

The messenger smiled.

‘They say you are to be given the rank of tribune for your work in Greece.’

‘Tribune?’ Julius looked at Tubruk, who shrugged as he spoke.

‘It’s a step on the ladder,’ the estate manager replied calmly, indicating the messenger with his eyes. Julius understood and dismissed the runner back to the city.

When they were alone, Tubruk clapped him on the back.

‘Congratulations. Now are you going to tell me how you earned it? Unlike the Senate, I don’t have messengers to run all over the place for me. All I have heard is that you beat Mithridates and overran an army twenty times your size.’

Julius barked a surprised laugh.

‘Next week it will be thirty times the size, as the Roman gossips tell the story. Perhaps I shouldn’t correct them,’ he said wryly. ‘Come for a walk with me and I’ll tell you all the details. I want to see where this new boundary is.’

He saw Tubruk’s sudden frown and smiled to ease the man’s worry.

‘I was surprised when Cornelia told me. I never thought you of all people would sell land.’

‘It was that or send the ransom short, lad, and there’s only one son of the house.’

Julius gripped his shoulder in sudden affection.

‘I know, I’m only teasing you. It was the right thing to do and I have the funds to buy it back.’

‘I sold it to Suetonius’ father,’ Tubruk said grimly.

Julius paused as he took this in.

‘He would have known it was for the ransom. He had to raise one for his son, after all. Did you get a good price?’

Tubruk replied with a pained expression.

‘Not really. He drove a very hard bargain and I had to let more of it go than I wanted. I’m sure he saw it as good business, but it was’ – he screwed his face up as if something bitter had entered his mouth – ‘shameful.’

Julius took a deep breath.

‘Show me how much we’ve lost and then we’ll work out how to get the old man to return it to me. If he’s anything like his son, it won’t be easy. I want to be back for when my mother wakes, Tubruk. I have a … great deal to tell her.’

Something stopped Julius telling Tubruk about the head wound and the fits that came after it. In part, it was shame at the lack of understanding he had shown his mother over the years, which he knew he had to put right. More than that, though, he didn’t want to see pity in the old gladiator’s eyes. He didn’t think he could bear it.

Together, they walked out of the estate and up the hill to the woods that Julius had run through as a boy, Tubruk listening as Julius told him everything that had happened in the years he had been away from the city.

The new boundary was a solid wooden fence right across the path where Julius remembered digging a wolf trap for Suetonius years before. The sight of it on land that had been in his family for generations made him want to break it down, but instead he leaned on it, deep in thought.

‘I have enough gold to offer him far more than the land is worth, but that sticks in my throat, Tubruk. I don’t like to be cheated.’

‘He’ll be at the Senate meeting at noon. You could sound him out there. We may be misjudging the man. Perhaps he will offer to return the land for what he paid for it,’ Tubruk said, his doubts showing clearly.

Julius knocked his knuckles on the solid fence and sighed. ‘Somehow I doubt that. Suetonius must be home by now and we fell out about a few things on the ships and in Greece. He won’t be wanting to do me any favours, but I am getting my father’s land back. I’ll see what Marcus thinks.’

‘Brutus now, you realise. Did you know he made centurion with the Bronze Fist? He’ll be wanting your advice about Primigenia as well.’

Julius nodded and smiled at the thought of being able to talk again with his old friend.

‘He must be the youngest general Rome has ever had,’ he said, chuckling.

Tubruk snorted. ‘A legate without a legion, then.’ He sobered suddenly, his eyes becoming cold with memory. ‘Sulla had the name struck from the legion rolls after Marius’ death. It was awful in Rome for a while. Nobody was safe, not even the Senate. Anyone Sulla named as enemy of the state was dragged out of their home and executed without trial. I thought of taking Cornelia and the baby away, but …’ He caught himself, remembering what Cornelia had said to him as he returned to his own room from Aurelia’s the night before, while Julius lay deeply asleep.

The old gladiator felt torn between his loyalties to Julius and Cornelia. His relationship with both of them was far closer to fatherly love than the professional duty of an estate manager. He hated to keep secrets, but he knew what had happened with Sulla should be hers to tell first.

Julius didn’t seem to notice his preoccupation, lost in thought himself.

‘Thank the Furies that bastard’s dead, Tubruk. I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d lived. I suppose I could have written to you to take my family out of the country, but a life in exile would have been the end of me. I can’t describe what it felt like to touch my feet on Roman soil again after so long. I hadn’t really known the strength of it until I left, you understand?’

‘You know I do, lad. I don’t know how Cabera can stand to wander as he does. A rootless life is beyond me, but then perhaps we have deeper roots than most, here.’

Julius let his gaze pass over the green-shadowed woods that held so many memories and his resolve firmed. He would have back what had been taken.

Another thought struck him. ‘What of Marius’ house in the city?’

‘It is lost,’ Tubruk said without looking at him. ‘Sold at auction when Sulla was declared Dictator. A great deal of property changed hands by his order. Crassus bought some of it, but for the most part the bidding was a farce, with Sulla’s supporters taking the best.’

‘Do you know who lives there now?’ Julius asked, his voice tight with anger.

Tubruk shrugged. ‘It was given to Antonidus, Sulla’s general, or rather he paid a tiny amount of its worth. They called him Sulla’s dog for his loyalty, but he gained a great deal from his master.’

Julius clenched a fist slowly. ‘That is a problem I can settle today, after the Senate meeting. Does he have many soldiers at his command, this Antonidus?’

Tubruk frowned as he understood, then a smile tugged at his mouth. ‘A few house guards. He has a nominal rank, which no one has thought to take from him, but he is not linked to a particular legion. You have the men to turn him out if you do it quickly.’

‘Then I shall do it quickly,’ Julius replied, turning away from the fence and looking back towards the estate. ‘Will my mother be awake by now?’

‘She usually is. She doesn’t sleep much these days,’ Tubruk replied. ‘Her illness is the same, but you should know she grows weaker.’

Julius looked with affection on the old gladiator, whose emotions were always closer to the surface than he pretended. ‘She would be lost without you,’ he said.

Tubruk looked away and cleared his throat as they began to walk back to the estate. His continuing duty to Aurelia was not open for discussion, despite the fact that it had been more and more in his thoughts over the previous few months. He thought of her when he looked at Clodia and admitted the affection that had sprung out of nothing to surprise him. Cornelia’s nurse was a gentle woman and she had made it clear that she shared the quiet love he felt for her. Yet there was Aurelia to care for and he knew he could never retire to a small house in the city while there was still that obligation in his life, even if they could buy Clodia free of slavery as she seemed so sure they could. There was little to be gained in worrying about the future, he reflected as they neared the estate. It made a mockery of planning, every time. All they could ever do was be ready for the swift turns and changes it would bring.

Octavian was waiting for them at the gate. Julius looked at him blankly as they drew abreast, pausing in surprise as the small boy bowed deeply to him.

‘And who is this?’ he said, turning to Tubruk, amazed to see him blushing in embarrassment.

‘His name is Octavian, master. I did tell him I would present him to you when there was time, but he has lost his patience yet again, I see.’

Octavian paled slightly at the criticism. It was true that he hadn’t been able to wait, but he hadn’t disobeyed so much as assumed Tubruk would have changed his mind, which was entirely different, he thought.

‘Tubruk is looking after me for my mother,’ he said brightly to Julius. ‘I am learning how to fight with a gladius and ride horses and …’

Tubruk cuffed him gently to stop the recitation, his embarrassment growing. He had meant to explain the situation to Julius, and was mortified to have it thrust on him without a moment to prepare.

‘Alexandria brought him,’ he said, sending Octavian tottering away with a push in the direction of the stables. ‘He is a distant relative of yours, from your grandfather’s sister. Aurelia seems to like him, but he’s still learning his manners.’

‘And how to fight with a gladius and ride horses?’ Julius asked, enjoying Tubruk’s confusion with gentle amusement. Seeing the estate manager flustered was a new experience for him and he was quite happy to allow it to run for a while.

Tubruk scratched the back of his ear with a grimace and looked after Octavian as the little boy finally took the hint and trotted out of sight.

‘That was my idea. He was being hurt by apprentices in the city and I thought I could show him how to take care of himself. I was going to clear it with you, but …’

Julius cracked with laughter, made worse by Tubruk’s stunned expression.

‘I’ve never seen you so nervous before,’ Julius said. ‘I think you have taken a liking to the little puppy?’

Tubruk shrugged, irritated by the change in mood. Typical of Octavian to ignore his orders yet again. Each day seemed to start afresh for him, with his lessons or punishments completely forgotten.

‘He has a hardy spirit for a lad so young. He reminds me of you sometimes, now we’ve cleaned him up a little.’

‘I won’t question anything you have done in my absence, Tubruk. If your judgement was good enough for my father, it will always be good enough for me. I’ll see the lad properly when I return this evening or tomorrow. He was a bit small to be fighting on the back streets of the city, wasn’t he?’

Tubruk nodded, pleased Julius hadn’t objected. He wondered if it was the right moment to mention that the boy had his own room in the house and his own pony in the stables. Probably not.

Still smiling, Julius went into the main buildings and Tubruk was left alone in the yard. A flicker of movement from the stables registered in his vision and he sighed. The boy was spying again, probably worried that his pony would be taken away, the only threat that had any effect on him.

Julius sat silently in his mother’s dressing room and watched while a slave applied the oils and paints that went some way to hide her wasted condition. The fact that she had allowed him to see her without the aids worried him as much as the actual shock of how thin and ill-looking she had become. For so long, he had promised himself that he would reveal his understanding of her sickness and achieve a companionship of sorts from the rubble of his childhood. As the moment had come, he couldn’t think how to begin. The woman sitting in front of the mirror was almost a stranger to him. Her cheeks had sunk into darkened hollows that resisted the paints the slave applied, showing through the lighter colours like a shadow of death that hung over her. Her dark eyes were listless and weary and her arms were so pitifully thin it made him wince to look at them.

Aurelia had known him, at least. She had greeted him with tears and a delicate embrace that he returned with infinite care, feeling as if he could break the fragile thing she had become. Even then, she gasped slightly as he held her and guilt swept over him.

When the slave had packed her materials into an elegantly veneered case and bowed out of the room, Aurelia turned to her son and essayed a smile, though her skin crinkled like parchment under the application of false colours.

Julius struggled with his emotions. Cabera had said his condition was different from his mother’s, and he knew she had never suffered a wound like the one that had nearly killed him. Even so, they had something in common at last, though the gulf seemed unbridgeable.

‘I … thought of you a great deal while I was away,’ he began.

She didn’t reply, seemingly transfixed by the examination of her face in the polished bronze. Her long, thin fingers rose to touch her throat and hair as she turned this way and that, frowning at herself.

‘I was injured in a battle and ill for a long time,’ Julius struggled on, ‘and afterwards a strange fit would come over me. It … reminded me of your sickness and I thought I should tell you. I wish I had been a better son to you. I never understood what you were going through before, but when it happened to me it was like a window opening. I’m sorry.’

He watched her shaking hands smooth and caress her face as he spoke, their movements becoming more and more agitated. Worried for her, he half rose out of his seat and distracted her so that she turned her face to him.

‘Julius?’ she whispered. Her pupils had widened darkly and her eyes seemed unfocused as they passed over him.

‘I am here,’ he said sadly, wondering if she had heard him at all.

‘I thought you had left me,’ she went on, her voice sending a shudder through him.

‘No, I came back,’ he said, feeling his eyes prickle with grief.

‘Is Gaius all right? He’s such a wilful boy,’ she said, closing her eyes and lowering her head as if to shut out the world.

‘He is … well. He loves you very much,’ Julius replied softly, bringing up his hand to clear the tears that stung him.

Aurelia nodded and turned back to her mirror and her contemplation.

‘I am glad. Would you send in the slave to tend me, dear? I will need a little make-up to face the house today, I think.’

Julius nodded and stood looking at her for a moment.

‘I’ll fetch her for you,’ he said and left the room.

As the noon shadow marked the sundial of the forum, Julius entered the great expanse with his guards, taking a direct route to the senate building. As he crossed the open space, he was struck by the changes in the city since he’d left. The fortifications Marius had raised along the walls had been dismantled, and there were only a few legionaries to be seen. Even they were relaxed, walking with their mistresses or standing in small groups chatting, without a sign of the tension he had expected. It was a city at peace again and a shudder passed through him as he walked over the flat grey stones. He had brought ten soldiers of his command into the city, wanting them close while he was out of armour and in his formal robe. Such a precaution seemed unnecessary and he didn’t know if he was pleased or sorry. The battle for the walls was as fresh in his mind as if he had never left, but the people out in the pale winter sunshine laughed and joked with each other, blind to the scenes that flashed into his imagination. He saw Marius fallen again and the clash of dark figures as Sulla’s forces cut down the defenders around their general.

His mouth twisted in bitterness as he considered how young and full of joy he had been that night. Fresh from the marriage bed, he had seen all their dreams and planning crushed and his own future altered for ever. If they had beaten Sulla, if they had only beaten Sulla, Rome would have been spared years of brutality and the Republic might have regained some of its former dignity.

He halted his men at the bottom of the wide marble steps and, despite the contented mood in the forum, he told them to remain alert. After the death of Marius, he had learned it was ultimately safer to expect trouble, even by the senate building.

Leaving his men to stand in the sun, Julius looked up at the studded bronze doors that had been unbarred for the assembly. Senators stood in pairs and threes, discussing the issues of the day as they waited for the gathering to be called. Julius saw his father-in-law Cinna with Crassus and walked up the steps to greet them. They had their heads close together as they talked and Julius saw anger and frustration on their faces. Crassus was still the thin brown stick of a man Julius remembered, disdaining any sign of his wealth in his simple white robe and sandals. He had seen Cinna last at his wedding to Cornelia and, of the pair of senators, he had changed the most in the intervening years. As he turned to greet Julius, the younger man was struck by the wrinkles that had cut into his face, the visible effects of his worries. Cinna gave him a tired smile and Julius returned it uncomfortably, never having got to know the man properly.

‘The wanderer returns to us, his sword and bow at rest,’ Crassus quoted. ‘Your uncle would be proud of you, if he were here.’

‘Thank you. I was just thinking of him,’ Julius replied. ‘Seeing the city again is hard after so long, especially here. I keep expecting to hear his voice.’

‘It was forbidden even to mention his name while Sulla was alive, did you know?’ Crassus asked, watching him for a reaction. Only a slight tightening of the mouth betrayed the young man’s feelings.

‘Sulla’s desires meant little to me while he lived; less so now,’ he said flatly. ‘I would like to visit the tomb of Marius after the Senate meeting, to pay my respects.’

Crassus and Cinna exchanged glances and Crassus touched him on the arm in sympathy.

‘I’m sorry, his remains were taken and scattered. It was some of Sulla’s soldiers, though he denied it. I think that was why he left instructions to be cremated himself, though friends of Marius wouldn’t stoop so low.’

He dropped his hand as Julius tensed with anger, visibly struggling to remain controlled. Crassus spoke calmly, giving him time to compose himself.

‘The Dictator’s legacy still plagues us in the form of his followers in Senate. Cato is first amongst them, and Catalus and Bibilus seem content to follow his lead in everything. I believe you know Senator Prandus, whose son you were captured with?’

Julius nodded. ‘I have some business to discuss with him after the meeting today,’ he replied, once again giving the outward appearance of calm. Surreptitiously, he held his right hand in his left, suddenly worried that the emotions that swelled in him would begin a fit on the very steps of the Senate and disgrace him for ever. Crassus affected not to notice anything was wrong, for which Julius was grateful.

‘Have a care with Prandus, Julius,’ Crassus said sternly, leaning in close so that the senators entering the building couldn’t overhear them. ‘He has powerful connections with the Sullans now and Cato counts him as a friend.’

Julius inclined his head even closer to Crassus and whispered harshly, ‘Those who were friends to Sulla are enemies of mine.’

Without another word, he turned from the pair to ascend the final steps to the doors and disappeared into the shadowed hall within.

Crassus and Cinna looked at each other with guarded surmise as they followed at a slower pace.

‘Our aims converge, it seems,’ Cinna said quietly.

Crassus nodded curtly, unwilling to discuss it further as they moved amongst their colleagues to their seats, passing enemies and friends alike.

Julius felt the vibrant energy of the gathering as soon as he entered it. There were few vacant places and he had to take a position on the third row back from the speaker’s rostrum. He took in the sights and sounds with satisfaction, knowing he had finally returned to the heart of power. Seeing so many strangers, he wished that he had stayed with Crassus and his father-in-law for them to name the new faces. For the time being, however, he was content just to watch and learn, overlooked by the predators until he had better defences. He smiled tightly to himself at the vision of battle that the Senate represented to him. It was a false one, he knew. Here, the enemies could be the ones who greeted him most fondly, then set assassins on him as soon as they turned away. His father had always been disparaging of the bulk of the nobilitas, though he’d admitted a grudging respect for the few that held honour above politics.

The assembly became quiet and an elderly consul Julius did not know began the day’s oath. As one, they stood for the solemn words.

‘We who are Rome pledge our lives for her peace, our strength for her own and our honour for her citizens.’

Julius repeated the chanted words with the others and felt the beginnings of excitement. The heart of the world was beating still. He listened with utter concentration to the agenda of discussions they would undertake and managed to remain outwardly unaffected as the consul came to ‘The post of tribune to be awarded to Gaius Julius Caesar for his actions in Greece.’ A few of those who knew him turned to watch his reaction, but he showed them nothing, pleased for the warning he had bought from the messenger. He resolved to hire advisers there and then to help him understand every one of the issues of the day. He would need expert jurists to prepare the law cases he would undertake as soon as he was awarded the first post of his political career. He was grimly certain that the first trial before magistrates would be against Antonidus after he took back his uncle’s house. That the arguments would have to involve a public defence of Marius gave him a great deal of satisfaction.

Cato was easy to recognise by his bulk, though Julius didn’t remember seeing him on his only other visit to the senate house, years before. The senator was obscenely large and his features almost seemed to have been smothered in the billowing folds of flesh, so that the real man looked out from somewhere deep within the face. He had a coterie of friends and supporters around him and Julius could see from the deference shown that he was a man of influence, even as Crassus had warned. Suetonius’ father was there and their eyes met briefly before the older man looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen. A moment later, the man whispered something in Cato’s ear and Julius found himself the subject of a stare that seemed amused rather than worried. With an impassive expression, Julius marked the man in his mind as an enemy. He noted with interest the way Cato’s eyes flickered to fasten on Pompey as he entered and took a seat his own supporters had held for him.

Julius too watched Pompey, judging the changes in the man. The tendency towards softness of flesh had gone from Pompey’s figure. He looked trim and hard-muscled as a soldier should, a greyhound compared to Cato. His skin was burned dark and Julius remembered he had spent time in Spain overseeing the legions there. No doubt the task of dealing with the rebellious tribes of the provinces had melted the fat from him.

Pompey rose smoothly for the first item and spoke on the need for a force to be sent against the sea pirates, estimating they had a thousand ships and two thousand villages and towns in their control. Given his own bitter experiences, Julius listened with interest, a little shocked that the situation had been allowed to get so far out of hand. He was amazed when others stood to refute Pompey’s figures and argue against stretching their forces further.

‘I could clear the seas in forty days if I had ships and men,’ Pompey snapped in return, but the vote passed against him and he took his seat again, his brows knotted in frustration.

Julius voted in three other matters, noticing Pompey, Crassus and Cinna matched his views on each occasion. On all three they were defeated and Julius felt his own frustration rise. A slave revolt near Vesuvius had proved difficult to put down, but instead of sending a crushing force, the Senate gave permission for only one legion to deal with it. Julius shook his head in disbelief. He hadn’t realised at first how cautious the Senate had become. From his experiences with Marius and his own battles, Julius knew an empire had to be strong to survive, yet many of the senators were blind to the problems facing their commanders around the Mare Internum. At the end of an hour of speeches, Julius had a far better understanding of the annoyance felt by men like Prax and Gaditicus at the ditherers of the Senate. He had expected to see a nobility of action and aspect to match the oath they had taken, not petty bickering and factions opposing each other.

Lost in these thoughts, he missed hearing the next item and only the sound of his own name broke his reverie.

‘… Caesar, who shall be awarded the post of military tribune with all rights and honours in our thanks for the defeat of Mithridates in Greece, and the taking of two pirate vessels.’

All the senators stood, with even Cato levering himself ponderously onto his feet.

Julius grinned boyishly as they cheered him and pretended not to notice the ones who stood in silence, though he marked every face as his gaze swept round the packed rows.

He sat down with his heart beating in excitement. A tribune could levy troops and he knew three hundred not far away who would be the first to join his command. Cato caught his eye and nodded to him, testing. Julius returned the gesture with an open smile. It would not do to warn the man he had a new enemy.

As the bronze doors were once again thrown open to admit daylight into the senate house, Julius moved quickly to intercept Suetonius’ father as he made his way out.

‘I would like a word, Senator,’ he said, interrupting a conversation.

Senator Prandus turned to him, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I can’t imagine that we have anything to discuss, Caesar,’ he replied.

Julius ignored the cold tone and went on as if the matter was between friends. ‘It’s the land my estate manager sold you to pay my ransom. You know I was successful in getting the gold back, including your own son’s. I would like to meet with you to discuss the price to return it to my family.’

The senator shook his head slightly. ‘I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I have wanted to expand my holdings for some time and I have plans to build another house there for my son once those woods have been cleared. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

He smiled tightly at Julius and would have turned back to his companions. Julius reached out and took his arm, only to have his grip shaken off with a quick jerk. Senator Prandus’ face flushed with anger at the touch.

‘Have a care, young man. You are in the senate house, not some distant village. If you touch me again, I will have you arrested. From what my son has told me, you are not the sort of person I want to do business with.’

‘He may also have mentioned that I am not a good person to have as an enemy,’ Julius murmured, keeping his voice low so that he would not be overheard.

The senator froze for a moment as he considered the threat, then turned away stiff-necked to catch up with Cato as he passed through the doors.

Thoughtfully, Julius watched him go. He had expected something similar from the man, though the news of a house to be built on his old land was a blow. At the peak of the hill, it would look down on his estate, a position of superiority that would no doubt give Suetonius enormous satisfaction. He looked around for Crassus and Cinna, wanting to speak to them before they left for their homes. In a way, what Suetonius’ father had said was true. Using force in Rome would lead quickly to disaster. He would have to be subtle.

‘First is Antonidus, though,’ he muttered under his breath. Force would do very well there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Walking through the city at the head of his ten soldiers sparked painful memories as Julius made his way to the street of Marius’ old home. He remembered the excitement he’d felt as the storm of energy around the general had caught him up in its wake. Each street and turning reminded him of that first, clattering journey to the Senate, surrounded by the hardest men of Primigenia. How old had he been then, fourteen? Old enough to understand the lesson that the law would bend for strength. Even Sulla had quailed before the soldiers in the forum, on stones made wet with the blood of the heaving crowds. Marius had been granted the Triumph he wanted and the consulship that followed, though Sulla had brought him down at the end. Grief sat heavily on Julius as he wished for just one more moment with the golden general.

None of Julius’ men had ever seen Rome before and four of them were from small villages along the African coast. They struggled not to stare, but it was a losing battle as they saw the mythical city made real before their eyes.

Ciro seemed awed simply by the number of people they passed in the bustling streets and Julius saw the city with fresh eyes through the big man’s reactions. There was nowhere like it in the world. The smells of food and spices blended with shouts and hammering, and woven through the crowds were tunics and togas of blue and red and gold. It was a feast of the senses and Julius enjoyed their wonder, remembering how he had ridden at Marius’ shoulder on a gilded chariot, every street filled with cheering people. The sweet glory of it was mixed in memory with the pain of what came after, but still, he had been there, on that day.

Even with only the largest roads named, Julius remembered the way without difficulty, almost unconsciously taking the exact route he had taken on his first visit after passing through the forum. Gradually, the streets became less crowded and cleaner as they rose above the valley of winding tenements and climbed the paved hill road that was lined with modest doors and gates, each hiding splendour within.

Julius halted his men a few hundred feet from the gate he remembered and approached alone. As he drew up to it, a small, stocky figure dressed in a simple slave tunic and sandals came up to the bars to greet him. Although the man smiled politely, Julius noticed his eyes flicked up and down the road with automatic caution.

‘I have come to speak to the owner of the house,’ Julius said, smiling and relaxed.

‘General Antonidus is not here,’ the gatekeeper replied warily.

Julius nodded as if he had expected the news.

‘I will have to wait for him then. He must have the news I carry.’

‘You can’t come in while …’ the man began.

With a jerk of his arm, Julius reached through the bars as he had once seen Renius do. The gatekeeper pulled back as he moved and almost made it, but Julius’ fingers found a grip on the tunic and yanked him hard into the bars.

‘Open the gate,’ Julius said into the man’s ear as he struggled.

‘I won’t! If you knew the man this house belongs to, you wouldn’t dare. You will be dead before sunset unless you let me go!’

Julius heaved with his whole weight to jam the man against the bars.

‘I do know him. I own this house. Now open the door or I will kill you.’

‘Kill me then – you won’t get in, even so,’ the man snapped, still struggling wildly.

He filled his lungs to call for help and Julius grinned suddenly at his courage. Without another word, he reached through the bars with his other hand and took the key to the gate from the man’s belt. The gatekeeper gasped in outrage and Julius gave a low whistle for his men to approach.

‘Hold this one and keep him quiet. I need both hands to work the lock and bar,’ Julius ordered. ‘Don’t hurt him. He’s a brave man.’

‘Help!’ the gatekeeper managed before Ciro’s heavy hands clamped his mouth.

Julius fiddled the key into the hole in the plate and smiled as it clicked. He raised the bar and the gate swung open as two guards clattered into the courtyard beyond, their swords raised.

Julius’ men moved in quickly to disarm them. Against so many, the two guards dropped their swords as they were surrounded, though the gatekeeper went crimson with rage as he watched. He tried to bite Ciro’s hand and was cuffed roughly in response.

‘Tie them up and search the house. Do not spill blood,’ Julius ordered, watching coolly as his men broke into pairs to search the house he knew so well.

It had hardly changed. The fountain was still there and Antonidus had left the gardens as he had found them. Julius could see the spot where he had kissed Alexandria and could have traced his way to her room in the slave quarters without a guide. It was easy to imagine Marius bellowing laughter somewhere out of sight and Julius would have given a great deal at that moment to see the big man once again. The sudden sadness of memory weighed him down.

He didn’t recognise any of the slaves or servants that were brought out and tied in the courtyard by his men, working with cheerful efficiency. One or two of his legionaries bore scratches on their faces from a struggle, but Julius was pleased to see that none of the prisoners had been harmed even so. If he was to be successful in appealing a law case and re-establishing his right to the house as surviving heir, he knew it was important that it be achieved peacefully. The magistrates would be members of the nobilitas and any stories of bloodshed in the middle of the city would prejudice them against him from the start.

It was quickly done and, without any further discussion, his men lifted the captive bundles out onto the street, the gatekeeper last of all. He had been gagged to stop his shouting, but still champed in anger as Ciro deposited him on the road. Julius closed the gate himself and locked it with the key he had taken from him, winking at the furious figure before he turned away.

His men were in two ranks of five before him. It was not enough to hold the house against a determined assault and the first thing he had to do was send a couple as runners back to the estate to fetch a full fifty of his best fighters. It was all very well to plan for a court case, but whoever actually held the house in his possession would have a clear advantage and Julius was determined not to lose it when Antonidus returned.

In the end, he sent three of the fastest runners wearing messenger tunics taken from the house stores. His main worry was that they would become lost in the unfamiliar city and he cursed himself for not bringing someone from the estate to help them find their way back to the Tiber bridge.

When they had gone, he turned to his men, a slow smile spreading on his face.

‘I told you I would find you quarters in Rome,’ he said.

They chuckled, looking about them appreciatively.

‘I need three of you to stay on guard by the gate. The others will relieve them in two hours. Stay alert. Antonidus will come back before the day is much older, I’m sure. Summon me when he arrives.’

The thought of that conversation cheered him immensely as the guards took up their positions. The house would be secure by evening and then he could turn his attention to rebuilding Marius’ name in the city, if he had to fight the whole of the Senate to do it.

Brutus and Cabera were at the estate when two of the messengers arrived from Julius, the third some miles behind. Well used to command, Brutus quickly organised a fifty and began the fast march back to the city. Julius couldn’t have known that so many soldiers would have been stopped from entering, so Brutus had them remove their armour and swords. He sent them into the city in pairs or threes to gather again out of sight of city guards, who were the eyes of the Senate in Rome. Last to come through was the cart full of their weapons and Brutus stayed with that to bribe the gate captain. Cabera pulled a bottle of wine from under the coverings to press into the man’s hand with coins and, with a conspiratorial wink, they were let through.

‘I don’t know whether to be pleased or appalled at how easy that was,’ Brutus muttered as Cabera whipped the reins on the pair of oxen that pulled the heavy cart. ‘When this is over, I’ll be tempted to go back to that guard and have a word with him. It wasn’t even a large bribe.’

Cabera cackled as he made the reins crack in the air.

‘He would have been too suspicious if it was. No, we paid just enough to make him think of us as wine dealers avoiding the city tariff. You look like a guard and he probably thought of me as the wealthy owner.’

Brutus snorted. ‘He thought you were a cart driver. That tatty old robe of yours doesn’t look much like a wealthy owner’s to me,’ he replied as they wound on through the streets. Cabera snapped the leather reins again in irritation as a response.

The cart blocked the road neatly, with its wheels fitting between the stepping stones used by the walking crowds. There was nowhere to pass or turn and their progress towards Marius’ house was slow, though Cabera enjoyed shouting at the other drivers and shaking his fist at anyone who dared to cross in front of them. Four of Julius’ men fell in behind them, obviously pleased to have the cart to follow through the tortuous maze of streets. Neither Brutus nor Cabera dared look back at them, though Brutus wondered how many would still be wandering through the markets at sunset. His directions had been simple enough, he was sure, but then after months of working with Primigenia at their barracks as well as his trips to see his mother, he knew Rome as well as anybody. Pretending to check the wheels under them, Brutus looked around and was relieved to see the number of followers had grown to nine of the men Julius had wanted. He hoped they wouldn’t make it too obvious, or the curious people of Rome would quickly be joining them and an impromptu procession would arrive at Marius’ old house, with the cart at the head and any attempt at stealth ruined.

As they turned into the hill that led up to the great house he remembered so vividly, Brutus saw a gesticulating figure shouting at someone inside the gate. At least the road was wide enough so that stopping on it would not bring all the traffic in the area to a shuddering halt, he thought gratefully.

‘Get out and check the wheels or something,’ he hissed to Cabera, who clambered down with an ill grace and walked around the cart pronouncing ‘Wheel’ as he came to each one. The shouting man at the gate didn’t seem to notice the laden cart that had stopped just down from him and Brutus risked another glance back, blinking in surprise at the group of men who had assembled behind him. Even worse, they had fallen into ranks and, despite their clothing, looked exactly what they were – a group of legionaries pretending to be citizens. Brutus leapt out of the cart and ran over to them.

‘Don’t stand to attention, you fools. You’ll have every house in the area sending guards out to see what you’re doing!’

The men shuffled around uncertainly and Brutus raised his eyes in exasperation. There was no help for it. Already the servants and guards at nearby gates had come right up to the bars for a look at the milling group of soldiers. Distantly, he could hear cries of alarm sounding around them.

‘Right. We can forget secrecy. Get your swords and armour from the cart and follow me to the gate. Quickly! The Senate will have a fit when they find we have an army in the city.’

All uncertainty banished, the relieved soldiers grabbed their equipment and laced it tight without any fuss. It took only a few minutes and then Brutus told Cabera to stop the inspection of the cart that had continued without pause, his announcement of each wheel growing increasingly weary.

‘Now, forward,’ Brutus growled, his cheeks flushing at the gathering number of onlookers. They marched towards the gate in perfect ranks and, for a second, he was distracted from his embarrassment by a quick professional assessment of the men following him. They would do very well for Primigenia.

Antonidus was pale with anger by the time Julius had finished explaining his position.

‘You dare!’ he bellowed. ‘I will appeal to the Senate. This house is mine by right of purchase and I will see you dead before you steal it from me.’

‘I have stolen it from no one. You had no right to offer money for property that was my uncle’s,’ Julius replied calmly, rather enjoying the man’s fury.

‘An enemy of the state, his lands and wealth confiscated. A traitor!’ Antonidus shouted. He would have liked nothing better than to reach through the bars and grab the insolent young man’s throat, but the guards that watched him within had their swords drawn and his own two were badly outnumbered. He thought through what Julius might find in the rooms of the house. Was there any evidence linking him to Pompey’s daughter? He didn’t think so, but the thought nagged at him, lending a wild edge of panic to his outrage.

‘A traitor named by Sulla, who attacked his own city?’ Julius replied, his eyes narrowing. ‘Wrongly named, then. Marius defended the Senate from a man who would set himself up as Dictator. He was a man of honour.’

Antonidus spat in disgust on the ground, his spittle almost touching the hem of the still-bound gatekeeper.

‘That for his honour,’ he roared, taking the gate bars in his hands.

Julius motioned one of his men forward and Antonidus was forced to drop his hands.

‘Do not think to put your hands on anything I own,’ Julius said.

Antonidus would have replied, but a sudden clatter of legion sandals from down the hill made him pause. He glanced at the sound and a leer stole over his features.

‘Now you will see, you criminal. The Senate have sent men to restore order. I will have you beaten and leave you on the street as you have left my men.’

He stepped away from the gate to greet the newcomers.

‘This man has broken into my house and abused my servants. I want him arrested,’ he said to the nearest soldier, flecks of white gathering at the corners of his mouth from his exertions.

‘Well, he has a friendly face. Let him keep it,’ Brutus replied, grinning.

For a few seconds, Antonidus did not understand, then he took in the numbers of armed men who stood against him and noted their lack of legion insignia.

He backed away slowly, his head coming up in defiance. Brutus laughed at him.

Antonidus went to stand between his two guards, who shifted nervously at being identified as his before so many possible enemies.

‘The Senate will hear me,’ Antonidus rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting.

‘Tell your masters to set a date for a hearing. I will defend my actions within the law,’ Julius replied, finally unlocking the gate for Brutus to bring the men in off the street.

Antonidus glared at him, then turned on his heel and strode away, his pair of guards following.

Julius stopped Brutus with a touch on his arm as he passed.

‘Hardly the quiet gathering I envisaged, Brutus.’

His friend pursed his mouth, unable for a moment to meet his eyes.

‘I got them here, didn’t I? You have no idea how hard it is to bring armed men into this city. The days of Marius slipping in a fifty here and there are gone.’

Cabera joined them, strolling through the open gate with the last of the soldiers.

‘The guards at the city gate thought I was a prosperous merchant,’ he said lightly.

Both Julius and Brutus ignored him, their eyes locked together. Finally, Brutus bowed his head slightly.

‘All right, it could have gone more smoothly.’

The tension between them disappeared as he spoke and Julius grinned.

‘I did enjoy it when he thought you were from the Senate, though,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Just that moment was probably worth the public arrival of the men, I think.’

Brutus still looked rueful, but a smile stole slowly over his face in response.

‘Perhaps. Look, the Senate will hear from him about you having this many men. They won’t allow it. You should think about moving some out to the Primigenia barracks.’

‘In a while, I will, but we need to make a few plans first. My other centuries at the estate should be brought in as well.’ A thought struck Julius. ‘How is it that the Senate don’t object to Primigenia in the city?’

Brutus shrugged. ‘They’re on the legion rolls, don’t forget, but the barracks are actually outside the walls on the north side, near the Quirinal gate. I have one of the best training grounds in Rome and Renius as sword master. You should see it.’

‘You’ve done so much, Brutus,’ Julius said, gripping his shoulder. ‘Rome will not be the same now we’re back. I’ll bring my men to you as soon as I’m sure Antonidus won’t try again.’

Brutus held the arm, his enthusiasm spilling over.

‘We do need your men. Primigenia has to grow. I won’t rest until it’s back to the old strength. Marius …’

‘No, Brutus.’ Julius dropped his arm. ‘You have misunderstood me. My men are sworn to me alone. They cannot be under your command.’ He didn’t want to be hard on his friend, but it was better to be clear from the start.

‘What?’ Brutus replied, surprised. ‘Look, they aren’t part of any legion and Primigenia has less than a thousand men. All you have to do …’

Julius shook his head firmly. ‘I will help you with recruiting as I promised, but not with these. I’m sorry.’

Brutus looked at him in disbelief. ‘But I am rebuilding Primigenia for you. I would be your sword in Rome, remember?’

‘I remember,’ Julius replied, taking his arm again. ‘Your friendship means more to me than anything except for the lives of my wife and daughter. Your blood is in my veins, do you remember that? Mine is in yours.’

He paused and gripped the held arm tightly.

‘These men are my Wolves. They cannot be under your command. Let this go.’

Brutus pulled his arm away with a jerk, his face hardening.

‘All right. You keep your Wolves while I struggle for every new recruit. I will return to my barracks and my own men. See me there when you want to bring your soldiers in. Perhaps we can discuss the fees for their lodging then.’

He turned away and twisted the key in the gate to open it.

‘Marcus!’ Julius called to his back.

Brutus froze for a moment, then opened the gate and walked away, leaving it swinging behind him.

Even in the company of his two remaining guards, Antonidus kept his hand on the dagger in his belt as he made his way through the dark alleys. Narrow as they were, at night there were too many places for the raptores to lie in wait for him to relax. He breathed through his nose as he walked, trying to ignore the pools of foul water that had ruined his sandals in the first few steps away from the main streets. One of his men stifled a curse as his foot skidded through a heap that was fresh enough not to be completely cold.

Daylight rarely reached this part of Rome, but at night the shadows took on a fearful aspect. There was no law there, no soldiers who could come, and no citizens who would dare answer a call. Antonidus gripped his dagger even more tightly, starting as something scrambled away from their footsteps as they passed. He didn’t investigate, but stumbled on almost blind, counting the corners by feeling them out with his hands. Three corners from the entrance, then four more down to the left.

Even in the night, the alleys carried the foot traffic that the bulk of Rome would never see. There was little conversation between the people they saw and that muted. Hurrying figures passed the three men without acknowledgement, skirting the filthy pools with their heads down. Where single torches lit the path for a few paces, the people stepped around the light, as if to fall within its scope was to invite disaster.

Only his fury made Antonidus push on and even then it was not without fear. The man he had met had told him never to come uninvited into those streets, but losing his home gave him a courage born in anger. Even that was fading in the dark and the rising discomfort.

At last, he reached the point he had found before, a cross path of four between mildewed walls, somewhere deep in the heart of the warren. He paused to look for his man, his eyes straining in the darkness. Water dripped slowly onto stone nearby and a sudden scuffle of feet made his men spin round nervously, flourishing their own daggers before them, as if to ward off spirits.

‘You were told not to seek me out until the last night of the month,’ a sibilant voice said by the general’s ear.

Antonidus almost fell in panic, his feet slipping on the wet stones as he jumped in horror at the closeness. His dagger cleared his belt in reaction, but his wrist was clamped in a grip that held him helpless.

The man who faced him wore a cloak and hood of dark rough cloth, his features covered, though it was hardly necessary in the inky blackness of the alleyways. Antonidus almost gagged at the strange sweet scent coming from him. It was the smell of disease, of soft corruption masked with perfumed oil, and he wondered afresh whether the cloak hid more than just identity. The dark man leaned so close as to almost touch his ear with the hidden lips.

‘Why have you come clattering in here, disturbing half my watchers with your noisy fumbling?’

The voice was a hiss of anger and so close that it carried the sweetness in a rush of warm breath that made Antonidus want to retch dryly. He shuddered in reaction as the hood touched his cheek lightly.

‘I had to come. I have more work for you and I want it done quickly.’

The grip strengthened on his wrist, almost to the point of pain. Antonidus could not turn his face to look directly at the man, for fear that their faces would touch. Instead, he looked away, trying not to grimace as the sickly odour seemed to taint every breath he took.

The dark figure tutted, a series of tiny clicks.

‘I have not yet found a way to Crassus’ son. It is too soon for another. In haste, my brothers die. You have not paid enough for me to lose men for you, only for the service.’

‘Forget Crassus. He is nothing to me now. I want you to seek out the daughter of Cinna and kill her. She must be your target now. Leave a token with Sulla’s name as you did with Pompey’s bitch.’

Gently, Antonidus felt his wrist guided back towards his belt and, understanding, sheathed his dagger as the pressure was released. He held himself steady as he waited, not daring to show his revulsion openly by moving away. He knew that if an insult was perceived, neither he nor his men would live to see the open streets again.

‘She will be well guarded. You will have to pay for the lives of those I will lose in reaching her. Ten thousand sesterces is the price.’

Antonidus clamped his jaw shut over his intake of breath. Cato would cover the debt, he was sure. Was it not his idea to hire these men? He nodded convulsively.

‘Good. It will be paid. I will have my guards bring the gold here on the day we discussed, as before.’

‘You will have to find other guards. Do not come here uninvited again or the cost will be higher,’ the voice whispered, moving swiftly away from him.

Quick footsteps followed and in only a moment Antonidus could feel he was alone. Gingerly, he stepped over to where his men had stood, reaching down with his hands and recoiling as he felt the wetness of their opened throats. He shuddered and walked quickly back the way he had come.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Julius brought his men into the Primigenia barracks an hour before dawn. As Brutus had said, the buildings and training yard were impressive and Julius whistled softly under his breath as he marched in under the outer arch of the main gate, noting the well-spaced sentries and fortified positions within.

The gate guards must have been told to expect them and waved the soldiers through without a halt. Once inside, though, with the heavy gate closed behind them, Julius found himself in a killing ground similar to the one between the walls at Mytilene. Any one of the buildings that faced the main yard could have been lined with archers and, with no way to retreat, the only forward path was a narrow one that was itself interrupted with wall-slits for more archers. Julius shrugged as his centuries halted in order, dressing their ranks until they filled the yard in a perfect square.

Julius wondered how long Brutus would keep him waiting. It was a difficult thing to predict after so long away from his oldest friend. The boy he had known would have been there already, but the man who led the remnants of Primigenia had changed a great deal in their time apart – perhaps enough to bury the boy, he didn’t yet know.

With no outward sign of his impatience, Julius stood impassively with his men as the minutes stretched. He did need the barracks and from what Tubruk had said, they were as good as Brutus claimed. With Crassus behind the purchase, the purse was heavy enough to buy the best in the city, after all. While he waited, Julius considered buying part of the barracks out of Crassus’ hands. Privately, he agreed with Tubruk that the relationship the rich senator was fostering could be a thorn for the future, no matter how friendly he appeared at present.

Brutus strode out of the main building with Renius at his side. With interest, Julius saw the capped stump of Renius’ left arm, though he kept his face still. Brutus looked furious and Julius’ hopes died in him.

As Brutus reached him, he halted stiffly, giving the salute from one equal to another. Julius returned it without hesitation. For a second, Julius felt pain at the space that separated them before his resolve firmed. He would not give way. Brutus wasn’t someone he wanted to use his wits to flatter and control. That sort of manipulation was for enemies or formal allies, not for the boy he’d caught a raven with so many years before.

‘Welcome to Primigenia barracks, Tribune,’ Brutus said.

Julius shook his head at the formal tone. A touch of irritation spiked in him and he spoke to Renius, ignoring Brutus. ‘It is good to see you, old friend. Can’t you make him understand these men are not Primigenia?’

Renius looked impassively back at him for a moment before replying.

‘This is not a time to split your strength, lad. The choosing day on the Campus is over this year – there’ll be no extra men for another legion. You two should stop puffing your chests at each other and make peace.’

Julius snorted in irritation. ‘By the gods, Brutus, what would you have me do? Primigenia can’t have two commanders and my men are sworn to me alone. I found them in villages and made them into legionaries from scratch. You can’t expect me to hand them over to another commander after everything they’ve been through with me.’

‘I thought … you of all people would want to see Primigenia strong again.’

‘As a tribune, I can levy troops for you. I’ll send around the country for them. I swear we’ll remake Primigenia. I owe Marius as much as you, and more.’

Brutus’ eyes searched his own, judging his words.

‘But will you be building your own legion as well? Will you apply for a new name to be added to the rolls?’ he asked, his voice tight with tension.

Julius hesitated and Renius cleared his throat to speak. The habit of years of obedience made them wait for him. He looked Julius in the eye, holding him.

‘Loyalty is a rare thing, boy, but Brutus risked his life for you when he had Primigenia put back on the rolls. Men like Cato stand against him now and he did it for you. There’s no conflict. Primigenia is your legion, can’t you see that? Your men can swear to service under a new oath and still be yours.’

Julius looked at the two men and it was like looking back into his childhood. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

‘There cannot be two commanders,’ he said.

Brutus stared at him.

‘Are you asking me to take the oath to you? To hand over command?’

‘How else could you be my sword, Brutus? But I can’t ask you to lay down the rank you always dreamed of having. It is too much.’ Julius took his arm gently.

‘No,’ Brutus murmured, suddenly firming his resolve. ‘It is not too much. We have older oaths between us and I always swore I would be there when you called. Are you calling now?’

Julius took a long, slow breath, weighing his friend and feeling his heart thud in his chest with a sudden burst of speed.

‘I call,’ he said quietly.

Brutus nodded firmly, the decision made. ‘Then I will take the vow with these Wolves of yours and we will begin this day with Primigenia reborn.’

Keeping a guard of only five of his men, Julius strode through the busy city streets following the directions Tubruk had supplied. His spirits were light as he moved through the crowds. He had his uncle’s house safe in his possession and well guarded by twenty soldiers. Even more importantly, the problem of what to do with Primigenia had been resolved. Silently, he blessed Brutus and Renius for their loyalty to him. Even in his pride, part of him whispered that in the end he had manipulated their love for him as coldly as any enemy. There had been no other way, he told himself, but the inner voice would not be still.

Not far from Marius’ house, Julius found Tabbic’s shop easily. As he came close to it, excitement filled him. He hadn’t seen Alexandria since his wedding day and at first had been frightened to ask Tubruk if she’d survived the vicious fighting that followed his own flight from the city. As he put his hand to the door, he hesitated, experiencing a touch of the old nervousness that had plagued him in her presence. He shook his head in amusement as he recognised the feeling, then went in, his men blocking the narrow walkway outside.

Alexandria was standing only a few paces from the door and she turned to greet whoever had entered. She laughed at seeing him, with the simple pleasure of meeting an old friend. She was standing with a gold necklace around her throat, with Tabbic working on the catch behind her.

Julius drank in the sight of her. The gold lit her throat with its reflection and she seemed to have found a poise or a confidence that had been missing when he knew her before.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said, closing the shop door behind him.

‘That’s because I’m standing next to Tabbic here,’ she said lightly.

Tabbic grunted, looking up from his work. The jeweller took in the man who had entered the shop and straightened with a hand pressed into the small of his back.

‘Are you buying or selling?’ he asked, removing the necklace from Alexandria’s neck as he spoke. Julius was sorry to see it go.

‘Neither, Tabbic. Julius is an old friend,’ Alexandria replied.

Tabbic nodded in guarded welcome. ‘The one who’s looking after Octavian?’

‘He’s doing well,’ Julius said.

Tabbic sniffed, quite failing to hide a brief smile of affection. ‘I’m glad of it,’ he said quietly, before going into the back of the shop with the necklace, leaving them alone.

‘You are looking thin, Julius. Is that beautiful wife of yours not feeding you?’ Alexandria asked artlessly.

Julius laughed. ‘I’ve only been back a couple of days. I have Marius’ old place as a town house.’

Alexandria blinked in surprise. ‘Quick work,’ she said. ‘I thought Sulla’s general was living there.’

‘He was. I’ll have to go to the forum court to keep it, but it will give me a chance to clear Marius’ name in this city.’

Her smile disappeared at this reminder of harder times and she busied her hands with removing an apron, cursing as the knot resisted her fingers. Julius wanted to step forward and help her, but resisted with an effort of will. He had been shocked to feel a surge of the old attraction for her as he came into the shop. It worried him enough to stand well clear until she had finished untying the strings herself.

You are a married man, he told himself firmly, yet he found himself blushing as she looked at him again.

‘So why have you come to our humble little shop? I doubt it’s just to look me up, Julius.’

‘It could be. I was pleased when Tubruk said you had survived. I heard about Metella taking her life.’ As he always had with her, he found himself fumbling for words, annoyed by his own lack of fluency.

Alexandria turned to him, her eyes glittering.

‘I wouldn’t have left her if I’d known what she was going to do. Gods, I would have taken her with me to Tabbic’s place. She was a victim, as much as the men that bastard Sulla killed on the streets. I’m only sorry he died quickly, so they say. I would have wanted it slow for him.’

‘I haven’t forgotten, for all the Senate seem to want to,’ Julius agreed, his voice bitter. A look of silent communication passed between them, a memory of those they had lost and an intimacy that was fresher between them than they could have guessed.

‘You’ll make them pay, Julius? I hate the thought of the gutter filth I saw then still roaming free. Rome’s a dirtier place than you can see from the forum, I know.’

‘I’ll do what I can. I’ll start by making them honour Marius, which should stick hard in a few throats,’ he replied seriously.

She smiled again at him. ‘Gods, I am glad to see your face after so long. It brings the past back to me,’ she said and his blush returned, making her chuckle with memory. Her confidence as a free woman had made her almost unrecognisable, but still he felt that she was someone he could trust simply because she had been part of the old times. The more cynical voice in him suspected he was being hopelessly naïve. They had all changed and Brutus should have been enough of a reminder of that already.

‘I never thanked you for the money you left with Metella for when I was free,’ she said. ‘I bought a part share in this shop with it. It meant a lot to me.’

He waved her thanks away with his hand.

‘I wanted to help you,’ he replied, shifting his feet.

‘Did you come to the shop to see how I’d spent it?’

‘No, I know I said I could have come to see you just for friendship, but as it happens …’ he began.

‘I knew it! You want a pendant for your wife, or a beautiful brooch? I’ll make you something special to match her eyes.’ Her cheerfulness contrasted with his more serious mood, so different from the stumbling boy she’d known.

‘No, it’s for the trial and after. I want to commission bronze shields to honour Marius; his likeness, his battles, even his death when the city fell. I want them to tell the story of his life.’

Alexandria rubbed a hand over her bound hair, leaving a tiny smudge of gold filings on the edge. The flecks caught the light as she moved and, despite himself, Julius would have liked nothing more than to rub his thumb gently against her skin to remove them. He concentrated, irritated with himself.

She frowned in thought, taking a stylus and wax slate from a shelf.

‘They should be large, maybe three feet across to be clear at a distance.’

She began to scratch sketches into the pane of wax, squinting one eye almost closed. Julius watched as she brushed back a loose tendril of hair from her forehead. Tubruk had said she was good and the man’s judgement was usually to be trusted.

‘The first one should be a likeness. What do you think of this?’

She turned the slate around and Julius relaxed as he saw a face he recognised. The features had something of the strength he remembered, though the simple lines could never be more than an echo of the life that had filled Marius.

‘It’s him. I didn’t know you could do that sort of thing.’

‘Tabbic loves to teach. I can make your shields for you, but the metal alone will be expensive. I don’t want to bargain with you, Julius, but you are talking about months of work. This is the sort of thing that could make my name in the city.’

‘The cost isn’t important. I’ll trust you to set a fair price, but I’ll need them in weeks, not months. The Senate won’t let the trial wait for long, with Antonidus raging about his lost house. I need the best you can make as fast as you can produce them.’

‘Tabbic?’ Alexandria called.

The grizzled metalsmith strolled out from the back room, still holding tools. She explained quickly and Julius smiled as the man’s face lit with interest. Finally, he nodded.

‘I can take the normal work of the shop, but the brooches on order will have to be put off. Mind you’ – he rubbed his chin thoughtfully – ‘it might raise the price of the ones you’ve finished, which couldn’t hurt. We’ll have to hire bigger premises and a much larger forge. Let’s see …’ He took another slate from the shelf and together the two of them wrote and talked in low voices for a long time while Julius watched in exasperation. Finally they reached agreement and Alexandria turned back to him, the gold in her hair still bright against her skin.

‘I’ll take the work. The price will depend on how many failures we have to recast. I’ll have to discuss which scenes you want when you have a couple of hours free.’

‘You know where I am,’ he said. ‘You can always come out there if you need to see me.’

Alexandria fiddled idly with her stylus, suddenly uncomfortable.

‘I’d prefer it if you came to me,’ she said, unwilling to explain how the old estate had tested her strength the last time she’d passed through the gate.

Julius understood what she didn’t say.

‘I’ll do that. I might even bring that boy in when I come. Tubruk says he’s always talking of you and er … Tabbic.’

‘You must. We both miss him around here. His mother goes when she can, but it must be hard on him to be away from her,’ she replied.

‘He’s a terror around the estate. Tubruk caught him riding my horse in the fields a few days ago.’

‘He didn’t beat him?’ Alexandria asked too quickly.

Julius shook his head, smiling. ‘He wouldn’t. Lucky Renius didn’t find the boy, though how he could thrash him with only one hand, I don’t know. Tell his mother not to worry about him. He’s my blood, I’ll look after him.’

‘He never had a father, Julius. A boy needs one more than a girl.’

Julius hesitated, not wanting the responsibility.

‘Between Renius and Tubruk, I dare say he’ll grow straight.’

‘They are not his blood, Julius,’ she replied, holding his gaze until he looked away.

‘All right! I’ll keep him with me, though I haven’t had a moment’s peace since coming back to the city. I’ll look after him.’

She grinned impishly at him. ‘“There is no greater exercise to a man’s talents than the upbringing of his son,”’ she quoted.

Julius sighed. ‘My father used to say that,’ he said.

‘I know. And he was right. There’s no future for that boy running on the streets of this city. None at all. Where would Brutus be if your family hadn’t taken him in?’

‘I have agreed, Alexandria. You don’t need to beat it to death.’

Without warning, she raised her hand to touch the white scar that crossed his forehead.

‘Let me look at you,’ she said, standing closer and whistling softly. ‘You’re lucky to be alive. Is that why your eye is different?’

He shrugged, ready to turn the conversation away. Then the story spilled out of him, the fight on Accipiter, the head wound that took months to heal, the fits that remained with him.

‘Nothing is the same since I left,’ he said. ‘Or everything is and I have changed too much to see it. Cabera says the fits could be with me for the rest of my life, or stop tomorrow. There is no way of telling.’ He held up his left hand and squinted at it, but it was steady.

‘I sometimes think life is nothing more than pain with moments of joy,’ she replied. ‘You are stronger than before, Julius, even with the wound. I’ve found the trick is to wait through the pain and take the moments of happiness without worrying about the future.’

He dropped his hand, suddenly ashamed that he had talked so intimately of his fears. It was not a burden for her, or anyone except himself. He was the head of a family, a tribune of Rome and the general of Primigenia. Strange how he couldn’t muster the sort of pleasure he knew such a dream would once have given him.

‘Have you … seen Brutus?’ Julius asked after a pause.

She turned away and busied her hands with clearing up the tools on Tabbic’s workbench.

‘We are seeing each other,’ she said.

‘Oh. I haven’t told him we … um …’

Alexandria laughed suddenly, looking at him over her shoulder.

‘You’d better not. There’s enough competition between you two without putting me in the middle.’

To his astonishment, Julius recognised a spike of jealousy enter his thoughts. He struggled with it. She was not his and, except for a frozen perfect memory years before, never had been. She didn’t seem to sense the private whirl of his feelings as he looked at her.

‘Keep him close to you, Julius. Rome is more dangerous than you know,’ she said.

Julius almost grinned at the thought of what he had survived just to return to it, but the fact that his life mattered to her at all sobered him.

‘I’ll keep him close,’ he said.

Julius dismounted from his horse to walk the last two miles to the estate outside the city. Plans swirled around his head as he strolled along with the reins wrapped around his arm. Since his return, events had moved too quickly to grasp. Gaining the tribune post, taking Marius’ house and command of Primigenia, meeting Alexandria again. Octavian. Cornelia. She was like a stranger to him. He frowned as he walked along, lulled by the clicking of hooves in the dust at his side. Her memory had helped him through the worst of the captivity. The desire to return to her was a secret strength in him that overcame injury, sickness and pain. Yet when he had finally held her, it was as if she was someone else. He hoped it would ease with time, but part of him still yearned for the wife he loved, though she was only a mile away and waiting for him.

The law case to come worried him not at all. He’d had more than six months of monotony in a ship cell to hone a defence of Marius and, if Antonidus hadn’t given him the chance, he knew he would have forced the issue in some other way. Having his uncle continue as a figure of shame in the city was not something he could stand.

Cornelia came to the gate to meet him and he kissed her. Belatedly, it occurred to him that there were other things between husband and wife that he had neglected in the two nights since his return. Intimacy would restore his love for her, he was sure. With the exhaustion of his travels fast disappearing, he kissed her again, lingeringly, and, preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice her stiffen in sudden panic against him. He passed the horse into the care of the slave who waited in attendance.

‘Are you all right?’ he whispered, close to her ear. The smell of her perfume filled his lungs with coolness. She nodded silently.

‘Is the baby asleep, wife?’

She pulled her head back to look at him.

‘What do you have in mind?’ she asked, fighting to remain calm.

‘I’ll show you, if you want,’ he said, kissing her again. Her skin was pale and beautiful as they walked together into the privacy of the house.

He felt clumsy inside the bedroom, covering his nervousness with kisses between flinging his garments onto the floor. There was something wrong in her responses, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the long separation. They had known each other for such a little time, all in all, that he knew he shouldn’t expect an easy intimacy and coaxed her to relax by stroking her neck and running his hands lightly down her back as they sat naked together, with only a single dim lamp to make the room gold.

Cornelia bore his kisses and wanted to sob out her grief for what had been hurt in her. She had told no one about what Sulla had done, not even Clodia. It was a shame she had hoped to forget, something she had successfully pressed deep away inside her until it almost hadn’t happened. She moved with Julius as he became aroused, but felt nothing except fear as the memories of the final visit of the Dictator flashed into her mind unbidden. She heard again the cry of her daughter in the cot at her bedside as Sulla pressed on her and tears seeped slowly from her eyes as the cruelty surfaced in her memories with appalling force.

‘I don’t think I can, Gaius,’ she said, her voice breaking.

‘What is it?’ Julius replied, shocked at her tears.

Cornelia curled against him and he wrapped his arms around her body, resting his head on hers as sobs convulsed her.

‘Has someone hurt you?’ he whispered, and a great emptiness stole into his chest as he voiced the terrible thought.

She could not answer him at first, but then she began to whisper, her eyes tightly closed. Not the worst of it, but the beginning, the terror of her pregnancy, the helpless anger at knowing there was no one to stop Sulla in all Rome.

Julius felt a great sadness weigh him down as he listened. Without warning, tears of rage and frustration came from him at what she had gone through. He controlled himself viciously, biting his lip against the questions he wanted to ask, the pointless stupid questions that would serve nothing except to wound both of them even further. None of it mattered, except for him to hold her and hold her until the sobbing slowly died away into tiny aching shivers.

‘He is dead now, Lia. He cannot hurt you or frighten you any more,’ he said.

He told her how her love had kept him strong when he thought he would go insane in the dark cell, how proud he had been at the wedding, how much she meant to his life. His tears dried with hers and as the moon sank towards dawn, they slept, slipping away from each other.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

With the sun only two spans above the horizon, Tubruk found Julius leaning against the outer wall of the estate, a blanket over his bare chest against the morning cold.

‘You look ill,’ the old gladiator told him. To his surprise, Julius didn’t reply and hardly seemed to notice his approach. The young man’s eyes were red from only a couple of hours’ sleep and the chill breeze sent shivers over his skin that he ignored. Tubruk could see the white traces of scars against the darker tan, a written script for old pain and struggle.

‘Julius?’ Tubruk asked gently. There was no response, but Julius let the blanket fall, standing only in his sandals and short bracae leggings that reached halfway down his thighs.

‘I need to run for a while,’ Julius said, looking up at the woods on the hill above them. His voice was as cold as the breeze and Tubruk narrowed his eyes in worry.

‘I’ll come with you, lad, if you don’t mind waiting for me,’ he replied and, when Julius shrugged, Tubruk returned to the house to strip off his heavy tunic and leggings.

When he returned, Julius was stretching his leg muscles slowly, and the estate manager joined him, lacing the leather ankle strips of his sandals high up on his calf.

When they were both ready, they set off together up the hill, Julius making the pace.

Tubruk ran easily for the first mile through the woods, thankful he had not neglected his fitness. Then, when his chest began to burn with the exertion, he glanced over at Julius. He ran lightly over the broken trail, his lungs expanding his chest in long, slow breaths. Tubruk matched him, staying at his shoulder for short bursts of speed, then back to the slower pace over and over. Julius didn’t speak as he pushed himself on, the sweat pouring from him in spattering droplets that stung his eyes.

After another mile, they turned out of the cool, green dark of the woods and ran along the estate perimeter. Tubruk began to puff out short, painful breaths, his legs protesting. Fit as he was, no man of his age could have matched the punishing pace for long and Julius showed not a sign of distress as he ran, as if his body’s discomfort was ignored or even forgotten. His eyes were fixed in inward concentration and he didn’t see Tubruk begin to hurt. The old gladiator understood somehow that it was important to be there when Julius finally ran himself out, but the effort was making flashing lights appear in his vision and his heart pounded painfully along his pulse points, creating waves of heat that added to his growing dizziness.

Julius halted without warning, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. Tubruk stopped instantly, grateful for the respite. He inched over to block the path that Julius followed, hoping he wouldn’t just start again after a few seconds’ pause.

‘Did you know about what happened to Cornelia?’ Julius asked him.

Tubruk felt cold, his exhaustion irrelevant.

‘I knew,’ he said grimly. ‘Clodia told me.’

Julius suddenly swore in violent rage, clenching his fists, his face flushing further in uncontrolled emotion. Tubruk almost took a step away from him and wondered at himself. The young man paced back and forth, his fury making his hands grasp the air for something to hold and kill. His eyes fixed on the estate manager and it took all of Tubruk’s will to return the gaze.

‘You told me you would protect her,’ Julius snarled at him, taking a step towards Tubruk that brought him only inches from the older man’s face. ‘I trusted you to keep her safe!’

Julius raised his fist in sudden spasm and Tubruk held still, accepting the blow to come. Instead, Julius snorted and whirled away.

Tubruk spoke quietly, knowing something of the surging emotions that had stolen Julius’ control.

‘When Clodia told me, I acted,’ he said.

Julius didn’t seem to hear him.

‘That bastard Sulla terrified her, Tubruk. He put his filthy hands on her,’ Julius said and broke into sobs. He went slowly down onto his knees in the scrub grass, one hand covering his eyes. Tubruk crouched and put his arms around the young man, pulling him into his chest with a great heave of strength. Julius didn’t resist, his voice a muffled croak.

‘She thought I would hate her, Tubruk, can you believe that?’

Tubruk held him tightly, letting the sorrow work its way through. When Julius quietened at last, Tubruk let him go and looked into his face, pale with grief.

‘I killed him, Julius. I killed Sulla when I heard,’ he said. Julius opened his eyes wide in shock and Tubruk continued, relieved to be able to say it at last. ‘I took a post as a slave in his kitchens and dressed his food with aconite.’

Julius unfroze as he realised the danger they faced. He grabbed Tubruk’s arms in a powerful grip. ‘Who else knows?’

‘Only Clodia. I didn’t tell Cornelia to protect her,’ Tubruk replied, resisting the urge to break the hold on him.

‘No one else? Are you certain? Could you be recognised?’

Finally angry, Tubruk reached up with his hands and removed Julius’ stiff fingers with a grunt.

‘Everyone who could mark me is dead. My friend of thirty years who sold me into Sulla’s household died under torture without giving me up. Except for Clodia and us, there is no one else to make the link, I swear it.’ He looked into Julius’ hard eyes and spoke slowly and with force through his teeth, guessing at his thoughts. ‘You will not touch Clodia, Julius. Do not think of it.’

‘While she lives, my wife and daughter are in danger,’ Julius replied, unabashed.

‘While I live as well. Will you kill me too? You will have to, if you hurt Clodia, on my word you will, or I will come for you myself.’

The two men stood close, both of them rigid with tension. The silence between them grew, but neither one looked away. Then Julius shuddered and the manic quality went from his eyes. Tubruk continued glaring at him, needing him to concede the point. Finally, the young man spoke.

‘All right, Tubruk. But if the Sullans ever come for her, or for you, there must be no link back to my family.’

‘Do not ask me for that!’ Tubruk replied, furious. ‘I have served your family for decades. I will not give my blood and hers as well! I love her, Julius, and she loves me. My duty, my love for you, will not stretch to hurting her. It will not happen.

‘In any case, I know there is no path from Sulla to me, or to you. I have blood on my hands to prove it.’

When Julius spoke again, his voice was heavy with weariness.

‘Then you must leave. I have funds enough to set you up somewhere far from Rome. I can free Clodia and you can take her with you.’

Tubruk clenched his jaw. ‘And your mother? Who will look after her?’

All the passion faded from the younger man, leaving him exhausted and empty.

‘There is Cornelia, and I can hire another nurse. What other choice is there, Tubruk? Do you think I want this? You have been with me all my life. I can barely imagine not having you to run the estate, but the Sullans are still searching for the assassins, you know that. Oh gods, Pompey’s daughter!’

He froze in horror as the implications of the death hit home. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

‘They struck blind. Cornelia is already in danger!’ he said. Without another word, he scrambled into a run back towards the estate, cutting left to the narrow bridge across the stream. Tubruk swore and raced after him, unable to close the gap on his tired legs. As soon as it had been said, the old gladiator knew Julius was right and panic touched him then. To lose Cornelia after all he had done to protect her made him want to cry out in anger as he forced a faster pace, ignoring the pain.

Cornelia had slept as lightly as her husband and when the two men arrived panting back at the estate, she was with Clodia and Julia, discussing a trip into the city. She heard Julius calling for his soldiers and rose from the couch, her nervousness evident. Despite the moments of tenderness he’d shown her, he was not the man who’d left Rome in flames behind him years before. His innocence had gone from him, perhaps with the scars that he wouldn’t talk about. There were times when she thought there were no more tears inside her for what Sulla had taken from both of them.

When he came storming into the room, her eyes widened nervously.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Julius frowned at Clodia in response, knowing as Tubruk had that making Cornelia part of the secret would only increase her risk. Tubruk followed him in and shared a glance with the old nurse, nodding his head a fraction to confirm what she had guessed. Julius spoke urgently, relieved to find Cornelia safe. The run home had been an agony for him as he tormented himself with images of assassins creeping through the house to hurt her.

‘I think you could be in danger from the friends of Sulla. Pompey lost his daughter and he was close to Marius. I should have thought of it before! It could be that those who seek to avenge the Dictator are striking at his enemies even now, hoping to catch the real assassin in their nets. I will have to send for some of Primigenia to guard you here and get messengers to Crassus. He could be another target. Gods, and Brutus even! Though he’s well protected, at least.’

He paced around the room, his bare chest still heaving from the sprint home.

‘I will have to use guile against them, but I cannot leave those men alive. One way or another, I will have to break the back of their alliance in Sulla’s name. We cannot live expecting the assassin’s knife.’ He turned suddenly and pointed at the estate manager, standing bathed in sweat by the door.

‘Tubruk, I want you to keep my family safe until this is over. If I have to be in Rome, I need someone I can trust to look after my family here.’

The older man straightened with dignity. He would not mention the wild threats Julius had made on the run, but trying to guess the way Julius’ constantly spinning mind would change next was beyond him.

‘You want me here?’ he said, the words carrying a meaning that made Julius stop his pacing.

‘Yes. I was wrong. My mother needs you. I need you more than ever. Who else can I trust?’

Tubruk nodded his understanding, knowing the conversation on the hill would not be mentioned again. The young man who paced like a leopard was not one to dwell on the mistakes of the past.

‘Who is the threat?’ Cornelia asked, holding her head high against the fear that had swelled in her.

‘Cato leads them, with his followers. Antonidus perhaps. Even Suetonius’ father may be part of it. They will be behind it, or know of it,’ Julius replied. Cornelia shuddered at the name of the general she remembered. Her husband swore as a thought struck him.

‘I should have killed Sulla’s dog when I had the chance. He was just a few feet from me outside Marius’ gate. If he had a hand in the murder of Pompey’s daughter, he is more of a danger than I realised. Gods, I have been blind!’

‘You must see Pompey, then. He is your ally, whether he realises it or not,’ Tubruk said quickly.

‘And Crassus, and your father Cinna too,’ Julius replied, motioning to Cornelia. ‘I must meet with all of them.’

As Cornelia sank back onto the couch, Julius went down on one knee and took her hand in his.

‘I will not let anything harm you, I promise. I can make this place a fortress with fifty men.’

She saw his need to protect her in his eyes. Not love, but the duty of a husband. She’d thought she had grown numb to loss, but to see his face so cold and earnest was worse than anything.

Forcing a smile, Cornelia pressed a hand to his cheek, still warm from the run. A fortress, or a prison, she thought.

When riders were sighted on the road from the city two days later, Julius and Brutus roused the estate in minutes. Renius had brought fifty of Primigenia from their barracks and by the time the riders approached the gates, it would have taken an army to breach their defences. There were archers on every wall and Cornelia was hidden with the others in a new suite of rooms Julius had designated for exactly this purpose. Clodia had taken Julia down without an argument, but precious time had been lost moving Aurelia, who understood nothing of what was happening.

Julius stood alone in the courtyard, watching as Tubruk and Renius took their final positions. Octavian had been sent down with the women, over his furious protests. Everything became still and Julius nodded to himself. The estate was secure.

With his sword sheathed, he climbed the steps to the ledge above the gate and watched as the riders halted at a distance, made wary by the sudden show of force on the walls. A carriage moved up between them, drawn by twin horses who pranced forward a last few reluctant steps, sensing the tension. Julius watched without speaking as one of the riders dismounted and laid a cloth of silk in the dust.

Cato stepped ponderously out onto it, adjusting the folds of his toga with delicate attention. The dust of the road had not touched him and he looked up into Julius’ eyes without expression, before motioning to his men to dismount and approach the gate.

Behind his back, Julius raised his fingers to signal the number of strangers. There were too few for an open attack, but Julius was uncomfortable having such a man anywhere near those he loved. He tensed his jaw as they walked into the shadow of the gate. Brutus had told him about Cato’s son, but there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. Like Brutus, he would just have to see it through.

A fist thumped against the heavy beams of the gate.

‘Who calls on my house?’ Julius said, looking Cato in the eye below. The man stared back impassively, content to wait through the formalities. He would know better than anyone what turmoil was going on in Julius’ mind. A senator could not be refused.

A soldier at Cato’s side spoke loudly enough to carry into the house. ‘Senator Cato desires entrance on a private matter. Dismiss your men and open this gate.’

Julius did not reply, instead descending into the yard and conferring quickly with Brutus and Tubruk. The defenders on the walls were brought down and sent into the buildings to await a call to arms. The others were given tasks that allowed them to remain close. It was farcical to see armed men taking horses from the stables and grooming them in the open, but Julius was not in the mood for risk and, as he opened the gate himself, he wondered if blood would be spilled in the next hour.

Cato passed through the gate, smiling slightly as he saw the numbers of armed men in the area.

‘Expecting a war, Caesar?’ he said.

‘A legion must drill, Senator. I would not like to be caught unprepared,’ Julius replied. He frowned as Cato’s men entered behind their master. He had to allow it, but he thanked his house gods for his foresight in bringing so many of Primigenia out of the city barracks. Cato’s men would be dead in seconds if he gave the order. Their faces showed they understood this as well as anyone as their horses were led away, leaving them exposed in the open courtyard.

Cato looked at him. ‘Are you now the general of Primigenia, then? I do not recall an application having been made at the senate house.’ His voice was light and without threat, but Julius stiffened, knowing he had to watch every word.

‘It has yet to be made official, but I speak for them,’ he replied. Courtesy demanded he offer the senator a seat and refreshment after his journey, but he could not bring himself to utter the fictions of politeness, even knowing Cato would take it as a small triumph.

Renius and Brutus moved to Julius’ side and Cato looked from one to the other, seemingly unaffected by the men he faced.

‘Very well, Julius. I will speak to you of my son,’ Cato said. ‘I have offered gold for him and had it refused. I have come tonight to ask what you do want for him.’

He raised his head and Julius saw his deep-set eyes were bright. He wondered if this man had ordered the killing of Pompey’s daughter. Would the risk from him be lessened if he handed Germinius back to his father? Or would it be seen as a weakness that Cato would use to scatter his house in ashes?

‘He has taken oath, Senator. There …’

‘You are under strength, are you not?’ Cato interrupted. ‘I can have a thousand men here tomorrow morning. Healthy slaves from my own estate to be the backbone of Primigenia.’

Renius growled suddenly. ‘There are no slaves in the legions, Senator. Primigenia are free men.’

Cato waved a hand as if it was of no consequence.

‘Free them after they have taken your precious oath then. I have no doubt a man like you will find a way, Renius. You are so … resourceful.’ As he spoke, a fraction of his spite gleamed through and Julius knew to give way to him would be to invite destruction.

‘My answer is no, Senator. The oath cannot be bought back.’

Cato looked at them without speaking for a moment.

‘You leave me no choice then. If my son must serve two years with you, I want him alive at the end of it. I will send the men’ – he paused – ‘freed slaves, Renius. I will send them to you to protect my son.’

‘When you have freed them, they may not do what you want,’ Renius replied, matching the senator glare for glare.

‘They will come,’ Cato snapped. ‘Few men are as troublesome to me as you have been.’

‘They will not be your son’s guards if they come to Primigenia,’ Julius said. ‘Believe me when I say I will not allow it.’

‘Will you give me nothing?’ Cato said, his voice rising in anger. All movement in the courtyard changed as hands began to creep towards swords.

‘If the gods allow, I will give you your son two years from now. That is all,’ Julius replied firmly.

‘See that you do, Caesar. If he does not survive …’ Cato spoke through clenched teeth, all pretence at calm gone. ‘Be sure he does.’

Turning on his heel, he signalled to his men to open the gate. The soldiers of Primigenia reached it first and Cato climbed into his carriage without a backward glance.

Brutus turned to Julius as the closing gate hid the view of Cato’s men.

‘What are you thinking? How many of his “freed slaves” will be spies, do you think? How many will be assassins? Have you thought of that? Gods, you have to find a way to stop him.’

‘Don’t you want a thousand more for Primigenia?’ Julius said.

‘At that cost? No, I think I’d rather give Germinius back to his father, or have taken the gold. If it was a smaller number, we could have them watched, but a thousand! A full half of Primigenia we can’t trust. It’s insane.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Renius added. ‘A hundred would be more than I’d like to take in, never mind this many.’

Julius looked at both of them. They had not been there when he had scoured the coasts for Roman sons, nor when he’d found his veterans in Greece.

‘We will make them ours,’ he said, ignoring his own doubts.

Having slept until the sun rose to its greatest height above the wintry city, Cato suffered with a headache that even hot wine could not shift. It throbbed slightly as he listened to Antonidus, hardly able to bear his posturing.

‘Ten thousand sesterces is high, even for a death, Antonidus,’ he said. He enjoyed watching the prickle of sweat that broke out on the general’s brow, knowing as well as the man himself that if the money wasn’t paid, a sure death would come from the assassins’ spite. Keeping him waiting was a petty response, Cato knew, but still he let the time drag out, tapping his fingers idly on the arm of his couch. Pompey’s public enmity was to have been expected, of course, even if the assassin hadn’t left a clay token in the little girl’s grip as he had been told to do. Cato could not have guessed the senator would throw away his favours simply to make the point, though he could applaud the subtlety of the move. He had hoped Pompey would act in grief and folly, allowing Cato to have him arrested and removed from the games of power in the Senate. Instead Pompey had shown a restraint that marked him as a more dangerous enemy than he had realised. Cato sighed and scratched the corner of his mouth. If he were judged by his enemies, he was surely a power in Rome.

‘I would be tempted to withdraw my support and my funds from your revenge, Antonidus, if it wasn’t for the matter of this trial of yours. I have hired Rufus Sulpicius to be your advocate.’

‘I can argue against Caesar myself, Senator. It is a simple enough case,’ Antonidus responded in surprise.

‘No, I want that young cockerel humiliated. From what I have seen, he is young enough and rash enough to be brought down easily. A public embarrassment in front of the magistrates and the plebeians should remove some of the fresh gloss of his tribune rank. We may even demand his death for the wrongs you have suffered.’ Cato rubbed his forehead with his eyes closed, his full mouth pursing. ‘There is a price for my son and he must pay it. Use Sulpicius. There are few better minds in Rome than his. He will appoint the jurists for you and find the precedents in custom. I have no doubt that this Caesar will be well prepared. Have you sent the summons?’

‘No, I was waiting for a date to be set. I have applied to the praetor, but there has been no reply as yet.’

‘That, Antonidus, is why you need a man like Sulpicius. Meet with him and let him handle the case. He will secure a date for trial in a month or less. That is his business, you know. Your precious house will be back in your hands, for which I expect you to be suitably grateful and indebted to me.’

‘I am, Senator. And the money?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cato said waspishly, ‘you will have your funds, both for the court and … the other matter. Now leave me to my rest. The day has been long and tiring.’

Even in the privacy of his own home, he did not speak without care, taking pleasure in the forms of conspiracy that forced him to employ men like Antonidus. He knew that many of the senators saw him as a man only of words, preferring the cut of a reply to their martial posturing. The assassins were a delicious departure from his usual intrigue and he found the power it gave him quite intoxicating. To be able to point to any man and call down a death on him was a thrill even for a palate as jaded as his own. As the general left, he called for a cool cloth to drape over his face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The trial began as the sky lightened to the east of Rome, the false dawn that woke the workers and sent the thieves and whores to their own beds. The area in the forum that was set aside for legal proceedings was still torch-lit from the night and a large crowd had gathered at the boundary, held back only by the solid line of soldiers from the city barracks. Under the direct command of the praetor who would oversee the trial, these were charged with keeping the peace in the event of an unpopular verdict, and the crowd were careful not to come within range of the staffs they carried. Unusually for a case concerning such an apparently minor matter, the benches on either side of the advocates’ square were also full. Many of the people Julius knew from the Senate had come to listen, either at his invitation or the call of Antonidus. His own family had stayed at the estate outside Rome. Cornelia and his daughter had to remain under the protection of Primigenia and Julius did not want Tubruk anywhere near Antonidus or the senators, for all his assurances that he could not be recognised.

Julius’ searching gaze found Brutus in the second row of three, sitting next to a woman who raised her head to look back at him. There was something disturbing in her cool appraisal and he wondered how she seemed to stand out against the crowd around her, as if she was sitting fractionally closer than anyone else. In a timeless moment, she leaned back slowly, arresting his attention. Her hair was unbound and before he summoned the will to break the contact, she raised a hand to pull a tendril back from where it had fallen loose over her face.

Forcing himself to relax and concentrate, he breathed in the warm air, going over the points he had prepared with his jurists in the weeks after the formal summons. If the case was judged fairly, he knew they had an excellent chance of winning, but if any of the three magistrates was in the pay of his enemies, the trial could be a mockery, with everything won but the final verdict. His gaze swept over the gathering crowd, all of them oblivious to what was at stake. They had come for the entertainment of oratory, to cheer or curse clever points of debate. Julius hoped too that some had come because of the rumours his jurists had started around the city, that the trial was to be nothing less than a defence of Marius. There did seem to be a lot of the plebeians in attendance and the sellers of baked fish and steaming bread were doing a fine trade already as the people waited patiently for the magistrates and the praetor to make their entrance.

Julius looked again at the draped shields that Alexandria had completed and noticed that many of the crowd craned their necks for a glimpse of them as well, pointing and talking amongst themselves. Only Alexandria, Tabbic and himself knew what was under the thick folds of cloth and Julius felt a touch of excitement at the response they would get when he unveiled them at last.

Behind him, his three jurists shuffled through their papers and notes one more time, their heads bowed in low mutters. Hiring Quintus Scaevola to help him prepare the case had cost him two talents of gold, but there were few men in Rome with a better command of the twin laws of custom and the Twelve Tables. It had taken a vast fee just to tempt him out of retirement, but despite his arthritic stiffness, the brain behind the heavy-lidded eyes had turned out to be as sharp as Julius had been told. Julius watched Quintus as he scribbled a footnote to the papers for the trial and caught his eye as he looked upwards in thought.

‘Nervous?’ Quintus asked, waving the sheaf at the court and the shadowed crowds beyond.

‘A little,’ Julius admitted. ‘There is a great deal at stake.’

‘Remember the point of value. You always leave that one out.’

‘I remember, Quintus. We’ve been over it enough times,’ Julius replied. He had grown to like the elderly jurist, although the man seemed to live only for the law and cared nothing for the other concerns of the city. As a joke in their first week of preparation, Julius had asked him what he would do if he found one of his sons setting fire to a house in the city. After a great deal of silent thought, Quintus had said that he would not be able to take the case as the law forbade calling himself as a witness.

Quintus pressed the notes into Julius’ hands, his expression stern. ‘Do not be afraid to consult, remember. They will try to make you speak without thought. If you feel the arguments are slipping from you, turn away and I will advise as best I can. Do you remember the passage from the Twelve Tables?’

Julius raised his eyes in exasperation. ‘The one we all memorised as children? Yes, I know it.’

Quintus sniffed at the sarcasm. ‘Perhaps you should recite it again to be sure,’ he said, unmoved.

Julius opened his mouth to reply, but a light cheer from the crowd interrupted him.

‘It’s the magistrates … and the praetor. Only an hour late, Master Scaevola,’ one of the younger jurists hissed to Quintus. Julius followed their gaze and saw the group come out of the senate building where they had been preparing.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation as the group of four men walked slowly with their guards into the court area. Julius scrutinised them carefully. The praetor was unknown to him, a short red-faced man with a bald crown. He walked with his head bowed as if in prayer, taking his seat on the raised platform that had been assembled for the trial. Julius watched as the praetor nodded to the centurion of the guards and signalled for the magistrates to take their seats next to him.

These men were familiar enough and Julius breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw none of them were faces he recognised from the factions in Senate. His worst fear was that they would be Cato’s creatures, but he brightened as one of them smiled at him. The people’s tribune took his place last as the most senior of the magistrates. The crowd let out a ragged cheer for their representative and the man smiled back at them, raising his hand briefly in acknowledgement. His name was Servius Pella, which was just about all Julius could call to mind about him. His hair was white and cropped close to an angular skull with deep-set eyes that seemed black in the dim light of the torches. Fleetingly, Julius wished he had taken the time to meet the man at one of the Senate meetings, but shoved the thought aside. It was pointless to worry about the magistrates, he knew. If he could deal with the posturing of Antonidus’ advocate Rufus, he had a strong enough case. If he were humiliated, he would lose not only the house that had belonged to Marius, but also a great deal of his status in the Senate and the city itself. He could not regret the risks he had taken in forcing the trial. Marius would have expected no less.

Julius glanced over to where Cato sat and found the heavy gaze fastened on him with interest. Bibilus was there at his side as always, and Catalus. Julius saw that Suetonius was sitting with his father, the same supercilious smile on each face. Their expressions would have marked them as kin even if he hadn’t known it already.

Julius looked away rather than show his anger. Cato’s supporters would learn to fear in time, as he removed the pillars of their influence, one by one.

Quintus patted Julius’ shoulder and sat down with the other jurists. The crowd shuffled and whispered as they sensed the trial was about to start. Julius glanced again at the shields, checking the drapes hadn’t slipped to reveal even a part of them.

The praetor stood slowly, his hands smoothing the folds of his toga. With a motion, he ordered the torches snuffed and everyone present waited as each light was covered, leaving the grey dawn to light the forum.

‘This august court is convened on the ninety-fourth day of the consular year. Let the records be marked. I charge all present in the sight of the gods that they shall speak only truth here, under penalty of banishment. If any man declares falsehood in this court, he will be denied fire, salt and water and sent far from this city, never to return, in accordance with the edicts.’

The praetor paused, turning to catch the eye of first Antonidus, then Julius. Both men dipped their heads to show understanding and he continued, his voice a sharp ring across the silent rows.

‘In this case of rei vindicatio, who is the plaintiff?’

Antonidus stepped forward onto the floor of the court.

‘I am, sir. General Antonidus Severus Sertorius. I claim wrongful possession of my property.’

‘And who will speak on your behalf?’

‘Rufus Sulpicius is my advocate,’ Antonidus replied. His words created a buzz of excitement in the crowd, causing the praetor to look sternly at them.

‘Step forward the defendant,’ he said loudly.

Julius stepped off the platform that held the shields and faced Antonidus across the floor.

‘I am Gaius Julius Caesar, the defendant before this court. I claim possession of the property. I speak for myself.’

‘Have you brought a part of it for the symbol?’

‘I have, your honour,’ Julius replied. He turned to the row of draped cloths and deftly twitched one away, revealing the first bronze shield to the court. A gasp went up from the crowd and a pleased whispering commenced.

The shield was all Julius had hoped. Alexandria had given everything to its creation, fully aware that, in front of the court and Senate, she could make her name in a single day.

The shield was ringed in bronze beading, but all eyes were fixed on the face and shoulders of the main figure of Marius, a life-size relief that glared out at those assembled. The whispering went on and on and then a cheer started in the crowd as they tried to show their approval for the dead general.

Antonidus spoke in fierce conversation with his advocate and the man cleared his throat for the attention of the magistrates. The noise from the crowd was too much for the praetor and he sent a flat hand signal to the centurion of the court guards. As one, the soldiers crashed the butts of their staffs into the paving and the crowd settled, wary of attack. Rufus stood forward, a bony vulture of a man dressed in a dark robe. He pointed with a sneer at the shield.

‘Honourable Praetor. My client insists that this … item was not part of the house in dispute. It cannot qualify as the symbol unless it was part of the property.’

‘I know the law, Rufus. Do not presume to lecture me,’ the praetor replied stiffly. He turned his head to Julius. ‘Can you answer?’

‘It is true that while Antonidus was in unlawful possession of the house of Marius, no such shield hung on the walls, but it was hanging this morning and will do as well as anything as the symbol of disputed ownership. I can produce witnesses to attest this,’ Julius said smoothly.

The praetor nodded. ‘That will not be necessary, Caesar. I accept your point. The shield will be used.’

He frowned as a fresh cheer came from the crowd around them and began to raise his hand for another signal to the guards. At this, the people fell silent, knowing better than to push his patience too far.

‘Plaintiff and defendant, approach the symbol and complete the rite of dispute,’ he said loudly.

Antonidus crossed the court floor, a slender spear held in his hand. Julius stepped up onto the platform with him, keeping his face blank of any triumph that would offend the magistrates. Julius touched his spear to the shield with a tiny ring of metal, then stood back. Antonidus brought his own point down and his mouth tightened as someone in the crowd jeered the act. Then he turned his back on Julius and walked to his station by Rufus, who stood with his arms folded, relaxed and untroubled by the exchange.

‘The property has been marked for dispute. The trial may now begin,’ the praetor intoned, settling himself in his seat for comfort. His part of the proceedings was now over until the time came to dismiss the court. The three magistrates stood and bowed to him before one of them cleared his throat.

‘As plaintiff, your advocate must speak first,’ the magistrate said to Antonidus.

Rufus bowed to him and took three steps out into the floor to better command the space.

‘Praetor, magistrates, senators,’ he began. ‘This is a simple case, though the penalties incurred involve the extremes of our law. Five weeks ago, the defendant brought armed men into the city for the purpose of violence. Such a crime is punishable by death or banishment. In addition, the defendant employed his men in breaking into a private house, that of the plaintiff, General Antonidus. The punishment for that is a mere whipping, but after death that may be seen as unnecessary cruelty.’ He paused while a titter of laughter ran along the benches of the court. The crowd outside remained silent.

‘Rough hands were laid on the servants and guards of the house and when the owner returned, he was forbidden entry to his own home by the same soldiers.

‘He is not a vengeful man, but the crimes against him are many and grave. As his advocate, I call on you to administer the sternest punishment. Death by the sword is the only possible answer to such a flouting of Rome’s laws.’

A polite clapping came from the men around Cato, and Rufus nodded briefly to them as he resumed his seat, his bright eyes belying the air of relaxation he pretended.

‘And now the defendant,’ the magistrate continued. Nothing in his manner showed whether he had been moved by Rufus’ words, but still Julius stepped forward with a hollow feeling in his stomach. He had known they could try for death, but hearing it in court made it a reality that shook his confidence.

‘Praetor, magistrates, senators, people of Rome,’ Julius said loudly enough to carry to the crowd. They cheered this, though the praetor frowned at him. Julius ordered his thoughts before continuing. Instinctively, he felt that the defence of Marius would appeal more to the people who had suffered under Sulla than the silent judges, but playing to them was a dangerous course and could even sway the magistrates against a strong case. He would have to be careful.

‘This case has a longer history than five weeks,’ he began. ‘It begins on a night three years ago when the city prepared for civil war. Marius was the legally appointed consul of Rome and his legion had fortified the city against attack …’

‘Your honours, I appeal to you to have him cease this rambling discourse,’ Rufus broke in, standing. ‘The question is the ownership of a house, not the struggles of history.’

The magistrates conferred for a moment, then one stood.

‘Do not interrupt, Rufus. The defendant has a right to make his case as he thinks best,’ he said.

Rufus subsided and sat down.

‘Thank you, your honour,’ Julius continued. ‘That Marius was my uncle is well known. He took the defence of the city on himself when Sulla departed to Greece to defeat Mithridates, a task Sulla left rather incomplete.’

The crowd chuckled at this, then fell silent as the praetor swept them with his glare. Julius went on. ‘Marius was convinced that Sulla would return to the city with the aim of assuming complete power. To avert this, he fortified Rome’s walls and prepared his men to defend the people of the city against armed attack. If Sulla had approached the walls without violence, he would have been allowed to resume his consular post and the peace of the city would have remained unbroken. Instead, he had left assassins within the bounds who attacked General Marius in the dark in a cowardly attempt at murder. Sulla’s men opened the gates and let their master into the city. I believe it was the first armed attack on her in more than two hundred years.’

Julius paused for breath, looking at the magistrates to see how they were reacting to his words. They regarded him impassively, their expressions giving nothing away.

‘My uncle was dispatched by a dagger from Sulla’s own hand and, though his legion fought valiantly for days, they too fell to the invader.’

‘This is too much!’ Rufus cried, leaping up. ‘He blackens the name of a beloved leader of Rome under the protection of this trial. I must ask you to condemn him for his foolishness.’

The magistrate who had spoken before leaned forward and spoke to Julius.

‘You are pushing our patience, Caesar. If the case is found against you, be sure we will consider your disrespect when it comes to the sentence. Do you understand?’

Julius nodded, gulping to clear his suddenly dry throat.

‘I do, though the words must be spoken,’ he said.

The magistrate shrugged. ‘It’s your head,’ he muttered as Julius took a calming breath before speaking again.

‘Much of the rest you know already. As victor, Sulla claimed the title of Dictator. I will not speak of that period in the city history.’

The magistrate nodded sharply at this as Julius continued.

‘Though he had defended the city under the law, Marius was declared traitor and his possessions sold off by the state. His house was auctioned publicly and bought by the plaintiff of this trial, General Antonidus. His legion was dispersed and their name struck from the honour rolls in the Senate.’

Julius paused and bowed his head as if in shame at the act. A murmur ran through the senators in attendance as they whispered questions and comments to each other. Then Julius raised his head again and his voice rang out over the judges and the crowd.

‘My case stands on three points. The first is that Primigenia have been restored to the legion rolls without dishonour. If they have suffered no stain, then how can their general be called traitor? Secondly, if Marius was wrongly punished, then his possessions should have come to his remaining heir, myself. Lastly, my actions to reclaim my house from the thieves within have been made knowing the court would pardon them in the light of Marius’ unjust fate. A great wrong has been committed, but it is against me, not by me.’

The crowd cheered and the guards once again rapped their staffs into the ground.

The magistrates put their heads together for a moment, then one of them motioned to Rufus to speak in reply. He stood, sighing visibly.

‘Caesar’s attempts to confuse the issue are admirable for their earnestness, but the law sees all things clearly. I am sure the judges enjoyed the journey into history as I did, but I suspect they realise that the interpretation is coloured by the defendant’s personal relationship with the general. Much as I would enjoy arguing the vision he has presented as fact, I am in favour of reducing the case to its fundamentals in law and not wasting the time of those present.’ He looked at Julius and smiled in a friendly fashion, so that all there could see he forgave the young man for his foolishness.

‘In a wholly legal sale, my client bought the house in question at auction as we have been told. His name is on the deed and the bill of sale. To have armed guards steal his property from him is a return to the use of force to settle disputes. I’m sure you all noted the touching of spears to that attractive shield at the start of the trial. I remind you that the symbolic act of struggle is just that. In Rome, we do not draw swords to end arguments without submitting to the law.

‘I sympathise with the points young Caesar has raised, but they have no bearing on the case at hand. I’m sure he would want to go back even further and reveal the history of the house right back to its first foundation, but there is no call for such a widening of the issues. I must repeat my call for the sword, though it is with regret that Rome should lose such a passionate young advocate.’

His expression showed sadness for the harsh penalties to come as he took his seat and conferred with Antonidus, who watched Julius with slitted eyes.

Julius stood and faced the magistrates once more.

‘As Rufus has referred to a deed and bill of sale, I feel he should produce them for the court to examine,’ he said quickly.

The magistrates looked over to Rufus who grimaced. ‘If the property was a horse, or a slave, your honours, then I could of course produce such items for you. Unfortunately, as a house is in question and one taken by surprise and armed force, the documents were inside it, as Caesar is well aware.’

The magistrate who seemed to speak for the others peered at Julius with a frown.

‘Are these papers in your possession?’ he asked.

‘I swear that they are not,’ Julius replied. ‘There is no sign of them in the house of Marius, on my honour.’ He sat down again. As he had burned the deed and bill of sale the night before under Quintus’ direction, his conscience was clear.

‘So no ownership papers can be produced by either party?’ the magistrate continued evenly. Julius shook his head and Rufus echoed the movement, his face tightening in irritation. He stood to address the magistrates once again.

‘My client suspected that such key documents would “disappear” before the trial,’ he said with a barely concealed sneer in Julius’ direction. ‘Instead, we have a witness who was present at the auction and can attest to the legal sale to General Antonidus.’

The witness stood forward from his seat by Antonidus. Julius recognised him as one of those who sat near Cato in the senate house. He was a stooped and fragile-looking man, who constantly pulled a lock of his thinning hair back off his forehead as he spoke.

‘I am Publius Tenelia. I can attest to the legal sale.’

‘May I question this man?’ Julius asked, stepping onto the floor as he received permission.

‘You witnessed the entire auction?’ Julius asked him.

‘I did. I was there from the start to the finish.’

‘You saw the bill of sale being signed in the name of Antonidus?’

The man hesitated slightly before replying. ‘I saw the name,’ he said. His eyes were nervous and Julius knew he was adding to the truth.

‘You glimpsed the document briefly then?’ he pressed.

‘No, I saw it clearly,’ the man replied more confidently.

‘What was the amount the general paid?’

Behind the man, Rufus smiled at the ploy. It would not work, as the witness had been thoroughly prepared for such questions.

‘It was one thousand sesterces,’ the man returned triumphantly. His smile dropped at a sudden chorus of jeers from the crowd outside the court. Many heads turned towards the mass of plebeians and Julius saw with the judges that the streets had filled as the trial went on. Every available space was taken and the forum itself was full of people. The magistrates looked at each other and the praetor firmed his mouth in anxiety. Such a large audience increased the dangers of disturbance and he considered sending a runner to the barracks for more soldiers to keep the peace.

When the crowd were quiet, Julius spoke again.

‘In preparation for this case, your honours, I had the house valued. If it was sold this morning, a buyer would be likely to pay in the region of a million sesterces, not a thousand. There is a passage from the Twelve Tables that has a bearing on the matter.’

As he prepared to quote from the ancient script, Rufus raised his eyes in boredom and the witness fidgeted, not yet dismissed.

‘“Property may not pass from vendor to purchaser unless value has been paid,”’ Julius said loudly. The crowd cheered the point, with a number of conversations breaking out as it was explained to those around them.

‘A thousand sesterces for a property worth a million is not “value”, your honours. The sale was a farce of favours, a mockery of an auction. With not even a bill of sale to prove it existed, no legal transaction took place.’

Slowly, Rufus rose. ‘Caesar will have us believe that any bargain is in breach of the Tables,’ he began.

The crowd hooted him and the praetor sent his runner for more soldiers.

‘I say again that Caesar attempts to confuse the court with pointless distractions. The witness proves the sale was real. The amount is immaterial. My client is a shrewd bargainer.’

He sat down, hiding his annoyance at the point. He could not admit that the auction had been mere show for Sulla to reward his favourites, though Caesar had made that clear to everyone there, if they didn’t know it already. Certainly the crowd hadn’t known and many angry stares were turned on Antonidus who visibly shrank in his seat.

‘Furthermore,’ Julius continued as if Rufus had not spoken, ‘as the matter of the value of the house has been raised by Antonidus’ own witness, there is another issue I would like to bring to the attention of the court. If the verdict is with me as rightful heir to the property, I will demand the rent for the two years of occupancy by General Antonidus. A generous estimate of that amount is thirty thousand sesterces, which I add to my claim for the house as money denied my family in his time there.’

‘What? How dare you ask for that?’ Antonidus spluttered in anger, rising from his seat. Rufus pressed him back into it with difficulty, muttering urgently into his ear.

When Antonidus was still, Rufus turned back to the magistrates.

‘He adds public scorn to his offences, your honours, by goading my client. The house was empty when General Antonidus took legal possession after the sale. There is no rent at question here.’

‘My family chose to keep it empty, as was their right. Still, the money could have been earned for me if not for the tenant you represent,’ Julius snapped at him.

The magistrate cleared his throat, then bent his head to listen to the other two before speaking. After a conference that stretched on for a minute or more, he spoke again.

‘The case is clear enough, it seems. Have either of you anything to add before we deliberate on the verdict?’

Julius racked his brain, but everything he wanted to say had been said. His gaze strayed over to the bronze shields that were still covered, but he resisted the urge to unveil them for the crowd, knowing the judges would see it as a cheap display. He wasn’t at all sure which way the verdict would go and when he turned to look at Quintus, the old man simply shrugged blankly.

‘Nothing more, your honours. I rest,’ Julius said.

The crowd cheered him and called insults to Rufus as he too ended his case. The three magistrates stood and bowed to the praetor before leaving for the senate building where they would thrash out their final verdict. The extra soldiers that had come running from the barracks cleared the way for them, armed not with staffs but swords.

When they had left, the praetor stood to address the crowd, pitching his powerful voice to carry over their heads.

‘When the judges return, there will be no disturbance, whatever the outcome. Be sure that any hostility will be met with quick and final punishment. You will depart peacefully and any man who does not will suffer my displeasure.’

He took his seat again, ignoring the baleful stares that were focused on him from the people of Rome. It held for only a few seconds, then a lone voice called ‘Ma-ri-us!’ and was quickly joined by those around him. In a few moments, the whole crowd was stamping and yelling the name and the assembled members of the Senate looked around them nervously, suddenly aware that only a thin line of soldiers stood between them and the mob.

Moving with stately slowness, Julius decided the moment was right to reveal the rest of Alexandria’s work. He caught her eye on the benches as he grasped the rough cloth that covered the first and saw she was grinning with excitement. Then he whipped it away and the crowd cheered raucously. It was the three crossed arrows of Primigenia, Marius’ beloved legion. On the benches, Brutus stood on impulse to cheer as wildly as the crowd and others close by him followed his lead.

The praetor snapped out some order to Julius, but it went unheard over the unruly crowd and Julius moved to the others, pulling away the coverings one by one. With each, the crowd grew louder in their roaring as those who could see shouted out descriptions to those behind. Small children were hoisted to their parents’ shoulders to see and fists punched the air in enjoyment. Scenes from Marius’ life were shown, his battles in Africa, the Triumph through the streets of the city, his proud stance on the walls as he waited for Sulla.

Julius paused dramatically as he reached the last one and the crowd quietened as if at an unseen signal. Then he pulled the cloth away to reveal the last shield. It shone in the morning light, completely blank.

Into the silence, Julius spoke. ‘People of Rome, we cast the last image on this day!’ he cried, and they erupted into a bellow of cheering and shouts that had the praetor on his feet, shouting to his guards. The space between the crowd and the court was widened, with the soldiers using their staffs to push the people back. They moved away in confusion, yelling defiance and jeering Antonidus. The name of Marius began again as a chant and it seemed as if all Rome was shouting the name.

Cornelia watched in the grey light as Tubruk leaned towards Clodia and kissed her. He was so gentle it almost hurt to watch, but she could not look away. She hid from their sight in a dark window, and felt more alone than ever. Clodia would ask for her freedom, she was sure, and then she would have no one.

Cornelia smiled bitterly as she probed the tender places of her memories. It should have been different. Julius seemed so full of life and energy as he took Rome in his hands, but none of it was for her. She remembered the words that used to pour out of him when Marius was still alive. She’d had to put a hand over his mouth to stop her father’s servants from hearing as he talked and laughed with her. There had been such joy in him then. Now he was a stranger and though once or twice she had caught him looking at her with the old fire, it had gone as soon as she recognised it. There had been times when she’d gathered courage to demand that he make love to her, just to break the ice that was forming between them. She wanted it, even dreamed of him, but each time the memory of Sulla’s rough fingers took her resolution and she slipped alone into her nightmares. Sulla was dead, she told herself, but she could still see his face and sometimes in the wind she thought she could smell his scent. Then terror would curl her into the bedclothes against the world.

Tubruk put his arm around her nurse and Clodia rested her head on his shoulder, whispering to him. Cornelia heard his deep chuckle for a moment and envied them what they had found. It was not in her to refuse if Clodia asked, though the thought of being the forgotten wife while Julius gloried in his city and his legion was unbearable. She had seen them before, those poisonous Roman matrons with nurses for their children and slaves to work in the houses. They spent their days buying rich cloth, or organising a social circle that Clodia saw as a kind of death. How they would pity her when they clawed out the truth of a loveless marriage.

Cornelia rubbed angrily at her eyes. She was too young to be destroyed by this, she told herself. If it took a year to recover, then she would wait out the healing. Though he had changed in his prison, there was still the young man she’d known in Julius. The one who had risked life and her father’s anger to come to her room over the slippery rooftops. If she could only keep that man in mind, she would be able to talk to him again and perhaps he would remember the girl he’d loved. Perhaps the conversation would not become an argument and neither of them would leave the other alone.

A shadow moved in the courtyard and Cornelia raised her head to see. It could have been one of the soldiers on his rounds, she thought, then let out her held breath as the greying night revealed him. Octavian, spying on the lovers. If she called to him, the moment of privacy Clodia and Tubruk had found would be spoiled and she hoped the boy would have the sense not to get too close.

Julius too had grown up inside the walls and once had been as fascinated by love as Octavian.

She watched in silence as Octavian crouched behind a water trough and peered at Tubruk. The couple kissed again and Tubruk reached down to the ground, his fingers searching as he chuckled again. When he had found what he wanted, Cornelia saw his arm go back and jerk forward, sending a pebble clattering towards where Octavian hid.

‘Go back to bed,’ Tubruk called to the boy.

Cornelia smiled, turning away to take the advice herself.

‘The Senate doors are opening!’ Quintus said at Julius’ shoulder.

Julius turned to see the magistrates returning.

‘That was fast,’ he said nervously to the jurist.

The old man nodded.

‘Fast is not good in a property case, I think,’ he muttered ominously.

Julius tensed in sudden fear. Had he done enough? If the decision went against him and the judges accepted the call for a death penalty, he would be dead before the sun set. He could hear their sandals on the forum stones, as if they marked off his last moments. Julius felt sweat trickle down his side under his toga, cold against his skin.

With the rest of the court, he stood to receive the magistrates, bowing as they entered. The soldiers who had accompanied them from the senate building took up their posts in a second line between the crowd and the court, their hands on their swords. Julius’ heart sank. If they were expecting trouble, it could be that the magistrates had warned them of the verdict already.

The three judges moved to their seats with slow dignity. Julius tried to catch their eyes as they settled, desperate for some clue of what was to come. They gave nothing away and the crowd became silent as the tension grew, waiting for them.

The magistrate who had spoken throughout the proceedings rose ponderously to his feet, his expression grim.

‘Hear our verdict, Rome,’ he called. ‘We have searched for truth and speak as law.’

Julius held his breath unconsciously and the silence that surrounded him seemed almost painful after the crashing cheers and chants before.

‘I find in favour of General Antonidus,’ the man said, his head and neck stiff. The crowd roared in anger, then a hush fell again as the second judge rose.

‘I too find in favour of Antonidus,’ he said, his gaze swinging over the unruly chaos of the crowd. A fresh bellow of jeers followed his words and Julius felt suddenly dizzy with reaction.

The tribune stood and looked over the crowd and the bronze images of Marius, his gaze at last falling on Julius.

‘As tribune, I have the right to veto the judgments of my fellow magistrates. It is not a path I would choose lightly and I have weighed the arguments with care.’ He paused for emphasis and every eye was on him.

‘I exercise that veto today. The judgment is with Caesar,’ he said.

The crowd went berserk with joy and the chant of ‘Ma-ri-us’ could be heard again, louder than ever.

Julius collapsed in his chair, wiping sweat from his forehead.

‘Well done, lad.’ Quintus smiled toothlessly at him. ‘There’s a lot of people who will know your name if you ever stand for higher office. I did enjoy the way you used those shields of yours. Showy, but they like that. Congratulations.’

Julius let out a long slow breath, still light-headed from being so close to catastrophe. His legs felt shaky under him as he crossed the floor to where Antonidus sat. Loudly enough for the magistrates to hear him over the crowd, he took the first part of his revenge for Cornelia.

‘I lay hands on you for the sum of thirty thousand sesterces,’ he said, gripping Antonidus’ robe roughly.

The man stiffened in helpless rage, his eyes searching out Cato in the crowd on the benches. Julius too turned, still keeping his grip. He saw Cato meet the general’s eyes and then slowly shake his head, his expression one of distaste. Antonidus seemed dazed at the turn in his fortunes.

‘I do not have the money,’ he said.

Rufus interrupted at Julius’ side. ‘It is customary to allow thirty days to pay such a large debt.’

Julius smiled without humour. ‘No. I will have the money now, or the general will be trussed and sold as a slave in the markets.’

Antonidus struggled violently in his grip, unable to break it.

‘You can’t! Cato! You cannot allow me to be taken!’ he shouted as Cato turned his back on him and prepared to leave the court. Pompey was in the crowd, watching the scene with avid interest. The general retained enough sense to stop his mouth from blurting out the secrets of the assassins. Either Pompey or Cato or the assassins themselves would have him tortured and killed at such a revelation.

Brutus stepped from his bench to stand by Julius. He carried a rope in his hands.

‘Bind him, Brutus, but gently. I want to get as much as I can for him on the slave blocks,’ Julius said harshly, letting his anger and contempt spill out for a moment.

Brutus completed the task with quick efficiency, finally gagging Antonidus to muffle his roaring. The magistrates looked on without a reaction, knowing the action was within the law, though the pair that had voted against Julius were red with silent anger.

When the job was done, Rufus caught Julius’ attention with a hand on his arm.

‘You spoke well, Caesar, but Quintus is too old to be a choice of jurist for the future. I hope you will remember my name if you need an advocate yourself?’

Julius stared at him. ‘I am unlikely to forget you, I think,’ he said.

With Antonidus bound and claimed for slavery, the praetor dismissed the court and the crowd cheered again. Although Cato had moved first, most of the other senators stepped quickly down from the benches, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such a large mob of the citizens they represented.

Together, Julius and Brutus dragged the prone general over the floor of the court, depositing him roughly against the platform that held the shields.

Alexandria stepped around the milling senators to reach Julius, her eyes bright with the triumph.

‘Well done. I thought they had you there for a moment.’

‘So did I. I must thank the tribune for what he did. He saved my life.’

Brutus snorted. ‘He’s one of the people, remember. They would have torn him apart if he’d judged against you like the others. Gods, look at them!’ Brutus waved his arm at the citizens who clustered as close as they could to catch a glimpse of Julius.

‘Stand up by the shields and acknowledge them,’ Alexandria said, beaming at him. Whatever else happened, she knew her work would be in demand and fetch huge prices from the good and the great of Rome.

Julius stood and the crowd cheered him. A new chant started and a pleased flush started across his cheeks as he heard his own name slowly supplanting that of Marius.

He raised an arm in salute and knew what Quintus had said was right. The name of Caesar would stay in their minds and who knew where that could take him?

The morning sun had risen to light the forum and gleam off the surfaces of the bronze shields Alexandria had created. They glowed and Julius smiled at the sight of them, hoping Marius could see them, wherever he was.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The first warmth of spring was in the morning air as Julius ran through his beloved woods, feeling his legs stretch away the tensions of the days. With the excitement of the trial behind him, he spent most of his time with Renius and Brutus at the Primigenia barracks, returning home only to sleep. The men he had recruited in Africa and Greece were shaping well and there was a new sense of pride amongst the original survivors as they saw Marius’ beloved legion alive once more. The men Cato had procured for them were young and unscarred. Julius had been tempted to question them about their pasts, but resisted the impulse. Nothing before their oath mattered, no matter what Cato held over them. They would learn that in time. Renius spent every waking hour with them, using the experienced men to help him drill and train the new ones.

Though they were still at less than half strength, the word had been sent out to other cities and Crassus had promised to pay as many as they could call to the Primigenia standard. The debt to him was at a dizzy level, but Julius had agreed to it. For all the gold from Celsus, it took a fortune to make a legion and Crassus stood against the Sullans as he did. The vast sums simmered at the back of Julius’ mind, ignored. Every day brought footsore travellers from all over the country, lured by the promises of scouts in distant provinces. It was an exciting time and as the sun set each evening, Julius left them reluctantly, looking forward only to the coldest of welcomes at his home.

Though they shared a bed, Cornelia jumped when he touched her and then she would rage at him until his temper snapped or he left to find a couch in another room. Every night was worse and he went to sleep tormented by longing for her. He missed her old self and sometimes he turned to her to share a thought or a joke only to find her face filled with a bitterness he could not begin to understand. At times, he was tempted to take another room and have a slave girl brought to him just to give him ease. He knew she’d hate him then and he suffered through the long nights until a constant snapping anger coloured his waking hours and sleep was the only peace. He dreamed of Alexandria.

Though it shamed him, he had brought Octavian into the city on three occasions just to give him an excuse to stop at Tabbic’s shop. On the third occasion, Brutus had been there and after the three of them had stuttered through a few minutes of embarrassment, Julius had vowed not to go again.

He paused, panting as he crested the hill that overlooked his estate, not far from the new boundary fence hammered in by Suetonius’ father. Perhaps it was time to do something about that, at last. With good clean air filling his lungs and a light sweat from the run, he felt a lift in spirits as he surveyed the land that was his. Rome was ready for change. He could feel it even as he felt the subtle shift of seasons that would bring back the heat of summer to the streets and fields.

A thunder of hooves jolted him out of his reverie and Julius stepped off the path as the noise grew louder. He guessed who it was before he caught sight of the little figure, perched high on the back of the most powerful stallion in the stables. Julius noted the boy’s balance and skill even as he forced a frown that brought Octavian to a shuddering stop in the damp leaves of the woods.

The stallion snorted and danced at being held back, tugging at the reins in a clear signal to go on. Octavian slid off his bare back with one hand buried in his mane. Julius said nothing as he approached.

‘I’m sorry,’ Octavian started, flushing with embarrassment. ‘He needed a run and the stable lads don’t like to stretch him. I know I said …’

‘Come with me,’ Julius interrupted.

They walked in silence down the hill, a forlorn Octavian leading the stallion behind Julius. He knew a beating was likely or, worse, he could be sent back to the city and never see a horse again. His eyes filled with tears that he wiped quickly away. Julius would despise him if he saw him weeping like a baby. Octavian resolved to take his punishment without tears, even if it was to be sent away.

Julius called for the gate to be opened and marched Octavian over to the stables. Some of the horses had been sold when Tubruk raised the ransom, but the estate manager had kept the best bloodlines to let them rebuild the stock.

The sun was rising as Julius entered the shadowy stalls, bringing a blessed breath of warmth. Julius hesitated as the horses turned their heads to welcome him, sniffing the air with soft noses. Without a word of explanation, he crossed to a young stallion Tubruk had raised and trained from a foal and ran his hand over the powerful brown shoulder.

As Octavian looked on, Julius buckled the reins and chose a saddle from the rack on the stable wall. In silence, he led the gently snickering horse out into the morning sun.

‘Why don’t you take your pony out any more?’ he asked.

Octavian stared at him, completely at a loss.

‘He’s too slow,’ he said, patting his stallion’s neck without noticing. The powerful horse towered over him, but stood calmly at the touch, showing nothing of the temper that irked the stable boys of the estate.

‘You know you’re kin to me, don’t you?’ Julius asked.

‘My mother told me,’ the boy replied.

Julius thought for a moment. He suspected his father would have taken a stick to his son if he or Brutus had risked his best stallion galloping around the woods, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood of optimism that had come to him. He had promised Alexandria, after all.

‘Come on then, cousin. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.’

Octavian’s face lit up as Julius led the horses out together and watched as the boy leapt lightly onto his stallion’s back. Julius mounted at a more sedate pace, then whooped suddenly and kicked his mount into a gallop up the hill.

Octavian watched him open-mouthed, then a smile stole across his face as he pressed his heels and yelled a response, the wind making his hair fly.

When Julius came back into the house, Cornelia longed to embrace him. Flushed from the ride and with his hair made wild with dust, he looked so young and full of life that it broke her heart. She wanted to see him smile at her and feel the strength of his arms as he gathered her into them, but instead she found herself speaking angrily, the bitterness spilling out uncontrollably even as part of her cried for softer words she could not find.

‘How much longer do you expect me to live here as a prisoner?’ she demanded. ‘You have your freedom, while I can’t eat or walk anywhere without a group of your Primigenia bastards following me!’

‘They are there to protect you!’ Julius replied, shocked at the depth of her feelings.

Cornelia glared at her husband. ‘For how long, Julius? You know better than anyone that it could be years before your enemies cease to be a danger. Would you have me confined for the rest of my life? What about your daughter? When did you hold her last? Do you want her to grow up alone? Those soldiers even searched friends of my father’s when they came to visit. They won’t be back, you can be sure.’

‘I have been working, Cornelia, you know that. I’ll make time for her, I promise. Perhaps Primigenia have been over cautious,’ Julius admitted, ‘but I told them to keep you safe until I have broken the threat of assassins.’

Cornelia swore, surprising him.

‘All this based on what happened to Pompey’s daughter! Has it occurred to you that there might not be any danger? For all we truly know, Pompey was attacked for something that had nothing to do with the Senate, yet as a result, I am forbidden even short trips into the city to break the monotony. It is too much, Julius. I cannot stand it.’

The words would not be held, though she writhed in confusion. This was not how it was meant to be. He must see her love, yet he was pulling away.

Julius looked at her, his expression hardening.

‘Do you want me to leave my family open to attack? I cannot. No, I will not. Already I am moving against my enemies. I broke Antonidus in full view of Cato and his supporters. They will know I am dangerous to them and that increases the risk to you many times over. Even if their killers strike at me alone, they could stumble into you.’

Cornelia took a deep breath to slow her pounding blood.

‘Is it to save us, then, or to save your pride that we are prisoners in our own home?’ She watched as his eyes tightened in anger, and she ached for him.

‘What do you want me to say?’ he snapped. ‘Do you want to go back to your father? Then go, but Primigenia will travel with you and make that place a fortress. Until my enemies are dead, you must be safe.’

He pressed his hands deeply into his eyes, as if to hold back the frustration that swept over him. He reached out to her and gathered her stiff body into his embrace.

‘My pride is nothing to do with it, Cornelia. There is nothing more important in my life than Julia and you. The thought of someone hurting you is … unbearable. I must know you are safe.’

‘That’s not true though, is it?’ she whispered. ‘You care more for the city than your own family. You care more for your reputation and the love of the people than for us.’ Tears came from her and he held her tightly, resting his head on hers. Her words appalled him and he struggled with an inner voice that noted a kernel of truth in them.

‘No, wife,’ he said, forcing a lighter tone. ‘You are more than all the rest.’

She held herself away from him, looking up into his eyes.

‘Then come away with us, Julius. If that is true, take your gold and your family and leave this ugly dispute behind you. There are other lands to settle in, where Rome is too distant to trouble us and your daughter can grow up without fear of knives in the night. She has nightmares even now, Julius. I fear more for what the confinement is doing to her than for myself. If we mean so much to you, then leave Rome.’

His eyes closed in grief.

‘You cannot … ask me for that,’ he said. As he spoke, she broke his grip and stood apart from him and though his arms ached to hold her again, he could not. Her voice was harsh and loud, filling the room.

‘Then don’t preach to me about how much you care for us, Julius. Don’t ever say that again. Your precious city keeps us in danger and you wrap yourself in lies of duty and love.’ Tears of anger spilled from her red eyes once again and she flung open the door, shoving roughly past the soldiers of Primigenia who kept station on the other side. Their faces were pale at what they had heard, but both men kept their gaze fastened on the floor as they followed Cornelia at a distance, fearful of provoking her any further.

In moments, Julius was left alone in the room and he sank numbly onto a couch. It was the third time they had argued in the days since the trial, and the worst. He had come home full of the excitement of his triumph and as he told her, it had somehow brought her feelings to a head, making her speak with an anger he had never seen before. He hoped Clodia was on hand. Only the old nurse seemed to be able to calm her. Anything he said made it worse.

Glumly, he thought back over the argument. She didn’t understand the work he had undertaken in the city and he clenched his fists in sudden irritation at himself. She was right: he had wealth enough to take them all away. The estate could be sold to his avaricious neighbours and he could leave the struggles of the Senate and the dominions to others. Tubruk could retire and it would be as if the family of Caesar had never played a part in the greatest city.

A memory flashed into his mind of Tubruk pressing his fingers deep into the black earth of the fields when Julius was a little boy. He was of the land and could never leave it, though hurting Cornelia shamed him. She would see, when his enemies were broken, that this was simply a passing grief and they would be able to watch their daughter grow up in peace, in the arms of Rome. If she could only endure for the present, he would make it up to her in time. At last, he shrugged off the dark lethargy that plagued him and stood. It was approaching noon and with a Senate meeting scheduled for the early evening, he would have to be quick to complete his business with the house of Suetonius before making his way to the city.

Octavian was in the stables helping Tubruk to mount. The stallion Julius had ridden that morning gleamed from the brush. Julius patted the boy on the shoulder in thanks as he threw his leg into the saddle, the memory of the exhilarating ride easing his anger for a moment. Guiltily, he realised he was pleased to get away from the estate, from her.

The lands owned by Suetonius’ father were closer to the city than Julius’ own, with a great stretch that touched his own borders. Though the senator had no military rank, he employed a number of guards who challenged the two travellers as soon as they passed the border, then accompanied them to the main buildings with professional caution and speed. Messengers were sent ahead as Julius and Tubruk approached the house entrance and the two men exchanged glances at the efficiency.

The place where Suetonius had grown up was a sprawling mass of white-walled enclosures, nearly twice the size of the one Julius had inherited. The same stream that fed his own land ran through the Prandus holdings, and the grounds were lush with growth and colour. Ancient pines shaded the entrance and the path up to it was cool from the shadows cast by overhanging branches. Tubruk sniffed in disapproval.

‘Impossible to defend, this place,’ he muttered. ‘The trees give too much cover and it needs a good outer wall and gate. I could take it with twenty men.’

Julius didn’t reply, thinking of his own home, with the cleared land all around it. He hadn’t realised before what a mark Tubruk’s influence had left, especially after the slave riots years before. Suetonius’ house was beautiful and made his own seem stark and bare in contrast. Perhaps Cornelia would find time passed more easily if her surroundings were less like a soldiers’ barracks.

They dismounted to pass through the entrance, a tiled arch leading into an open garden where they could hear the rush of running water hidden by flowering bushes and plants. Julius removed the heavy packs from the horses and shouldered his with Tubruk taking the other, passing the reins into the hands of the slaves that came to greet them. They were shown to seats in a cool outer chamber and told to wait.

Julius settled himself comfortably, well aware that the senator could ignore their presence for a good part of the day. Tubruk went to a window to look at blooms that Julius thought might appeal to Cornelia around their own home.

A young male slave entered from the inner house and approached the two men.

‘Senator Prandus welcomes you, Tribune. Please follow me.’

Tubruk raised his eyebrows in surprise at the speed of the response. Julius shrugged and the two of them followed the slave into a far wing, where the man opened a door for them and bowed as they entered.

Senator Prandus stood with his son in a room that resembled a temple more than a place to live. Rich, swirling marble lined the walls and floor, with the house shrine set into the far wall. The air smelled lightly of a soft and fragrant incense and Julius breathed it in appreciatively. There was no doubt changes would have to be made at his estate. Every step of his feet brought new and interesting details to the eye, from the bust of an ancestor in the shrine to a collection of Greek and Egyptian relics on a wall that he itched to examine. It was a calculated display of wealth, but Julius took it all in as a guide to the changes he would make and missed the intended effect completely.

‘This is unexpected, Caesar,’ Prandus began.

Julius dragged his attention from his surroundings and smiled openly at the pair watching.

‘You have a beautiful home, Senator. Especially the gardens.’

Prandus blinked in surprise, then frowned as he was forced into courtesy.

‘Thank you, Tribune. I have worked many years to make it so, but you have not said why you are here.’

Julius lifted the pack from his shoulder and dropped it onto the marble floor with an unmistakable chink of coins.

‘You know exactly why I am here, Senator. I have come to buy back the land that was sold to you during my confinement with your son.’ Julius glanced at Suetonius as he spoke and saw the younger man had his features fixed into an arrogant sneer. Julius did not respond to it, keeping his own face blank. It was the father he would have to deal with.

‘I had hoped to build my son a house on that land,’ the senator began.

Julius interrupted him. ‘I remember you saying. I have brought the price you paid and a quarter again to compensate you for the loss. I will not bargain with you for my land. I will not offer again,’ he said firmly, untying the bag to reveal the gold.

‘That is … a fair settlement,’ Prandus said, looking at the bags. ‘Very well, I will have my slaves remove the boundary.’

‘What? Father, you can’t just …’ Suetonius began angrily.

The senator turned to his son and gripped his arm tightly.

‘Be silent!’ he snapped.

The younger man shook his head in disbelief as Julius approached to take his father’s hand to seal the agreement. Without another word, Julius and Tubruk departed, leaving Suetonius alone with his father.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asked in furious amazement.

His father’s mouth twisted to mirror his own sneer.

‘You are a fool, my son. I love you, but you’re a fool. You were there at the trial with me. That man is not someone you want as an enemy. Is that clear enough for you?’

‘But what about the house you were going to build? Gods, I’ve spent days with the architects already.’

Senator Prandus looked at his son, his eyes showing disappointment that hurt the younger man worse than a blow.

‘Trust me, Suetonius. You would have died in that house so close to his lands. Whether you realise it or not, I have kept you alive. I do not fear him for myself, but you are my eldest son and he is too dangerous for you. He frightens Cato and he should terrify you.’

‘I’m not scared of Caesar, or his soldiers!’ Suetonius shouted.

His father shook his head sadly.

‘That, my son, is why you are a fool.’

As Julius and Tubruk guided their horses through the estate gate, they heard a shout from the main building. Brutus ran out to meet them and their cheerful greetings died on their lips as they saw his expression.

‘Thank the gods you’ve come back,’ he said. ‘The Senate are calling everyone in. Primigenia have to be ready to move.’ As he spoke, a slave brought his own mount out and he swung himself into the saddle.

‘What’s happening?’ Julius snapped as Brutus took up his reins, feeling a surge of excitement.

‘A slave rebellion in the north. Thousands of them and hundreds of gladiators who killed their keepers. Mutina has been overrun,’ Brutus replied, his face pale under the road dust.

‘That’s not possible! There are two legions there,’ Tubruk broke in, horrified.

‘That was the report. The messengers are out all over, but I thought you’d want the news as fast as I could bring it.’

Julius turned his horse’s head and gripped the reins tightly.

‘I can’t take away the men guarding my wife, not with the danger of another rebellion spreading here,’ he said flatly.

Brutus shrugged. ‘The order was to have every available soldier ready to march north, Julius, but I’ll forget those ones,’ he replied, reaching out to clap his friend’s shoulder in support. Julius gathered in his reins, ready to dig his heels into the horse’s flanks.

‘Make the house secure, Tubruk,’ Julius ordered. ‘If the rebellion spreads we may come to appreciate the way you have set up the defences after all. Keep my family safe, as you have done before.’

They shared a moment of private understanding as Tubruk looked into Julius’ eyes. So Brutus couldn’t hear, Julius leaned down over the shoulder of his stallion and whispered into Tubruk’s ear.

‘I know what I owe you,’ he said. Sulla’s death had saved them all.

‘Don’t worry. Now go!’ Tubruk replied gruffly, slapping Julius’ horse on the rump.

The two young men bent low over the saddles as they kicked their mounts into a full gallop, raising a mist of dust on the road to Rome.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The senate building was buzzing with activity as Julius and Brutus approached. They dismounted at the edge of the forum and led their mounts towards the clustered groups of senators who were coming in from all directions, summoned to the emergency meeting from all over the city and beyond.

‘How did you get the news so quickly?’ Julius asked his friend as they crossed the space.

Brutus looked uneasy, then his head came up.

‘My mother told me about it. She has a number of … contacts in the Senate. She was probably one of the first to know.’

Julius noted a wariness in Brutus’ manner and wondered at it. The young man had been pressing for a meeting between Servilia and himself and Julius sensed how important it was to him.

‘I really will have to see this mother of yours,’ he said lightly.

Brutus flashed him a look, searching for mockery and then relaxed, satisfied.

‘She is very interested in meeting you, after that trial. I want you to know her. She is like no one else I’ve met.’

‘Perhaps tonight, then, if there’s time,’ Julius replied, hiding his reluctance. Tubruk had already offered a number of opinions on the woman, but he owed it to Brutus if it was something he wanted.

Brutus took the reins of the two horses in one hand as they reached the bottom of the steps.

‘Come to the barracks afterwards, if you can. I’ll have Primigenia ready to march on your orders,’ he said. His eyes were bright with an excitement that made Julius chuckle.

‘As soon as I’m free,’ he said, walking up the steps and into the gloom beyond.

The master of debate and the consul were still on their way, so no official discussion had begun as Julius entered the senate building. Instead, half the full number of his colleagues were gathered in anxious knots, shouting questions and comments to each other in a clatter of noise that only served to heighten the impression of an emergency. There was no order to it, and Julius took the time to visit those he knew, picking up the details that Brutus had not heard.

Pompey was with Crassus and Cinna, engaged in a heated argument. They acknowledged Julius with a nod as he reached them, then the fast talking continued.

‘Of course you’ll have command, my friend. There is no one else of note and even Cato won’t hesitate with only the forces at Ariminum guarding the south,’ Crassus said to Pompey.

The sun-dark commander shrugged, his face full of bitter knowledge.

‘He’d do anything to stop me taking military control, you know that. He must not be allowed to put up his own people. Look what happened in Greece! And the pirates that roam at will, attacking our merchants. If these gladiators are the same ones we failed to put down at Vesuvius, then Mutina was lost because of our timid policy since Sulla’s death. All because Cato blocks the Senate from sending out a general equal to the task. You think this time will be any different?’

‘It may be,’ Cinna answered him. ‘Cato has holdings in the north that must be under threat from the slaves. They could even turn south and attack the city. Cato wouldn’t be such an idiot as to ignore a threat to Rome. They must send you out. At least we have the legions back from Greece to join the others.’

‘There is the consul, coming in. He must use his veto against Cato if the fat fool interferes. This is more than a personal matter between us. The safety of the north is at stake. The safety of Rome herself.’

Pompey left them, shoving rudely through the gathering senators to speak to the consul as he entered. Julius watched as he met the man, an elder elected to the position as a compromise between the Senate factions. As Pompey spoke to him, his hands moving with his words, the man looked nervous and intimidated. Julius frowned, tapping his fingers against his stomach in tension as the consul turned his back on the gesturing Pompey to step up to the rostrum.

‘Take your seats, senators,’ the consul called.

The meeting oath was quickly taken and then the consul cleared his throat to address the tense ranks before him.

‘You have been summoned for an emergency meeting to debate a response to the uprising. I have the latest reports with me and they are worrying. It was a revolt of gladiators from a ring school at Capua. At first the local praetor looked as if he could handle it, but he failed to contain the rebellion. It seems they have managed to gather a slave army and flee north. They have plundered a number of towns and estates, killing hundreds and burning anything they could not steal. The legate at Mutina engaged the slaves and the garrison was destroyed with no survivors.’

He paused. Those senators who had not heard the news gasped and shouted in outrage and the consul raised his hands to calm them.

‘Senators, this threat cannot be overstated. The legions at Ariminum have been told to secure the city, but with Mutina gone, the north is completely open. The estimates I have are varied, but they may have as many as thirty thousand slaves under their command, with more coming in as they ravage each town. I can only assume they overwhelmed the Mutina legions with vast numbers. They must be met with the largest force we can muster while still keeping our southern borders secure. I need not tell you that we cannot strip garrisons from Greece without dire risk so soon after their own rebellion.

‘At present, they show no sign of turning towards Rome, but if they do so, there are more than eighty thousand slaves who could rally to their cause by the time they reach the south. This is a grave threat and our response must be swift and final.’

The consul glanced quickly at Cato, then Pompey.

‘I ask at this time that you put aside your grievances for the good of the city and Roman lands. I call on the master of debate to hear the responses.’

The consul sat down, wiping his brow nervously, obviously relieved to be able to pass the meeting to another. The master of debate had held his post for a number of years, his experience giving him a detachment that served to cool the hottest tempers. He waited patiently for quiet before choosing his first speaker.

‘Pompey?’

‘Thank you. Senators, I ask to be given command of the legions sent against these rebels. My record speaks for me as qualification and I urge you to vote quickly. Every soldier of Rome within a hundred miles has been called back to the city. Within a week, we should have an army of six legions to send against the slaves, joining with the two at Ariminum when we reach it. If we delay, this slave army will grow further until it may be impossible to stop. Remember that they outnumber us, senators, even in our own homes. Grant me the command and I will destroy them in the name of the Senate.’

Pompey sat down to scattered cheers and stamping of feet. He did not respond to the noise, his gaze fixed on the figure of Cato who had risen slowly, his face flushed.

‘Cato to speak,’ the master of debate confirmed.

‘Pompey’s record is indeed a fine one,’ Cato began, smiling at the stone-faced senator across the benches. ‘I agree with him that a force must be assembled and sent to strike quickly before the fire of the rebellion burns the north. However, there are other choices for men to command the force we send, others who bear the rank of general and have experience in fighting for Rome. It strikes me that a man who puts himself forward may not be suitable for such a role. Better we appoint a general who is acceptable to all of us for this difficult task. I confess Pompey’s eagerness makes me uneasy given our recent city history, and instead I suggest the command is handed to Lepidus, fresh returned from Greece.’ He sat down in silence before a babble of angry shouts and conversation broke out, with both factions abusing the other.

‘Be silent, gentlemen. You do not serve Rome with your spite,’ the master of debate said across them, bringing a restless stillness back to the benches. He looked around at the seated senators and nodded to Julius, who had risen at the end of Cato’s speech.

‘I was a witness to the caution of Lepidus against Mithridates. He was late to engage and had barely moved beyond his landing place when I came upon him to hand over the body of the Greek king. I have seen too many such compromises in this Senate. Lepidus is a poor choice, when we need to move quickly and crush the rebellion before it grows out of control. We must put aside our grievances and factions to grant the command to the one who will achieve most and fastest. That is Pompey.’

The master of debate nodded his agreement, dropping his usually impartial stance, but was then compelled to recognise Cato as the man stood again.

‘I am concerned that the threat against us is being used as a blind for ambition, senators. Lepidus will never endanger us when the battles are over, but Pompey may well have his eyes on a future even as we discuss this choice. My vote will be for Lepidus.’ The man lowered himself carefully back into his seat, glaring at Julius for a moment.

‘Are there any other candidates? If so, let them rise, or we will go directly to a vote.’ The master of debate waited, his gaze sweeping the rows.

Crassus stood stiffly, ignoring the surprise of Cato’s supporters. He received the nod to speak and crossed his hands behind his back, like a tutor addressing his wards.

‘Senators, I fear that politics will bring us to the wrong choice for the city. I do not know who would win a vote between Pompey and Lepidus as commanders, but if it is Lepidus, that could only lead to disaster. I put myself forward as a third candidate to prevent the waste of lives that would surely result from any command by Lepidus. Though I have devoted myself to business in recent years, I too rest on my previous record with the legions, for your approval.’

Once again, the noise of conversation broke out all over the senate hall as Crassus sat. Pompey was amazed at the revelation from his friend and tried to catch his eye without success as Crassus looked away from him. As the noise died, Pompey stood, his hands tightening into fists unconsciously.

‘I withdraw my name from consideration in favour of Crassus,’ he said bitterly.

‘Then we will move to a vote without further delay. Rise for your choice, gentlemen,’ the master of debate replied, as surprised as anyone by the turn of events. He waited a few moments more for the senators to make up their minds, then began to call the names.

‘Lepidus!’

Julius craned his neck with everyone else still seated to judge the numbers, then breathed out in satisfaction. There were not enough to carry the vote.

‘Crassus!’ the master of debate intoned, smiling himself.

Julius stood with Pompey and the others who had judged the choice correct. The master of debate nodded to the consul, who stood and gripped the rostrum before him.

‘Crassus is appointed general of the north armies assembling and is ordered to take the field against the rebellion and destroy it utterly,’ the consul said.

Crassus stood to thank the senators.

‘I will do my utmost to preserve our lands and the city, gentlemen. As soon as the legions are brought together in the Campus Martius, I will move against the rebels.’

He paused for a moment and smiled slyly.

‘I will keep the legates in place under me, but I must have a second-in-command should I fall. I name Gnaeus Pompey as that second.’

Curses and cheers broke out all over, with the calls for quiet from the master of debate ignored. Julius laughed at the stroke and Crassus inclined his head towards him in acknowledgement, clearly enjoying himself.

‘Keep silence!’ the master of debate bellowed above them, finally losing his temper. The babble subsided under his glare, but slowly.

‘We should move on to the details, senators,’ the consul said, shuffling through his papers. ‘Our runners report that the slaves are well armed after Mutina, having outfitted themselves with legionary supplies and armour. One of our people claims to have seen the gladiators training the slaves in sword and spear work, mimicking our formations on the field. After Mutina, they should not be underestimated.’ The consul licked his fingers nervously as he scanned the sheaf of parchments in front of him.

‘Do they have officers?’ Pompey called out.

The consul nodded as he read. ‘It seems they have a structure based on our own legions in every way. I have the original message from the owner of the barracks where the gladiators escaped. It’s here, somewhere.’

The senators waited patiently as the consul found the paper he was looking for.

‘Yes, there were seventy of them and all the guards were killed. The barracks slaves went with them, though whether they were willing or forced, the man does not know. He claims to have barely escaped with his own life. It seems these gladiators form the officer class of the army.’

‘Who leads this rabble of gladiators?’ Pompey demanded, not caring that his tone went some way to confirm the fiction of Crassus’ leadership.

The consul searched through the papers again, and licked his fingers more than once to separate them.

‘Yes, I have it. They are led by a gladiator named Spartacus, a Thracian. He began it and the rest followed him. There is nothing more, but I will pass anything further to Crassus as the reports come in.’

‘With your permission, gentlemen, I would like to leave with my second to prepare for the march ahead of us,’ Crassus said.

As he turned, he tapped his hand on Julius’ shoulder. ‘I want Primigenia with me when we go, Julius,’ he said quietly.

‘They will be ready,’ Julius promised.

Crassus lay back in the warmth of the sunken bath, allowing the difficulties of the day to slide away from him. Darkness had come early outside, but the bathing room was lit with softly flickering lamps and candles, the air thick with steam from the water. He rested his arms along the marble sill, enjoying the coolness against his skin. The water came to his neck, but with the smooth stone seat under the surface, he could relax completely. He exhaled slowly, wondering why the pool in his own estate could never be as comfortable.

Servilia sat naked in the water across from him, only her shoulders above the surface. When she moved, the swelling curves of her breasts eased into view for tantalising moments before they slid down again, blurred by the sweet oils she’d poured for them both. She’d known it was what he wanted as soon as he came to her from his generals, tired and irritable. That had all gone as her fingers worked away the painful spots from his neck before he stepped into the deep pool, set into the floor of a private part of her home. She could always sense his mood.

She watched as the tension of the day left Crassus, amused by his sighs and groans. She knew what hardly anyone else suspected of the ageing senator, that he was a terribly lonely man who had accumulated fortunes and influence without holding on to the friends of his youth. He rarely wanted anything more from her than the chance to talk in privacy, though she knew the sight of her nakedness could still arouse him, if she let it. It was a comfortable relationship, without the sordid worry of payment to spoil the intimacy. He offered her no coin but the conversations, though they were sometimes worth much more than gold.

The oils glittered on the surface of the pool and she traced patterns in them with a finger, knowing he would be enjoying the sight of her.

‘You have brought Primigenia back,’ she said. ‘My son is wonderfully proud of the men he’s found for the name.’

Crassus smiled slowly. ‘If you’d known Marius, you would understand why it gave me such pleasure to do it.’

He chose not to remind her of the part Pompey and Cinna had played, preferring not to hear their names in her house. That was another thing she understood without it having to be said.

Servilia raised herself out of the water, laying her slender arms out to the sides, so that her breasts were fully visible. She was very vain about them and she moved without embarrassment. Crassus smiled appreciatively, completely comfortable with her.

‘I was a little surprised to hear he’d given command to Julius,’ he said.

Servilia shrugged, which fascinated him.

‘He loves him,’ she replied. ‘Rome is lucky to have sons like those two.’

‘Cato would not agree, my dear. You must be wary of him.’

‘I know, Crassus. They are both so very young. Too young to see the danger of mounting debts, even.’

Crassus sighed. ‘You came to me for help, remember? I have set no limit on Primigenia’s purse. Would you have me cancel the debt? I would be laughed at.’

‘For raising Marius’ legion back from the ashes? Never. You have acted as a statesman, Crassus; they will know that. It was a noble thing to do.’

Crassus chuckled, resting his head back on the cool stone and staring up at the ceiling where the steam hung in a cooling mist.

‘You are flattering me rather obviously, don’t you think? We are not discussing a small sum, for all the pleasure it brought me to see Primigenia back on the rolls.’

‘Have you thought that Julius may pay the debt? He has the gold for it.’ As the air cooled on her skin, she shivered slightly and sank back into the water. ‘So much better for you to make a gift of it, a grand gesture to shame the petty men in the Senate. I know you care nothing for money, Crassus, which is why you have so much. It is the influence it brings that you love. There are other kinds of debts. How many times have I passed on information that you used for profit?’

She shrugged in answer to her own question, making the steaming water ripple away from her. Crassus lifted his head with an effort, letting his gaze play over her. She smiled at him.

‘It is a part of my friendship and it has given me pleasure to help you, once in a while. My son will always think kindly of you if you gift the money to him. Julius will support you in anything. You could not buy such men with coins, Crassus. They have too much pride, but a forgiven debt? That is a noble act and you know it as well as I do.’

‘I will … think about it,’ he said, his eyes closing.

Servilia watched him as he sank into light sleep and the water cooled around her. He would do as she wanted. Her own thoughts drifted back to seeing Julius at the trial. Such a forceful young man. When her son had passed over Primigenia to him, she wondered if they had considered the debt to Crassus. It would not be a burden now. Odd how the thought of her son’s gratitude was a minor pleasure compared to Julius knowing she had been a part of the gift.

Idly, she let her hands slide over her stomach as she thought of the young Roman with the strange eyes. He had a force in him that was no more than echoed in the sleeping Crassus, though it was the old man who would take the legions north.

One of her slaves entered the room in silken silence, a beautiful girl Servilia had rescued from a farm in the north.

‘Your son is here, madam, with the tribune,’ the girl whispered.

Servilia glanced at Crassus, then signalled the girl to take her place in the warm water. If he woke, he would not be pleased to find himself alone and the girl was attractive enough to catch even his interest.

Servilia pulled a robe around her still wet skin and shivered slightly in anticipation.

She paused for a moment in front of a huge mirror set into the wall and pushed her damp hair back from her forehead. Her stomach felt light with a surprising tension at the thought of meeting Julius at last and she smiled at herself in amusement.

Brutus sat with Julius in a chamber that had nothing of the artistry she employed for her business rooms. It was simply furnished and the walls were covered in subtly patterned cloth that gave a feeling of warmth. A fire flickered in the grate and the light was golden as both of them rose to greet her.

‘It’s good to see you at last, Caesar,’ she said, extending a hand. Her robe clung to her damp skin exactly as she had hoped it would and his expression gave her pleasure as he struggled not to stare at her.

Julius felt overwhelmed by her. He wondered if Brutus was troubled by the fact that she seemed almost naked, despite the thin cloth that covered her skin. He saw she had been bathing and his pulse thumped at the thought of what might have been going on before his arrival. Not beautiful, he thought, but when she smiled, there was something utterly without pretence in her sensuality. He was dimly aware that he hadn’t slept with a woman for so long he had almost forgotten and, even then, he didn’t remember Cornelia or Alexandria stirring him as this one did so effortlessly.

He flushed slightly as he took her hand.

‘Your son speaks very highly of you. I’m glad we could meet, even for just a moment before I return home. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.’

‘Primigenia will be mustering to put down the rebellion,’ she said, nodding. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her words. ‘I won’t keep you and I should return to my bath. Just remember you have a friend if you ever need me.’

Julius wondered if there really was a promise in the eyes that looked so warmly back at him. Her voice was low and soft and he could have listened to it for a long time. He shook his head suddenly, as if to break a trance.

‘I will remember,’ he said, tilting his head slightly as he considered her. As she looked at Brutus, he stole a glance to where the lines of damp cloth curved around her breasts and flushed again as she caught his glance and smiled with obvious pleasure.

‘You must bring him again, Brutus, when you have more time. My son speaks highly of both of us, it seems.’

Julius looked at his friend, who was frowning slightly.

‘I will,’ Brutus replied. He led Julius away and left her looking after them. Her fingers brushed lightly over her breasts as she thought of the young Roman, the hard nipples having little to do with the air on her skin.

Brutus found Alexandria’s home easily, despite the dark of the streets. In the armour of Primigenia, he was an uninviting target for the raptores who preyed on the weak and the poor. Octavian’s mother, Atia, answered the door with a look of fear that vanished as she recognised him. He entered behind her, wondering how many others lived in terror of soldiers coming for them in the night. While the senators surrounded themselves with guards, the people of Rome could afford no protection other than the doors they barred against the rest of the city.

Alexandria was there and Brutus was struck with embarrassment as Octavian’s mother prepared their evening meal only feet away.

‘Is there somewhere more private for us to talk?’ he asked.

Alexandria glanced at the open doorway to her room and Atia tightened her mouth to a thin line.

‘Not in my house,’ she said, frowning at Brutus. ‘The two of you aren’t married.’

Brutus flushed.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to …’

‘Oh, yes, I understand very well what you wanted, but it’s not happening in my house.’ Atia went back to cutting vegetables then, leaving Brutus and Alexandria to stifle giggles that would only have confirmed her suspicions.

‘Would you come outside with me, Brutus? I’m sure Atia can trust you in the view of the neighbours,’ Alexandria said. She pulled on her cloak and followed him out into the night as Atia upended her chopping board into the stewpot, unmoved.

Alone, Alexandria stepped into his arms and they kissed. Though it was dark, the streets were still crowded. Brutus looked around him in irritation. The little doorway hardly offered shelter from the wind, never mind the kind of privacy he wanted.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, though in fact he had been hoping for exactly the kind of meeting Atia had prevented. He was leaving to fight on distant battlefields and it was almost a tradition to find a welcoming bed for the night before.

Alexandria chuckled, kissing him on the neck, where his armour made his skin cold.

‘Pull my cloak around us,’ she whispered into his ear, quickening his pulse. He arranged the cloth so that it wrapped them both and they were breathing each other’s breath.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ he said wistfully, feeling her body press closely against him. He had to grip the cloak with one hand, but the other was free to slide against the warmth of her back and, when his fingers had warmed, under her stola and against her flesh. She gasped slightly.

‘I think Atia was right,’ she whispered, not wanting the woman’s sharp ears to hear them. With his broad hand on her hip, she felt as if she was naked with him and the crowds rushing by in the darkness only added to her excitement. The cloak formed a warm space against the cold and she held him tightly, feeling the hard lines of his armour. He was bare-legged as always and it was with a shocking sense of daring that she put her hands on his thighs, feeling the smooth strength of them.

‘I should call her to protect me from you,’ she said, moving her hands upwards. She found soft cords and loosened them to feel the heat of him against her hand. He groaned softly at the encircling touch, glancing around him to see if anyone had noticed. The crowds were oblivious in the dark and suddenly he didn’t care if they could be seen or not.

‘I want you to remember me while you are away, young Brutus. I don’t want you looking wistfully at those camp whores,’ she whispered. ‘We have unfinished business, you and I.’

‘I wouldn’t … oh gods. I’ve wanted you for such a long time.’

Under the cloak, she unbuttoned her stola and eased him into her, her eyes shuddering closed with the movement. He lifted her weight easily and, together, they braced against the doorway, unaware of anything else around them as they moved in silence. The crowd jostled near them, but no one stopped and the night swallowed them.

Alexandria bit her lip in pleasure, gripping the cloak tighter and tighter around them until it almost cut into her throat. His chestplate pressed coldly against her, but she didn’t feel the discomfort, just the heat of him inside her. His breath was hot on her lips as she panted and felt him begin to tense.

It seemed to last a long time before they became aware again of cramping muscles and the cold. Alexandria moaned softly as he eased out of her. Brutus stayed close in the darkness, stroking the skin he couldn’t see in some sort of wonder. Heat swirled into the air, made by them. He looked into her eyes and they gazed back at him. There was a vulnerability there, for all her outward confidence, but it did not matter. He would not hurt her. He struggled to find words to tell her what she meant to him, but she put a hand over his mouth to still the babble.

‘Shhh … I know. Just come back to me, my handsome man. Just come back.’

She arranged the cloak to cover her disarray beneath it and, after kissing him one last time, opened the door onto light that vanished with her, leaving him alone.

Brutus spent a moment arranging himself to be decent enough to walk the streets. Every nerve tingled with the touch of her and he felt completely alive with the intensity of what had happened. He swaggered a little as he walked back to the barracks and his step was light.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Gasping slightly in the cold air, Julius turned to look back at the glittering snake that wound down the Via Flaminia below the high pass. The first three days had been hard on him, before the fitness of his time in Greece began to return. Now his legs had hardened into ridges of muscle and he relished the pleasure that comes from simple exertion with a body that feels inexhaustible. By the end of the tenth day, he was enjoying the march to Ariminum with the legions at his back. In the evenings in camp, he practised the gladius with the experts Crassus had brought along and though he knew he would never be a master, his wrists were strengthening day by day and only the sword teachers themselves could break through his guard.

The wind gusted around the marching column and Julius shivered slightly. Although he’d seen many different lands in his time away from Rome, the cold of the Apenninus peaks was new and he bore it with a grim dislike that was mirrored in many of the soldiers around him.

To break the taste of dust in his throat, Julius took a gulp from his waterskin, shifting the heavy weight of his equipment to pull the stoppered mouth towards his lips. The column stopped only twice a day: briefly at noon and then the evening halt, which began with three hours of exhausting work to prepare the camp boundary against ambush or attack. He looked back again at the legion column and marvelled at the length of it. From the high pass through the mountains, he could see a huge distance in the clear air, but the invisible rearguard of cavalry was more than thirty miles behind him. As Crassus was pushing a fast pace of twenty-five miles from dawn till dusk, it meant those at the rear were a day behind the front and would only catch up at Ariminum. Each halt had to be relayed along the column by the cornicens, with the blared notes dwindling with distance until they could not be heard.

Ranging up the steep slopes around were the units of extraordinarii horsemen, scouting the forward line. Mounted on sturdy breeds, Julius guessed they covered three or four times the distance the column marched in their criss-crossing patterns. It was a standard tactic, he knew, though anyone who dared to attack a column of their strength would have to be suicidal.

At the head was the vanguard legion, chosen by lot each day. With Primigenia under strength, they could not take part in the changeovers and were permanently stationed ten miles back, lost to view in the centre of the column. Julius wondered how Brutus and Renius were finding the march. Cabera was older than some of the veterans who fought Mithridates with him. Back in Rome, Julius thought it would be important to be close to Crassus, but he missed his friends. No matter how he strained his eyes, he couldn’t pick out the Primigenia eagle standard from the smudge of banners behind. He watched the legion cavalry ranging up and down the column like the soldier ants he’d seen in Africa, always looking outwards for an attack which they would bear while the fighting lines formed.

Julius marched with the vanguard, within shouting distance of Crassus and Pompey, who rode at walking pace with the men they led. With more than four thousand men ahead of them when the night halt sounded, the generals had arranged it so that the main camp was laid out and the tents erected as they reached it. They were able to begin their discussions and meal while the rest dug the huge earthworks around them, creating a perimeter capable of stopping almost anything.

The three camps were marked out with flags in exactly the same way each evening. By the time the sun finally set behind the mountains, the six legions were enclosed in huge squares complete with main roads: towns sprung from nothing in the wilderness. Julius had been astonished at the organisation the older soldiers took for granted. Each night, he hammered in the iron tent pegs with the others at the place marked for them. Then he joined the units digging the trench and staking the top of the earthworks that formed the outer wall of the safe ground, unbroken except for four gates complete with guards and watchwords. Though his tutors had taught him a great deal about the legion routines and tactics, the reality was fascinating to Julius and, from the first, he saw that part of their strength came from mistakes learned in the past. If Mithridates had established a border like the one the legions put down, he knew he could still be in Greece, looking for a way in.

The path for the stones of the Via Flaminia had been cut through a narrow gorge between slopes of loose scree. Though the light was already fading, Julius guessed Crassus would keep the soldiers marching until the van reached clear ground wide enough for the first camp. One of the legions would have to move back onto the plains below for safety, which would leave the pass free except for the guards and extraordinarii who stayed on mounted patrol through darkness. No matter what happened, the legions could not be surprised by any enemy, a precaution they had learned more than a hundred years before, fighting Hannibal on the plains. Julius remembered Marius’ admiration for the old enemy. Yet even he had fallen in the end to Rome.

Though the land may once have been savage, now the wide capstones of the Via Flaminia cut through the mountains, with guardposts every twenty miles along its length. Villages had often sprung up around these as people gathered under the Roman shadow. Many found employment in maintaining the road and sometimes Julius saw small groups of labourers, waiting with dull indifference to anything except the interruption to their work.

At other times, Julius passed merchants forced off the road, who regarded the soldiers with a combination of anger and awe. They could not move towards Rome while the legions marched and those that carried spoiling goods watched with dark expressions as they calculated the loss to come. The legionaries ignored them. They had built the trade arteries with their hands and backs and had first call on their use.

Julius wished Tubruk were with him. In his time, he had travelled the same route through the mountains and right across the vast plains in the north where Crassus hoped to engage the slave army. The estate manager would not have wanted another campaign, even if Julius could have spared him from the task of keeping Cornelia safe.

His mouth tightened unconsciously as he thought of the parting. It had been bitter and though he’d hated having to leave with the anger still fresh between them, he could not delay joining Primigenia in the midst of the great host on the Campus Martius, standing ready to march north.

The memories of the last time he had left the city were still raw in him. Rome had burned on the horizon behind him as Sulla’s men hunted down the remnants of Primigenia. Julius grimaced as he marched. The legion lived, while Sulla’s poisoned flesh was reduced to ash.

The trial had gone some way to restoring Marius’ name in the city, but while Sulla’s friends still lived and played their spiteful games in Senate Julius knew he could not build the sort of Rome that Marius had wanted. Cato was safe enough while his main opponents were in the field, but when they returned, Julius would join forces with Pompey to break him. The general understood the need as few others could. For a moment, Julius considered the fate of Cato’s son. It would be too easy to put him in the first rank of every charge until he was killed, but that was a cowardly sort of victory over Cato. He vowed if Germinius died, it would be as any other soldier, at the whim of fate. Pompey’s daughter had been found with Sulla’s name on a clay token in her limp hand, but Julius would not stoop to killing innocents, though he hoped Cato would be terrified for his son. Let him lose sleep while they fought for Rome.

Long, bitter months of campaign had to come first. Julius knew he’d be lucky to see the city walls again in less than a year. He could be patient. Only an army could take his estate, and Cornelia’s father Cinna had remained behind to block Cato in the Senate. They had formed a very private alliance and Julius knew that with the strength of Pompey and the wealth of Crassus, there was little they couldn’t achieve.

The cornicens blew the halt sign as Julius marched through the pass into fading sunlight. He could see the Via Flaminia stretching down into a deep valley before working up the heights of a distant black peak that was said to be the last climb before Ariminum. He wished Brutus could be with him to see it, or Cabera, who travelled with the auxiliaries even further down the column. His tribune rank had allowed him to take station close to the front, but the march in battle order was not a place for friends to idle away the time.

With the sun setting, the first watch took positions, leaving their shields with their units from long tradition. Order was imposed on the broken landscape. Ten thousand soldiers ate quickly and bedded down in the miniature town they had made. Through the night, they were woken in turns to stand their watches, the returning sentries taking the still warm pallets with relief after the mountain cold.

Julius stood his watch in darkness, looking over the wall of earthworks at the harsh land beyond. He accepted a wooden square from the hands of a centurion and memorised the watchword cut into it. Then he was left alone in the dark, with the camp silent at his back. With a wry smile, he understood why the guards were denied shields: it was too easy to rest your arms on the top rim, then your head on your arms and doze. He stayed alert and wondered how long it had been since a sentry had been found asleep. The punishment was being beaten to death by your own tent-mates, which tended to keep even the weariest soldier from closing his eyes.

The watch was uneventful and Julius exchanged places with another from the tent, willing sleep to come quickly. The problems with Cornelia and Cato seemed distant, as he lay with his eyes closed, listening to the snores of the men around him. It was easy to imagine there wasn’t a force in the world to trouble the vast array of might that Crassus had marched north from Rome. As he passed into sleep, Julius’ last thought was the hope that he and Brutus would have the chance to make a beacon of the name Primigenia in the bloodshed to come.

Octavian yelled a high-pitched cry of challenge to the swarm of adversaries all around him. They hadn’t realised that he was a warrior born and every blow he struck left another one dying, calling for his mother. He lunged to spear the leader, who bore a strong resemblance to the butcher’s apprentice in his fevered imagination. The enemy soldier fell with a gurgle and beckoned Octavian close to his bloody mouth to hear his final words.

‘I have fought a hundred battles, but never met an opponent so skilled,’ he whispered with his last breath.

Octavian whooped and ran around the stables, whirling the heavy gladius over his head. Without warning, a powerful hand gripped his wrist from behind and he yelped in surprise.

‘What do you think you are doing with my sword?’ Tubruk asked, breathing hard through his nose.

Octavian winced in expectation of a blow, then opened his eyes slowly when it didn’t come. He saw the old gladiator was still glaring at him, waiting for an answer.

‘I’m sorry, Tubruk. I just borrowed it for practice.’

Still holding the little boy’s wrist too firmly to permit escape, Tubruk reached over and took the sword from unresisting fingers. He brought the blade up and swore in anger as he looked at it, making Octavian jump. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear at the expression that crossed Tubruk’s face. He had not expected him to return from the fields for another few hours and by that time the sword would have been back in its place.

‘Look at that! Have you any idea how long it will take to get an edge back on it? No, of course you haven’t. You’re just a stupid little fool who thinks he can steal anything he wants.’

Octavian’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted nothing more in the world than to have the old gladiator approve of him and the disappointment was worse than pain.

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to borrow it. I’ll sharpen it so you can’t see the marks!’

Tubruk looked again at the blade.

‘What did you do, smash it deliberately? That can’t be sharpened. It needs to be completely reground, or, better still, thrown away for scrap. I’ve carried that sword through bouts in the gladiator ring and three wars, and all that is undone by one thoughtless hour with a boy who can’t keep his hands away from other people’s belongings. You’ve gone too far this time, I swear it.’

Too furious to speak further, Tubruk threw the sword onto the ground and let go of the snivelling child, storming out of the stables and leaving him alone with his misery.

Octavian picked up the weapon and ran his thumb over the edge, which had been folded right over in some places. He thought if he could find a good sharpening stone and disappear from the estate for a few hours, by the time he returned Tubruk would have calmed down and he could give him the sword back. A vision of the old gladiator’s surprise as Octavian handed him the restored blade came into his mind.

‘I thought it couldn’t be done!’ he imagined Tubruk saying as he examined the new edge. Octavian thought he might not say anything then, but simply assume a humble expression until Tubruk ruffled his hair, the incident forgotten.

The daydream was interrupted by Tubruk’s return and Octavian dropped the sword in fear as he saw the old gladiator had a heavy leather strap in one hand.

‘No! I said I was sorry! I’ll fix the sword, I promise,’ Octavian bawled, but Tubruk kept a fierce silence as he dragged him out of the stables into the sunlight. The little boy struggled hopelessly as he was pulled across the courtyard, but the hand that held him was rigid with an adult strength he couldn’t break, for all the growing he’d done.

Tubruk heaved open the main gate with the hand that held the strap, grunting with the effort.

‘I should have done this a long time ago. There’s the road back to the city. I suggest you take it and make sure I don’t lay eyes on you again. If you stay here, I am going to beat your backside until you know better. What’s the word? Leave or stay?’

‘I don’t want to go, Tubruk,’ the boy cried, sobbing in terror and confusion.

Tubruk firmed his mouth, deaf to his pleas.

‘Right then,’ he said grimly and took hold of Octavian by his tunic, bringing the strap down on his bottom with a snap that echoed around the yard. Octavian pulled madly to get away, and yelled incoherently in a wail, but Tubruk ignored him, raising the strap again.

‘Tubruk! Stop that!’ Cornelia said. She had come out into the yard to see the source of so much noise and now faced the pair of them, her eyes blazing. Octavian used the moment to yank his tunic from Tubruk’s grasp and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her and hiding his head in her dress.

‘What are you doing to the boy, Tubruk?’ Cornelia snapped.

The estate manager didn’t reply, stepping close to her to grab hold of Octavian once again. Even with his head pressed deep in the cloth of her dress, Octavian sensed him coming and skittered out of the way behind her. Cornelia used her hands to hold Tubruk at bay in a frantic surge of energy that made him take a step back, his chest heaving.

‘You will stop this at once. He’s terrified, can’t you see?’ Cornelia demanded.

Tubruk shook his head slowly, his eyes flickering up to hers.

‘It’ll do him no good when he’s grown if you let him hide behind you now. I want him to remember this and I want it to come back to him the next time he thinks of stealing something.’

Cornelia bent down and took Octavian’s hands in hers.

‘What did you take this time?’ she said.

‘I only borrowed his sword. I meant to put it back, but it went blunt and before I could sharpen it, Tubruk came back,’ Octavian wailed wretchedly, watching Tubruk out of the corner of his eye in case he made another attempt to lay hands on him.

Cornelia shook her head.

‘You damaged his sword? Oh, Octavian. That’s too much. I have to give you back to Tubruk. I’m sorry.’

Octavian screamed as she detached his fingers from her dress with firm strength and Tubruk took hold of his tunic again. Cornelia chewed her bottom lip unhappily as Tubruk brought the strap down four more times, then let Octavian run away into the soothing darkness of the stables.

‘He’s terrified of you,’ Cornelia said, looking after the boy as he ran.

‘Perhaps, but it was called for. I’ve let him get away with things I never would have stood from Julius or Brutus when they were boys. He spends half his time in a dream world, that one. It won’t have done him any harm to have his bottom warmed. Maybe next time he looks to steal, it will slow his hands a little.’

‘Is the sword ruined?’ Cornelia asked, still unsure of herself around this man who had known Julius when he was as young as Octavian.

Tubruk shrugged. ‘Probably. But the boy won’t be, which is more than I could say if he’d gone his happy way in the city for much longer. Leave him in the stables for a while. He’ll have a good cry and then come in to eat, as if nothing has happened, if I know him.’

Octavian did not turn up for the evening meal and Clodia brought out a bowl of food as darkness fell. She couldn’t find him in the stables and a search of the estate brought no sign of the little boy. He and the gladius had gone.

‘You’re too ugly to be a good swordsman,’ Brutus said cheerfully as he moved lightly on the balls of his feet around the angry legionary. As the light faded, the men had gathered in the centre of the camp as they had for the previous three nights to watch the bouts Brutus had started.

‘You need a certain skill, it’s true, but being handsome is also important,’ Brutus continued, watching the man with a close scrutiny belied by the banter. The legionary turned to face him, gripping his practice sword a little too tightly with tension. Although the wooden weapons were hardly lethal, a solid blow could break a finger or put out an eye. The wood was hollow all along the thick blade and had been filled with lead, making it heavier than a gladius. When the soldiers took up their real swords, they felt almost miraculously light in their hands.

Brutus turned in place to avoid a lunge, letting the blade pass only inches from him. He’d started the bouts at the end of the sixth evening, when he realised he wasn’t anywhere near as tired as he’d expected. They had quickly become the main item of entertainment for the bored soldiers, attracted by Brutus’ cocky assurance that there wasn’t one of them who could beat him. He often fought three or four legionaries in a row and even the gambling games had ceased in the camp after the second night, with all the money placed in bets on or against Brutus. If he could keep winning, he would end the march with a small fortune.

‘People like handsome heroes, you see. You hardly qualify,’ Brutus announced, turning a sudden attack with a grunt as he finished. ‘It’s not something obvious like a nose or a peculiar mouth …’ He launched a spinning combination that was fended off desperately and Brutus stepped back to let the man recover. The legionary had been just as cocky in the beginning, but now sweat spattered from his hair as he dodged and attacked. Brutus squinted at his face, as if judging his features.

‘No, it’s accumulated ugliness, as if nothing sits right at all,’ he said.

The soldier snarled and aimed a blow with enough force to split Brutus’ skull if it landed. It sailed past and as the soldier followed it, Brutus tapped his own sword at the base of the man’s neck, just enough to force him to overbalance. He went flat and scrambled up with his chest heaving as he spoke.

‘Tomorrow? I think I could beat you if I had another chance, ugly or not.’

Brutus shrugged and pointed to the line of waiting soldiers.

‘There’s a few ahead of you, but I’ll try to have Cabera put you at the front tomorrow evening, if you’re willing. You’re still holding on too tightly, you know.’

The soldier examined his grip and nodded.

‘Work on your wrists,’ Brutus continued seriously. ‘If you can trust their strength, you’ll be able to loosen up a little.’

The man retired to the crowd, moving the wooden sword slowly in concentration. Cabera brought up the next, ushering him forward like a favourite child.

‘This one says he’s good. He was champion of his century a few years back. The quartermaster wants to know if you’re going to let the bet ride again. I think you’ve got him worried.’ Cabera grinned at Brutus, well pleased that he had eased himself into the Primigenia ranks after the first dull evening near the back.

Brutus looked the latest opponent up and down, noting the powerful shoulders and slim waist. The man ignored the inspection, spending the time stretching his muscles.

‘What’s your name?’ Brutus asked him.

‘Domitius. Centurion,’ the man replied.

There was something about him that caused Brutus to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

‘Century champion, were you? How many years ago?’

‘Three. Legion champion last year,’ Domitius replied, carrying on with the exercises without looking at the younger man.

Brutus exchanged a quick glance with Cabera and took in the fact that the crowd around them had grown to the point where everyone except the sentries must have been there. Renius had joined them and Brutus frowned at the sight of him. It was difficult to relax while the man who taught you was shaking his head in apparent disbelief. He gathered his confidence.

‘The thing is, Domitius, I’m sure you are competent enough, but in every generation, there has to be someone who is better than everyone else. It’s a law of nature.’

Domitius slowly stretched the muscles of his legs. He appeared to think it over.

‘You’re probably right,’ he replied.

‘I am right. Someone has to be the best of his generation and I’m almost embarrassed to say that person is me.’ Brutus watched Domitius for a reaction.

‘Almost embarrassed?’ the man murmured as he loosened the muscles in his back.

Brutus felt irritated by the legionary’s calm. Something about the almost hypnotic stretching nettled him.

‘Right. Cabera? Go to the quartermaster and tell him I’ll let the bet ride for one more bout with Domitius here.’

‘I don’t think …’ Cabera began, looking doubtfully towards the newcomer. Domitius was almost a head taller than Brutus and moved with control and an ease of balance that was rare.

‘Just tell him. One more and I’m coming to collect.’

Cabera grimaced and trotted away.

Domitius rose as if he was uncoiling and smiled at Brutus.

‘That’s what I was waiting for,’ he said. ‘My friends have lost a lot of money betting against you.’

‘And that didn’t tell you something? Let’s get on with it then,’ Brutus said, curtly.

Domitius sighed. ‘You short men are always so impatient,’ he said, shaking his head.

Octavian wiped his nose along his arm, leaving a silvery trail on the skin. At first, the city had seemed a different place. It had been easy enough to slip past the gate guards, using a cart as cover, but once inside, the noise and smells and sheer hurry of the crowds were disconcerting. He realised the months on the estate had made him forget the energy of the city, even at night.

He hoped Tubruk was worried about him. In a day or two, Octavian thought he would be welcomed back with open arms. Especially if he could persuade Tabbic to grind the blade back to a good edge. All he had to do was stay out of trouble until morning, when the little shop opened. The blade was wrapped in a horse cloth and held under his arm. He wouldn’t have got far with it otherwise. Some public-spirited citizen would stop him or, worse, a thief could snatch it for the money it would bring at one of the cheaper shops than Tabbic’s.

Almost unconsciously, Octavian let his footsteps take him in the direction of his mother’s house. If only he could spend the night there, he would see Tabbic and be back in the estate in a day or two with Tubruk pleased with him again. He thought of her likely reaction at seeing him and winced. The sword would be discovered and she would think he had stolen it. For a mother, she was not very trusting, he admitted sadly to himself. She never believed him, even when he was telling the truth, which was always infuriating.

Perhaps he should try to signal to Alexandria, get her out to see him without disturbing the rest of the house. She might understand better than his mother what he had to do.

He trotted through the night crowd, dodging around the street sellers and resisting the urge to grab at the hot food that filled the air with tantalising smells. He was starving, but the empty feeling in his stomach took second place to his need to make things right with Tubruk. Getting himself caught by an angry stall holder would spoil things as badly as a conversation with his mother.

‘It’s the rat!’

The sudden exclamation jarred him from his miserable thoughts. He looked up into the surprised eyes of the butcher’s apprentice and panic flared in him. He jumped down into the street to avoid hands that clutched from behind. They were all there! Desperately, he threw open the blanket roll and got a hand on the hilt of Tubruk’s gladius. He brought it up in front of him as the butcher’s boy moved in on him, hands closing in anticipation. A wild swipe nearly touched the outstretched fingers and the apprentice swore in surprise.

‘You’re going to die for that, you little Thurin bastard. I’ve been wondering where you went to. Been stealing swords now, have you?’

As the boy growled at him, Octavian could see the others edging to block his retreat. In a few moments, he was surrounded and the bustling crowd moved around them without noticing the scene, or too afraid of violence to interfere.

Octavian held the sword in first position, as Tubruk had taught him. He couldn’t run, so he vowed to get a good cut in before they rushed him.

The butcher’s boy laughed, closing the space. ‘Not so cocky now, are you, rat?’

He looked enormous to Octavian and the sword felt useless in his hands. The butcher’s boy approached with his hand held out to knock away any sudden attack, his face lit with feral excitement.

‘Give it to me and I’ll let you live,’ he said, grinning.

Octavian gripped the hilt even tighter against this threat, trying to think what Tubruk would do in his position. It came to him as the apprentice stepped inside the range of the wavering sword.

Octavian yelled and attacked, swiping the edge across the outstretched hand. If it had been sharp, the boy could have been crippled. As it was, he yelped and danced backwards out of range, swearing and gripping the hurt hand in the other.

‘Leave me alone!’ Octavian shouted, looking for a gap to run through.

There wasn’t one and the butcher’s boy inspected his cut hand before his face twisted evilly. Reaching behind him, the apprentice took a heavy knife from his belt and showed it to Octavian. It was rusty with the blood of his trade and Octavian could hardly tear his eyes from it.

‘I’m going to cut you, rat. I’m going to put your eyes out and leave you blinded,’ the older boy snarled at him.

Octavian tried to flee but, instead of holding him, the other apprentices laughed and pushed him back towards the butcher’s boy. He raised the sword again and then a shadow loomed over the apprentices and a heavy hand connected solidly with the butcher boy’s head, knocking him flat.

Tubruk reached down and picked up the knife from where it had fallen. The butcher’s boy began to rise and Tubruk closed his fist and punched him down into the filth of the street where he scrabbled, dazed.

‘Never thought I’d see the day when I was fighting with children,’ Tubruk muttered. ‘Are you all right?’ Octavian watched him with open-mouthed astonishment. ‘I’ve been looking for you for hours.’

‘I was … taking the sword to Tabbic. I didn’t steal it,’ Octavian replied, tears threatening again.

‘I know, lad. Clodia guessed you were heading that way. Looks like a good thing I came to find you, doesn’t it?’ The old gladiator glanced at the ring of apprentices who stood nervously around, unsure whether to run or not.

‘If I were you, lads, I’d get away before I lose my temper,’ he said. His expression made the consequences quite clear and they wasted no time disappearing.

‘I’ll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?’

Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn’t have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

‘Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,’ Octavian said.

Tubruk turned with a frown. ‘What is it now?’

Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

‘Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn’t sporting when a man is down.’

‘Maybe not, but I owed it to him.’

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

‘Maybe you did, lad.’

Brutus couldn’t believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he’d almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he’d never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn’t seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.

Brutus had regained some ground when he shifted into the fluid style he’d learned from a tribal warrior in Greece. As he’d hoped, the different rhythms had broken Domitius’ attack and he caught the man’s forearm with a rap that would have taken his hand off at the wrist if there had been an edge on the blade.

Domitius had stepped away then, looking surprised, and Brutus had used the moment to force his anger into a calm to match his opponent. Domitius was hardly breathing heavily and he seemed completely relaxed.

In case it muffled the sound of an enemy attack, the watching soldiers were forbidden to cheer or shout by camp order. Instead, they hissed or gasped as the fight moved around the circle, waving clenched fists and baring their teeth in repressed excitement.

Brutus had a chance to punch as the swords were trapped together, but that too was forbidden, in case the soldiers injured each other too badly to fight or march the following day.

‘I … could have had you then,’ he grated.

Domitius nodded. ‘I had the chance myself earlier. Of course, I have a longer reach than you.’

The attack came again and Brutus blocked twice before the third broke through his guard and he looked down at the wooden point pressing painfully into his chest under the ribs.

‘A win, I think,’ Domitius said. ‘You really are very good. You nearly won with that style you used halfway through. You’ll have to show it to me some time.’ He saw Brutus’ crestfallen expression and chuckled.

‘Son, I have been legion champion five times since I was your age. You’re still too young to have your full speed and skill takes even longer. Try me again in a year or two and there might be a different result. You did well enough and I should know.’

Domitius walked away into a crowd of soldiers who clapped him on the back and shoulders in congratulation. Cabera approached Brutus, looking sour.

‘He was very good,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Better than Renius or anyone.’

‘Could you beat him if you fought again?’

Brutus thought about it, rubbing his chin and mouth. ‘Possibly, if I learned from this time.’

‘Good, because I collected the winnings from the quartermaster before the fight started.’

‘What? I told you to let it ride!’ Brutus said with an amazed grin. ‘Ha! How much did we make?’

‘Twenty aurei, which is the original silver doubled for the seven bouts you won. I had to leave a few on you against Domitius, out of politeness, but the rest is clear.’

Brutus laughed out loud, then winced as he began to feel the bruises he’d taken.

‘He only challenged me to let his friends win back their money. It looks like I’ll get another chance after all.’

‘I can set it up for tomorrow, if you like. The odds will be wonderful. If you win, there won’t be a coin in camp.’

‘Do it. I’d like another crack at Domitius. You clever old man! How did you know I was going to lose?’

Cabera sighed, leaning close as if to impart a secret. ‘I knew because you are an idiot. No one beats a legion champion after three other bouts.’

Brutus snorted. ‘Next time, I’ll let Renius put the bets on,’ he retorted.

‘In that case, I’ll take my share out before you start.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Julius thought he had seen busy ports in Africa and Greece, but Ariminum was the centre of the grain trade across the country and the docks were crammed with ships loading and unloading cargoes. There was even a central forum and temples for the soldiers to make their peace and pray for safe delivery in the coming conflict. It was a little Rome, built on the edge of the great Po plain and the gateway to the south. Everything from the north that ended up in Rome passed first through Ariminum.

Crassus and Pompey had commandeered a private home on the edge of the forum and it was to this that Julius made his way on the second night, having to ask directions more than once. He travelled with ten of the Primigenia soldiers as a precaution in a strange city, but the inhabitants seemed too concerned with trade to have time for plots or politics. Whether the huge force camped in a ring around the city troubled them, he could not tell. The ships and grain caravans went in and out and business continued without interruption, as if the only threat of war was the possibility of raised prices in the markets.

Julius passed easily through the rushing crowds with his men, listening to their chatter as they struck deals whilst walking, barely noticing the soldiers they stepped around. Perhaps they were right to feel secure, he thought. With the two northern legions they had met at the city, the assembled army approached forty thousand seasoned soldiers. It was difficult to imagine a force that they couldn’t handle, for all the shock the Spartacus rebellion had caused after running amok at Mutina.

He found the right place by the sentries that guarded the steps up to the door. Typical of Crassus to find such an opulent house, Julius thought with a smile. For all his personal restraint, he loved to be surrounded by beautiful things. Julius wondered if the true owner would find a couple of empty spaces amongst his treasures when the Romans had left. He remembered Marius saying Crassus could be trusted with anything except art.

Julius was guided in by a soldier and entered a room dominated by a creamy statue of a naked girl. Crassus and Pompey had planted chairs at her feet and more seats in a ring facing them.

Six of the eight legates were already there and, as the last two entered, Julius sat with his hands on his lap and waited. The last to enter was Lepidus, who had accepted the body of Mithridates from him in Greece. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the man still had the same bland, unconcerned expression as he nodded to Julius vaguely and began to clean the nails of one hand with the other.

Pompey leaned forward, the back legs of his chair leaving the floor.

‘From this point on, gentlemen, I will expect to see you every night after the sentries are posted. Rather than have a vulnerable line of four camps, I have given orders for only two, with four legions in each. You should be close enough to reach the command position two hours before each midnight.’

There was a murmur of interest from the legates as they digested this. Pompey continued over it.

‘The latest reports suggest the slave army is heading north as fast as they can. Crassus and I believe there is a danger they will reach the Alps and Gaul. If we cannot catch them before then, they will disappear. Gaul is vast and we have little influence there. They must not be allowed to win free, or next year will see another rebellion of every slave still on Roman lands. The destruction and loss of life would be huge.’

He paused for comment, but the assembled generals were silent, watching him. One or two glanced at Crassus, clearly wondering about the Senate command, but Pompey’s companion was sitting relaxed in his chair, nodding as Pompey rattled through the points.

‘Your orders are to march west along the plains road until I give the signal to cut north. It’s a longer route overall, but we’ll make better speed on the road than across country. I want thirty miles a day, then twenty, then another thirty.’

‘For how long?’ Lepidus interrupted.

Pompey froze and let the silence show his irritation.

‘Our best estimates are for five hundred miles west and then some distance north that we cannot gauge without knowing the exact whereabouts of the enemy. It depends, of course, on how close to the mountains they get. I expect …’

‘It can’t be done,’ Lepidus said flatly.

Pompey paused again, then stood to look down on the general.

‘I am telling you what will happen, Lepidus. If your legion cannot match the pace of the others under my command then I will remove your rank and give it to someone who can make them march.’

Lepidus spluttered in indignation. Julius wondered if he had been told how close he had come to outright control of the legions. But for a few votes in Senate, their positions would have been reversed. Watching Lepidus closely, Julius suspected he knew that very well indeed. No doubt Cato had let the word slip out to him while they gathered in the Campus Martius, in the hopes of fomenting trouble later.

‘My men have covered three hundred miles at a hard pace on this trip already, Pompey. They could do it again, but I’ll need two weeks to rest them and no more than twenty, twenty-five miles a day afterwards. Any more will lose men.’

‘Then we lose men!’ Pompey snapped. ‘Every day we wait in Ariminum is another that brings this Spartacus closer to the mountains and freedom in Gaul. I am not staying here for a day longer than it takes to load up provisions. If we have a few dozen sprains and limps by the end, it is a price worth paying. Or even a few hundred, if it is the difference between catching them and watching them escape punishment for the Roman blood on their hands. Nine thousand dead at Mutina!’ Pompey’s voice had risen to a shout and he leaned towards Lepidus who looked back with an infuriating calm.

‘Who is in command here?’ Lepidus demanded, waving a hand towards Crassus. ‘I was given to understand that it was Crassus the Senate chose over me. I do not recognise this business of “second-in-command”. Is it even legal?’

The other legates did not miss the point that Lepidus could have led, any more than Julius did. Like cats, they watched the speakers, with claws carefully hidden, waiting for the outcome. Crassus too rose from his seat to stand beside Pompey.

‘Pompey speaks with my voice, Lepidus, and that is the voice of the Senate. Whatever you may have heard, you should know better than to question the command.’

Pompey’s face was tight with anger.

‘I tell you now, Lepidus. I will have you stripped of rank the first moment you make a mistake. Question an order of mine again and I will have you killed and left on the road. Understood?’

‘Completely,’ Lepidus replied, apparently satisfied.

Julius wondered what he had hoped to gain by the exchange. Did the legate hope to undermine Crassus? Julius knew he could not serve under such a man, no matter how he twisted and turned to gain authority. The threat Pompey had made was a dangerous one. If Lepidus commanded the kind of personal loyalty Julius had seen with Primigenia and Marius, then Pompey had taken a risk. In Pompey’s position, Julius thought it would have been better to have Lepidus killed immediately and his legion sent back to Rome in shame. Losing the men was a lighter penalty than marching with ones who might betray them.

‘We will march in two days, at dawn,’ Pompey said. ‘I have spies out already on the road with orders to meet the main force when we get close. Tactics for the battle will have to wait on better information. You are dismissed. Tribune Caesar, I’d like a word with you, if you could stay.’

Lepidus stood with the other legates, beginning a conversation with two of them as they passed out of the room. Before their voices had faded, Julius heard him laugh at some witticism and saw Pompey stiffen in irritation.

‘He’s the eyes and ears of Cato, that one,’ Pompey said to Crassus. ‘You can be sure he’s taking little notes of everything we do to report back when we come home.’

Crassus shrugged. ‘Send him back to Rome, then. I’ll put my seal on it and we can beat the rebels with seven legions as easily as eight.’

Pompey shook his head. ‘Maybe, but there are other reports I haven’t mentioned. Julius, this is to go no further, understand? There’s no point having the rumours all over the camp before tomorrow, which is what would happen if I told the others, especially Lepidus. The slave army has grown alarmingly. I’m getting reports of more than fifty thousand. Hundreds of farms and estates have been stripped. There is no way back for them now and that will make for desperate fighting. They know how we punish escaped slaves and the rebellion won’t end without a massive show of force. I think we’re going to need every legion we have.’

Julius whistled softly. ‘We can’t depend on a rout,’ he said.

Pompey frowned. ‘It doesn’t look like it, no. I’d expect them to fold and run on the first attack except for the fact that they have women and children with them and nowhere to go if they lose. Those gladiators have brought off more than one success already and they must be more than a rabble.’ He snorted softly. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if Cato was hoping to see us lose, but, no, that’s too much even for him. They could still turn south again, and from Ariminum the whole country is open. They have to be crushed and I need good commanders to do it, Julius.’

‘I have more than two thousand under the Primigenia eagle,’ Julius replied. He chose not to mention that Cato had supplied half of them to protect his son. Renius had trained them to exhaustion, but they were still of poor quality compared to the established legions. He wondered how many were waiting for the right moment to put a knife in him. Such men at his back didn’t inspire confidence, for all his assurances to Renius that they would become Primigenia.

‘It’s good to see that name in the field again. I can’t tell you how much,’ Pompey replied, looking surprisingly boyish as he smiled. Then the mantle of his continual anger settled on him again as it had ever since his daughter’s death. ‘I want Primigenia to march flank to Lepidus. I don’t trust any man who has Cato as his sponsor. When it comes to the fighting, stay close to him. I’ll trust you to do whatever has to be done. You’ll be my own extraordinarii, I think. You did well in Greece. Do well for me.’

‘I am at your command,’ Julius confirmed with a quick bow of his head. He met Crassus’ eyes, including him even as he began to plan. Brutus would have to be told.

As he left, with the soldiers of Primigenia falling in around him, Julius felt a touch of excitement and pride. He had not been forgotten and he would make certain Pompey didn’t regret the trust.

The slave sank his hoe into the hard ground, splitting the clods of pale earth with a grunt. Sweat dripped from his face to leave dark marks in the dust and his shoulders burned with the effort. At first, he did not notice the man standing near him, as he was too wrapped up in his own misery. He raised the tool again and caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He did not react immediately, his surprise covered in the motions of his work. The blisters on his hands had broken again and he laid down the hoe to tend them, aware of the man, but not yet willing to give his knowledge away. He had learned to guard the slightest advantage from his masters.

‘Who are you?’ the dark figure asked softly.

The slave turned to him calmly. The man was wrapped in a rough brown robe over a ragged tunic. His face was partially covered, but the eyes were alight with interest and pity.

‘I am a slave,’ he said, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Even in the vine rows, it beat down on his skin, burning and blistering him. His shoulders were mottled with raw redness and loose, flaking skin that itched all the time. He scratched idly at the area while he watched the newcomer. He wondered if the man knew how close the guards were.

‘You should not stay here, friend. The owner has guards in the fields. They’ll kill you for trespassing if they find you.’

The stranger shrugged without shifting his gaze.

‘The guards are dead.’

The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn’t rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.

‘I … have to get back,’ he muttered.

‘The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don’t have to go anywhere. Who are you?’

‘I am a slave,’ he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The stranger’s eyes creased in such a way that the slave knew he was smiling under the cloth.

‘No, my brother. We have made you a free man.’

‘Impossible.’

The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.

Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.

‘Whoever you are, let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here,’ he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.

The first man laughed.

‘There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?’

‘What about …’ He could not bring himself to say ‘master’ in front of these men. ‘The owner and his family?’

‘They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?’

The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.

‘Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.’

The man laughed again and it was not a pleasant sound.

‘Such hatred, yet I understand it. Can you handle a sword? I have one here for you, if you want.’ He held it out as a test. A slave was forbidden to bear arms. If he took it, he was marked for death with the rest of them. He reached out and gripped the gladius firmly, rejoicing in the weight.

‘Now who are you?’ the stranger said softly.

‘My name is Antonidus. I was once a general of Rome,’ he said, straightening his back subtly.

The man raised his eyebrows.

‘Spartacus will want to meet you. He too was an army man before … all this.’

‘Will you let me have the family?’ Antonidus asked impatiently.

‘You will have your hour, but then we must move on. There are more to be freed today and our army needs the grain in the stores here.’

Antonidus smiled slowly at the thought of what he would do to the people who had called themselves his masters. He had only seen them at a distance as he worked, but his imagination had provided the sneers and slights he could not see. He ran his thumb across the edge of the blade.

‘Take me there first. After I have had my satisfaction, I am yours.’

The warren of filthy streets seemed closed off from the life and light of Rome. The two men Cato had sent trod warily through the refuse and excrement, trying not to react to the scrabbling sounds of rats and larger predators in the dark alleyways. Somewhere a child screamed and then the sound was cut off as if stifled. The two men held their breaths waiting for it to start again, wincing in understanding after the silence went on too long. Life was cheap in that place.

They counted the number of turnings at each stage, occasionally whispering to each other whether a tiny gap between the tenements was part of the count. These were sometimes less than a foot wide and filled with a dark mass they didn’t dare to investigate. One of them had a dead dog half sunk in refuse that seemed to lean towards them as they passed, shuddering slightly as the buried part was eaten away by unseen mouths.

The two men were desperately uneasy by the time they reached the crossroads where Cato had told them to wait. It was nearly deserted, with only a few scurrying people moving past them without acknowledgement.

After a time, a shadow detached itself from the darkness under an overhang and moved silently towards them.

‘Who do you seek here?’ a voice whispered.

Both men swallowed in fear, their eyes straining to make out features in the gloom.

‘Look away from me!’ the voice snapped.

They turned as if pushed, staring down the rubbish-strewn lane. A sickening smell washed over them as the dark figure stepped close enough to touch.

‘Our master told us to mention the name of Antonidus to whoever came,’ one of them said, breathing through his mouth.

‘He has been sold as a slave, far north. Who is your master now?’ the voice returned.

One of the men suddenly remembered the smell from when his father had died and vomited, bending over and spilling his last meal into the unrecognisable slop that covered the lane. The other spoke haltingly, ‘No names, we were told. My master wishes to continue the association with you, but there must be no names.’

A warm scent of rot sighed over them.

‘I could guess it, you fools, but this is a game I know how to play. Very well then, what would your master have of me? Deliver your message while I still have patience for you.’

‘He … our master said you were to forget the one Antonidus asked for, now that the general has been taken for slavery. He will have other names for you and will pay your price. He wants the association to continue.’

The figure let out a soft grunt of regret. ‘Tell him to name them and I will decide. I will not promise service to any man. As for the death bought by Antonidus, it is too late to call back the men I have sent. That one is dead, though she still walks unknowing. Now go back to your master and take your weak-stomached companion with you.’

The pressure disappeared and Cato’s servant took a deep breath in reaction, preferring the stench of the street to the soft odour that seemed to have sunk into his clothes and skin as they talked. It lingered with the two men as they made their way back to the open streets and a world that laughed and shouted, unaware of the festering alleys so close to them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A crest of white-topped mountains lined the horizon. Somewhere between the teeth were the three passes they hoped to use to escape the wrath of Rome. The cold peaks brought an ache of homesickness as Spartacus looked up at them. Though he hadn’t seen Thrace since his childhood, he remembered scrambling on the lower slopes of the great range there. He had always loved high places where the wind was a constant force against the skin. It made a man feel alive.

‘They are so close,’ he said aloud. ‘We could cross them in a week or two and never see a Roman uniform again.’

‘Until they come next year and tear Gaul apart looking for us, if I know them,’ Crixus said. The man had always been blunt compared to the gladiator he followed. Crixus revelled in the reputation of being a practical man, allowing no dreams or wild schemes to distract from the leaden reality of what they had achieved. He was a short squat figure next to Spartacus, who still retained the litheness that suggested speed even when he was standing still. Crixus had no such grace. Born in a mine, the man was as ugly as he was strong and the only one of the gladiators who could wrestle Spartacus to a draw.

‘They couldn’t find us, Crix. The Gauls say the land over the mountains is filled with battling tribes. The legions would have to wage war for decades and they haven’t the stomach for that. Now Sulla’s gone, they haven’t a decent leader in the whole pack of them. If we cross the Alps, we’ll be free.’

‘Still the dreamer, Spartacus?’ Crixus said, his frustration evident. ‘What sort of freedom do you see that is such a prize? Freedom to work harder than we ever did as slaves, scratching out a few crops on land threatened by the locals? They won’t want us any more than the Romans do, you can be sure of that. It’ll be a back-breaker, this freedom of yours, I know it. Get the women and children clear, that’s all. Leave a hundred men to take them through the passes and we can finish what we started.’

Spartacus looked at his second-in-command. Crixus had a thirst for blood in him that had only been whetted in the triumph at Mutina. After what he had lived through at Roman hands, that was easy enough to understand, but Spartacus knew there was more to it.

‘Is it their soft life you want, Crix?’ he said.

‘And why not?’ Crixus demanded. ‘We have turned over their hive now, the honey should be ours for the taking. You remember the civil war and so do I. Whoever has Rome has their balls. If we could take the city, the rest of them would fall over. Sulla knew that!’

‘He was a Roman general, not a slave.’

‘That doesn’t matter! Once you’re in, you can change the rules to suit yourself. There are no rules except what you choose when you have the strength. I tell you, if you miss this chance, you will throw away everything we’ve done. In ten years, the scribes will say the garrison at Mutina were the rebels and we were loyal Romans!

‘If we take the city, we’ll be able to shove their history and their pride down their throats and make them accept the new order. Just give the word, Spartacus. I’ll see it done.’

‘And the palaces and great estate houses?’ Spartacus probed, his eyes narrowing.

‘Ours! Why not? What is there in Gaul but scrubland and villages?’

‘You’ll need slaves to run them, Crixus, have you thought of that? Who will take in your crops and tend your vines?’

Crixus waved his scarred fist at the man he loved above all others. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but we won’t do it like those cursed bastards. It doesn’t have to be like that.’

Spartacus watched him in silence and he went on angrily. ‘All right, if you want an answer, then I’ll have the Senate work my fields and I’ll even pay the bastards a wage.’

Spartacus laughed. ‘Who’s dreaming now, Crix? Look, we’ve come this far. We’ve reached a place where we can leave all that behind, make a new start to our lives. No, go back to our lives as they should have been. They may come for us in the end, but as I said, Gaul is big enough to hide more than one army. We’ll keep going north until we find a place where Rome is just a word, or not even known at all. If we turn south again, even without the women and children, we risk losing everything we’ve won. And for what? So you can sit in a marble house and spit at old men?’

‘You’d let them chase you out of their land?’ Crixus asked bitterly.

Spartacus gripped his arm with one of his powerful hands.

‘You’d wait for them to kill you?’ he said gently.

The anger went out of Crixus at his words.

‘You don’t understand, you Thracian whoreson,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘This is my land too, now. Here I am your general, the slave hammer who broke a legion on its own ground and two more at Mutina. In Gaul I’m just another tribesman in badly tanned furs. You would be as well. We’d be mad to turn away from all that wealth and power just to spend our remaining years hoping they never find us. Look, we have Antonidus now. He knows where they’re weak. If I didn’t think we could win, I would turn my arse to them and vanish before I ever saw another legionary, but we can win. Antonidus says they’re tied up on every one of their borders, in Greece, Africa, everywhere. There aren’t enough legions in the country to take us. Gods, the north is open, you’ve seen that. Antonidus says we can put three men in the field for every legionary. You won’t find better odds than that, not in this life. Whatever they have, we can beat them and after that, Rome, the cities, the country, the wealth – it’s all ours. Everything.’

He put out his hand and whispered the words that had marked each stage of their rebellion, from the first wild days to the dawning belief that they could break the order that had existed for centuries.

‘All or nothing, Spartacus?’ he said.

The gladiator looked at the hand and the bond of sworn friendship it represented. His gaze strayed to the Mutina eagle where it leaned against the wall of his tent. After a moment of silent contemplation, he let out his breath.

‘All right, all or nothing. Get the women and children clear away and then I want to see Antonidus before putting it to the men. Do you think they will follow us?’

‘No, Spartacus, but they will follow you anywhere.’

Spartacus nodded. ‘Then we will turn south and strike at the heart of them.’

‘And rip the bastard out.’

Pompey had ordered Lepidus to the head of the column with his legion, forcing them to set the pace. Behind them, Primigenia marched with Crassus and Pompey at the head. The message was clear and the first hundred miles had been covered at the speed Pompey wanted without losing a man to injury.

The evenings were quieter times in the two great camps than they had been on the Via Flaminia. The pace sapped the energy of the legionaries and by the time the halt was called, they were ready to eat and sleep and little more. Even Brutus had ceased his sword bouts, claiming a draw with two losses and two wins against Domitius by the end. At intervals, Cabera would bring up the money they had lost with some bitterness.

Riders from the extraordinarii reported back each day, scouting far ahead of the main force. The messages they brought were worryingly brief, with no sign of the slave army within their range. Pompey sent out more and more of the scouts with orders to move north and west to find them. It wasn’t said aloud, but the fear was that in such vast country the rebels could slip past them and move against the unprotected south.

Each night, the generals’ meeting was fraught with argument and snapping tempers. Rather than take it as proof of Pompey’s displeasure with him, Lepidus seemed to delight in leading the column and Pompey grew less and less willing to hear his complaints. By Lepidus’ account, only his authority could force the pace Pompey wanted from the legions and each night he claimed the final price could be disastrous for them. He was a master at knowing when to stop pushing at Pompey’s patience and the meetings had become almost a battle of wills between the two men, with Crassus powerless to intervene. Julius hoped Lepidus could fight as well as he could argue.

After two weeks on the western road, Lepidus reported triumphantly that men had fallen and been left at the guardposts or in villages with orders to rejoin when they had healed. Every night was an agony of blisters and sprains for hundreds of the legionaries all the way down the column. The legions were approaching exhaustion and the other legates had begun to side with Lepidus in his call to rest the men. Pompey acceded reluctantly rather than see his authority undermined, standing them down for four days. Only the extraordinarii were denied rest as Pompey sent them all out in a last bid to find the slave army.

At last, the riders came galloping back into camp with sightings. The rebels were moving south and east back from the mountains to the plains. Pompey gathered his generals that evening to give them the grim news.

‘They are striking back towards Rome and the scouts say they have more than eighty thousand men on the march. Every slave in the north has gone over to them.’

There was little point in holding back the worrying figures from the generals with the rebels only a few hundred miles away. Now that the scouts had found them, they would not be allowed to escape. Regardless of numbers, it only remained to choose the best place of attack.

‘If they’re coming south, we can either march to meet them or wait for them to reach us,’ Pompey continued. ‘No matter what happens, they cannot pass or we’ll lose Rome. Make no mistake, gentlemen, if they break through our line, Rome will fall and all we love will die, like Carthage before her. We will make a stand here to the last man if need be. Make that clear to your men. There is nowhere to retreat to, no safe haven where we can regroup and strike again. The Republic stands with us alone.’

Lepidus looked as shocked as the others. ‘Eighty thousand! I have as much confidence as anyone in our soldiers, but … the legions in Greece and Spain must be recalled. The Senate didn’t know the size of the threat when they sent us out.’

For once, Pompey bore his outburst without a rebuke. ‘I have sent messages back to Rome, but we are here now. Even if the borders could be stripped without losing everything we’ve gained in a hundred years, those legions couldn’t reach us in time to make a difference to this battle.’

‘But we could mount a fighting retreat until support arrives. Eighty thousand could overwhelm us. We’d be flanked and broken in the first hour of fighting. It’s impossible!’

‘Speak like that in front of the men and that’s exactly what will happen,’ Pompey barked at the general. ‘These are not trained soldiers we’re facing, Lepidus. They could have escaped across the mountains in all likelihood, but instead they are after riches and plunder, while our men fight for our home city and the lives of everyone in it. They will break for us. We will stand.’

‘The commander at Mutina probably said the same thing,’ Lepidus muttered, not quite loudly enough for Pompey to be forced to answer, though he glared at the legate.

‘My orders are to engage and destroy, gentlemen. We will do exactly that. If we wait for them, they could go right round us, so we will carry this war to them. Make the men ready to march north. Lepidus, you will take the left flank and keep a wide line to prevent encirclement. They have little in the way of cavalry except a few stolen mounts, so use ours to hold the wings steady. Julius, I want you on the left to support Lepidus if that becomes necessary. Crassus and I will take the right flank as always and I will concentrate the bulk of the cavalry there to prevent them spilling round us and making south and east towards Ariminum. They must not be allowed to reach that city.’

One of the two legates from Ariminum cleared his throat.

‘I would like to take the right flank with you, sir. Many of my men have families in Ariminum. I do myself. They will fight all the harder knowing what could happen if the right breaks.’

Pompey nodded. ‘All right. The Ariminum legions will be the core of the right flank. The rest of you make the centre. I want the hastati maniples on the front line instead of the velites. We need weight more than speed to break them on the first charge. Bring the triarii up quickly if the advance is slowed or turned. I’ve yet to meet a force that can withstand our veterans.’

It was dawn before the meeting ended and the day was spent breaking the camp ready for the march. Julius stayed with Primigenia, passing on the orders and positions to Brutus and the centurions. By that evening, every man knew the seriousness of the battle to come and many of the injuries they had taken on the march were forgotten or ignored in the thoughts of the conflict they welcomed. Even with the rumours of huge numbers of the enemy, every soldier was determined they would not leave Rome and their families open to the invader. Better than anyone, they knew that their discipline and skill were unmatched, no matter who came against them, or how many.

The army of Spartacus was sighted at sunset. The order signals went out to create a hostile camp, with the borders twice the normal height and every soldier sleeping on short watches ready to repel a night attack. The soldiers spent the time awake checking their armour and swords, oiling leather and polishing metal. Spears were sharpened or replaced with fresh-cast heads from the smithy. Heavy ballistae and onagers were assembled and stone shot made ready for the dawn, their bulk leaving ruts in the soil. The slave army had nothing like the great war machines and, though they had but one range, the ‘mule’s kick’ onager could cut swathes through an enemy charge.

Brutus woke Julius from a light sleep by shaking his shoulder.

‘Is it my watch?’ Julius said sleepily, sitting up in the dark tent.

‘Shh. Come outside. I want to show you something.’

Vaguely irritated, Julius followed Brutus through the camp, stopping twice to give the watchword of the day to alert sentries. Within striking range of the enemy, the camp was far from quiet. Many of the men who couldn’t sleep sat outside their tents or around small fires talking quietly. Tension and fear tightened their bladders through the night and Julius and Brutus saw the urine trench was sodden and stinking already as they passed it.

Julius realised Brutus was making straight for the praetorian gate in the north wall of the camp.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed to his friend.

‘I need you to get us out of the camp. They’ll let a tribune through if you order it.’ He whispered his idea and Julius squinted at his friend in the darkness, wondering at the wild energy that seemed such a part of him. He considered refusing and going back to his tent, but the night air had cleared his head and he doubted he would be able to sleep again. He didn’t feel tired. Instead, his muscles trembled with nervous energy and waiting idle would be worse than anything.

The gate was guarded by a century of extraordinarii, still dusty from their scouting rides. The commander trotted his horse over to them as they approached.

‘Yes?’ he said bluntly.

‘I want to leave the camp for a couple of hours,’ Julius replied.

‘Orders are no one leaves camp.’

‘I am the legate of Primigenia, a tribune of Rome and the nephew of Marius. Let us pass.’

The centurion wavered in the face of the order. ‘I should report it, sir. If you leave you are disobeying Pompey’s direct order.’

Julius glanced at Brutus, silently cursing him for putting him into the position.

‘I will clear it with the general when I return. Report as you see fit.’

‘He will want to know what you are doing, sir,’ the centurion continued, wincing slightly.

Julius could admire his loyalty, though he dreaded what Pompey would say if the man carried out his threat to report.

‘There is a spike of rock that overlooks the battleground,’ he said quietly. ‘Brutus believes it would give us a view of the enemy force.’

‘I know it, sir, but the scouts say it’s too steep to be climbed. It’s practically sheer,’ the man replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

‘It’s worth a try at least,’ Brutus said quickly.

The centurion looked at him for the first time, his expression brooding.

‘I can delay reporting it until the watch changes in three hours. If you’re not back by then, I’ll have to name you as deserters. I’ll give that much for a nephew of Marius, but that’s it.’

‘Good man. It won’t come to that. What’s your name?’ Julius asked him.

‘Taranus, sir.’

Julius patted the horse on its quivering neck.

‘Julius Caesar, and this is Marcus Brutus. There are your names. We’ll be back before the new watch, Taranus. On my word, we will.’

The guards moved aside to let them pass on Taranus’ order and Julius found himself on the rocky plain, with the enemy somewhere ahead of them. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he rounded on Brutus.

‘I can’t believe I let you persuade me into this. If Pompey hears about it, he’ll take the skin off our backs at least.’

Brutus shrugged, unconcerned.

‘He won’t if we can climb that rock. His scouts are horsemen, remember? They think anywhere they can’t take a horse can’t be climbed. I had a look at it before the light faded and the top will give us a good view. There’s enough moonlight to see the enemy camp and that will be useful, no matter what Pompey says about us leaving camp.’

‘You’d better be right,’ Julius said grimly. ‘Come on, three hours isn’t long.’

The two young men broke into a run towards the black mass they saw silhouetted against the stars. It was a forbidding crag, a tooth in the plain.

‘It’s bigger close up,’ Brutus whispered, removing his sandals and sword for the climb. Though it would hurt their feet, the iron-shod sandals would slip and clatter on the stones and could alert the enemy. There was no way of telling how close they were to their patrols but they had to be near.

Julius glanced at the moon and tried to estimate how long they had before it sank.

Unhappy with the calculation, he removed his sword and sandals and took a deep slow breath. Without speaking, he reached for the first handhold, jamming his hand into a crack and heaving, his bare feet searching for a grip.

Even with the moonlight to help them, it was a difficult and frightening climb. All the way up, Julius was tormented by the possibility that some slave archer would see them and spit them with shafts that would send them down to break on the rocky plain below. The spire of rock seemed to get taller as they climbed and Julius was sure it was more than a hundred feet high, even two. After a time, his feet became numb blocks, barely able to hold him. His fingers were cramped and painful and he began to worry that they would never make it back to camp before being reported.

By his best guess, it took almost an hour to reach the barren crest of the rock and, for the first few moments, he and Brutus could do nothing more than lie panting, stretched flat as they waited for their tortured muscles to recover.

The top was an uneven space, lit almost white in the moonlight. Julius raised his head and then pulled himself into a sudden crouch, horror flooding through him.

There was someone else there, only feet away from them. Two figures sat watching as Julius scrabbled for where his sword usually hung, almost cursing aloud as he remembered leaving it below.

‘Looks like you two had the same idea we had,’ a deep voice chuckled.

Brutus swore and rose fully, caught in sudden fear as Julius had been. The voice spoke in Latin, but any thoughts that it might have belonged to one of their own were quickly dispelled.

‘You won’t have managed that climb with swords, lads, but I brought a dagger along and when you’re this high and barefoot, it’s a good idea to keep peaceful. Move slowly over here and don’t make me nervous.’

Brutus and Julius looked at each other. There was no way to retreat. The two figures rose and faced them, seeming to fill the tiny space. They too were barefoot and wore only tunics and leggings. One of them waved his dagger at them.

‘I guess this makes me king for the night, lads. I see by your clothes that you’re Romans. Come to see the view, eh?’

‘Let’s kill them,’ his companion said.

Brutus looked him over with a sinking feeling. The man was as powerfully built as a wrestler and the moonlight revealed an expression without mercy. The best he could hope for was to carry the man over the edge with him, which wasn’t a thought that gave him any comfort. He edged away from the drop at his back.

The other man placed a hand on his friend’s chest, holding him still.

‘No need for that, Crix. There’ll be time enough at the battle tomorrow. We can all shed each other’s blood then, roaring and threatening as the mood takes us.’

The wrestler subsided with a grunt and turned his back on the two Romans. He was almost close enough to touch, but something about the man’s alert stance warned Brutus he was expecting it. Possibly, he was hoping they would try.

‘Are you armed?’ the first man said pleasantly, gesturing them towards him. When they didn’t move, he inched closer to Julius with the dagger held ready. Behind him, the shorter man had turned back and was glaring at the young men, daring them to try something.

Julius allowed himself to be patted down and then stood aside as Brutus too was checked for hidden blades. The man was careful and his own shoulders looked powerful enough to give him an edge even without the dagger.

‘Good lads,’ he said when he was sure they were helpless. ‘It’s only because I am a dangerous old sod that I carried one myself. Will you be fighting tomorrow?’

Julius nodded, unable to believe what was happening. His mind raced, but there was nothing to be done. When he realised that, he finally relaxed and laughed, making Brutus jump. The man with the dagger chuckled softly as he looked at the young Roman.

‘You might as well laugh, lad. This is a tight space for a bit of a struggle. Do what you came for; it won’t make any difference. There won’t be much stopping us tomorrow, no matter what you report back.’

Watching the man for sudden movement, Julius sat down, his heart hammering at the thought of one quick push sending him over the edge. The situation was strange to say the least, but the man with the knife seemed completely relaxed, removed from the struggle they would all face back on the ground.

From the top of the granite spike, the rebel camp looked incredibly close, almost as if a good leap would have them land in the centre of it. Julius looked it over and wondered if they would be allowed to return before the watch centurion reported them missing.

The man with the knife put it away in his tunic and sat next to Julius, following his gaze. ‘Biggest army I ever saw,’ he said cheerfully, motioning towards the rebel camp. ‘Tomorrow will be hard on you, I should think.’

Julius said nothing, unwilling to be drawn. Privately, he had the same impression. The enemy camp was almost too large to take in and looked as if it could swallow the eight legions without trouble.

Brutus and the wrestler had remained standing, keeping a close eye on each other’s movements. The man with the knife grinned at the pair of them.

‘Sit down, you two,’ he said, gesturing with a flick of his head. Reluctantly, they edged together and sat close, as tense as wires.

‘You must have what, thirty, forty thousand men?’ the wrestler asked Brutus.

‘Keep guessing,’ Brutus replied curtly and the man began to rise, held down with the lightest touch from his companion.

‘What does it matter now? We’ll send the Romans running, no matter how many they have.’ He grinned at Julius, clearly hoping he would rise to the barb. Julius ignored him, busy memorising the few details of the camp he could make out in the dim light. He noted the moon had sunk lower and stood slowly so as not to alarm his strange companions.

‘We should be going back now,’ he said. The tension returned to him then, tightening his sore muscles.

‘Yes, I suppose we all should,’ the man with the knife replied, rising smoothly to his feet. He was easily the tallest of all of them and moved with an efficiency of motion that marked a warrior. Brutus had it and perhaps it was that unconscious recognition that had raised the hackles of the one with a wrestler’s build.

‘This has been … interesting. I hope you and I don’t meet tomorrow,’ Julius said.

‘I hope we meet,’ Brutus added to the wrestler, who snorted in disdain.

The man with the knife stretched his back and winced. Then he clapped Julius on the shoulder and smiled.

‘In the hands of the gods, lads. Now, I think my friend and I should climb down first, don’t you? I don’t really want you thinking better of our little soldier’s truce when you have your swords again. Get right over where you climbed up and we’ll be away in no time.’

The two older men scrambled from sight with casual agility and were gone.

Brutus let out an explosion of breath. ‘I thought we were dead.’

‘So did I. Do you think that was Spartacus?’

‘Possibly. When I tell the story, it certainly will be.’ Brutus began to laugh simply to release the awful tension of the meeting.

‘We’d better move, or that guard will serve us up to Pompey on a platter,’ Julius said, ignoring him. They climbed down quickly and bore the scrapes and bruises of the descent without a sound. Their sandals were where they had left them, but the two swords had been taken. Brutus looked for the weapons in the bushes, but came back empty-handed.

‘Bastards. There’s just no honour any more.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The legions broke camp and formed the battle line two hours before dawn. As soon as it was light enough to see, the cornicens sounded their wailing notes and the huge squares of legionaries moved forward, shrugging off the stiffness and cramp of the morning as they marched. There was no idle chatter in the ranks with the army of Spartacus filling the plain and seeming to stretch to the horizon. Even the crash of their sandals was muffled in the turf and each man loosened his shoulders as he came closer and closer to the moment when the silence would rupture into chaos.

All along the legion lines, the heavy onagers and catapults were heaved into position. At colossal range, stones, iron balls and arrows the weight of three men could be sent smashing into the enemy. The men around them cheered as the heavy horsehair springs were winched back into firing position.

Julius marched with Brutus and Ciro at his side and Renius one step behind him. Although it would be suicide for any of Cato’s recruits to try an attack, the three men around Julius were alert for the possibility. There was no place there for Cabera, who had remained behind in the camp with the rest of the followers, despite his complaints. Julius had been firm with him, for even if the old man had been willing to don armour and carry a gladius, he had never fought in formation before and would disrupt the routine of the Romans around him.

Deep in the eighth rank behind the armoured hastati, the four of them were surrounded by the best of the Primigenia, men whom Renius had trained and hardened to be ready for such a day. None of Cato’s recruits were in striking range.

Though many ached to charge, they matched the pace of the forward line. Teeth were bared unconsciously as they left everything of the world behind them. Every violent urge they had to restrain in the cities was welcome in that line and some of the men choked back laughter as they remembered the strange freedom of it.

The order to halt came and seconds later the air was split with the thunder of the war engines, great arms crashing into their rests as they sent their loads flying. The slaves could not avoid the hail of stone and iron and hundreds were smashed into rags of flesh. Slowly, the arms were winched back again and Pompey waited to give the signal, licking dry lips.

At the third volley, the order came again to advance. One more would be fired over their heads before the lines would join.

As the armies closed, the legionaries shrugged away the smooth skin of civilisation, leaving only the discipline of the legion to hold their line against the rising desire to kill. Through the gaps in the ranks, they could catch glimpses of the enemy that waited for them, a dark wall of men who had come to test the strength of the last defenders of Rome. Some carried the gladius, but others wielded axes and scythes, or long swords stolen from the barracks of the legion at Mutina. Bloody smears on the soil marked the wide cuts of the onager stones, but they were quickly swallowed by the men behind them.

Julius found himself panting with excitement and fear, responding to those around him as they became linked and pulses began to pound, filling them with strength and reckless energy. Someone shouted wildly, close.

‘Steady, Primigenia!’ Julius bellowed, feeling the urge to run forward himself. He saw Brutus too was filled with the strange joy where every moment before the first jolt of pain was longer than all he had lived before. It was a hundred years to cross the plain, and then sound pierced the calm as the front two ranks heaved their spears into the air with a grunting cough that merged into a roar of defiance. They began to run, even as the spears made the air black and the first of the slaves were cut down by them.

The enemy howled enough to fill the world and raced at the legionaries. The first meeting was a crash that numbed the sounds that came after. The heavy Roman shields were smashed upright into the charging line and the impact punched hundreds of slaves from their feet. Then the swords were plunging into bodies and blood spattered blindingly, until the whole of the first rank were covered in it, their arms and faces wet as the swords cut limbs and life from the men they faced.

With Brutus on Julius’ right, Julius could work around his friend’s shield, as Ciro stood in the protection of his own. The ingrained discipline held the ranks back from the front line, free to watch the carnage only feet from them. Stinging droplets of blood touched them as they saw the hastati storm forward through the slaves. Ciro smashed anything that stood against him with tireless strength. Julius and Brutus moved forward at the pace of the advance, sinking their swords into the bodies as they passed, making certain of the kills. By the time the rear ranks passed over the corpses, they would be little more than white bone and tattered flesh as every soldier blooded his sword on them.

The hastati were the spine of the army, men with ten years of solid experience. There was no fear in them, but after a while, Julius began to feel a slight change in the pace as the advance faltered. Even the hastati tired against such a host and many in the ranks moved forward to fill gaps, stepping over the writhing bodies of men they knew and counted as friends. Renius walked with them, his shield strapped to his body with heavy buckles. He killed with single strokes, taking blows on the shield to allow him the counterstrike, over and over. It buckled and cracked under the repeated impacts, but held.

The cornicens blew a series of three notes over and over, and all along the vast line there was a shimmering as the maniples of Rome moved with a discipline unmatched in the world. The hastati brought their shields up to protect themselves and moved smoothly back through the ranks as the triarii moved forward. They were panting and tired but still filled with a savage pleasure and they shouted encouragement to the twenty-year veterans who ran to make the new front line. The triarii were the best of them, men at their fullest strength. Their family and friends were the legions they served and they were soon splashed as redly as the hastati before them. Apart from Renius, Primigenia had only a handful, making up the numbers with Cato’s fresh troops. The slaves threw themselves at the legions and Primigenia bore the worst toll of the dead, the new recruits dying faster than the experienced men around them. Renius held the Primigenia line steady as they fought to move forward.

The advance surged again through the bodies of the slain. The only way was over the dead as neither side wavered or stepped back from the bloody gash that was the front rank. Julius stood waiting in the fifth rank, with Primigenia straining to attack. Arms and swords shook in anticipation as they stood close enough to the cutting to have more and more of the blood droplets spatter over them like rain, running down their shining armour.

Some armies broke on the hastati, others when the triarii were brought in to crush the will of the enemy. The bodies they walked over and speared so casually numbered in the hundreds, perhaps thousands along the line, but they had only begun to cut away the outer layers of the army of Spartacus and soon every man knew they would have to take their place. Once they saw it was inevitable, the nerves settled even in the weakest as they waited to reach the first rank.

‘Primigenia – second spears!’ Julius ordered, repeating the shout to his left and right. The ranks behind him launched without pause over the heads of their own men and the shafts landed unseen on the mass of the enemy. All along the line, the action was repeated and only distant screams told of the lives the points had taken.

Julius craned onto his toes to see what was happening on the flanks. Against so many, the cavalry had to prevent encirclement. As the line of Spartacus’ army bowed before the Romans, a memory flashed into Julius’ head of a distant schoolroom and a lesson of Alexander’s wars. Huge as it was, the Roman army could be swallowed and destroyed unless the flanks remained strong.

Even as he started to look, he felt the change on his left. He saw the line buckle into Lepidus’ legion and the enemy pour into the breach. It was too far away to see detail and as Julius paced forward with Brutus, he lost sight of it and swore.

‘Brutus, can you see Lepidus? They’re breaking through over there. Can you see if they’re holding?’

Brutus stretched up on his toes to see.

‘The line is broken,’ he said in horror. ‘Gods, I think they’re turning!’

Julius almost stumbled into the man in front of him as his pace shortened. He looked at the line four ranks ahead. The triarii were crushing the slaves there and didn’t look like tiring. His thoughts were desperate and fear rushed into him. If he moved Primigenia left to support as he had promised Pompey, he left the triarii vulnerable. If their line was thinned or cut down, the reinforcements they would expect would be missing and the slaves would have two breaches to pour into, cutting the Roman line into islands of men that would shrink and vanish as they were killed.

As he hesitated, he saw the left flank was compacting as the breach widened and some of Lepidus’ men turned away from the enemy, beginning to flee. It would spread like plague as those who ran fouled the ranks behind them and infected them with their cowardice. Julius made his choice.

‘Primigenia! Saw left into the flank!’ As before, he repeated the order twice and the front ranks heard him though they could not turn. They would know there was no one behind to bolster them and would fight all the harder in the time they were vulnerable.

Primigenia moved fast across the line of advance, a few stumbling into the soldiers who had not heard the order. It was a dangerous manoeuvre to try in the middle of a battle, but Julius knew he had to use his men to stiffen the legion of Lepidus before the whole left flank crumbled. He raced through the ranks with the others, leaping corpses and continuing to shout orders to keep his men in close and moving. At best he had seconds to prevent the rout.

Brutus arrived first, deliberately knocking a fleeing legionary over with his shield. Julius and Ciro took his sides and together they made the core, with Primigenia forming a wall of grim soldiers around them that the retreating Romans would have to cross to get away. Renius had vanished in the press, separated from them by hundreds of waiting soldiers.

‘Level swords!’ Julius roared, his face twisted into an animal mask of rage. ‘No soldier crosses this line alive! Show this Lepidus what we are!’

The spread of panicking men skidded to a halt as the ranks of Primigenia ranged before them, blocking the retreat. The light of panic went out of their eyes as they took in the swords held ready to cut them down. There was no question they would be used. The men of Primigenia understood as well as Julius that they would all die if Lepidus’ legion ran from the slave flank. They would be overwhelmed.

In moments, something of order had returned to the disorganised rabble Lepidus’ men had become. The centurions and optios used the flat of their swords and thick oak staffs to bully the soldiers back into formation. They were barely in time.

The slave army had sensed the weakness and they screamed orders, pushing hundreds into the gap to widen it. Julius was caught between moving forward through the ranks and having Primigenia seal the breach or holding his position in case Lepidus’ men broke again. He knew the recovery was still weak, with the terrified soldiers barely controlling the fear of death that had broken them once. It would be easier the second time.

‘Julius?’ Brutus asked him, waiting for the order.

Julius glanced at his friend and saw his eagerness. There wasn’t a choice after all. They had to take the front themselves and just pray Lepidus’ men didn’t leave them naked behind.

‘Primigenia! Forward to the line!’ he shouted and the seven hundred men under his command jogged forward with him, holding their formation perfectly.

The last of Lepidus’ men turned to run from the slaves and Primigenia cut them down before they could take the panic back with them. They did it with a vicious efficiency that should have warned the slaves who struggled to seize the advantage they had created.

The shields of Primigenia smashed into the breach and the swords rose and fell as quickly as they could, with every man sacrificing care for speed. They crunched over the wounded, leaving them screaming and often alive, but Primigenia shoved forward at such a pace that they were in danger of leaving the whole front rank behind and being cut off. Renius matched them, bringing the line up with bellowed orders.

Julius fought in a frenzy. His arm ached and one long wound had scored his skin in a red line from wrist almost to shoulder. A blade had skidded off him before he killed the owner. A powerful-looking slave wearing Roman armour leapt at him, but was knocked from his feet as Renius reached the position, stabbing the slave in the side through a gap in the plates.

Julius killed the next man who faced him, but then three more stabbed at him. He was grateful for the thousands of hours of practice that made him move before he had begun to think. He stepped to the side of the outer man and shoved him into the others, giving up the kill for the need to entangle them. The man stumbled into the path of the second and Julius took his throat out from the side, then lunged over his falling body to sink his gladius into the heaving chest of the middle man. It wedged in the ribs and he almost cried out in frustration as his bloody grip slipped completely from the sword as he pulled on it, leaving him unarmed in an instant.

The third man facing him brought a legionary gladius around in a hard, chopping sweep and Julius had to throw himself flat to avoid the blade. He felt panic then as he expected to feel the metal enter him and send his blood mixing with the slippery mess under him. The man died with Ciro’s sword in his mouth and Julius scrabbled for his own blade, pulling a body off it and heaving until it came free with a crack of parting bone.

Brutus was a pace ahead and Julius saw him kill two more with a speed and ease Julius had never seen in anyone, never mind the boy he had known all his life. There seemed to be a peaceful space around Brutus and his face was calm, almost serene. Anything alive that came within the range of his sword died in one blow or two and, as if the slaves sensed the boundary, they gave him room and did not press the young soldier as closely as the rest.

‘Brutus!’ Julius called. ‘Gladiators in front!’

Racing towards Primigenia were men dressed in gladiators’ armour. They wore full helmets that covered their faces, leaving only eye holes that gave them a look of inhuman ferocity. Their arrival seemed to lift the slaves around them, so that Primigenia staggered to a halt, planting their shields into the soft ground.

Julius wondered if any of them were the men he’d met the night before. It was impossible to be sure in the clash of metal and bodies. They were fast and trained and Julius saw Renius shoulder one down as the ranks closed and another swung at him. Julius brought his shield high with a jerk, feeling twin shocks as his return blow dented armour. His shield entangled the man’s sword arm as Julius hammered and hammered at the iron helmet until at last it split and he could move on, panting. His muscles ached and his breath seemed to scorch his throat.

Brutus waited in a pool of stillness that was untouched by the press of bodies all around him. The gladiator he faced feinted once and Brutus read it easily, swaying aside from the real blow. His own sword darted out in response and nicked the man’s neck. Blood poured out and, a pace away, Julius heard the soft sound of surprise the wrestler made as he put his hand up to it in astonishment. It was no more than a nick, but a major vein had been severed and his legs collapsed under him. He struggled to rise, panting and groaning like a wounded bullock, then the life went out of him.

Julius hacked his gladius into an exposed neck, and was then knocked over backwards as yet another fell against his shield, tearing the straps against his arm. He let it fall and grabbed blindly to hold his attacker long enough with his left hand to sink the gladius into his flesh with the other, though he felt a sting along his back as the man tried to bring a point to bear. He could smell the garlic of the man’s last meal as he died.

Primigenia were falling around him and he could see more of the gladiators rushing to take advantage of a breach that still wavered. He glanced behind him and saw with a gasp of relief that Lepidus’ legion had reformed and stood ready to move forward.

‘Primigenia! Maniple order. Reform on the fifth!’ he shouted and killed two more raging slaves as they tried to take advantage of the change, charging wildly at the line of Primigenia and dying as quickly. There were so many of them and, without moving fresher men to the front, Primigenia would have been overwhelmed.

Brutus fell back with him and Julius was oddly pleased to see him breathing heavily. For a time, his friend had seemed untouchable by the battle and it was reassuring to know he could become as tired as the rest of them. Julius watched with approval as Lepidus’ men took up the attack and the advance pushed on. It was time to move back to the original position. The left flank was secure.

‘Sir?’ a voice said at Julius’ side. He turned his head sharply in reaction, too tense to see anything except threats. A centurion stood there, without a helmet. A spreading bruise along his cheek and bloody forearms showed he had been in the thick of the battle.

‘What is it?’ Julius replied.

‘General Lepidus is dead, sir. There is no one to command the left.’

Julius closed his eyes for a second, willing away the tiredness that had seeped into his aching muscles with every pace away from the fighting. He glanced at Brutus, who smiled.

‘Still lucky, Julius,’ he said with a trace of bitterness.

Julius took his friend’s hand in a strong grip, a silent acknowledgement of what he had given up, then he turned to the waiting soldier.

‘Very well, Centurion. I will assume command. Get the eagle over to me so the men know where to look for orders. Spread the word that if they break for me, I will crucify every last one of them when this is over.’

The centurion blinked as he looked into the young commander’s eyes. Then he saluted and ran to fetch the standard bearer. Four ranks ahead of them, the battle raged on without a pause.

Pompey and Crassus watched the unfolding battle from the high vantage point of their mounts. The sun was rising in the sky and still the hills around swarmed with the slave army. Pompey had ordered the onagers and catapults to keep firing over the front lines until they had exhausted their missiles. They had fallen silent after the first three hours and the battle had only grown in ferocity since then.

The senators could observe in relative safety, more than a hundred feet back from the front ranks of the right flank. A century protected the position, allowing only the extraordinarii messengers through to the two commanders. After so long, the horses arrived at the command point with white sweat and spittle lathering their skin. A rider trotted up to the senators and saluted smartly despite his tiredness.

‘The breach is closed, sir. Caesar commands the left. General Lepidus is dead,’ he said through heavy breaths.

‘Good,’ Pompey replied shortly. ‘That saves me the task of killing the fool after the battle. Get over to Martius and tell him to bring a thousand to support Caesar there. Leave him in command. I’d say he’s earned it.’

The horseman saluted and galloped through the guards, his weariness showing in the loose way he sat his mount. Pompey signalled another of the extraordinarii to approach and stand ready for the next order. He scanned the battle, trying to judge the progress.

He knew the Romans should have routed the slaves. Thousands had fallen, but they seemed possessed and the legions were becoming exhausted. No matter how they rotated their front lines with the maniple orders, there was no lack of fresh enemies to sap their strength and will. He had left standing instructions with his archers to send shafts at anyone they could see in gladiatorial armour, but hitting individual targets was almost impossible.

Crassus looked over the right flank, where the cavalry of two legions were struggling to hold the ground they had gained in the first charge. Horses were screaming in pain and already men were spilling around them.

‘Pompey, the right!’ he snapped at his colleague.

Pompey took in the risk and sent a messenger away to bring in reinforcements. It was dangerous to take too many men from the centre. If a breach came there, the army would be cut in half and that would be the finish. Pompey found a sense of desperation growing in him. There was no end to these slaves. For all the Roman skill and discipline, he could not see how to bring them victory. His men killed until they became exhausted and then were cut down in their turn, over and over.

Pompey signalled to the cornicens for another maniple order. He had lost count of the number of times he had sent the call and could imagine what his men were feeling as they were rotated back to the front before they had fully recovered from the last time. He had to keep the intervals short to spare them, but that meant less time to regain their strength.

Pompey and Crassus turned as a warning shout came from the right. The slaves had cut through the last of the cavalry and were surging forward, creating panic in the Roman lines as they threatened to envelop the flank or even hit them from behind. Pompey swore and summoned another rider.

‘Right to retreat in battle order. Left to come forward. We have to turn the whole field before they get round us. The cornicens to sound “Right Wheel”. Go.’

The man galloped away and the two generals abandoned dignity to kneel on their saddles for a better view of the developing action. Pompey’s hands were cramped and white on the reins as he knew the whole battle rested on the decision. If the retreat turned into a panic, the slave army would spill around and encircle the Romans. His mouth was dried by the cold air as he breathed in hissing gasps.

The orders took a long time to reach up and down the line. Shouts echoed nearby and the right began to give way in order, shifting the line to a red diagonal across the plain. Pompey clenched his fists as he saw the left push forward to compact the slaves.

The whole battle began to turn and Pompey was frantic with worry. It was the only way to save the overwhelmed right flank, but as the thousands wheeled, the slaves were free to peel off and head for Ariminum if their commanders saw the chance.

Spartacus stood on the saddle of his horse and swore softly as he saw the legions were holding. At first, he thought Antonidus was right and the wing would be overwhelmed but somehow they had swung round together, eight legions moving as one to turn the battle towards the east. He whistled softly in admiration, even as he saw their dreams come to dust on the field. The legions were everything he’d known they could be and for a moment he remembered his own days as a soldier with them. It had been a grand brotherhood before it had soured for him. A drunken brawl and an officer dead and nothing had been right since. He’d run because he knew they’d put him up before the man’s friends and sentence him to death. There was no justice for a man like him, little more than a child when he’d been recruited in Thrace. Not a true Roman, to them, and little better than an animal. Those were different and bitter memories: capture and slavery, then the gladiatorial school where they were treated like violent dogs to be chained and beaten into ferocity.

‘Morituri te salutamus. We who are about to die salute you,’ he whispered to himself as he watched his people die. He looked at the sun and saw it had risen past noon, cold and pale behind the clouds. The days had barely begun to lengthen and it would only be a few more hours until dark.

He watched the battle for a long time, hoping to see the legions break, but they stood strong against the multitude and he despaired. Finally, he nodded to himself. When the Romans pulled back to their camps for the night, he would make for Ariminum. His men hadn’t eaten in four days and the Roman city was filled with food to make them strong again.

‘We’re going to have to run, Crix,’ he murmured.

His friend stood with Antonidus, holding the reins in his hand.

‘They could still break before dark,’ Crixus replied bitterly.

Antonidus growled and spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground in anger. He had promised them a victory and he felt his influence slipping away with the toll of their dead.

Spartacus shook his head.

‘No. If we haven’t beaten them by now, they’ll not run from us. They’ll move back into those forts of theirs and eat heartily before coming out to finish the work tomorrow. We won’t be here when they do.’

‘Why won’t they break, though?’ Crixus demanded angrily to the air.

‘Because if they break, Rome falls to us,’ Antonidus snapped. ‘They know the stakes, but we can still win. Pull back the front lines and put in fresh men. Move to surround the left wing. Whether they run or not, we can wear them down to nothing.’

Spartacus looked with distaste at the Roman general his men had found. The man had nothing but bile in him and didn’t seem to grasp that the lives he urged them to throw away were friends and brothers. The gladiator closed his eyes for a moment. They had all cheered Antonidus when Crixus had first shown him to them, dressed in armour taken from a Roman corpse. He had been paraded like a favourite pet for the men, but his promises had been worthless and his clever tactics nothing more than confusion for slaves who had never held a sword before they took it up in the rebellion.

‘Our men are weak with hunger,’ Spartacus said. ‘I saw some who were green-mouthed from the boiled grasses they’d eaten. We can’t survive another day of fighting after this one.’

‘We can try for the passes to Gaul,’ Crixus began.

‘How many do you think would reach the high passes alive?’ Spartacus demanded. ‘The legions would hunt us down before we’d left the plains. No, that chance has gone. It has to be Ariminum. We’ll take what food we need and build our strength. Somehow, we’ll stay ahead of them.’

‘If we could find ships, they might let us go,’ Crixus said, looking up at his friend.

‘It would take a fleet,’ Spartacus said, considering. He longed to get away from the power of Rome, bitter with the knowledge that he should have led his men across the mountains. Let them have their little country. He would settle for being free.

Antonidus held his temper with difficulty. They had taken him from slavery to be killed by his own people. Neither man realised that Rome would never forgive a general who let the slaves escape. It would be a shame that would last for centuries and every slave in the country would think of rising against their masters. He listened to their plans with growing anger. The only freedom they would see came from beating the legions on the plain, no matter how many lives it took.

Antonidus made a silent promise to slip away before the end came. He would not be paraded in Rome as a trophy. He could not bear the thought of a triumphant Cato condemning him with a wave of his fat hands.

‘The men are exhausted,’ Crassus snapped. ‘You must sound the disengage before they’re overwhelmed.’

‘No. They will hold,’ Pompey said, squinting against the descending sun. ‘Send the extraordinarii to ready the camps for the night. We’ll pull back when the light goes, but if I order it now, they will think they have broken the only legions between here and Rome. They must hold.’

Crassus twisted his hands together in an agony of indecision. The legions were under his command and if Pompey waited too long to call them back, it could end everything they had ever worked for. If the legions fell, Rome would follow.

Julius heaved air into leaden lungs as he waited for the horns to sound the next attack. The blood on him had dried long ago and dropped away in dark crusts as he moved. Old blood. He looked wearily at his arms and held one hand up, narrowing his eyes at the shiver of exhaustion he saw there.

Another man panted at his side and Julius glanced at him. He had fought well in the last attack, spending his strength with the confidence of the immortal young. He looked up to see Julius watching him and a shadow passed over his grey eyes. There were no words to be said. Julius wondered if Cato’s son would survive the battle. If he lived, Cato would never understand the changes in him.

Ciro hawked and spat behind him to clear the blood from his throat. His lips were split and swollen and his smile was red when he grinned painfully at his general.

They were all cut and battered. Julius winced with every movement. Something had torn in his lower back as he’d heaved a dead man off him. It sent sparks of pain up to his shoulders and all he wanted to do was sleep. He looked over at Brutus, who’d been knocked unconscious by a berserk slave. Only a swift countercharge had reclaimed the ground and his body. Ciro had dragged him back through the ranks to recover and as the sky began to darken he’d rejoined them, but he moved more slowly and his skill had almost deserted him. Julius wondered if his skull had been cracked by the blow, but could not send him back to the camps. They needed every man who could still stand.

They were all past exhaustion and pain, entering a sort of numbness that left the mind free to drift. Colours paled and they lost awareness of time, seeing it slow down and then rush to frightening speed, over and over.

With a jerk, Julius heard the cry of the cornicen’s horn nearest him. He staggered forward for another stint on the front line and shook off Ciro’s hand when it touched his arm.

‘No more today, General,’ Ciro said, bracing Julius with an arm to steady him. ‘The light has gone. That’s the call back to camp.’

Julius looked blankly at him for a moment, then nodded wearily.

‘Tell Brutus and Renius to form the lines and retreat in good order. Tell the men to keep an eye out for a sudden charge.’ His words slurred with tiredness, but he raised his head and smiled at the man he’d found in another continent, another world.

‘Better than the farm, Ciro?’

The big man looked around him at the bodies. It had been the hardest day of his life but he knew the men around him better than he could explain. He had been alone on the farm.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said and Julius seemed to understand.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Suetonius leaned on the fence in the woods. At the edge of his vision, he saw his father’s slaves working unhurriedly to uproot the posts and remove the boundary. In a few hours, all signs of it would be gone and Suetonius frowned as he rested his head on his arms. The house he had planned would have been beautiful, rising above the trees on Caesar’s land to look down the hill. He had been going to have a balcony built so that he could sit there on warm evenings with a cool drink. All that had vanished with his father’s sudden weakness.

Suetonius picked at a splinter on the post, thinking of the host of petty insults that Julius had forced him to accept when they were prisoners and with the Wolves in Greece. He knew if Julius hadn’t been there, the other men would have accepted him more readily, perhaps even agreeing to his command in the end as they had for Julius. He would have handed over the body of Mithridates to the legate Lepidus, sharing a meal with the man rather than rushing off to the port with barely a pause. The Senate would have named him tribune and his father would have been proud.

Instead, he had nothing but a ransom that belonged to his father and a few scars to show for everything he had endured. Caesar had taken the Wolves away to the north, flattering and persuading them to follow him while Suetonius was left behind, without even the small comfort of seeing his own house built.

He tore at the splinter in sudden anger, wincing as part of it scored the skin of his hand. He had applied to go north with the six legions, but none of the legates had accepted him. No doubt who had spread the word there. He knew his father could have called in favours for them to accept his son, but had stopped short of asking. The shame of how he had been treated burned at him in the stillness of the woods.

Another movement caught his eye and he raised his head to see. He almost hoped some of his father’s slaves were shirking their work. The flogging he would give them would go some way to break the lethargy he felt. He seemed to feel life more strongly in his veins when the time came to punish the lazy ones. He knew they walked in fear of him, but that was only right.

He took a deep breath to bark an order at them, hoping to see them jump. Then he froze. The men were moving stealthily through the thick undergrowth on the other side of the fence. They were not his slaves. Very slowly, he lowered his head back onto his arms and watched in silence as they passed not far away, oblivious to his presence.

Suetonius felt his heart hammer in sudden fear and a flush came to his cheeks as he tried to breathe shallowly. They had not seen him yet, but there was something very wrong about the scene. There were three men moving together and a fourth some distance behind. Suetonius had almost stood to peer after the first group and only some instinct had warned him to hold still as they vanished through the trees. Then the fourth had come into sight, moving warily. He was dressed in rough dark clothing like the others and walked lightly over the dead wood and moss, showing a hunter’s skill with his silence.

Suetonius saw he too was armed and suddenly he thought the man must see him through the shadows. He wanted to run or to shout for his slaves. Visions of the rebellion in the north came to him and his mind filled with pictures of their knives in him, vivid and terrifying. He had seen so many die and it was too easy to imagine the men turning on him like animals. His sword was at his side, but he kept his hands still.

He held his breath as the last man passed. The man seemed to sense eyes on him and hesitated, scanning the trees around him. He didn’t see Suetonius and after a while he relaxed and moved on, disappearing as completely as his companions before him.

Suetonius breathed out slowly, still not daring to move. They had been heading towards the Caesar estate and his eyes became cruel as he realised it. Let Caesar have his land, with those men walking on it. He would not give them away. It was in the hands of the gods and out of his.

Feeling as if much of his pain and bitterness had been lifted from him, he stood up and stretched his back. Whoever the hunters were, he wished them luck as he walked over to where the slaves were taking down the fence. He gave orders for them to pack up their tools and return to his father’s estate, instinctively wanting to be far away from the woods for the next few days.

The slaves saw his mood had lightened and exchanged glances, wondering what viciousness he’d seen to cheer him as they shouldered their burdens and made their way home.

Julius was exhausted, cursing under his breath as he stumbled on a loose stone. He knew if he fell there was a chance he wouldn’t get up and he’d be left on the road.

They could not stop, with the slave army running before them towards Ariminum. Fleeing the field in the dark had given them half a day’s start and Pompey had sent out the order to run them down. The gap hadn’t closed in seven days, as the legions pursued an army far fresher than themselves. The slaves tore food from the land as they passed through like locusts and the legions marched in the trail of their devastation. Julius knew they could lose many more soldiers, but if the slaves turned south, Rome stood naked for the first time in her history.

He fixed his eyes on the legionary in front of him. He had been staring at that back all day and knew every tiny detail of it, from the patchy grey hair that showed under the helmet to the spatters of blood up the man’s ankles where he had stamped for a mile to break his blisters. Someone had urinated up ahead, darkening the dust of the road. Julius trudged through the patch indifferently, wondering when he would next have to do the same himself.

At his side, Brutus cleared his throat and spat. There was nothing of his usual energy showing in him. He was hunched under the weight of his pack and Julius knew his shoulders were raw. He rubbed cooking fat on them at night and waited stoically for the calluses to form.

They had not spoken since dawn, the battle with endurance and the road going on without a public show. It was the same for most of them. They marched with slack and open mouths, all awareness narrowed to a point just ahead on the road. Often when the horns sounded a halt, men would stumble into those ahead and wake almost from sleep as they were cursed or struck.

Julius and Brutus chewed on stale bread and meat as it was handed out to them without a halt. As they tried to find saliva to swallow, they passed another fallen soldier and wondered if they too would be left on the road.

If Spartacus wanted to exhaust the legions in a chase, he could not have done better and always there was the knowledge that there would have to be another battle when the slaves and gladiators finally found a place to stand. Only death would stop the legions.

Cabera coughed dust out of his throat and Julius glanced at the old man, marvelling again that he had not fallen with the others. The poor rations and the miles had reduced his thin frame further, so that he looked almost skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and dark and the march had stolen away his humour and his talk. Like Brutus and Renius behind him, he had not spoken since the moment they were forced to their feet by weary optios, using their staffs on officers and men alike without interest, their faces as thin and tired as the rest of them.

They were allowed only four hours to sleep in the darkness. Pompey knew they could find Ariminum in flames, but the slaves would barely be able to pause before the legions were on the horizon, forcing them on. They couldn’t allow Spartacus to regroup. If necessary, they would chase him into the sea.

Julius held his head high with difficulty, knowing he was seen by Primigenia around him. The legion of Lepidus marched in rank with them, though there was a subtle difference between the groups. Primigenia had not run and every soldier knew that the punishment for that failure still had to be meted out. Fear showed in the eyes of Lepidus’ men and sapped at their will as they filled the hours with silent worry. There was nothing Julius and Brutus could do for them. The death of Lepidus went only some way towards repairing their moment of panic in the battle.

The cornicens sounded as they reached the site of an old camp. It was two hours early, but Pompey had obviously decided to use the boundary they had erected once before, with only a little work needing to be done to shore up the spilled earth. Once inside, the men fell down where they stood. Some lay on their sides, too tired to remove their packs. Friends untied each other and the dwindling rations were brought out from packs and passed along lines to the cooks, who started fires in the ashes of the old ones. The men wanted to sleep and they had to eat first, so the corn meal and dried meat was heated through and sent out on iron plates as fast as possible. The legionaries stuffed the food into their mouths without interest, then unrolled the thin trail blankets from their packs and lay down.

Julius had just finished his and was licking his fingers to remove every last crumb of the mush his body needed so desperately when he heard a cornicen blow a warning note nearby. Pompey and Crassus were approaching his position.

He scrambled to his feet and kicked Brutus, who had curled up, already drifting towards sleep. Renius opened an eye at the sound and groaned, heaving himself into a sitting position with his good arm.

‘Up! Get the men on their feet. Centurions, form Primigenia into squares for inspection. Quickly!’

He hated having to do it as he watched the men drag themselves upright, looking dazed. Some had been asleep and they stood loosely, their arms hanging and only dull awareness in their eyes. The centurions bullied and heaved until some semblance of ranks was produced. There were no groans or complaints; they hadn’t the energy or the will to resist anything that was done to them. They stood where they were pushed and waited to be told to sleep once more.

Pompey and Crassus rode through the camp, bringing their horses close to Julius before dismounting. As well they might, both men looked fresher than the legionaries around them, but there was an air of tight-lipped seriousness about the generals that woke some of Lepidus’ men to the danger, making them glance nervously at each other. Pompey approached Julius, who saluted.

‘Primigenia stand ready, sir,’ Julius said.

‘It is your other command that brings me here, Caesar. Tell Primigenia to rest and have Lepidus’ men form ranks in their place.’

Julius gave the orders and the three of them waited as the soldiers moved quickly into position. Even after the losses they had suffered in the panic of the battle, there were still more than three thousand survivors. Some were wounded, though the worst of these had already been left on the road days before. Pompey mounted his horse to address them, but, before he began, he leaned down to Julius and spoke quietly.

‘Do not interfere, Julius. The decision has been made.’

Julius returned the questioning stare impassively, then nodded. Pompey joined Crassus and together they trotted their horses right up to the front rank of the assembled men.

‘Centurions, stand forward!’ Pompey barked out. Then he raised his head to have his voice carry as far as possible. ‘This legion carries a shame that must be cut out. There can be no excuse for cowardice. Hear now the punishment you will receive.

‘Every tenth man in line will be marked by the centurions. He will die at the hands of the others. You will not use blades, but crush and beat them to death with fists and staffs. You will shed your own friends’ blood in this way and always remember. A tenth of you will die this day. Centurions, begin the count.’

Julius watched in horror as the centurions called off the numbers. As they marched along the ranks, the men around the unlucky one would cringe in fear as the officers came abreast of them, then gasp as the hand fell on a different shoulder. Some cried out, for themselves or for friends, but there was no mercy to be had. Crassus and Pompey watched the whole process with stiff disdain.

It took less than an hour, but by the end, three hundred men stood out from the ranks. Some wept, but others gazed blankly at the ground, unable to understand what was happening to them, why they had been singled out to die.

‘Remember this!’ Pompey bellowed at the men. ‘You ran from slaves where no legion has run in generations. Lay your swords down and complete your task.’

The lines dissolved as each man standing apart was surrounded by nine of his friends and brothers. Julius heard one of them muttering an apology before he landed the first blow. It was worse than anything Julius had ever seen. Though the optios had staffs, the common soldiers had only their fists to smash the faces and chests of people they had known for years. Some of them sobbed as they struck, their faces twisted like children, but not a single one of them refused.

It took a long time. Some of the battered soldiers died quickly, their throats crushed, but others lingered on and on, shuddering and screaming in a terrible chorus that made Brutus shiver as he watched, transfixed by the knots of bloody-handed men, kicking and punching savagely. Brutus shook his head in disbelief, then looked away, sickened. He saw Renius was standing rigidly, his face pale.

‘I never thought I would see this again,’ Renius muttered to himself. ‘I thought it had died out long ago.’

‘It had,’ Julius replied flatly. ‘Looks like Pompey’s revived it.’

Ciro watched in horror, his shoulders sagging. He looked at Julius questioningly, but there were no words for him.

Julius watched as the last blows were struck and the centurions checked each corpse. The men stood back, their energy disappearing as they shambled into ranks. The bodies sprawled before them in circles of bloody grass and many of the living bore the spatters of the executions, standing with their heads bowed in misery.

‘If we were in Rome, I would order you disbanded and forbidden to bear arms,’ Pompey roared into the silence. ‘As it is, circumstances may save you yet.’ He glanced at Crassus and the senator shifted in his saddle. Julius frowned suddenly. For Pompey to give way to Crassus meant that he needed the weight of the Senate authority behind whatever was going to be said. For all their manoeuvring, only Crassus had that.

The older man cleared his throat to speak.

‘It is my order that a new legion be formed, to expunge the stain of Lepidus. You will join with Primigenia and make a new history. Your standards will be changed. You will have a new name, untouched by shame. I appoint Gaius Julius Caesar to command you. I speak with the authority of the Senate.’

Crassus wheeled his horse and trotted over to where Julius stood glaring at him.

‘Will they be Primigenia then?’ Julius asked harshly.

Crassus shook his head. ‘I know what it will do to you, Julius, but this is the better way. If they take arms for you, they will always be apart as they are now. A new name will clear the field for them … and for you. Pompey and I have agreed. Obey your orders. Primigenia ends today.’

Julius couldn’t speak with anger for a moment and Crassus watched him closely, waiting for a response. The younger man understood what they were trying to do, but still the memory of Marius haunted his thoughts. Understanding this, Crassus leaned down and spoke softly so as not to be overheard.

‘Your uncle would understand, Julius. Be sure of that.’

Julius clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, unable to trust himself to speak. He owed a great deal to this man.

Crassus leaned back, relaxing.

‘You will need a new name for them. Pompey thought it should be …’

‘No,’ Julius interrupted. ‘I have a name for them.’

Crassus raised his eyebrows in surprise as Julius walked around his horse and faced the bloody men he was to command. He took a deep breath to send his voice out to as many as could hear him.

‘I will take your oaths, if you will give them. I remember that you did not desert the field, but rallied when I asked it of you, even with Lepidus dead.’ He let his gaze fall to the broken bodies all along the ranks. ‘The price for the failure has been paid and will never be mentioned again after today. But it must be remembered.’

The silence was terrible and the air smelled of blood.

‘You are marked with the lives of every tenth man. I name you the Tenth, so you will never forget the payment taken and you will never break.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Julius saw Crassus grimace at the name, but he had known from the first moment that it was the right choice. It would hold them through fear and pain when others lost their nerve.

‘Primigenia! My last command to you. Form ranks with your brothers. Look at their faces and learn their names. Know this. When men hear the Tenth stand against them, they will be afraid, for they have paid their dues in their own blood.’

As the ranks reformed, Julius walked back to Crassus as Pompey joined the senator. Both generals looked at Julius with guarded interest.

‘You speak … well to them, Julius,’ Pompey said. He shook his head slightly as he watched Primigenia welcomed into the ranks. He had thought Julius would resist the order for the sake of Primigenia’s name and had been prepared to force the issue. Watching the ease with which the young commander had assimilated the news and made it work for him was a surprise. For the first time, Pompey had a glimpse of how the young man had been so successful in Greece against Mithridates and the pirates before him. He seemed to know the words to use and that they could bite with greater force than swords.

‘I would like to extend the time in camp before we move on, sir. It will give me a chance to speak with the men as well as let them finish their food and get some sleep.’

Pompey was tempted to refuse the request. Apart from the driving need to pursue the slaves, his instincts warned him not to make things too easy for the young man who could speak directly to the hearts of the soldiers and lift them from misery in an instant. Then he relented. Caesar would need every advantage if he was to resurrect the dignity of the new legion from the ashes.

‘You may tell them I have granted two further hours at your request, Julius. Be ready to march at sunset.’

‘Thank you, sir. I will arrange for new shields and armour for the men as soon as we are finished with this rebellion.’

Pompey nodded absently, signalling to Crassus to ride away to the command position further up at the head of the column. Julius watched them go, his face unreadable. He turned to Brutus and found Cabera with him, something of the old life and interest in the healer’s face. Julius smiled tightly.

‘Brutus, stand them down and tell them to finish eating. Then I want to speak to as many as I can before they sleep. Marius would have learned their names. So will I.’

‘It hurts to see Primigenia lost,’ Brutus murmured.

Julius shook his head.

‘They are not lost. The name will remain on the Senate rolls. I will make sure of it. Pompey and Crassus were right to make a new start, though it does hurt. Come on, gentlemen, let us walk amongst the Tenth. It’s time to let go of the past.’

Ariminum stood under a pall of smoke. The slave army had moved through it like locusts, taking everything that could be eaten and driving sheep and cattle to run before them on the march. While citizens hid behind barricaded doors, Spartacus and his army walked slowly through quiet streets with the sun casting weak shadows behind them. They set fires in the grain stores and abandoned markets, knowing their pursuers might waste time stamping them out before following. With the legions still doggedly on their heels, every hour was crucial.

The guards had run from the city treasury and Spartacus ordered the gold loaded onto mules for the journey south. It was a fortune from trade and the dream of a fleet of ships to take them to freedom became reality as soon as the gladiators saw the crates of coins.

The docks were empty of ships, the dark hulks standing clear out to sea where they could watch the horde of slaves looting their city under rising plumes of smoke and ash. The ships were packed with silent people, just watching. Spartacus walked up to the edge of the docks and returned their stares.

‘See how many they hold, Crix. We have enough gold to buy every one of us a berth.’

‘These precious merchants won’t stir to save us,’ Crixus replied. ‘It has to be the pirates. The gods know, they have enough ships and spitting in Rome’s eye will give them some pleasure, as well.’

‘But how to get word to them? We must send riders out to each port. There has to be a way to reach them.’ Spartacus looked over the water at the pale specks of faces clustered in the ships. It was possible, if they could speak to Rome’s enemies.

Antonidus walked up to stand at his side, squinting out over the waves with a sneer.

‘Brave Roman citizens hiding from us like children,’ he said.

Spartacus shrugged, tired of his bitterness and spite. ‘Sixty or seventy ships like those and we can leave Roman lands. A fleet bought with their own gold seems like justice.’

Antonidus looked at the two gladiators with more interest. He’d been tempted to slip away at the port, taking off his armour and joining the crowds of people who would surely gather once the slaves were gone. Then he’d seen the gold they’d taken from the treasury. Enough to buy him an estate in Spain, or a vast farm in Africa. There were many places for a man to hide that would not shelter an army. He knew if he stayed, their trust in him could give him the chance he needed. Would Pompey forgive him if he brought Spartacus’ head? Antonidus frowned. No, he’d faced a Roman court once and that was enough. Better just to run for a place where he could start again.

Spartacus turned, putting the sea at his back.

‘We will send local men to every port with a few coins to prove their promises. Speak to them, Crixus. Someone must know how to reach the pirates. Let them know the plan. It will raise their spirits on the march south.’

‘We’re heading south towards Rome, then?’ Antonidus asked sharply.

A terrible anger creased the features of the gladiator for a moment and Antonidus stepped back as he answered.

‘We should never have turned our backs on the mountains, but now we must keep ahead of them. We’ll run those bastards ragged on our trail. Remember, we’re the ones who till their fields and work every hour of light for their wealth. It’s made us strong. Let’s see what sort of state they’re in by the time we sight their beloved city.’

As he spoke, he stared west into the sun, his eyes glinting gold with it as he imagined the legions hunting them. His face was bitter and Antonidus had to look away.

CHAPTER FORTY

As the moon rose, Alexandria stood on the walls above the great city of Rome with the rain drumming against the stones. Torches had been lit all round the city and they spat and crackled, giving only a little light to the defenders. When the warning horns had sounded, they had all come, snatching up tools and knives to hold the wall against the silent mass that tramped past in the darkness, churning the Campus Martius into clotted mud.

Tabbic held his iron hammer in tight hands, his face drawn and pale in the flickering light. There was no give in him, or any of them, Alexandria knew. If the slaves attacked them, they would fight as ferociously as the legions themselves. She looked up and down the line at the faces staring down into the dark and wondered at their calm. Families stood together in silence, even the children awed into stillness by the army passing them by. The moon cast only a little light, but it was enough to show the white faces of the slaves as they looked up at the city that had decreed their death. There seemed no end to them, but the moon reached its zenith and began to fall before the last stragglers disappeared into the night.

The tension eased at last, after hours of painful anticipation. The messengers from the legions had passed the news that they were close behind and the Senate had ordered the people to the walls until it was safe, setting the example by taking places on the great gatehouses with the swords of their fathers and grandfathers.

Alexandria gulped in the cold air, feeling alive. The rain had begun to lighten and Rome had survived. Sudden smiles and laughter showed her that they all felt it and for a moment she knew they had shared a bond in the dark that was as strong as any other tie in her life. Yet still she was torn. She had been a slave, as they were slaves, and dreamed of rising up in a multitude to cast down their precious houses and walls.

‘Will they all be killed?’ she murmured, almost to herself.

Tabbic turned sharply towards her, his eyes shadowed.

‘They will. The Senate have known fear and they won’t forgive a single one of them. The legions will make a bloody example of them before it ends.’

Pompey allowed the lamps to burn low in his tent as he read the dispatches from Rome, less than thirty miles south of them. Rain drummed against the canvas of the command tent and dripped through in places to make the ground sodden. Food sat on his table untouched as he read and re-read each message. Crassus would have to be told.

After a while, he stood to pace and barely noticed as one of the torches guttered and failed. He took another from its stand and held it to illuminate a map that covered the entire wall of the tent. Spots of dark moisture showed on the parchment and he realised he’d have to take it down if the rain continued. Rome was a tiny circle on the thick skin and somewhere to the south, the slaves were moving ever onward to the sea. He stared at the symbol for the city, knowing he had to make a decision before Crassus arrived.

Around him, only the sentries moved around the silent camp in damp misery. The Senate had sent supplies out to them as soon as the army of Spartacus had marched south. Pompey could only imagine the fear in the streets as the sea of slaves passed them by, but the gates had been barred against them.

He was proud of his people when he’d heard: the old and the young, women and loyal slaves ready to fight. Even the Senate had armed themselves as they had centuries before to defend their city with their lives. It gave him hope for them.

A murmur of passwords outside revealed the approach of Crassus, who looked around in surprise at the dark tent as he entered. He wore a heavy leather cloak over his armour and pulled back the hood, scattering droplets.

‘Evil night,’ he muttered. ‘What news?’

Pompey stopped and turned towards him.

‘Some of it is … awful,’ he replied, ‘but it must wait. There are four legions at the coast, just landed from Greece. I’m going to meet them and bring them after us.’

Crassus nodded warily.

‘What else, Pompey? You could send the extraordinarii to them, with our seals on the orders. Why go yourself?’

Pompey grimaced in the shadows.

‘The man who killed my daughter has been found. The men I left to hunt him are watching him now. I will stop at the city before I meet the legions coming west. You’ll have to go on without me until this is done.’

Crassus took a taper and oil jug from the table and relit the lamps, his hand shaking slightly as he concentrated. At last, he sat down and met Pompey’s eyes.

‘If they turn to fight, I will not be able to wait for you,’ he said.

Pompey shook his head. ‘Then do not force them to turn. Give them room to run and in a few days, a week, I will be back with fresh men to end this chase at last. Don’t risk losing everything, my friend. For all your skill in Senate, you are no general. You know it as well as I do.’

Crassus hid his anger. Always they saw him as the merchant, the lender, as if there was some great secret to the legions that only the chosen few could understand. As if there was some shame to his wealth. He could see Pompey was desperate not to lose this victory. How awful it would be if lowly Crassus stole it from under him! Whoever broke the rebellion would be the next consul, he was sure. How could the Senate resist the will of the people after so many months of fear? Not for the first time, Crassus felt regret at his generosity in choosing Pompey in the Senate debate. If he had known then how the campaign would go, he would have risked it alone.

‘I will herd them south,’ he said and Pompey nodded, satisfied. He lifted another of the dispatches from the table and showed it to Crassus, angling it into the light. As Crassus read, Pompey stood and pointed to the map.

‘Those reports of a fleet can only be for the slaves. I’d stay if I wasn’t sure they would keep moving, but as long as you don’t provoke them, they should head south to meet the ships. I’ll call in the galleys against them. There will be no escape by sea, I swear it.’

‘If that’s what they intend,’ Crassus muttered, still reading.

‘They cannot run for ever. They must be starving, no matter what they’ve found to scavenge. Every day weakens them if they’re hoping to bring us to another battle. No, they’re trying to escape and those reports are the key to it.’

‘And when they see our galleys gathering to prevent it, you’ll ride up with the Greek legions to finish them?’ Crassus asked, some of the bile he felt creeping into his tone.

‘I will,’ Pompey replied sharply. ‘Do not take the threat lightly, Crassus. If we lose now, we lose everything. We need the extra legions I will bring. Do not join in battle until you see my flags. I’d rather see you retreat than be routed before I arrive.’

‘Very well,’ Crassus replied, stung by the casual dismissal of his abilities. If Spartacus attacked while Pompey was away, the moment would be his to seize, and the glory with it. ‘I know you will come as quickly as you can,’ he said.

Pompey sagged slightly, resting his knuckles on the table.

‘There is another matter. I’m leaving immediately for the city and I don’t know if I should keep it to myself until we’re finished here or not.’

‘Tell me,’ Crassus said, softly.

The leather tents were heavy with rain that roared in a broken rhythm as the men slept fitfully. Julius dreamed of the estate. The day had been tiring as the legions forced the pace towards Rome and when the order had come to set the tents, the legionaries had barely bothered to remove their armour before falling asleep. Those who had lived through the forced marches were harder than they had ever been, tight-skinned over taut muscle. They had seen friends die on the march or just fall off the road, their legs twitching. Some of them had lived to join the end of the column, but many of their wounded had died, losing blood with each step until their ailing hearts finally stopped and they lay where they fell.

Feet that had bled and caked with a brown rime had become layered in calluses, white against their sandals. Torn muscles had healed and the legions became stronger on the march, their heads rising. In the third week, Pompey had called for a faster pace on the Via Flaminia and they had met it without protest, feeling again the thrill of the chase.

Julius murmured irritably as someone shook his shoulder.

‘There’s a messenger from Pompey, Julius. Wake up, quickly.’

Julius snapped awake, shaking his head to clear it of the dream. He looked out of the tent at the messenger carrying Pompey’s bronze seal and dressed quickly, leaving his armour behind. As soon as he stepped out, the rain drenched him to the skin.

The sentry at the command tent stood aside as Julius gave the password of the day. Both Crassus and Pompey were there and he saluted them, instantly wary. There was something strange in their expressions that he had not seen before.

‘Sit down, Julius,’ Crassus said.

The older man did not meet his eyes as he spoke and Julius frowned slightly as he took a seat on a bench by the table. Julius waited patiently and when the generals did not speak immediately, a spike of worry twisted in his stomach. He wiped water from his face with a nervous scrubbing motion. Pompey poured a cup of wine and pushed it towards the young tribune.

‘We … I have bad news, Julius. Messages have come from the city,’ he began. His expression was uncomfortable as he took a slow breath to continue.

‘There has been an attack on your estate. Your wife has been killed. I understand …’

Julius stood up jerkily. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that must be wrong.’

‘I’m sorry, Julius. It came with the dispatches,’ Pompey said. The young man’s horror tore at his own memories of finding his daughter in the garden. He handed the parchment to Julius and watched in silence as he read through it, his eyes blurring as he started over and over. Julius’ breath shuddered out of him and his hands shook so that he could barely read the words.

‘Sweet gods, no,’ he whispered. ‘It hardly says anything. What about Tubruk? Octavian? My daughter is not mentioned. There’s nothing there but a few words. Cornelia …’ He could not finish and his head bowed in mute misery.

‘It’s a formal dispatch, Julius,’ Pompey said. ‘It may be they still live. There will be other letters to follow.’ He paused for a moment, coming to a decision. ‘As close as we are to the city, I will understand if you take a short leave to see to your affairs at home.’

Julius did not seem to hear him. Crassus crossed to the young man who had seen so much grief in his life.

‘If you want to go back to your estate, I’ll sign the orders. Do you hear?’

Julius raised his head and both men looked away rather than see his agony.

‘I request permission to take the Tenth with me,’ Julius said, shaking.

‘I cannot allow that, Julius,’ Pompey replied. ‘Even if we could spare them, I cannot give you a legion to use against your enemies.’

‘Just a fifty then. Ten even,’ Julius said, his voice breaking.

Pompey shook his head. ‘I am going back to the city myself, Julius. There will be justice done, I swear it to you, but it will be under the rule of law, the peace of the city. Everything Marius worked for. You will come back with me in a few days to finish the rebellion. That is your duty and mine.’

Julius turned as if to leave the tent, holding himself still with an immense effort of will. Pompey put a hand on his shoulder.

‘The Republic is not to be thrown away when we tire of the restrictions, Julius. When my daughter died, I made myself wait. Marius himself said the Republic is worth a life, do you remember that?’

‘Not her life,’ Julius replied. He breathed in sobs that he tried to talk over even as they wrenched at him. ‘She wasn’t part of it.’

The two generals shared a glance over his head.

‘Go home, Julius,’ Crassus said softly. ‘There’s a horse waiting for you. Brutus will command the Tenth while you are gone.’

Julius stood finally, taking deep breaths to find some semblance of control in front of Crassus and Pompey.

‘Thank you,’ he said, attempting a salute. He still clutched the report in his hand and he noticed it then, placing it on the seat before leaving the tent and taking the reins of the horse that had been brought for him. Some part of him wanted just to dig his heels in and gallop from the camp, but instead he wheeled and rode to where the Tenth lay sleeping in their tents. He pulled back the flap to rouse Brutus, who came out quickly when he saw his expression.

‘I’m going back to Rome, Brutus. Cornelia is dead, somehow. I don’t … understand.’

‘Oh, Julius, no,’ Brutus said. He pulled his friend into an embrace and the contact brought tears from Julius in a rush. For a long time they stood together, locked in grief.

‘Do we march?’ Brutus whispered.

‘Pompey has forbidden it,’ Julius replied, standing back at last.

‘Nevertheless, Julius. Do we march? Give me the word.’

Julius closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of what Pompey had said. The consul had suffered his own losses. Could he be any weaker than that man? Cornelia’s death had freed him of restraints. There was nothing to stop him throwing an army at Cato and burning him out of the flesh of Rome. Part of him wanted desperately to see flames over the city as they cut out the name and the memory of the Sullans for ever. Catalus, Bibilus, Prandus, Cato himself. All of them had families who could pay in blood for what had been taken from him.

There was still his daughter, Julia. The report had not mentioned her death.

As he thought of her, the bonds of his chosen life returned like a cloak around him, muffling his grief. Brutus was still watching him intently, waiting.

‘No, Brutus, not yet. I will wait, but there is a debt in blood that must be paid. Lead the Tenth until I come back.’

‘You’re going alone? Let me come with you,’ Brutus said, putting a hand to the reins Julius held.

‘No, you must take the command. Pompey forbade me to travel with any of the Tenth. Get Cabera out of his tent. I need him.’

Brutus ran to where the old healer slept and roused him with a shake. When he understood, the old man moved quickly, though his face was lined with exhaustion as he pulled his robe in tightly against the beating rain.

Cabera held out an arm to mount behind Julius and was pulled up with a heave as Julius wheeled the skittish horse in place. Brutus met Julius’ eyes then and took his hand in the legionary grip.

‘Pompey doesn’t know about the soldiers we left at the estate, Julius. They will fight for you if you need them.’

‘If they live,’ Julius replied.

Overwhelming grief stole his breath then and Julius dug in his heels. Then he was off, crouched low with Cabera behind him, blind with tears in the rain.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Thick clumps of dark cloud obscured the spring sun and the rain fell with no sign of easing as Julius and Cabera rode up to the estate. Julius felt a deep weariness as he looked at his home that had nothing to do with the ride through the night. With the weight of the old man behind him, Julius had slowed his mount to a walking pace through the hours. There was no urgency left in him. He’d wanted the time to stretch endlessly, begrudging every step that brought him closer to this moment. Cabera had been silent on the journey and his old infectious joy had been absent as they arrived back at the place of so many memories. His robe hung wetly on his thin frame, making him shiver.

Julius dismounted by the gate and watched it open for him. Somehow, now that he was there, he didn’t want to go in, but he walked the horse into the courtyard feeling numb.

Soldiers from Primigenia took the reins, their faces a reflection of his own agony. He didn’t speak to them, but crossed the yard to the main buildings through the swirling mud of puddles from the storm. Cabera watched him go, absently rubbing the soft muzzle of the horse as he held its reins.

Clodia was there, holding a bloody cloth in her hand. She was pale and exhausted-looking, with dark pouches under her eyes.

‘Where is she?’ he asked and she seemed to crumple in front of him.

‘In the triclinium,’ she said. ‘Master, I …’

Julius walked past her into the room and stopped inside the door. Torches burned at the head of a simple bed, lighting her face with their warmth. Julius crossed to his wife and looked down at her, his hands shaking. She had been washed and dressed in white cloth, her face left unpainted and her hair tied back behind her head.

Julius touched her face and winced at the softness of it.

There was no disguising death. Her eyes had opened a fraction and he could see the whites beneath the lids. With his hand, he tried to close them again, but they eased back open when he took his fingers away.

‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, his voice sounding loud against the fluttering of the torches. He took her hand in his, feeling the stiffness of the fingers as he knelt by her.

‘I’m sorry they hurt you so badly. You were never part of it. I’m sorry I didn’t take you away. If you can hear me, I do love you, I always did.’

He bowed his head as shame shuddered through him. His last words had been angry to this woman he’d sworn to love and there was no way to call the guilt back. He had been too stupid to help her, somehow sure that she would always be there and the arguments and the ugly words didn’t matter. And now she was gone and he clenched a fist against his head in anger at himself, pressing harder and harder and welcoming the pain it brought. How he’d boasted to her. His enemies would fall and she would be safe.

At last, he stood, but could not turn from her.

A voice shattered the quiet.

‘No! Don’t go in there!’

It was Clodia, calling outside. Julius spun round, his hand going to his sword.

His daughter Julia came running into the silence, halting as she saw him. Instinctively, he moved to block Cornelia from her sight, stepping towards her and lifting her into his arms in a tight embrace.

‘Mummy’s gone,’ she said, and he shook his head, tears spilling out of him.

‘No, no, she’s still here, and she loves you,’ he said.

Pompey’s men almost gagged at the smell of rot that came from the man they held. The skin they could feel under the cloak seemed to move too easily in their grip and, as they shifted their hands, the hooded man gasped in pain, as if something had torn away.

Pompey stood facing them, his eyes bright with malice. At his side were two young girls he had found in the house deep in the warren of alleys between the hills. Their faces were pinched with fear, but there was nowhere for them to run and they stood in terrified silence. The threat was clear. Pompey wiped a line of sweat from his cheek.

‘Remove his hood. I want to see the man who killed my daughter,’ he said.

The two soldiers reached up and pulled back the rough cloth, looking away nauseously as they saw what was revealed. The assassin glared at them all, his face a mass of pustules and scabs. There was not an inch of good flesh to be seen and the scarred and bleeding skin cracked as he spoke to them.

‘I am not the man you want,’ he whispered.

Pompey bared his teeth. ‘You are one of them. You have a name for me, I know. But your life is mine to take for what you have done.’

The man’s rheumy eyes flickered to the two girls, creasing in fear. If Pompey hadn’t guessed already, he would have known then that they were his daughters. The senator knew that fear very well. The assassin spoke quickly, as if to cover what he had shown them.

‘How did you find me?’

Pompey drew a knife from his belt, the blade shining even in the shadowy darkness of the room.

‘It took time and gold and the lives of four good men to track you down, but the filth you employ gave you to me in the end. I’m told you’re building a beautiful estate in the north, far from this hovel. Built on my blood. Did you think I would forget about my daughter’s killer?’

The man coughed, his breath overlaid with the sweet perfume he used to cover the rot.

‘It was not my knife that …’

‘It was your order. Who gave you the name? Whose gold did you take? I know it anyway, but speak it before witnesses, so that I can have justice.’

For a long moment, their gazes locked and then the assassin’s eyes dropped to the blade that Pompey held so casually. His daughters looked on, their tears drying. They didn’t understand the danger and he could have cried for their innocence as they watched their father so trustingly. They were not appalled by his sores. In fact, without the gentle bathing they administered to their father, he knew he would have taken his own life a long time before. They had none of the disease, their skin perfect under the dirt they used to hide themselves from the predators of the alleys. Who would care for them when he was gone? He knew enough of Pompey to see his own life was finished. He’d had no mercy in him since the death of his daughter, if he ever had.

‘Let my daughters go and I will tell you,’ the assassin wheezed, his eyes pleading.

Pompey grunted softly, then reached out to the youngest one, holding her tightly by the hair. With his other hand, he drew the dagger across her throat and dropped her as she twisted in his grip.

The assassin screamed in unison with her sister, straining to break the grip of the men that held him. He began to weep then, sagging in their arms.

‘Now you know,’ Pompey said. He wiped the blade between two of his fingers, the blood falling in heavy soundless drops to the earthen floor. He waited patiently until the head of the assassins had subsided into choking sobs.

‘The other one will live, perhaps. Last time of asking. Whose gold did you take?’

‘Cato … it was Cato, through Antonidus. That is all I know, I swear.’

Pompey turned to the soldiers around him. ‘Did you men hear?’

They nodded, grim as their commander.

‘Then we are finished in this place.’ He turned to leave, only a slight stain on his hands showing he had ever been there.

‘Kill them both, the girl first,’ he added, as he went out into the alleys beyond.

‘Is he awake?’ Julius asked. The room stank of sickness and Tubruk lay sprawled on a bed that showed rusty stains from his bleeding. Before he entered, Julius had waited out his daughter’s tears and gently taken her fingers from around his neck. She had cried again then, but he would not take her into another death room and Clodia had found a young female slave to take care of her. From the way the little girl went into her arms, it was clear the woman had comforted her before over the last, terrible days.

‘He may wake if you speak to him, but he hasn’t long now,’ Clodia said, looking into the room. Her face told him more than he wanted to know and he closed his eyes for a moment before entering.

Tubruk lay awkwardly, fresh stitches showing on his chest and disappearing under the blankets. Though he seemed to sleep, he shivered, and Julius tugged the blanket up to cover him. There was a trace of blood around his mouth, fresh and red. Clodia brought a bowl of crimson water from the floor and dabbed at the smear as Julius watched in despair. Too many things had changed for him to take in and he stood frozen as Clodia cleaned the lips and weeping stitches with tender care.

Tubruk groaned and opened his eyes at her touch. He couldn’t seem to focus properly.

‘You still here, old woman?’ he whispered, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

‘As long as you need me, love,’ she replied. She glanced up at Julius and back to the man on the bed.

‘Julius is here,’ she said.

Tubruk turned his head. ‘Come where I can see you,’ he said.

Clodia stood back and Julius came and looked into his eyes. Tubruk took a deep breath and his whole body shivered again with the release.

‘I couldn’t stop them, Julius. I tried, but … I couldn’t reach her.’

Julius began to sob softly as he looked down at his old friend.

‘It isn’t your fault,’ he whispered.

‘I killed them all. I killed him to save her,’ Tubruk said, his eyes blank. His breathing was ragged and Julius despaired of the gods. They had given too much pain to the ones he loved.

‘Call Cabera in here. He’s a healer,’ he said to Clodia.

She beckoned him away from the tortured figure on the bed and he bent his head to hear.

‘Don’t let him be troubled. There’s nothing to do but wait now. There’s no blood left in him.’

‘Fetch Cabera,’ Julius replied, his eyes fierce. He thought for a moment that she would refuse again, but then she left and he could hear her voice calling out in the courtyard.

‘Cabera’s here, Tubruk. He’ll make you better,’ Julius said, the soft sobbing starting again in his throat.

Dripping raindrops, the old man entered and crossed quickly to the bed, looking stricken. With deft fingers, he checked the wounds, raising the blanket to see beneath. He looked at Julius’ desperate expression and sighed.

‘I’ll try,’ he said. He placed his hands on the bruised flesh around the stitches and closed his eyes.

Julius leaned forward, whispering a prayer under his breath. There was nothing to be seen, just the figure of the old healer bent over, his hands still and dark against the pale chest. Tubruk took a long inward breath in sudden spasm, then breathed out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Clodia.

‘The pain’s gone, love,’ he said. Then the life went out of him and Cabera staggered and fell.

Pompey frowned at the galley captain who stood stiffly before him.

‘I don’t care what your orders are. These are mine. You will sail south towards Sicily and hail any other galleys you see on the way down the coast. Every Roman vessel is to guard the south and prevent the slaves escaping. Is that understood, or must I have you arrested and appoint another captain in your place?’

Gaditicus saluted, disliking the arrogant senator with a passion he didn’t dare let show. After six months at sea, he had been hoping for some time ashore in the city, but he was being ordered out again without even a chance to clean the ship. Prax would be furious when he heard, he thought.

‘I understand, sir. We’ll clear the docks on the next tide.’

‘Be sure you do,’ Pompey replied, before striding back to his waiting soldiers.

Gaditicus watched him go and glanced at the other galleys that had already put out to sea. With them all heading for the strait of Sicily, Roman ports everywhere would be easy prey. Whatever the Senate were planning, he hoped it was worth the risk.

As the grey evening came, Clodia found Julius drinking himself into a stupor in a dark room. He looked up as she entered, his eyes listless.

‘Are you home for good now?’ she asked.

He shook his head.

‘No, I’m going back with Pompey in a few days. I’ll see to the funerals for both of them first.’ His voice was slurred and miserable, but there were no words of comfort she could think to offer. Part of her wanted to make him feel pain for the cruel way he’d treated Cornelia and it was only with the last of her strength that she didn’t speak to hurt him. His face showed he knew well enough.

‘Will you stay and look after my mother and daughter?’ he said without looking at her.

‘I am a slave. I should return to Senator Cinna’s house,’ she replied.

He met her eyes then and waved his hand drunkenly. ‘I free you, then. I’ll buy your paper from her father. I can do that much at least before I go back. Just look after Julia. Is Octavian here?’

‘In the stables. I wasn’t sure if he should go back to his mother and …’

‘Look after him too. He’s my blood and I made a promise. I always keep my promises.’ His face screwed up in anguish. ‘I want you to stay here and run this house. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but when I am I want you to talk about her. You knew her before I did and I want to know everything.’

He was so young, she thought. Young and foolish and learning that life could be bitterly unfair. How long had she waited for love before finding it with Tubruk? Cornelia would have freed her to marry and Tubruk would have asked once he’d gathered his courage. Now, there was nothing left for her, and the girl she’d nursed as a baby lay still and quiet in another room. When she had the strength, Clodia knew she would be the one to wrap Tubruk’s battered body and clean his skin for the last time. But not for a while.

‘I’ll stay,’ she said and wondered if he heard her.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Cato stood in the forum under a dark sky, his toga stripped from his shoulders to reveal a mass of white flesh that shone with running beads of water. His back was marked with stripes where the whips had fallen, the pain only an echo of the anger and disgust he felt for the petty men who had brought him down. Not one of them would have disdained to act as he had, if the opportunity had come. Yet they glared and pointed at him as if they were not of his breed at all. He sneered at them, holding his head high even as the executioner came forward, the long sword gleaming in his hands.

Pompey looked on without a show of the pleasure he felt. He had delayed joining Crassus to see this task finished. He would have preferred to see the fat hands nailed to a wooden beam and displayed in the forum for a lingering death. Such an ending would be more fitting for Cato. At least there had been satisfaction as Cato’s family were sold into slavery despite his cries. The house had been given over to the Senate and the funds raised by its sale would go some way towards financing the legions Pompey took with him against the slaves.

Julius watched numbly at Pompey’s side. The general had ushered him forward in triumph to witness the execution, but he felt nothing. There was no joy in seeing Cato killed. It was no more than ending the life of a dog or crushing a stinging insect. The bloated senator understood nothing of the grief he had caused and nothing he could suffer would bring Cornelia back. Let this be quick, he whispered to himself as he watched. Let it all end.

Cato spat on the stones of the forum as he looked around at the crowd of senators and citizens that had massed to see the execution. For once, there was no sense of danger from the crowd. He had never been popular with the people of the city – as if anyone could care what they thought or did. He spat again, his mouth curling in anger at the sight of the waiting mob. Animals, all of them, with no comprehension of how a great man could bend the law under his hand. Marius had known it, Sulla had. None of those others could understand that there was no law but that which could be held.

Footsteps sounded and Cato turned his head to see Pompey striding towards him. He grimaced. The man didn’t even have style enough to let him die without a few more jeers and taunts. He was not made for greatness. Sulla would have allowed his enemy the dignity of a private death, no matter what had passed between them. There was a man who understood what power meant.

Pompey moved close enough to speak into Cato’s ear.

‘Your family will not live long as slaves. I have bought them all myself,’ the sibilant voice whispered.

Cato looked coldly at him.

‘Germinius too?’ he asked.

‘He will not survive the final battle.’

Cato smiled at that. He wondered if Pompey would find Julius and Brutus any easier to deal with than he had. He raised his head in defiance. It seemed fitting to have his line end with him. He’d heard of kings in ancient times who had their families thrown alive onto their pyres. Pompey was a fool to try to hurt him.

‘You will know a day like this one,’ he said to Pompey. ‘You are too small a man to hold this city in your hand for long.’ He laughed aloud then as Pompey’s face contorted with a spasm of anger.

‘Take up your sword and finish him,’ the general snapped at the executioner, who bowed low to the ground in response as Pompey stalked back to the waiting senators.

Cato nodded to the man. He felt tired all of a sudden, almost numb.

‘Not today, boy. Some things have to be done by a man’s own hand,’ he muttered, removing a heavy bracelet from his wrist. With his thumb, he eased out a razor from the edge of it and turned to face the crowd, sneering at them. With a jerk of his hand, he nicked the side of his throat, cutting the heavy arteries, then stood waiting as blood poured out over his white flesh, drenching him.

The executioner stepped forward nervously, but Cato had strength enough to raise his hand, refusing the blade. The crowd watched with animal fascination as his legs began to shiver and then suddenly he fell to his knees with an audible crack on the stone. Even then, he glared at them all before slumping forward in a heap.

The gathered citizens sighed as the tension of the death was released. Despite the crimes they whispered to each other, the courage of the senator spoiled the pleasure they had come to find. They began to disperse without a sound, passing the slumped body with bowed heads and more than a few muttered prayers.

Pompey pursed his lips in anger. The joy of vengeance was missing at such an ending and he felt as if something had been stolen from him. He signalled his guards to remove the body, turning to Julius.

‘Now we go south, to finish it,’ he said.

The general looked at Crassus in amazement.

‘Sir, you’re talking about more than twenty miles of broken land! I urge you to reconsider. We should occupy a central position, ready to stop them breaking through.’

Crassus waited until the man had finished, his fingers tapping nervously on his table as he listened. It was the only thing to do, he was certain. The slaves were trapped against the coast and if Pompey had reached the galleys, there would be no one to take them off. All he had to do was hold them, bottle them up in the spit of land at the base of the country. He glanced at Pompey’s map on the wall. It looked such a tiny distance, there.

‘My orders to you are clear, General. Fresh legions are coming from the north, with Pompey. We will hold the line until they arrive and I want a fortification cutting across country. You are wasting my time.’ His voice held a dangerous edge. Surely the man wouldn’t hesitate this way if Pompey were giving the orders. It was insufferable.

‘Get out!’ he snapped at the man, rising from his chair. When he was alone, he sank back again, rubbing nervously at his forehead as he looked at the map again.

Every noise in the night made him jolt awake, terrified the slaves had broken through to pillage the country. It could not be allowed again. At first, he had thought of crushing them against the sea, but what if they fought as they had in the north? With escape barred to them, they would be desperate and if they overran the Roman lines, Crassus knew he’d be finished, even if he survived the battle. The Senate would call for his execution. He grimaced. How many of them had debts that only his death would erase? He could imagine their pious faces as they discussed his fate in Senate. He understood the pressure a little better since Pompey had left him. There was no one to ask, the decisions were his alone.

He crossed to the map and ran his finger across the narrowest neck of land at the toe of the country.

‘We will hold you here until the new legions come,’ he said, frowning. Twenty miles of banked earth. Such a line had never been built before and the people of Rome would tell their children about it when it was done. Crassus, who built a wall across a country. He scrubbed his finger across the point again and again until a darker line showed on the skin.

It would hold them unless Pompey had failed to gather enough galleys to stop the slaves escaping. Then he would be the laughing stock of the country, guarding nothing but fields. Shaking his head to clear it, he sat down again to think.

After the delay for Cato’s execution, Pompey pushed the Greek legions south without rest. They were the veterans of the borders of Greece, with huge numbers of hastati and triarii to bolster the younger men. With the Via Appia under their feet, they passed thirty-five mile markers in the first day. Pompey knew the pace would slow when they were forced to turn off the road, but even if the slaves had run to the furthest tip of the country, he knew he could bring the Greek legions to them in less than two weeks.

Julius rode with Cabera at his side, changing horses, as Pompey did, every twelve miles at the way stations. Pompey was puzzled by the young tribune. He had spoken only a few words to him since they stood to watch Cato die in the great forum, but he was like a different person. The inner fire that had unnerved Pompey when Julius had taken control of the new Tenth legion seemed to have been drawn out of him. It was not the same man who now rode without caring, his horse wide-eyed with nerves at the lack of signals from its rider. Pompey watched him carefully as they rode each day. He had known men to break before after a tragedy and if Julius was no longer fit to command, he would not hesitate to remove him from his post. Marcus Brutus was equal to the task and in his private thoughts Pompey was able to admit that Brutus could never be a threat to him as the other could. The way Caesar had taken control of Primigenia and yet kept the friendship of Brutus spoke volumes for his ability. Perhaps it would be better to have him removed before he had fully recovered from the murder of his wife, while he was weak.

Pompey looked ahead along the wide road. Crassus hadn’t the nerve to engage the slave army, he’d known it from the moment he’d heard his name chosen in the Senate. The victory would be his alone and it would take nothing less to unite the factions in the Senate and bring him to power over Rome. Somewhere ahead of him, the fleet of galleys was blocking the sea and, though the slaves could not yet know it, their rebellion was ended.

Spartacus looked out over the cliffs and watched the smoke as another vessel was captured and burned by the galleys. The sea was alive with ships fleeing the Roman fleet, their oars smacking into the choppy sea in desperation as they tried to manoeuvre round each other without collision. There was no mercy for those who were caught. The navy galleys had suffered too many years of impotent pursuits not to revel in the destruction. Some were boarded, but more were burned as two or three galleys rained fire onto their decks until the pirates died in flames or jumped screaming into the sea. The rest made speed away from the coast, taking the last chance for freedom with them.

The cliffs were lined with his men, just watching as the fresh sea air blew against them. The cliffs were green with spring grasses and a light drizzle of rain darkened their grubby faces unnoticed.

Spartacus looked at them, his ragged army. They were all hungry and tired, heavy with the knowledge that their great run through the country was finally over. Still, he was proud of them all.

Crixus turned to him, his weariness showing. ‘There’s no way out of this, is there?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Without the ships, we’re done,’ Spartacus replied.

Crixus looked at the men around them, sitting and standing without hope in the thin rain. ‘I’m sorry. We should have crossed the mountains,’ he said softly.

Spartacus shrugged, chuckling. ‘We gave them a run, though,’ he said. ‘By all the gods, we scared them.’

They were silent again for a long time and, out at sea, the last of the pirate ships were chased or captured, the galleys sweeping back and forth on their long oars. The smoke from burning decks rose against the rain, fierce and hot as vengeance.

‘Antonidus has gone,’ Crixus said suddenly.

‘I know. He came last night, wanting some of the gold.’

‘You gave it to him?’ Crixus asked.

Spartacus shrugged. ‘Why not? If he can get away, good luck to him. There’s nothing left for us here. You should go as well. Perhaps a few of us will make it on our own.’

‘He won’t get past the legions. That damned wall they’ve built cuts us all off.’

Spartacus stood.

‘Then we will break it and scatter. I’ll not wait to be slaughtered like lambs here. Gather the men close, Crix. We’ll share the gold out so they all have a piece or two and then we’ll run one more time.’

‘They’ll hunt us down,’ Crixus said.

‘They won’t catch us all. The country’s too big for that.’

Spartacus held out his hand and Crixus took it.

‘Until we meet again, Crix.’

‘Until then.’

There was no moon to reveal them to the soldiers on the great scar that stretched from coast to coast. When Spartacus had seen it, he had shaken his head in silent disbelief that a Roman general would attempt such a folly to pen the slaves against the sea. In a way, it was a mark of respect to his followers that the legions did not dare pursue them, but were content to sit and peer over their trenches in the darkness.

Spartacus lay on his stomach in the scrub grass, his face blackened with mud. Crixus lay at his side and, behind them, a vast snake of men were hidden, waiting for the shout to attack. There had been no opposition to this last gamble when he put it to them. They had all seen the ships burn and their despair had turned into a grim fatalism. The great dream had ended. They would blow away like seeds on the wind and the Romans would never catch the half of them.

‘It’ll be a thin line guarding a trench that long,’ Spartacus had told them as the sun set. ‘We will be the arrow through their skin and before they can gather, most of us will be through and clear.’

There had been no cheering, but they had passed the word without excitement, sitting back then to sharpen their blades and wait. When the sun had gone, Spartacus rose and they came with him, trotting hunched over in the blackness.

The lip of the trench was a dark line against the faint shine of stars in the clear sky. Crixus looked at it and strained to make out the features of his friend.

‘Ten feet high, at least, and it looks solid.’ He sensed rather than saw Spartacus nod and cracked his neck with the tension. The two men stood slowly and Spartacus gave a low whistle to summon the group who would be first to the wall. They gathered around him as shadows, the strongest of them, armed with heavy hammers and axes.

‘Go now. What they have built can be torn down,’ Spartacus whispered and they set off in a loping run, their weapons held ready for the first strike. The men behind came to their feet and ran towards the Roman wall.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Julius muttered his thanks as he was handed a bowl of warm stew. Covering the fields around him for as far as he could see, the soldiers of the Greek legions ate, the thin white snares of their cooking fires looping into the air. The ground was thick with mud and heavy clods stuck to their sandals and slowed them. Those who owned cloaks used them to sit on, turning the inside of the cloth down so the mud wouldn’t show when they started again. Many more sat on whatever they could find, flat stones, coarse grass or even a pile of loose hay that they’d spread around.

It would be a short break, Julius knew. The extraordinarii had come in early that morning from their scouting and rumours flew around the men, even before the official word had come through the chain of command.

There was nothing good in the reports. Julius had been with Pompey when the general heard the slave army was coming north to meet them and not one of Crassus’ eagle standards had been sighted. Pompey had raged at the rider who brought the news, demanding details he could not give. Wherever Crassus was, he had failed to hold the slaves against the sea. Julius wondered if he was still alive, but he could not bring himself to care particularly. He had seen so much of death. One more senator in this disastrous campaign would not make a difference.

Cabera wiped his fingers around his bowl and handed it back to the cook servants as they made their way through the vast encampment. There was never enough to eat, and, by the time the bowls were passed out, much of it was as cold as the day. Around them, the men waited in that sleepwalking peace before a battle. None of them had fought the slaves before, but the usual chatter was absent. Somewhere to the south, it was easy to imagine a field like the one where they sat, littered with Roman bodies and crows.

Julius sighed as the rain started again. It would make the ground even softer. It didn’t matter. It fitted his mood perfectly, the skies reflecting the depression that had settled on him. The picture of his wife’s pale face and the torch-lit bed was as clear in his mind as if he were still seeing it. Tubruk, even Cato. It all seemed so terribly pointless. He’d loved the struggle in the beginning, when Marius was the golden general and they knew they fought for the city and each other, but the lines had blurred along the way and now he was sickened, eaten by guilt.

Julius dipped his fingers into the stew, pushing it into his mouth without tasting it. When Pelitas had died, he had wept, but there were no more tears in him for the others. He had no more lies for them, no more speeches. The grand lie had been that there was anything to fight for at all.

His father had seemed to see something worth saving in the Republic, but there was nothing left of that. There were just small men like Cato and Pompey who saw no further than their own glory. Visionless men, caring nothing for the things Tubruk had told him were important. Julius had believed what the great men taught him, but they had all died for their dreams.

He reached down into the mud between his sprawled feet to trace a line with his finger. None of it was worth the death of one of them. Not Cornelia’s, not Tubruk’s, not any of the men he had led in Greece. They had followed him and given their lives without complaint. Well, he could do that, at least.

Of all the soldiers, Julius welcomed the battle to come. He would place himself in the front line for one last hour until it all finally stopped. He was tired of the Senate and tired of the path. It made him wince to think back to the day Marius had taken him into the building for the first time. He had been awed then at the heart of power. They had seemed so noble then, before he knew them too well to respect them. He pulled his cloak against him as the wind built and heavier rain began to fall, spattering the mud around. Some of the men cursed, but most were quiet, making their peace with the gods before the killing began.

‘Julius?’ Cabera said, startling him out of his thoughts.

Julius turned to see the old man was holding his hands out towards him. He smiled as he saw what Cabera had made for him. It was a circlet of leaves, gathered from the bushes and wound about with thread from his robe.

‘What’s that for?’ Julius said to him.

Cabera held it out, pressing it into his hands. ‘Put it on, boy. It’s yours.’

Julius shook his head. ‘Not today, Cabera. Not here.’

‘I made it for you, Julius. Please.’

They stood up together and Julius put out a hand to grip the back of the old man’s neck.

‘All right, old friend,’ he said, letting out a long breath. He removed his helmet and pressed the ring of wet leaves onto his hair, feeling them prickle against his skin. Some of the men looked at him, but Julius didn’t care. Cabera had been there through all of it and he didn’t deserve to be waiting to die in a muddy field, far from his own home. Another one who would die at his side.

‘I want you to stay away from the front line when they come, Cabera. Live through this one,’ he said.

‘Your path is mine, remember?’ the old man said, his eyes gleaming in the rain. His white hair hung in thin strips over his face and there was something so bedraggled about him that Julius chuckled.

Around the pair of them, men rose to their feet in silence. Julius raised his head sharply at the movement, thinking it was time to march, but they just stood and looked at him. More and more joined them as the word spread, until every one of them was standing. Plates were put down and cloaks left to grow wet as they faced him and the rain fell.

Wonderingly, Julius reached up to touch the circlet and he felt his heart lift. These were not small men. They gave their lives without caring, trusting their generals not to waste what they offered. They smiled and laughed as he caught their eyes and he felt again the bonds that held them together.

‘We are Rome,’ he whispered and turned to see thousands standing for him. In that moment, he understood what held Tubruk to loyalty and his father’s faith. He would turn his hand to the dream as better men had before him, and honour them with his life.

In the distance, cornicens sounded the long notes to break camp.

‘Keep moving, my brothers,’ Spartacus roared. It was the end and, somehow, there was no fear. His slaves had shown the legions could be beaten and he knew there would be a day when the cracks they had made would widen and Rome would fall. The legions behind them glittered in the morning sun, sending up a shout as Pompey’s thousands marched down to them, faster and faster like jaws to crush the slaves between them. Spartacus saw his ragged slaves would be engulfed. He drew his sword and pulled his iron helmet over his face.

‘My gods, we gave them a run, though,’ he said to himself as the air darkened with spears.

EPILOGUE

Pompey walked with Crassus between the rows of crosses. With Rome in sight, the line stretched for miles down the Via Appia behind them, six thousand men to serve as a warning and a proof of the victory. Forests had been felled to hold them and when the legion carpenters ran out of nails, the slaves had simply been tied and speared, or left to die of thirst.

The two generals dismounted to walk the last mile into the city. Crassus would not be shamed, Pompey had promised him. Ending the rebellion erased the disasters that had gone before and Pompey was willing to let him have his moment of glory. He had nothing to fear from Crassus and there was always his wealth to be considered. He would need wealthy men to finance his time as consul. Perhaps, he thought, it would be fruitful to urge Crassus to take the second consular post when the elections came. They could share the expenses then and Crassus would always be grateful.

In the distance, the generals could hear the tinny sounds of a cheering crowd, catching sight of them on the road. They smiled at each other, enjoying the moment.

‘I wonder if we should ask for a Triumph?’ Crassus said, breathing quickly at the thought. ‘There hasn’t been one since Marius.’

‘I remember it,’ Pompey said, thinking of the young man who had stood at Marius’ shoulder on the ride to the forum.

As if guessing his thoughts, Crassus glanced at him.

‘It’s a shame Julius isn’t here to see this. He fought hard enough for us.’

Pompey frowned. He would not admit it to Crassus, but when he’d seen the Greek legions stand for Julius in the mud and the rain, it had frightened him. All the great men were dead, but that one stood with the blood of Marius in him, general of the Tenth and with a growing fame that could be deadly if he ever chose to use it. No, he did not want Julius in his city or his precious legion. He’d signed the orders sending them to Spain without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Spain will temper him, Crassus. I have no doubt.’

Crassus looked questioningly at him, but chose not to reply and Pompey nodded in satisfaction as the roar of the waiting crowd grew. Spain was far enough away for Marius’ nephew and when his five years there were up, the people would have forgotten him.

HISTORICAL NOTE

The fact that, as a young man, Julius Caesar was captured by pirates and held for ransom is a matter of historical record. When they suggested a ransom of twenty talents, he is said to have demanded fifty, as they had no idea whom they had captured. He told the pirates that he would have them crucified, though he would have their officers strangled out of mercy.

When he was released on the north coast of Africa, he set about raising funds and demanding men from villages until he had enough to make a crew and hire ships. It is difficult to imagine the personal charisma that must have been necessary to accomplish this. It should be remembered that he was a young man, with no authority or Senate position.

In the book, I have assumed that he picked up his recruits in Roman settlements, the children of retired soldiers. It is the only way I could explain how he was able to take ship, search the Mediterranean for the pirates, find them and carry out his grisly promises.

On landing in Greece, he discovered the rebellion raised by Mithridates and gathered an army around him. In fact, the battle he fought to stiffen the resolve of wavering Roman cities was against Mithridates’ deputy rather than the king himself. Julius achieved a victory that held the region together in the face of Senate fumbling and indecision. It was Pompey who eventually defeated Mithridates and both men gained in status in Rome. Julius was made a military tribune, with the authority to levy troops, a position he still held when the Spartacus slave rebellion began.

There is no record of Caesar’s involvement in the war against Spartacus, though I find it difficult to believe that a tribune with his drive and energy would not have been part of the legions led by Crassus and Pompey.

Though Karl Marx described Spartacus as ‘the finest fellow that the whole of ancient history has to show,’ there is little doubt that the Thracian gladiator had the chance to cross the Alps and escape Rome for ever. We do not know what prompted him to turn south again, but, considering how close he came, perhaps it was a genuine belief that the power of the legions could be broken.

The slave army destroyed and routed a number of the legions sent against them, sending shockwaves of fear through the city and Roman lands. Estimates are that Spartacus had upwards of seventy thousand slaves with him, roaming Italy north and south for two years in the field.

Crassus built his wall across the toe of Italy and Spartacus’ hope of being taken off by pirates came to nothing. The slaves broke through Crassus’ barrier and streamed north once more. It took three armies to stop them in the end and there is no record of whether Spartacus fell or was crucified with the thousands of others along the Appian Way.

Rome’s first Dictator for life, Cornelius Sulla, managed to retire from office and live comfortably until his death in 78 BC. He is best remembered for his lists of proscriptions, published each day and naming those who had displeased him or were considered enemies of the Republic at his word. Gangs of raptores would earn a fee by dragging unfortunates out to be executed and for a while Rome was as close to anarchy and terror as she had ever been. In many ways, Sulla was the architect of the downfall of the Republic, though the cracks would not show for some time.

As with Sulla’s manner of death, I have found it necessary on occasion to make changes to events. Though Caesar fought at Mytilene, earning the oak wreath there for bravery, I have left out his travels to Asia Minor and the cases he prosecuted in Rome during this period.

Octavian was Julius’ great-nephew and not a cousin as I have it. The change in relationship allowed me to avoid including a minor character in the first book. Similarly, for plot purposes, I have included Cato’s suicide in The Death of Kings, whereas in fact he was Caesar’s enemy for years longer.

Julius Caesar accomplished so much that it has always been harder deciding what not to tell than to choose the events that cry out to be dramatised. Sadly, sheer limitations of length prevent me from dealing with every aspect of his achievements. For those who are interested in the details I have been forced to omit, I once again recommend Christian Meier’s book Caesar.

The minutiae of Roman lives were very much as I have portrayed them, from the birthing chair and jewellery making to the manner and customs of a Roman court, for which I owe a debt to The Elements of Roman Law by R.W. Lee.

The events of the books to come will, I hope, be made richer by knowing what has gone before.

Conn Iggulden

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A growing number of people have been kind enough to read drafts of scenes and chapters, often many times over. Nick Sayers and Tim Waller at HarperCollins have guided these books through various versions with a skill I am beginning to take for granted. In addition, I have to thank Joel, Tony, my brother David, my parents, Victoria, Ella, Marlita and Clive, in no particular order. Thank you all for your interest and contributions.

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2004

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437139

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321766

Version: 2013-12-05

EMPEROR

THE FIELD OF SWORDS

CONN IGGULDEN

To my daughter Mia, and my wife Ella

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Julius stood by the open window, gazing out over Spanish hills. The setting sun splashed gold along a distant crest so that it seemed to hang in the air unsupported, a vein of light in the distance. Behind him, the murmur of conversation rose and fell without interrupting his thoughts. He could smell honeysuckle on the breeze and the touch of it in his nostrils made his own rank sweat even more pungent as the delicate fragrance shifted in the air and was gone.

It had been a long day. When he pressed a hand against his eyes, he could feel a surge of exhaustion rise in him like dark water. The voices in the campaign room mingled with the creak of chairs and the rustle of maps. How many hundreds of evenings had he spent on the upper floor of the fort with those men? The routine had become a comfort for them all at the end of a day and even when there was nothing to discuss, they still gathered in the campaign rooms to drink and talk. It kept Rome alive in their minds and at times they could almost forget that they had not seen their home for more than four years.

At first, Julius had embraced the problems of the regions and hardly thought of Rome for months at a time. The days had flown as he rose and slept with the sun and the Tenth made towns in the wilderness. On the coast, Valentia had been transformed with lime and wood and paint until it was almost a new city veneered over the old. They had laid roads to chain the land and bridges that opened the wild hills to settlers. Julius had worked with a frenetic, twitching energy in those first years, using exhaustion like a drug to force away his memories. Then he would sleep and Cornelia would come to him. Those were the nights when he would leave his sweat-soaked bed and ride out to the watch posts, appearing out of the darkness unannounced until the Tenth were as nervous and tired as he was himself.

As if to mock his indifference, his engineers had found gold in two new seams, richer than any they had known before. The yellow metal had its own allure and when Julius had seen the first haul spilled out of a cloth onto his desk, he had looked at it with hatred for what it represented. He had come to Spain with nothing, but the ground gave up its secrets and with the wealth came the tug of the old city and the life he had almost forgotten.

He sighed at the thought. Spain was such a treasure house it would be difficult to leave her, but part of him knew he could not lose himself there for much longer. Life was too precious to be wasted, and too short.

The room was warm with the press of bodies. The maps of the new mines were stretched out on low tables, held by weights. Julius could hear Renius arguing with Brutus and the low cadence of Domitius chuckling. Only the giant Ciro was silent. Yet even those who spoke were marking time until Julius joined them. They were good men. Each one of them had stood with him against enemies and through grief and there were times when Julius could imagine how it might have been to cross the world with them. They were men to walk a finer path than to be forgotten in Spain and Julius could not bear the sympathy he saw in their eyes. He knew he deserved only contempt for having brought them to that place and buried himself in petty work.

If Cornelia had lived, he would have taken her with him to Spain. It would have been a new start, far away from the intrigues of the city. He bowed his head as the evening breeze touched his face. It was an old pain and there were whole days when he did not think of her. Then the guilt would surface and the dreams would be terrible, as if in punishment for the lapse.

‘Julius? The guard is at the door for you,’ Brutus said, touching him on the shoulder. Julius nodded and turned back to the men in the room, his eyes seeking out the stranger amongst them.

The legionary looked nervous as he glanced around at the map-laden tables and the jugs of wine, clearly awed by the people within.

‘Well?’ Julius said.

The soldier swallowed as he met the dark eyes of his general. There was no kindness in that hard, fleshless face and the young legionary stammered slightly.

‘A young Spanish at the gate, General. He says he’s the one we’re looking for.’

The conversations in the room died away and the guard wished he were anywhere else but under the scrutiny of those men.

‘Have you checked him for weapons?’ Julius said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then bring him to me. I want to speak to the man who has caused me so much trouble.’

Julius stood waiting at the top of the stairs as the Spaniard was brought up. His clothes were too small for his gangling limbs and the face was caught in the change between man and boy, though there was no softness in the bony jaw. As their eyes met, the Spaniard hesitated, stumbling.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ Julius said as they came level.

‘Adàn,’ the Spaniard forced out.

‘You killed my officer?’ Julius said, with a sneer.

The young man froze, then nodded, his expression wavering between fear and determination. He could see the faces turned towards him in the room and his courage seemed to desert him then at the thought of stepping into their midst. He might have held back if the guard hadn’t shoved him across the threshold.

‘Wait below,’ Julius told the legionary, suddenly irritated.

Adàn refused to bow his head in the face of the hostile glares of the Romans, though he could not remember being more frightened in his life. As Julius closed the door behind him, he started silently, cursing his nervousness. Adàn watched as the general sat down facing him and a dull terror overwhelmed him. Should he keep his hands by his sides? All of a sudden, they seemed awkward and he considered folding them or clasping his fingers behind his back. The silence was painful as he waited and still they had their eyes on him. Adàn swallowed with difficulty, determined not to show his fear.

‘You knew enough to tell me your name. Can you understand me?’ Julius asked.

Adàn worked spit into his dry mouth. ‘I can,’ he said. At least his voice hadn’t quavered like a boy’s. He squared his shoulders slightly and glanced at the others, almost recoiling from the naked animosity from one of them, a bear of a man with one arm who seemed to be practically growling with anger.

‘You told the guards you were the one we were looking for, the one who killed the soldier,’ Julius said.

Adàn’s gaze snapped back to him.

‘I did it. I killed him,’ he replied, the words coming in a rush.

‘You tortured him,’ Julius added.

Adàn swallowed again. He had imagined this scene as he walked over the dark fields to the fort, but he couldn’t summon the defiance he had pictured. He felt as if he was confessing to his father, and it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet in shame, despite his intentions.

‘He was trying to rape my mother. I took him into the woods. She tried to stop me, but I would not listen to her,’ Adàn said stiffly, trying to remember the words he had practised.

Someone in the room muttered an oath, but Adàn could not tear his eyes away from the general. He felt an obscure relief that he had told them. Now they would kill him and his parents would be released.

Thinking of his mother was a mistake. Tears sprang from nowhere to rim his eyes and he blinked them back furiously. She would want him to be strong in front of these men.

Julius watched him. The young Spaniard was visibly trembling, and with reason. He had only to give the order and Adàn would be taken out into the yard and executed in front of the assembled ranks. It would be the end of it, but a memory stayed his hand.

‘Why have you given yourself up, Adàn?’

‘My family have been taken in for questioning, General. They are innocent. I am the one you want.’

‘You think your death will save them?’

Adàn hesitated. How could he explain that only that thin hope had made him come?

‘They have done nothing wrong.’

Julius raised a hand to scratch his eyebrow, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair as he thought.

‘When I was younger than you, Adàn, I stood in front of a Roman named Cornelius Sulla. He had murdered my uncle and broken everything I valued in the world. He told me I would go free if I put aside my wife and shamed her with her father. He cherished such little acts of spite.’

For a moment, Julius looked into the unimaginable distance of the past and Adàn felt sweat break out on his forehead. Why was the man talking to him? He had already confessed; there was nothing else. Despite his fear, he felt interest kindle. The Romans seemed to bear only one face in Spain. To hear they had rivalry and enemies within their own ranks was a revelation.

‘I hated that man, Adàn,’ Julius continued. ‘If I had been given a weapon, I would have used it on him even though it meant my own life. I wonder if you understand that sort of hatred.’

‘You did not give up your wife?’ Adàn asked.

Julius blinked at the sudden question, then smiled bitterly.

‘No. I refused and he let me live. The floor at his feet was spattered with the blood of people he had killed and tortured, yet he let me live. I have often wondered why.’

‘He did not think you were a threat,’ Adàn said, surprised by his own courage to speak so to the general. Julius shook his head in memory.

‘I doubt it. I told him I would devote my life to killing him if he set me free.’ For a moment, he almost said aloud how his friend had poisoned the Dictator, but that part of the story could never be told, not even to the men in that room.

Julius shrugged. ‘He died by someone else’s hand, in the end. It is one of the regrets of my life that I could not do it myself and watch the life fade from his eyes.’

Adàn had to look away from the fire he saw in the Roman. He believed him and the thought of this man ordering his own death with such malice made him shudder.

Julius did not speak again for a long time and Adàn felt weak with the tension, his head jerking upwards as the general broke the silence at last.

‘There are murderers in the cells here and in Valentia. One of them will be hanged for your crimes as well as his own. You, I am going to pardon. I will sign my name to it and you will go back to your home with your family and never come to my attention again.’

Renius snorted in amazement. ‘I would like a private word, General,’ he grated, looking venomously at Adàn. The young Spaniard stood with his mouth open.

‘You may not have one, Renius. I have spoken and it will stand,’ Julius replied without looking at him. He watched the boy for a moment and felt a weight lift off him. He had made the right decision, he was sure. He had seen himself in the Spaniard’s eyes and it was like lifting a veil into his memory. How frightening Sulla had seemed then. To Adàn, Julius would have been another of that cruel type, wrapped in metal armour and harder thoughts. How close he had come to sending Adàn to be impaled, or burnt, or nailed to the gates of the fort, as Sulla had with so many of his enemies. It was an irony that Sulla’s old whim had saved Adàn, but Julius had caught himself before he gave the order for death and wondered at what he was becoming. He would not be those men he had hated. Age would not force him into their mould, if he had the strength. He rose from his seat and faced Adàn.

‘I do not expect you to waste this chance, Adàn. You will not have another from me.’

Adàn almost burst into tears, emotions roiling and overwhelming him. He had prepared himself for death and having it snatched away and freedom promised was too much for him. On an impulse, he took a step forward and went down on one knee before anyone could react.

Julius stood slowly, looking down at the young man before him.

‘We are not the enemy, Adàn. Remember that. I will have a scribe prepare the pardon. Wait below for me,’ he said.

Adàn rose and looked into the Roman’s dark eyes for a last moment before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall, wiping sweat from his face. He felt dizzy with relief and every breath he pulled in was clear and cold. He could not understand why he had been spared.

The guard in the room below craned his head to stare up at Adàn’s slumped figure in the shadows.

‘Shall I heat the knives for you then?’ the Roman sneered up at him.

‘Not today,’ Adàn replied, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over the man’s face.

Brutus pressed a cup of wine into Julius’ hand, pouring expertly from an amphora.

‘Are you going to tell us why you let him go?’ he said.

Julius lifted the cup to cut off the flow and drank from it before holding it out again. ‘Because he was brave,’ he said.

Renius rubbed the bristles of his chin with his hand. ‘He will be famous in the towns, you realise. He will be the man who faced us and lived. They’ll probably make him mayor when old Del Subió dies. The young ones will flock around him and before you know it …’

‘Enough,’ Julius interrupted, his face flushing from the heady wine. ‘The sword is not the answer to everything, no matter how you may wish it so. We have to live with them without sending our men out in pairs and watching every alley and track for ambush.’ His hands cut shapes in the air as he strained to find words for the thought.

‘They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?’

‘I understand,’ Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’ reply.

Julius’ face lit with the idea. ‘There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is of Rome.’ He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. ‘Rome is … an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adán to cast us off would be like tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.’

‘Unless he killed the man for sport,’ Renius said, ‘and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.’ He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

‘I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?’ His voice had risen as he spoke and Renius turned to face him, realising he had gone too far.

Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him.

‘If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand that?’

Renius froze. ‘I know that, of course, you …’

Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish and he was left feeling empty and tired.

‘Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.’

Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.

There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.

‘I cannot go back,’ he said aloud, his voice cracking.

Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.

They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.

‘He wants you,’ Renius said.

Cabera looked up at his tone. ‘Hand me that pot, will you?’

Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humour dampened.

‘You’re worried about Julius,’ the old healer said.

Renius shrugged. ‘He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I … can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.’

Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’ arm.

‘He knows you’re here, if he needs you,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a sleeping draught for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.’

Renius shook his head. ‘Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.’

Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.

‘You are a good man, Renius,’ he said, too quietly to be heard.

CHAPTER TWO

Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.

The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.

‘I will buy his catch, Captain,’ Servilia said.

The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.

‘They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,’ he said.

She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.

‘Nonetheless, the sun is hot and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.’

The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labours, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.

‘Won’t your little boat drift away?’ she asked.

The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.

‘He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.’

Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.

The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.

‘Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?’ she asked.

The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.

‘Just a few coppers will do, madam,’ he said.

Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the captain and jerked his knot free before climbing the rail and diving into the blue water below. Servilia leaned over to watch him surface and laughed with pleasure as he pulled himself back in, gleaming in the sunlight like his fish. He pulled his net out of the water and waved to her.

‘What a wonderful beginning,’ she breathed. The captain muttered something unintelligible.

The crewmen who held the fish brought wooden clubs out of a deck locker and, before Servilia realised what they were doing, brought them down on the shining heads with a grim thumping sound. The shining eyes disappeared under the force of the blows, knocked inside the head as blood spattered over the deck. Servilia grimaced as a spot of it touched her arm. The seamen were clearly enjoying themselves, suddenly more vital than they had been at any point in the voyage from Ostia. It was as if they had come alive in the killing and they chuckled and joked with each other as they finished the grisly task.

When the last of the fish were dead, the deck was coated in their blood and tiny silver scales. Servilia watched as the seamen threw a canvas bucket on a line into the sea and sluiced the planks clean.

‘The port is tight with ships, madam,’ the captain said at her shoulder, squinting against the sun. ‘I’ll take her in as close as I can, but we’ll have to anchor for a few hours until there’s a place on the dock.’ Servilia turned to look again at Valentia, suddenly longing to be on land again.

‘As you say, Captain,’ she murmured.

The mountains behind the port seemed to fill the horizon, green and red against the dark blue of the sky. Her son, Brutus, was somewhere over them and seeing him after so long would be wonderful. Strangely, her stomach tightened almost to an ache when she thought of the young man who was his friend. She wondered how the years had changed him and touched her hair unconsciously, smoothing it back where it had fallen in tendrils, made damp by the sea air.

Evening had muted the heat of the sun into grey softness by the time the Roman trade ship was able to ease between the lines of anchored shipping and take her place on the dock. Servilia had brought three of her most beautiful girls with her and they joined her on deck with the crew as they threw ropes to the dockworkers and used the steering oars to bring them safe against the massive wooden beams of the side. It was a delicate manoeuvre and the captain showed his skill in its neatness, as he communicated with the mate at the bow with a series of hand signals and calls.

There was a general air of excitement and the young girls Servilia had brought laughed and joked as the workers on the docks caught sight of them and called ribald comments. Servilia let them preen without a word; all three were the rarity in her business who had not yet lost the love for the work. In fact, Angelina, the youngest, was constantly falling in love with her customers and few months went by without some romantic offering to buy her for marriage. The price always seemed to surprise them and Angelina would sulk for days before someone else took her fancy.

The girls were dressed as modestly as the daughters of any great house. Servilia had taken enormous care with their safety, knowing that even a short sea journey gave a sense of freedom to men that could have caused trouble. Their dresses were cut to obscure the lines of their young bodies, though there were more provocative garments in the trunks Servilia had brought along. If the letters Brutus had sent were correct, there would be a market and the three girls would be the first in the new house she would buy. The sailors who grunted and complained under the heavy trunks would have been shocked at the weight of gold that had been split between them.

Servilia’s perusal of the docks was interrupted as Angelina shrieked suddenly. Servilia’s sharp glance took in the sailor hurrying away and Angelina’s pleased outrage, before she turned back. They had reached land not a moment too soon, she thought.

The captain shouted for the dockworkers to make the ropes fast and the crew cheered the announcement, already anticipating the pleasures of the port. Servilia caught the captain’s eye and he crossed the deck to her, suddenly more genial than she had grown to expect.

‘We won’t break out the cargo until tomorrow morning now,’ he said. ‘I can recommend a few places if you want to go ashore and there’s a cousin of mine who’ll rent you as many carts as you want, at a good price.’

‘Thank you, Captain. It’s been a great pleasure.’ Servilia smiled at him, pleased to see a blush start high on his cheeks. Angelina was not the only one with a circle of admirers on the ship, she thought with some pleasure.

The captain cleared his throat and raised his chin to speak again, looking suddenly nervous.

‘I will be dining alone later, if you would like to join me. There’ll be fresh fruit sent to the ship, so it’ll be better than we’re used to.’

Servilia laid a hand on his arm and felt the heat of his skin beneath his tunic.

‘It will have to be another time, I’m afraid. I’d like to be moving by dawn. Would you be able to have my trunks taken off first? I’ll speak to the legion to arrange a guard on it until the carts are loaded.’

The captain nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. His first mate had told him the woman was a whore, but he had the intense impression that offering her money to stay with him would lead to an awful humiliation. For a moment he looked so terribly lonely that Servilia considered letting Angelina raise his spirits. The little blonde loved older men. They were always so desperately grateful, and for such little effort. Looking at him, Servilia guessed he would probably refuse the offer. Men of his years often wanted the company of a mature woman as much as the physical pleasures and Angelina’s earthy frankness would only embarrass him.

‘Your trunks will be first on the dock, madam. It has been a pleasure,’ he said, looking wistfully after her as she went to climb the steps onto the dock. A number of his crew had gathered in case the younger women were unsteady crossing the rail and his eyebrows drew together as he considered them. After a moment of thought, he followed Servilia, knowing instinctively that he should be there to help the men.

Julius was deep in work when the guard knocked on the door to his rooms.

‘What is it?’

The legionary looked unusually nervous as he saluted.

‘I think you’d better come down to the gate, sir. You should see this.’

Raising his eyebrows, Julius followed the man down the steps and out into the powerful afternoon sun. There was a peculiar tension affecting the soldiers who clustered around the gate, and as they parted for him Julius noticed one or two with the strained faces of men trying not to smile. Their amusement and the heat seemed to feed the prickling anger that had become the foundation of his waking hours.

Beyond the open gate was a string of heavily laden carts, their drivers lightly coated by the dust of the road. A full twenty of the Tenth had taken station to the fore and rear of the odd procession. With narrowed eyes, Julius recognised the officer as one who had been dispatched on port duty the previous day and his temper frayed still further. Like the carts, the legionaries were coated in enough dust to show they had walked every step of the way.

Julius glared at them.

‘I do not recall giving orders for you to escort trade goods from the coast,’ he snapped. ‘There had better be an excellent reason for leaving your post and disobeying my orders. I cannot think of one myself, but perhaps you will surprise me.’

The officer paled slightly under the dust.

‘The lady, sir …’ he began.

‘What? What lady?’ Julius replied, losing patience with the man’s hesitation. Another voice sounded then, making him start in recognition.

‘I told your men you could not object to them helping an old friend,’ Servilia said, stepping down from the riding seat of a cart and walking towards him.

For a moment, Julius could not respond. Her dark hair was wild around her head and his eyes drank in the sight of her. Surrounded by men, she seemed fresh and cool, perfectly aware of the sensation she caused. She walked like a stalking cat, wearing a brown cotton dress that left her arms and neck uncovered. She wore no jewels but a simple chain of gold ending in a pendant that was almost hidden as it disappeared between her breasts.

‘Servilia. You should not have presumed on a friendship,’ Julius said, stiffly.

She shrugged and smiled as if it were nothing.

‘I hope you won’t punish them, General. The docks can be dangerous without guards, and I had no one else to help me.’

Julius looked coldly at her, before returning his gaze to the officer. The man had followed the exchange and now stood with the glazed expression of one who waited for bad news.

‘My orders were clear?’ Julius asked him.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you and your men will take the next two watches. Your rank makes you more responsible than they, does it not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the hapless soldier replied.

Julius nodded. ‘When you are relieved, you will report to your centurion to be flogged. Tell him twenty strokes on my order and your name to be entered in the lists for disobedience. Now run back.’

The officer saluted smartly and spun on his heel. ‘Turn about!’ he shouted to his twenty. ‘Double speed back to the docks.’

With Julius there, no one dared groan, though they would be exhausted before they were halfway back to their original post and the watches to come would see them dropping with tiredness.

Julius stared after them until they were clear of the line of carts, before turning back to Servilia. She stood stiffly, trying to hide her surprise and guilt at what her request had brought about.

‘You have come to see your son?’ Julius said to her, frowning. ‘He is training with the legion and should be back at dusk.’ He looked at the line of carts and bellowing oxen, clearly caught between his irritation at the unexpected arrival and the demands of courtesy. After a long silence, he relented.

‘You may wait inside for Brutus. I will have someone water your animals and bring you a meal.’

‘Thank you for your kindness,’ Servilia replied, smiling to cover her confusion. She couldn’t begin to understand the differences in the young general. The whole of Rome knew he had lost his wife, but it was like speaking to another man from the one she had known. Dark pouches ringed his eyes, but it was more than simple tiredness. When she had seen him last, he had been ready to take arms against Spartacus and the fires in him were barely controlled. Her heart went out to him for what he had lost.

At that moment, Angelina leapt onto the road from her cart at the back of the line and waved, calling something to Servilia. Both she and Julius stiffened as the girlish voice rang out.

‘Who is that?’ Julius said, his eyes narrowing against the glare.

‘A companion, General. I have three young ladies with me for the trip.’

Something in her tone made Julius glance at her in sudden suspicion.

‘Are they …’

‘Companions, General, yes,’ she replied lightly. ‘All good girls.’ For the right price, they could be superb, she added silently.

‘I’ll put a guard on their door. The men are not used to …’ he hesitated. ‘It may be necessary to keep a guard. On the door.’

To Servilia’s intense pleasure, a slow blush had started on Julius’ cheeks. There was still life in him, somewhere deep, she thought. Her nostrils flared slightly with the excitement of a hunt. As Julius marched back between the gates, she watched him and smiled, pressing the fullness of her lower lip between her teeth in amusement. Not too old after all, she told herself, smoothing her tangled hair with a hand.

Brutus stretched his back muscles as he rode the last miles towards the fort. His century of extraordinarii were in formation behind him and he felt a touch of pride as he glanced to each side and saw the neat line of cantering horses. Domitius was in position on his right and Octavian held the line a few places along. They thundered over the plain together, raising a plume of dust that left the taste of bitter earth in their mouths. The air was warm around them and their mood was light. They were all tired, but it was that pleasant lethargy of skilled work, with food and a good night’s sleep only a little way ahead.

As the fort came into sight, Brutus called to Domitius over the noise of the horses, ‘Let’s give them a show. Split and wheel on my signal.’

The guards on the gate would be watching them come in, he knew. Though the extraordinarii had been together for less than two years, Julius had given him what he wanted in the way of men and horses, and he had wanted the best of the Tenth. Man for man, Brutus would have wagered on them against any army in the world. They were the charge-breakers, the first into impossible positions. Every one of them had been picked for his ability with horse and sword and Brutus was proud of them all. He knew the rest of the Tenth considered them more show than substance, but then the legion hadn’t seen a battle in their time in Spain. When the extraordinarii had been blooded and shown what they could do, they would justify their expense, he was certain. The armour alone had cost a small fortune: laced bronze and iron strips that allowed them greater movement than the heavier plates of the triarii legionaries. The men of Brutus’ extraordinarii had polished the metals to a high sheen and, against the glossy skin of their mounts, they glowed in the dying sun.

Brutus raised his hand and made sharp gestures to each side. He kicked his mount into a gallop as the group slid smoothly apart as if an invisible line had been drawn on the ground. Now the wind pressed against Brutus’ face and he laughed with excitement, not needing to look to know the formation was perfect. Specks of white spittle flew back from his horse’s mouth and he leaned forward into the saddle-horn, gripping with his legs and feeling as if he was flying.

The fort was growing with astonishing rapidity and, caught up in the moment as he was, Brutus almost left it too late for the signal to re-form the split square. The two groups swerved together only moments before they were changing their holds on the reins to halt, but there were no mistakes. As one man, they dismounted, patting the steaming necks of the stallions and geldings Julius had brought over from Rome. Only cut mounts could be used against enemy cavalry, as intact stallions could be sent berserk by the scent of a mare in season. It was a balancing act between taking the best for the extraordinarii and keeping the bloodlines strong. Even the local Spanish whistled and called when they saw those horses, their love of the breed overcoming the usual reticence they showed to the Roman soldiers.

Brutus was laughing at something Domitius had said when he caught sight of his mother. His eyes widened for a moment before he rushed under the gate arch to embrace her.

‘Your letters didn’t mention this!’ he said, lifting her up to her toes and kissing her on both cheeks.

‘I thought you might become overexcited,’ Servilia replied. They both laughed and Brutus put her down.

Servilia held him back at arm’s length and smiled to see him so full of life. The years in Spain had suited her only son. He had a force for life in him that made other men look up and stand straighter in his presence.

‘As handsome as ever, I see,’ she said with a twinkle. ‘I suppose you have a string of local girls pining after you.’

‘I daren’t go out without a guard to save me from the poor creatures,’ he replied.

Domitius appeared suddenly, moving between them to force an introduction.

‘Ah, yes, this is Domitius, who cleans the horses. Have you met Octavian? He’s kin to Julius.’ Grinning at Domitius’ appalled expression, Brutus had to wave Octavian closer.

Octavian was overcome and attempted a salute that ended in more confusion, making Brutus laugh. He was too familiar with the effect his mother could have to be surprised by it, but he noticed they were quickly becoming the centre of an admiring circle of the extraordinarii as they jostled to see the new arrival in their midst.

Servilia waved to them, enjoying the attention after the dull month at sea.

Young men were so peculiarly vibrant, untouched by the fears of age or death. They stood around her like innocent gods, and lifted her with their confidence.

‘Have you seen Julius, Mother? He …’ Brutus broke off at the sudden hush that fell over the yard. Three young women swept out of an archway and the crowd of soldiers parted before them. They were all beautiful in different ways. The youngest was blonde and slight, her cheeks lit with rising colour as she walked towards Servilia. At her shoulders were two others with features to make grown men weep into their wine.

The spell of their entrance was broken as someone let out a low whistle and the crowd came back to life.

Servilia raised an eyebrow at Angelina as they met. The girl knew exactly what she was doing. Servilia had seen that in her from the beginning. She was the sort of woman men fought each other to protect and her presence in a drinking house was usually enough to start a riot before the evening was over. Servilia had found her serving wine and giving away what men would pay well for. It had not taken much persuasion, considering the sums involved. Servilia kept two-fifths of everything Angelina earned in the house in Rome and still the young blonde was becoming a wealthy woman in her own right. As things stood, she would be looking to start her own establishment in a few years, and she would come to Servilia for the loan.

‘We were worried about you, mistress,’ Angelina lied cheerfully.

Brutus eyed her with open interest and she returned his gaze without embarrassment. Under the girl’s scrutiny, he could hardly confirm the suspicion that had come into his mind. Though he told himself he had come to terms with Servilia’s profession, the thought of his men knowing showed him he was not as secure as he’d thought.

‘Are you going to introduce us, Mother?’ he asked.

Angelina widened her eyes for a split second.

‘This is your son? He’s just as you said. How wonderful.’

Servilia had never discussed Brutus with Angelina, but was caught between exasperation at the girl’s transparency and a shrewder part of her that could smell the money to be made. The crowd had grown, around them. These were not men used to the attentions of young women. She began to suspect that from legion trade alone Valentia was going to be very profitable indeed.

‘This is Angelina,’ she said.

Brutus bowed and Angelina’s eyes sparkled at his courtesy.

‘You must join us at the general’s table this evening. I’ll raid the cellar for wine and we’ll wash the dust of the road off you.’ He held Angelina’s eyes as he spoke and managed to make the proposition sound remarkably sexual. Servilia cleared her throat to interrupt them.

‘Lead us in, Brutus.’

The extraordinarii parted again to let them through. The hot meal that awaited them in their barracks did not seem half as tempting as it had on the ride back, without the company of the women as a spice. They stood as if abandoned in the courtyard until the small procession had disappeared inside. The spell was broken then and they broke apart to care for the horses, suddenly brisk in their movements as if they had never been interrupted at all.

Despite Angelina’s protests, Servilia left her three companions in the rooms they had been given. Someone had to unpack the trunks and for that first night Servilia wanted her son’s full attention. She had not brought them to Valentia to find Brutus a wife from their number, after all.

Julius did not come down with the others, sending a curt apology with his personal guard when Brutus asked if he would join them. Servilia saw the refusal did not surprise any of the men at the table and wondered again at the changes Spain had wrought in them.

In Servilia’s honour, the meal was a mixture of local dishes, served in an array of small bowls. The spices and peppers made Octavian cough until he had to be thumped on the back and given wine to clear his throat. He had been in awe of Servilia from the first moment in the courtyard and Brutus teased him subtly, while Servilia pretended not to notice the boy’s discomfort.

The room was lit with warm, flickering lamps, and the wine was as good as Brutus had promised. It was a pleasant meal and Servilia found that she was enjoying the banter between the men. Domitius allowed himself to be persuaded into telling one of his stories, though the conclusion was spoiled slightly as Cabera called it out with enthusiasm, then thumped the table in amusement.

‘That story was old when I was a boy,’ the old man cackled, reaching over to take a portion of fish from a bowl near Octavian. The young man was about to take the same piece and Cabera slapped his fingers to make him drop it, scooping up the rich flesh as it fell. Octavian scowled at him, clearly stifling a response as he remembered the presence of Servilia at the table.

‘How did you come to be with the Tenth legion, Domitius?’ Servilia asked.

‘Brutus arranged it when we were down in the south fighting Spartacus. I’d let him win a couple of practice bouts out of fairness, but on the whole he saw that he could benefit from my training.’

‘Lies!’ Brutus said, laughing. ‘I asked him in passing if he would be willing to transfer to the new legion and he practically bit my arm off in enthusiasm. Julius had to pay a fortune in compensation to the legate. We’re all still waiting to see if he’ll be worth it.’

Domitius waited patiently until Brutus was drinking from his wine cup.

‘I’m the best of my generation, you see,’ he told Servilia, watching in amusement as Brutus fought not to choke, turning red in the process.

The sound of footsteps made them all look up and the men rose together to welcome Julius. He took his place at the head of the table and signalled for them to sit. Servants brought fresh dishes and Brutus filled a cup with wine, smiling when he saw Julius raise an eyebrow at the quality.

The conversation began again and as it did Servilia caught Julius’ eye and inclined her head slightly. He copied the gesture, accepting her at the table, and she found herself letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

There was an authority to him that she couldn’t recall seeing before. He didn’t join in the laughter, merely smiling at the more outrageous chatter. He punished the wine, Servilia noted, drinking as if it was water and with no obvious effect, though a slow flush appeared at his neck that could have been from the evening heat.

The high spirits at the table were quickly restored. The camaraderie between the men was infectious and after a while Servilia was engaged in the stories and humour with the others. Cabera flirted outrageously with her, winking at inopportune moments and making her snort with amusement. Once as she laughed she caught Julius’ eye again and the moment seemed to freeze, hinting at a deeper reality behind the lively façade of the meal.

Julius watched her, constantly surprised at the effect she had wrought on the usually sombre gathering. She laughed without affectation and in those moments he wondered how he could ever have found her less than beautiful. Her skin was dark and freckled from the sun and her nose and chin a little too strong, yet still she had something that set her apart. The calculating part of him saw how she transferred her attention to whoever spoke, flattering them simply by the interest she showed. She was a woman who liked men and they sensed it. Julius shook his head slightly. His reaction to her disturbed him, but she was so different from Cornelia that no comparison occurred to trouble his thoughts.

He had not been in female company for a long time and then only when Brutus managed to get enough drink in him that he didn’t care any more. Looking at Servilia reminded him of the world outside his soldiers’ rough gatherings. He felt unbalanced with her, out of practice. The thought crossed his mind that he should be careful to keep a distance. A woman of her experience could very well eat him alive.

He shook his head to clear it, irritated with his weakness. The first woman to sit at their table for months and he was reacting with little more sophistication than Octavian, though he hoped his thoughts weren’t so obvious. He’d never hear the end of Brutus’ mockery if they were. He imagined the amused taunts with a shudder and pushed his wine cup away firmly. No matter what, she was hardly likely to show interest in a friend of her son. It was ridiculous even to entertain the idea.

Octavian interrupted Julius’ musings as he reached across the table to offer Servilia the last morsel of a herb dish. The young Roman had grown in strength and skill under the tutelage of Brutus and Domitius. Julius wondered if Octavian would have so much to fear from the apprentices in the city as he’d used to. He doubted it. The boy seemed to thrive in the company of the rough soldiers of the Tenth and even copied the way Brutus walked, to his friend’s amusement. He seemed so young, it was strange to think Julius had been married when only a year older.

‘I learned a new feint this morning, sir,’ Octavian said proudly.

Julius smiled at him. ‘You’ll have to show it to me,’ he said, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s hair.

Octavian beamed in response to the small show of affection. ‘Will you train with us tomorrow, then?’ he asked, readying himself for disappointment.

Julius shook his head. ‘I’m going out to the gold mines with Renius for a few days,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I will when I come back.’

Octavian tried to look pleased, but they could all see he took it as a straight refusal. Julius almost changed his mind, but the dark humours that plagued him eased back into his thoughts. None of them understood his work. They had the light spirits of boys and that carelessness was no longer a luxury he could afford. Forgetting his earlier resolution, Julius reached for his cup and emptied it.

Brutus saw the depression settle on his friend and struggled to find something to divert him.

‘The Spanish swordsmith will begin working with our legion men tomorrow. Can’t you delay the trip until you’ve seen what you paid for?’

Julius stared at him, making them all uncomfortable.

‘No, the preparations are made,’ he said, refilling his cup and cursing softly as he spilled a little of the wine onto the table in the process. Julius frowned at his hands. Was there a tremble there? He couldn’t tell. As rather stilted conversation resumed, he watched them all, looking for some sign that they had seen his weakness. Only Cabera met his eyes and the old man’s face was full of kindness. Julius drained the cup, suddenly angry with all of them.

Servilia dipped her fingers in the water bowl and wiped her mouth delicately with them, a gesture that held Julius’ attention, though she seemed not to notice it.

‘I have enjoyed this, very much, but the journey here was tiring,’ she said, smiling at them all. ‘I will rise early to watch your training, Octavian, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course, come and watch,’ Brutus said pleasantly. ‘I’ll get a carriage ready for you in the stables, as well. This is a luxurious post, compared to some. You’ll love it here.’

‘Find a good horse and I won’t need the carriage,’ Servilia replied, noting the flicker in Julius’ eyes as he digested this piece of information. Men were such strange creatures, but she had yet to find one who didn’t enjoy the thought of a beautiful woman on a horse.

‘I hope my girls won’t be a disruption to you all. I will look for a place in the city tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen. General.’

They rose with her and again she experienced that strange frisson of excitement as Julius’ eyes met her own.

Julius stood soon after she had left, swaying slightly.

‘I have left my orders in your quarters, Brutus, for the time I am away. Make sure there is a guard on those girls while they are in our care. Good night.’ He left without another word, walking with the exaggerated stiffness of a man trying to hide the effects of too much wine in his blood. For a moment there was a pained silence.

‘It’s good to have a new face here,’ Brutus said, carefully avoiding more difficult subjects. ‘She’ll liven this place up a little. It’s been too quiet recently.’

Cabera whistled quietly to himself. ‘A woman like that … all men are fools around her,’ he said softly, his tone making Brutus stare at him in puzzlement. The old man’s expression was unreadable as he shook his head slightly and reached for more wine.

‘She is very … graceful,’ Domitius agreed, searching for the final word.

Brutus snorted. ‘What did you expect after seeing me with a sword? I’d hardly come from a carthorse, would I?’

‘I did think there was a female quality to your stance, yes,’ Domitius replied, rubbing his forehead in thought. ‘Yes, I see it now. It looks better on her though.’

‘It is a manly grace in me, Domitius, manly. I’m quite happy to demonstrate it again to you tomorrow.’ The old smile had returned to Brutus’ face as he narrowed his eyes in mock offence.

‘Do I have a manly grace, Domitius?’ Octavian asked.

Domitius nodded slowly, his manner easy.

‘You do, of course, lad. It is only Brutus who fights like a woman.’

Brutus roared with laughter and threw a plate at Domitius, who ducked it easily. It crashed on the stone floor and they all froze comically before the tension dissolved into humour once again.

‘Why does your mother want a house in the city?’ Octavian asked.

Brutus looked sharply at him, suddenly sorry to have to puncture his innocence.

‘For business, lad. I think my mother’s girls will be entertaining the legion before too long.’

Octavian looked around in confusion for a moment, then his face cleared. They were all watching him closely.

‘Will they charge full price for someone of my age, do you think?’ Octavian said.

Brutus threw another plate in his direction, hitting Cabera.

Lying on the narrow pallet in his rooms above, Julius could hear their laughter and shut his eyes tightly in the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Servilia already loved the little city of Valentia. The streets were clean and busy with people. There was an air of affluence about the place that made her palms itch. Yet despite the signs of wealth, it had a fresh feel to it that her own ancient city had lost centuries before. This was a more innocent town. Even finding the right building had been easier than she’d expected. There were no officials needing a private payment before documents could be signed; it was simply a matter of finding the right place and paying gold to the current owner. It was refreshing after the bureaucracy of Rome and the soldiers Brutus had sent out with her were able to show her three possible locations as soon as she asked. The first two were close to the water and likely to attract more of the dockworkers than she wanted. The third was perfect.

In a quiet street close to the market and away from the waterfront, it was a roomy building with an impressive façade of white lime and hardwood. Servilia was long familiar with the need to present a pleasant face to the world. No doubt there were grimy little houses hidden in the towns where widows and whores earned a little extra on their backs, but the sort of place she wanted would attract dignitaries and officers from the legion, and be correspondingly more expensive.

With so many new houses being built by the Tenth, Servilia had sensed the owner could be pressured and the final price was a bargain, even with the furnishings to come. Some of those would have to be shipped from Rome, though a swift inspection of local seamstresses resulted in a string of smaller payments and deals.

With the house in her possession, she paid for an outgoing merchant to take a list of her requirements back to Rome. At least four more women would be needed and Servilia took great care in choosing their characteristics. It was important to establish a reputation for quality.

After three days, there was little to be done but give the house a name, though that gave Servilia more trouble than she expected. Though there were no clear proscriptions in law, Servilia knew instinctively that it should be something discreet and yet suggestive. Calling it ‘The House of Rams’ or suchlike would not do at all.

In the end, Angelina surprised her with a suggestion. ‘The Golden Hand’ was sufficiently erotic without being crude and Servilia had wondered whether Angelina’s light colouring had prompted the idea. When she’d acquiesced, Angelina had leapt up and kissed her on both cheeks. The girl could be adorable when she had her own way, there was no doubt about it.

On the third morning after entering the city, Servilia watched a delicately drawn sign lifted onto iron hooks and smiled as a few of the Tenth cheered the sight. They would spread the word that the house was open for business and she expected the first night to be a busy one. After that, the future was assured and she fully expected to be able to pass over control to someone else in a few months. It was tempting to think of a similar establishment in every city of Spain. The finest girls and the feel of Rome. The market was there and the money would pour into her coffers.

Servilia turned to her son’s guards and smiled at them.

‘I hope you will be able to get passes for tonight?’ she said lightly.

They looked at each other, aware that the dock watch had suddenly become a valuable counter in their purses.

‘Perhaps your son could intercede for us, madam,’ the officer replied.

Servilia frowned at that. Though they had not discussed it openly, she suspected Brutus was more than a little uncomfortable with her business. For that matter, she wondered if Julius had been told about the new house and what he thought of the idea. He might not have heard of her plans away in the south at his mines, though she couldn’t see how he could object.

Servilia ran a hand idly along the line of her throat as she thought of him. Today was the day he was due to return. He was probably eating in the barracks at that moment and if she set off without delay, she could be back at the fort before the day was wasted.

‘I will need permanent guards for the house,’ she said as the thought occurred to her. ‘If you wish, I will ask the general to post you here,’ she told the officer. ‘I am a Roman citizen after all.’

The guards looked at each other in wild surmise. Wonderful as the idea seemed, the thought of Caesar hearing their names to guard a whorehouse was enough to cool any man’s ardour. Reluctantly, they shook their heads.

‘I think he would prefer local men as guards here,’ the officer said at last.

Servilia took the reins of her horse from one of the Tenth and leapt into the saddle. The leggings she wore were a little loose on her, but a skirt or stola would hardly have been appropriate.

‘Mount up, lads. I’ll go and ask him and we’ll see,’ she said, wheeling her horse around and kicking it into a canter. The hooves rattled loudly on the street and the local women raised their eyebrows at this strange Roman lady who rode like a soldier.

Julius was greeting an elderly Spaniard as Servilia rode up to the gates of the fort. During daylight hours the gates were left open and the guards passed them straight through into the yard with only a nod. Her escort from town led their mounts back to food and water, leaving her alone. Being Brutus’ mother was proving extremely useful, she realised.

‘I would like to have a word with you, General, if I may,’ she called, walking her horse over to the pair.

Julius frowned in barely concealed anger.

‘This is Mayor Del Subió, Servilia. I’m afraid I have no time to see you this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow.’

He turned away to guide the older man into the main building and Servilia spoke quickly, acknowledging the mayor with a swift smile.

‘I was thinking of riding out to the local towns. Are you able to recommend a route?’

Julius turned to the mayor.

‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ he said.

Del Subió bowed, glancing at Servilia from under bushy eyebrows. If he had been the Roman general, he would not have left such a beauty to pout alone. Even at his age, Del Subió could appreciate a fine woman and wondered at Caesar’s irritation.

Julius walked to Servilia.

‘These hills are not completely safe. There are rogues and travellers who would think nothing of attacking you. If you’re lucky they will just steal the horse and let you walk back.’

With the warning delivered, he tried to turn back to the mayor again.

‘Perhaps you would like to join me, then, for protection?’ Servilia said softly.

He froze, looking into her eyes. His heart thumped in his chest at the thought before he gathered his control. She was not easy to refuse, but his afternoon was filled with work. His eyes raked the yard and caught sight of Octavian coming out of the stables. Julius whistled sharply to catch the boy’s attention.

‘Octavian. Saddle a horse for yourself. Escort duty.’

Octavian saluted and disappeared back into the darkness of the stable block.

Julius looked at Servilia blankly, as if the exchange was already forgotten.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he did not reply as he took Del Subió inside.

When Octavian reappeared, he had already mounted and had to lean low on the saddle to clear the arch of the stables. His grin faded at Servilia’s expression as she took a grip on the pommel and threw a leg over her saddle. He had never seen her angry and, if anything, the fury in her eyes made her more beautiful. Without a word to him, she started forward into a gallop through the gates, forcing the guards to step aside or be knocked down. Eyes wide with surprise, Octavian followed her out.

She rode hard for a mile before reining back to a more sedate canter. Octavian closed the gap to ride at her shoulder, unconsciously showing his expertise with the way he matched her pace so exactly. She handled the horse well, he noted, with the skilled eye of the extraordinarii. Small flicks of the reins guided the blowing animal left and right around obstacles and once she urged her mount to jump a fallen tree, rising in the saddle and taking the landing without a tremor.

Octavian was entranced and told himself he wouldn’t speak until he found something sufficiently mature and interesting to say. Inspiration didn’t come, but she seemed willing to let the silence continue, taking out her anger at Julius’ snub in the exertion of the ride. At last she reined in, panting slightly. She let Octavian approach and smiled at him.

‘Brutus said you were a relation to Caesar. Tell me about him.’

Octavian smiled back, completely unable to resist her charm or question her reasons.

Julius had dismissed his last supplicant an hour before and stood alone by the window that looked out over the hills. He had signed orders to recruit another thousand for the developing mines, and granted compensation to three men whose lands had been encroached by the new buildings on the coast. How many other meetings had there been? Ten? His hand ached from the letters he had written and he massaged it slightly with the other as he stood waiting. His last scribe had retired a month before and he felt the loss keenly. His armour hung on the wooden tree by his desk and the night air was a relief on the sweat-darkened tunic underneath. He yawned and rubbed his face roughly. It was getting dark, but Octavian and Servilia were still out somewhere. He wondered if she were capable of keeping the boy late to worry him, or whether something had happened. Perhaps one of the horses had become lame and had to be walked back to the fort.

Julius snorted softly to himself. That would be a lesson well learned, if it was so. Away from the roads, the land was rugged and wild. A horse could easily break a leg, especially in the gloom of evening, when pits and animal holes would be hidden in shadow.

It was ridiculous to worry. Twice he lost patience and strode away from the window, but as he thought through the tasks for the next day, he found himself edging back to the view over the hills, looking for them. Away from the breeze, the room could be stifling, he told himself, too weary even to believe his own self-deceptions.

When the sun was little more than a red line against the mountains, he heard the clatter of hooves in the yard and stepped hurriedly back from the window rather than be seen. Who was the woman to cause him so much discomfort? He imagined how long it would take for the pair of them to brush and water their horses before coming inside. Would they be joining the officers’ table again for a meal? He was hungry, but he didn’t want to entertain a guest. He would have food sent up to him, and …

A low knocking at his door interrupted his thoughts, making him start. Somehow, he knew it would be her even as he cleared his throat to call, ‘Come in.’

Servilia opened the door and walked into the room. Her hair was wild after the ride and a smear of dirt marked her cheek where she had touched it. She smelled of straw and horses and he felt his senses heighten at the sight of her. She was still angry, he saw, summoning the will to resist whatever she had come to demand. It really was too much that she walked in without even an announcement. What was the guard doing below? Was the man asleep? He would hear about it when she had gone, Julius swore to himself.

Without speaking, Servilia walked across the wooden floor to him. Before he could react, she pressed the palm of her hand against his chest, feeling the heart thump under the cloth.

‘Still warm, then. I had begun to wonder,’ she said softly. Her tone held an intimacy that unsettled him and somehow he couldn’t muster the anger he expected. He could feel where her hand had rested, as if she had left a visible sign of her touch. She faced him, standing very close, and he was suddenly aware of the darkness of the room.

‘Brutus will be wondering where you are,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is very protective of me,’ she replied. She turned to leave and he almost reached out for her, watching in confusion as she crossed the long room.

‘I wouldn’t … have thought you needed much protecting,’ he murmured. He hadn’t really meant her to hear it, but he saw her smile before the door closed behind her and he was alone, his thoughts swirling in chaos. He breathed out slowly, shaking his head in amusement at his own reactions. He felt as if he were being stalked, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His tiredness seemed to have vanished and he thought he might join the table below for the evening meal after all.

The door opened again and he looked up to see her, still there.

‘Will you ride out with me tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Octavian said you know the area as well as anyone.’

He nodded slowly, unable to remember what meetings he had planned and not caring, particularly. How long had it been since he’d last had a day away from his work?

‘All right, Servilia. Tomorrow morning,’ he said.

She grinned then without replying, shutting the door noiselessly behind her. He waited for a moment until he heard her light step going downstairs and relaxed. He was surprised to find he was looking forward to it.

As the light faded, the furnace turned the workshop into a place of fire and shadow. The only light came from the forge and the glow lit the Roman smiths as they waited impatiently to be shown the secret of hard iron. Julius had paid a fortune in gold for them to be taught by a Spanish master, but it was not something to be handed over in a moment, or even a single day. To their exasperation, Cavallo had taken them through the entire process, step by step. At first, they had resisted being treated as apprentices, but then the more experienced of them had seen the Spaniard was exact in every part of his skill and begun to listen. They had cut cypress and alder wood to his order and stacked the logs under clay in a pit as large as a house for the first four days. While it charred, he showed them his ore furnace and lectured them on washing the rough rocks before sealing them with the charcoal to burn clean.

They were all men who loved their craft and by the end of the fifth day they were filled with excited anticipation as Cavallo brought a lump of iron bloom to his furnace and poured it molten into clay racks, finally turning out heavy bars of the metal onto a workbench for them to examine.

‘The alder wood burns cooler than most and slows the changes. It makes a harder metal as more of it takes the charcoal, but that is only part of it,’ he told them, thrusting one of the bars into the bright yellow heat of his forge. There was barely enough room to heat two pieces at a time, so they clustered around the second, copying every move and instruction he gave them. The cramped workshop could not hold all of them, so they took turns coming in and out of the cooling night air. Only Renius stayed throughout as an observer and he poured with enough sweat to blind him, silently noting each stage of the process.

He too was fascinated. Though he had used swords for all his adult life, he had never watched them being made and it gave him an appreciation for the skills of the dour men who worked earth into shining blades.

Cavallo used a hammer to beat the bar into the shape of a sword, reheating it again and again until the spike looked like a black gladius, crusted with impurities. Part of the skill came in judging the temperature by the colour as it came out of the forge. Each time the sword was at the right heat, Cavallo held it up for them to see the shade of yellow before it faded. He filed and beat the soft metal as his own sweat sizzled on it, falling in fat drops to vanish on contact.

Their own bar was matched to his at every point and as the moon rose, he nodded to the Romans, satisfied. His sons had lit a low pan of charcoal as long as a man and before its metal cover was removed, it glowed as brightly as his forge. While his sword heated again, Cavallo signalled to a row of leather aprons on pegs. They were clumsy things to wear, thick and stiff with age. They covered the whole body from neck to feet, leaving only the arms bare. He smiled as they pulled them on, used by now to following his instructions without question.

‘You will need the protection,’ he told them as they struggled to move against the constricting coverings. At his signal, his sons used tongs to lift the cover from the charcoal pan and Cavallo pulled the yellow blade from the furnace with a flourish. The Roman smiths crowded closer, knowing they were seeing a stage of the process they did not recognise. Renius had to step back from the sudden wave of heat and craned to watch what was going on.

In the white heat of the charcoal, Cavallo hammered the blade again, sending sparks and whirring pieces of fire into the air. One landed in his hair and he patted the flame out automatically. Over and over he turned the blade, his hammer working it up and down without the force of his first blows. The ringing sound was almost gentle, but they could all see the charcoal sticking to the metal in dark crusts.

‘It has to be fast here. It must not cool too far before the quenching. Watch the colour … now!’

Cavallo’s voice had softened, his eyes filled with love for the metal. As the redness darkened, he lifted his tongs and jammed the sword into a bucket of water in a roar of steam that filled the little workshop.

‘Then back into the heat. The most important stage. If you misjudge the colour now, the sword will be brittle and useless. You must learn the shade, or everything I have taught you has been wasted. For me, it is the colour of day-old blood, but you must find your own memory and fix it in your minds.’

The second sword was ready and he repeated the beating in the charcoal bed, once again scattering embers into the air. It was clear enough by then why they wore the leathers. One Roman grunted in pain as a fiery chip settled on his arm before he could pluck it away.

The swords were reheated and shoved into the charcoal four more times before Cavallo finally nodded. They were all sweating and practically blind from the moisture-laden fog in the workshop. Only the blades cut through the steam, the air burning away from their heat in clear trails.

Dawn lit the mountains outside, though they could not see the light. They had all stared into the furnace for so long that wherever they looked was darkness.

Cavallo’s sons covered the tray and dragged it back to the wall. As the Romans breathed and wiped sweat from their eyes, Cavallo shut up his forge and removed the bellows from the air-holes, hanging them neatly on hooks ready to be used again. The heat was still oppressive, but there was a sense of it all coming to an end as he faced them, holding a black blade in each hand, his fingers wrapped around a narrow tang that would be encased in a hilt before use.

The blades were matt and rough-looking. Though he had hammered each using only his eye, they were identical in length and width and when they were cool enough to be handed around, the Roman smiths felt the same balance in each. They nodded at the skill, no longer resentful of the time they had spent away from their own forges. Each of them realised they had been given something of value and they smiled like children as they hefted the bare blades.

Renius took his turn with them, though he lacked the experience to be able to judge the weight without a hilt. The blades had been taken from the earth of Spain and he stroked a finger along the rough metal, hoping he would be able to make Julius understand the glory of the moment.

‘The charcoal bed gives them the hard skin over a softer core. These blades will not snap in battle, unless you leave impurities within, or quench them at the wrong colour. Let me show you,’ Cavallo said, his voice stiff with pride. He took the blades from the Roman smiths and gestured them to stand back. Then he rapped each one hard onto the edge of his forge, causing a deep tone as if a bell sounded the dawn. The swords remained whole and he breathed slowly in satisfaction.

‘They will kill men, these ones. They will make an art of death.’ He spoke with reverence and they understood him. ‘The new day begins, gentlemen. Your charcoal will be ready by noon and you will return to your own forges to make examples of the new swords. I will want to see them, from all of you, in say … three days. Leave them without a hilt and I will craft those with you. Now, I am going to bed.’

The grizzled Roman smiths murmured their thanks and trooped out of the workshop, looking back longingly at the blades they had made that night.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pompey and Crassus rose from their seats in the shade to acknowledge the crowd. The racegoers of the Circus Maximus cheered their consuls in a wave of sound and excitement that echoed and crashed around the packed seating. Pompey raised a hand to them and Crassus smiled slightly, enjoying the attention. He deserved it, he thought, after the gold it had cost him. Each clay entry token was stamped with the names of the two consuls and, though they were freely given out, Crassus had heard the tokens were as good as currency in the weeks leading up to the event. Many of those who sat waiting for the first race had paid well for the privilege. It never ceased to please him how his people could turn even gifts into an opportunity for profit.

The weather was fine and only the lightest wisps of clouds drifted across the long track as the crowds settled and shouted bets to each other. There was an air of excitement in the benches and Crassus noted how few families there were. It was a sad fact of life that the races were often marred by fights in the cheaper seats, as men argued over losses. Only a month before, the circus had to be cleared by legionaries called in to restore order. Five men had been killed in a minor riot after the favourite had lost in the final race of the day.

Crassus frowned at the thought, hoping it would not happen again. He stretched up in his seat to note the positions of Pompey’s soldiers on the gates and main walkways. Enough to intimidate all but the most foolhardy, he hoped. He did not want the memory of his consular year associated with civil unrest. As things stood, his endorsement of the candidates in the coming elections would still be worth a great deal. Even with more than half his term to serve, the factions in the Senate were shifting as those who hoped for the highest posts began to make themselves known. It was the greatest game in Rome and Crassus knew the favours he could gather would be the currency of power for the following year, if not much longer.

Crassus glanced at his co-consul, wondering if Pompey too was planning for the future. Whenever he was tempted to curse the law that restrained them, he took solace from the fact that Pompey was similarly bound. Rome would not allow another Marius to stand as consul over and over. Those wild days had gone with the shade of Sulla and the civil war. Still, there was nothing to prevent Pompey grooming his own favourites to succeed him.

Crassus wished he could shake the sense of inadequacy that assailed him whenever he and Pompey were together. Unlike his own sharp features, Pompey looked as a consul was expected to look, with a broad, strong face, and gently greying hair. Privately, Crassus wondered if the dignified image was helped along with a little white powder at the temples. Even sitting next to him, he couldn’t be sure.

As if the gods hadn’t given him enough, Pompey seemed to have their blessing with his military enterprises. He had promised the people to rid the seas of pirates and in only a few months the Roman fleet had swept the Mare Internum clean of the scavengers. Trade had boomed as Pompey had promised. No one in the city thanked Crassus for financing the venture, or for bearing the loss of the ships that didn’t survive. Instead, he was forced to throw even more gold at the people in case they forgot him, while Pompey could rest easy in their adoration.

Crassus tapped the fingers of one hand on the other as he thought. The citizens of Rome respected only what they could see. If he raised a legion of his own to patrol the streets, they would bless him every time one of his men caught a thief or broke up a fight. Without one, he knew Pompey would never treat him as an equal. It was not a new idea, but he held back from planting a new standard in the Campus Martius. Always, there was the private fear that Pompey was right in his assessment of him. What victories could Crassus claim for Rome? No matter how he clad them in shining armour, a legion had to be well led and while it seemed effortless for Pompey, the thought of risking another humiliation was more than Crassus could bear.

The campaign against Spartacus had been bad enough, he thought miserably. He was sure they still mocked him for building a wall across the toe of Italy. None of the Senate mentioned it in public, but word had filtered back from the soldiers and his spies told him it was still seen as a subject for laughter amongst the chattering masses of the city. Pompey told him there was nothing in it, but then he could afford to be complacent. No matter who was elected at the end of the year, Pompey would still be a force in the Senate. Crassus wished he could be as certain of his own position.

Both men watched as the seven wooden eggs were brought out to the central spine of the track. At the beginning of each lap, one would be removed until the last would signal the frenzy of struggle that marked the end of each contest.

As the ritual before the races approached completion, Crassus motioned behind him and a smartly dressed slave stepped forward to relay his bets. Though Pompey had disdained the opportunity, Crassus had spent a useful hour with the teams and their horses in the dark stables built under the seating. He considered himself a good judge and thought that the team of Spanish whites under Paulus were unstoppable. He hesitated as the slave waited to relay his bet to his masters. The valley between the hills was usually perfect for horses that preferred a soft track, but there had been little rain for nearly a week and he could see spirals of dust on the ground below the consular box. His mouth was similarly dry as he made up his mind. Paulus had been confident and the gods loved a gambler. This was his day, after all.

‘Three sesterces on Paulus’ team,’ he said, after a long pause. The slave nodded, but as he turned, Crassus grabbed his arm in his bony fingers. ‘No, two only. The track is quite dry.’

As the man left, Crassus sensed Pompey’s grin.

‘I really don’t know why you bet,’ Pompey said. ‘You are easily the richest man in Rome, but you wager less valiantly than half the people here. What are two sesterces to you? A cup of wine?’

Crassus sniffed at a subject he had heard before. Pompey enjoyed teasing him, but he would still come begging for gold when he needed to fund his precious legions. That was a secret pleasure for the older man, though he wondered if Pompey ever thought of it. If Crassus had been in that position, it would have been like slow poison, but Pompey never varied his cheerful manner. The man had no understanding of the dignity of wealth, none at all.

‘A horse can twist a leg or a driver fall in any race. You expect me to waste gold on simple chance?’

The betting slave returned and handed Crassus a token, which he held tightly. Pompey looked at him with his pale eyes and there was a distaste there that Crassus pretended not to notice.

‘Apart from Paulus, who else is running in the first?’ Pompey asked the slave.

‘Three others, master. A new team from Thrace, Dacius from Mutina and another team shipped over from Spain. They say the horses from Spain went through a storm that unsettled them. Most of the betting money is going on Dacius at the moment.’

Crassus fixed the man with a glare.

‘You did not mention this before,’ he snapped. ‘Paulus brought his horses over from Spain. Did they suffer in the same ship?’

‘I do not know, master,’ the slave replied, bowing his head.

Crassus reddened as he wondered whether he should withdraw his bet before the race began. No, not in front of Pompey, unless he could find a reason to excuse himself for a few moments.

Pompey smiled at the other consul’s discomfort. ‘I will trust the people. One hundred gold on Dacius.’

The slave didn’t even blink at an amount greater than his own price at sale.

‘Certainly, master. I will fetch you the token.’ He paused for a moment in silent enquiry, but Crassus only glared at him.

‘Quickly, the race is about to start,’ Pompey added, sending the slave off at a run. Pompey had seen two flag-bearers approach the long bronze horn at the edge of the track. The crowd cheered as the note sounded and the gates to the stables opened.

First out was the Roman, Dacius, his light chariot pulled by dark geldings. Crassus fidgeted as he noted the arrogant poise and balance of the man as he brought his team around in a smooth turn to line up at the start. The man was short and stocky and the crowd cheered wildly for him. He saluted towards the consular box, and Pompey rose to return the gesture. Crassus copied the action, but Dacius had already turned away to complete his preparation.

‘He looks hungry today, Crassus. His horses are fighting the bit,’ Pompey told his colleague cheerfully.

Crassus ignored him, watching the next team onto the sand. It was the Thracian entry, marked out in green. The bearded driver was inexperienced and few of the crowd had put money on him. Nevertheless, they cheered dutifully, though many were already craning to see the last two come out of the gloom of the stables.

Paulus flicked the long looping reins over his Spanish horses as they thundered out into the light. Crassus thumped the rail with his fist at the sight of them.

‘Dacius will have to work hard to beat these. Look at their condition, Pompey. Glorious.’

Paulus did look confident as he saluted the consuls. Even at a distance, Crassus saw the flash of white teeth against his dark skin and some of his worry eased. The team took its place with the others and the last Spanish competitor rode out to join them.

Crassus had seen nothing wrong with the horses in his first visit, but now he studied them for signs of weakness. Despite his assertions to Pompey, he was suddenly convinced the stallions looked ill at ease compared to the others. Crassus took his seat reluctantly as the horn sounded again and the betting ceased. The slave returned to hand Pompey his token and the consul played idly with it while they waited.

Silence fell across the mass of people. Dacius’ team took fright at something and sidestepped into the Thracian, forcing both men to crack their whips over their heads. A good driver could snap the tip of his whip inches away from any one of his horses at full gallop and order was quickly restored. Crassus noted the Thracian’s calm and wondered if a chance had been missed. The little man didn’t seem at all out of place amongst the more experienced charioteers.

The silence held as the horses pawed and snorted in place for a moment, then the horn was blown a third time, its wail lost in the roar as the teams lunged forward and the race began.

‘You have done well, Crassus,’ Pompey said, looking over the heads of the crowd. ‘I doubt there’s a man in Rome who doesn’t know your generosity.’

Crassus glanced sharply at him, looking for mockery. Pompey was impassive and didn’t seem to feel the gaze.

Below them, the thundering horses reached the first corner. The light chariots scored long sliding arcs in the sand as they were pulled around by the plunging horses. The riders leaned over to balance themselves, held in place by nothing more than their skill and strength. It was an impressive display and Dacius slid neatly between two teams to take an early lead. Crassus frowned at the development.

‘Have you decided whom you will support for consul at the end of the year?’ he said, forcing a neutral tone.

Pompey smiled. ‘It’s a little early to be thinking of it, my friend. I am enjoying being consul myself at the moment.’

Crassus snorted at the blatant falsehood. He knew Pompey too well to believe his denials. Under the pressure of his stare, Pompey shrugged.

‘I believe Senator Prandus can be persuaded to put his name on the lists,’ he said.

Crassus watched the racing teams, considering what he knew of the man.

‘There are worse choices,’ he said at last. ‘Would he accept your … guidance?’

Pompey’s eyes were bright with excitement as Dacius continued to lead the field. Crassus wondered if he was feigning the interest merely to annoy him.

‘Pompey?’ he prompted.

‘He would not be troublesome,’ Pompey replied.

Crassus hid his pleasure. Neither Prandus nor his son Suetonius were men of influence in the Senate, but having weak men as consuls would mean he and Pompey could continue to guide the city, merely exchanging the public aspect for the private. Returning to the anonymity of the back benches after leading Rome was an unpleasant prospect for both of them. Crassus wondered if Pompey knew he held debts on the family and would have his own form of control if Prandus was elected.

‘I could accept Prandus, if you are sure of him,’ he said over the noise of the crowd. Pompey turned an amused expression to him.

‘Excellent. Do you know if Cinna will stand?’

Crassus shook his head. ‘He’s all but retired since the death of his daughter. Have you heard something?’

In his eagerness, Crassus reached out to hold Pompey’s arm and Pompey grimaced at the touch. Crassus felt a spike of hatred for the man. What right did he have to assume such airs, when Crassus paid the bills of his great houses?

‘I have heard nothing yet, Crassus. If not Cinna, though, we must find another to stand for the second post. Perhaps it is not too soon to begin cultivating a new name.’

As the fourth lap began, Dacius led by a full length, with the Thracian holding position behind him. Paulus was third, with the sea-sick Spanish horses bringing up the rear. The crowd bellowed their approval and every eye was on the teams as they rounded the far corner and galloped through the start for the fifth lap. The wooden egg was removed and the bawling voices were becoming hoarse.

‘Have you considered Julius? His term in Spain is almost over,’ Crassus said.

Pompey glanced over at him, suddenly wary. He still suspected Crassus of a loyalty to the young Caesar that he did not share. Had the man not waived the debts of the Tenth shortly after Julius took control? Pompey shook his head.

‘Not him, Crassus. That dog has teeth. I’m sure you don’t want … disruption any more than I.’

Dacius had increased his lead and Crassus continued to speak, pleased to be able to ruffle the smooth placidity of his colleague.

‘They say Caesar has done very well in Spain. New lands under our control, new cities. I believe there has even been talk of a Triumph for him.’

Pompey looked sharply at Crassus, his brow furrowing.

‘I’ve heard nothing of Triumphs and I have made myself clear. When his posting is over, I will send him somewhere else. Greece, perhaps. Whatever you are planning should be forgotten, Crassus. I witnessed my own men standing in the rain for that one when they saw his oak wreath. My own men, honouring a stranger! You remember Marius well enough. We don’t want another one in the city, especially as consul.’

Crassus didn’t reply for a long moment and Pompey chose to interpret the silence as assent.

Below them on the track, Dacius came up behind the Spanish team and moved to lap them. The faltering driver swerved violently as Dacius passed him, losing control for a split second. It was long enough. With a crash that could be heard over the appalled howl of the crowd, both teams were fouled and the neat lines of horses became screaming chaos in an instant.

The Thracian heaved his reins over to clear the wreckage. His whip snapped at the inner horses, forcing them to shorten their stride for a turn that nearly had him over. The crowd watched in agony as the little man guided them around, but then they were through and clear and many in the circus rose to their feet to applaud his skill.

Pompey swore under his breath as he saw Dacius lying still on the sand. One of his legs was twisted peculiarly. His knee had clearly been shattered and though he still lived, he would not race again.

‘Signal the guards I gave you, Crassus. There will be fighting once they recover from the shock.’

Crassus set his jaw in anger, catching the eye of a centurion and holding up a clenched fist. They moved down amongst the benches and it was not a moment too soon. After the excitement at the destruction of the horses and chariots, the crowd had become aware of their lost bets and howled as one in an orgy of frustration. The final laps went without incident, the Thracian first across the line to general indifference. Fights had already broken out and the legionaries acted swiftly, using the flats of their swords to separate struggling men from each other.

Pompey signalled his personal guard that he was ready to leave and they cleared a path for him. He exchanged a glance with Crassus as he left and saw the man’s dislike, for once unmasked. As he reached the street, Pompey was lost in thought, barely hearing the growing disruption behind him.

Julius dismounted at the edge of the village, his horse gently snickering as it cropped at grass between the stones of an ancient road. He and Servilia had ridden far inland and there was no sign of life in the hills around them. It was a beautiful country, with vast swathes of forest and chalky cliffs that dropped into green valleys. The sun had moved past the noon point before they came to this place. They had seen mottled red deer and boars that ran squealing from their horses.

Julius had taken long, looping trails to avoid all signs of people on their ride. He seemed content to be alone with her and Servilia was flattered. At times, it seemed as if they were the only ones alive. The forests were full of shadows and silence and they passed through the gloom almost as ghosts themselves. Then the trees would give way to bright sunlight and a grassy plain and they would gallop recklessly away from the dark until they were panting and laughing together. Servilia could not remember a more perfect day.

The village Julius led her into was a strange place at the foot of a valley. A river ran close by, but as in the forests, there were no voices to break the stillness. The houses were slumping with age and wild ferns and ivy grew out of windows from within. Everywhere there were signs of decay. Doors that had been hung on stiff leather hinges yawned open at them and wild animals scuttled out of their sight as they led their horses along a street towards the centre. The quiet of the empty village made speech difficult, as if it was an intrusion. Servilia was reminded of the echoing vaults of a temple and wondered why Julius had brought her to it.

‘Why did they leave?’ she asked him.

He shrugged. ‘It could be anything: invasion, disease. Perhaps they just wanted to find a new home somewhere else. I spent days here when I first came, but the houses were looted long ago and there’s little left to show how they lived. It is a strange place, though – I love it. If we ever reach this valley with our bridges and new streets, I will be sad to see it go.’

A faded piece of pottery that could once have been a sign jarred his foot and he knelt to look at it, blowing away the dust. It was blank and so thin that he could snap it in his hands.

‘I suppose it looked like Valentia, once. A market and crops to sell, children running around with chickens. Difficult to imagine now.’

Servilia looked around her and tried to conjure up the image of a place full of bustling people. A lizard ran along a wall near her, catching her eye for a second before it vanished under a sagging eave. There was something eerie in walking through such a place, as if at any moment the streets would fill with life and noise again, the interruption to their lives forgotten.

‘Why do you come here?’ she asked.

He looked sideways at her, smiling strangely. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, turning a corner into a wider road.

The houses here were little more than heaps of rubble and Servilia could see a square beyond them. The sunlight made the air warm and light as they approached it and Julius quickened his step in anticipation as they reached the open ground.

The heavy stones of the square were cracked and lined with creeping grass and wild flowers, but Julius walked across them without looking, his eyes fastened on a broken pedestal and a statue that lay beside it in pieces. The features were almost completely worn away and the white stone was chipped and battered, yet Julius approached it with reverence. He tied their horses to a sapling that had sprung up through the stone of the square and leaned against the statue, tracing the features with his hand. An arm had gone, but she could see the statue had been a powerful figure once. Servilia saw where words had been cut into the heavy plinth and she traced the strange characters with her finger.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘One of the local scholars told me it says “Alexander the King”.’

Julius’ voice was rough with emotion and she felt again the desire to touch him, to share his thoughts. To her astonishment, she saw tears form in his eyes as he gazed at the stone face.

‘What is it? I don’t understand,’ she said, reaching out to him without a thought. His skin felt hot against her hand and he didn’t move away.

‘Seeing him …’ he said softly, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he pressed her hand against him with his own before letting it fall. After another long look at the stone figure, he shrugged, having found control once more.

‘By the time he was my age, he had conquered the world. They said he was a god. Compared to that, I have wasted my life.’

Servilia sat on the ledge next to him, their thighs touching lightly, though she felt every part of the contact. Julius spoke again after a while, his voice distant with memory.

‘When I was a boy, I used to listen to the stories of his battles and his life. He was … astonishing. He had the world in his hand when he was little more than a child. I used to imagine myself … I used to see his path once.’

Again, Servilia reached up to his face, smoothing the skin. He seemed to feel it for the first time and raised his head to look at her as she spoke.

‘It is here for you, if you want it,’ she said, unsure as she spoke whether she was offering more than just a hope of glory, or something more personal. He seemed to hear both meanings in her words and took her hand again. This time, his eyes searched hers at the touch, asking a silent question.

‘I want it all,’ he whispered and she could not have said which of them moved to kiss the other. It simply happened, and they felt the strength of it as they sat at the feet of Alexander.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the days that followed, time seemed to pass more slowly when Servilia could not find an excuse to take the horses out again. The Golden Hand was running well and she had brought two men from Rome large enough to quieten the wildest reveller. Instead of taking pleasure from the success, she found her thoughts constantly drifting back to the strange young man who could be vulnerable and frightening in the same moment. She had forced herself not to ask for him again and then waited for his invitation. When it had come, she had laughed aloud, amused at herself, yet unable to resist the excitement it brought.

She stopped to add another stem to the circlet she was weaving as they walked through a field of swaying corn. Julius paused with her, more relaxed than he had felt for a long time. The depression that had crushed him seemed to vanish in her company and it was strange to think that their first ride into the wilderness had been only a few weeks before. She had seen the parts of his life that mattered most to him and he felt as if he had always known Servilia.

With her, the nightmares he tried to drown like pups in heavy wine had lifted, though he felt them circling still. She was the blessing of Alexander over him, a ward against the shadows that pressed him into despair. He could forget who he had become, dropping the mantle of his authority. An hour or two each day in sunshine that warmed more than his skin.

He looked at her as she straightened, wondering at the force of the feelings she engendered. In one moment she could reveal a knowledge of the city and the senators that would leave him breathless, and in another she could be almost childlike as she laughed or chose another bloom to weave with the rest.

Brutus had encouraged the friendship after that first trip to the village of the broken statue. He saw that Servilia was like a balm to his friend’s troubled spirit, beginning to heal wounds that had festered for too long.

‘Pompey was wrong to have the slaves crucified,’ Julius said, remembering the line of crosses and the weeping, tortured figures on them, waiting for death. The images of the great slave rebellion were still painfully fresh in his mind, even after four years. Crows had gorged until they were too fat to fly and cawed in anger at his men as they kicked out at the staggering birds. Julius shuddered slightly.

‘After the beginning, we didn’t offer the slaves anything but death. They knew we’d never let them run. They were badly led and Pompey had them tied and nailed all the way up the Via from the south. It was not greatness in him, then, responding to the terror of the mob.’

‘You would not have done it?’ Servilia asked.

‘Spartacus and his gladiators had to die, but there were brave men in the ranks who had faced legions and beaten them. No, I would have formed a new legion and salted it with the hardest bastard centurions from all the others. Six thousand brave men, Servilia, all wasted for his ambition. It would have been a better example than putting them all on crosses, but Pompey can see no further than his petty rules and traditions. He holds his line while the rest of the world moves past him.’

‘The people cheered them into the city, Julius. Pompey was the one they really wanted as consul. Crassus took the second seat in his shadow.’

‘Better if they had turned the slaves on their own,’ Julius muttered. ‘They would stand tall then, rather than rushing to kiss the feet of Pompey. Better to grow your crops rather than cry out for men like Pompey to give you food. It’s a sickness in us, you know. We always raise unworthy men to rule us.’

He struggled to find words and Servilia stopped, turning to face him. On such a hot day, she had chosen a stola of thin linen and wore her hair bound back with a silver thread, revealing her neck. Every day he spent with her seemed to bring some facet to his attention. He wanted to kiss her throat.

‘He destroyed the pirates, Julius. Of all people, you should be pleased at that.’

‘Of course I am,’ he said bitterly, ‘though I wanted the task myself. Pompey doesn’t dream, Servilia. There are whole new lands rich with pearls and gold, but he rests and organises games for the people. They starve in the fields while he builds new temples for them to pray for wealth.’

‘You would do more?’ she asked, taking his arm. The touch was warm and his thoughts fled before the onslaught of a sudden passion that surprised him. He wondered if his thoughts showed, as he stammered a reply.

‘I would do more. There is gold enough to raise the least of Rome and the chance is there for us, if we can grasp it. There is nothing in the world like our city. They say Egypt is richer, but we are still young enough to fill our hands. Pompey is asleep if he thinks the borders will remain safe with the legions we have. We need to raise more, and pay for them with new lands and gold.’

She let her hand drop, feeling a shiver of desire raise the soft hairs of her skin. There was such a force in him, when it was not shuttered in grief and despair. She saw the darkness cast away with both awe and pleasure. The man who aroused her with a touch was not the one who had met her first at the gates of the fort and she wondered what would come of the reawakening.

When she felt herself longing for him, it had shocked her, almost frightened her. That was not how it was meant to be. The men who loved her never touched more than the skin they craved. They could spend themselves in her without more than a tremble of real response. Yet this strange young man threw her into confusion whenever his blue eyes caught hers. Such strange eyes, with the dark pupil that hurt him in bright light. It seemed to see all her artifice for what it was, breaking through the smoothness of her ways to the privacy of her.

She sighed as they walked on. She was being foolish. This was no time in her life to be moonstruck by a man her son’s age. She ran her hand along the line of her bound hair unconsciously. Not that her years showed, at all. She oiled her body every night and ate well and carefully. A man could take her for thirty, she had been told, rather than the year shy of forty to which she admitted. Forty-two. Sometimes she felt older than that, especially in the city, when Crassus came to her. Sometimes she would weep for no reason at all, the mood vanishing as quickly as it had come. She knew the young man at her side could have any of the young girls of the city. He would not want one who carried so many marks on her, which no one else could see.

She crossed her arms, almost crushing the circlet of bound flowers. She didn’t doubt she could rouse him to passion if she wanted. He was young and innocent compared to her. It would be easy, and she realised that part of her wanted it, would welcome his hands on her in the long grasses of the meadow. She shook her head slightly. Stupid girl. Should never have kissed him.

She spoke quickly to cover the pause, wondering if he had noticed her distraction, or the flush that had come to her cheeks.

‘You haven’t seen Rome recently, Julius. There are so many poor now. The slave army left almost no one to work the fields and the beggars are like flies. At least Pompey gives them a taste of glory, even when their bellies are empty. The Senate wouldn’t dare to hold him back in anything, in case the mobs rise and consume them all. It was a fragile peace when I left and I doubt anything has improved since then. You couldn’t know how close they are to chaos. The Senate lives in fear of another uprising to rival the battles with Spartacus. Everyone who can afford them has guards and the poor kill each other in the streets with nothing done about it. They are not easy times, Julius.’

‘Perhaps I should return then. I haven’t seen my daughter in four years and Pompey owes me a great deal. Perhaps it is time to call in a few of my debts and make sure I am a part of the work again.’

For a moment, his face lit with a passion that made her heart lift as she saw the image of the man she’d watched at the trial, holding the Senate rapt as he took justice from his enemies. Then, just as quickly, it was gone and he blew air through his lips in exasperation.

‘I had a wife to share it with before all this. I had Tubruk, who was more like a father to me than a friend; my home. The future was rushing on me with a kind of … joy. Now, I’ve nothing but new swords and mines and it seems pointless. I would give anything to have Tubruk come back for one hour to share a drink with me, or the chance to see Cornelia just for a while, long enough to say sorry for breaking my promises to her.’

He rubbed his eyes with his hand before walking on. Servilia almost reached for him then, knowing her touch could bring him comfort. She resisted with an enormous effort of will. The touch would lead to more and though she ached to be held herself, she had the strength not to play the game she knew so well, that she had known all her life. A younger woman might have gathered him in without shame at the moment of his weakness, but Servilia knew too much to try. There would be other days.

Then he turned to her and held her tightly enough to hurt, his mouth pressing her lips to open for him. She gave way to it, unable to help herself.

Brutus slid neatly from the saddle as he passed under the gates of the fort. The Tenth had staged complex manoeuvres out in the hills and Octavian had done well, using the force he had been given to flank Domitius in a skilful display. Brutus didn’t hesitate as he ran into the buildings. The dark moods that had cast a cloud over them all were already a memory and he knew Julius would be pleased to hear how well his young relative was doing. Octavian had the shoulders to command, as Marius used to say.

The guard at the base of the steps was out of position, standing well back from his post. Brutus heard him shout as he clattered up the stairs, but only grinned.

Julius was lying on a couch with Servilia, their faces flushed in panic at the sudden, noisy arrival of Brutus into the room. Julius leapt naked to his feet and faced his friend in rage.

‘Get out!’ he roared.

Brutus froze in disbelief, then his face twisted and he spun around, slamming the door shut behind him.

Julius turned slowly to meet Servilia’s eyes, already regretting his anger. He pulled his clothes on roughly, sitting back on the long couch. Her perfume was heavy in his nostrils and he knew he smelled of her. As he stood, the warmth of the cloth was left behind and he drew away, thinking of what he had to do.

‘I’ll go out to him,’ she said, standing.

Wrapped in bitterness, Julius barely noticed her nudity. It had been madness to fall asleep where they could be found, but there was no point in regretting what was past. He shook his head as he tied his sandals.

‘You have less of an apology to make. Let me find him first,’ he said.

Her eyes hardened for a moment. ‘You won’t apologise … for me?’ she said, her voice deceptively calm.

Julius stood and faced her. ‘Not for a moment of you,’ he said, softly.

She came into his arms then and he found there was something indescribably erotic in holding a naked woman while fully clothed. He broke away with a grin despite his worry for Brutus.

‘He’ll be all right when he’s calmed down a little,’ he said to reassure her, wishing he believed it. With steady hands, he buckled his gladius to his waist. Servilia looked suddenly afraid.

‘I don’t want you to fight him, Julius. You must not.’

Julius forced a laugh that seemed to echo in his empty stomach.

‘He’d never hurt me,’ he said as he left.

Outside the door, Julius’ expression settled into a grim mask as he came down the stairs. Domitius and Cabera were there with Ciro, and he imagined their eyes accused him.

‘Where is he?’ Julius snapped.

‘Training yard,’ Domitius said. ‘I’d leave him for a while if I were you, General. His blood’s running hot and it’ll do no good to have it out now.’

Julius hesitated, then his old recklessness swept through him. He had brought it about and the price was his to pay.

‘Stay here,’ he said curtly. ‘He’s my oldest friend and this is private.’

Brutus stood alone in the empty yard, a gladius by Cavallo glittering in his hand. He nodded as Julius walked towards him and once again Julius almost hesitated at the black glare that followed his every movement. If it came to blood, he could not beat Brutus. Even if he could steal victory, he doubted he could take that life above all others.

Brutus brought the shining blade into first position and Julius emptied his mind with the old discipline Renius had taught. This was an enemy and he could kill him.

Julius unsheathed his sword.

‘Did you pay her?’ Brutus said softly, breaking his concentration.

Julius fought against the spiky anger that came to him then. They had both learned from the same man and he knew better than to listen. They began to circle each other.

‘I think I knew, but I didn’t believe it,’ Brutus began again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t shame me with her, so I didn’t worry.’

‘There is no shame,’ Julius replied.

‘Yes. There is,’ Brutus said and moved.

Of all men, Julius knew his style better than anyone, but he barely managed to parry a blade sent straight at his heart. It was a killing blow and he could not excuse it. Anger rose in him then and he moved a little faster, his step a little firmer on the ground as his senses quickened. So be it.

Julius darted in, ducking under a sweep of silver and forcing Brutus onto his back foot. He pulled his blade to the side to cut, but Brutus skipped away with a sneer, then answered with a rain of blows.

They broke clear, beginning to pant slightly. Julius clenched his left hand into a fist to close a gash across his palm. The blood dripped slowly from it as he moved around, leaving spots like glossy eyes to vanish in the sand.

‘I love her,’ Julius said. ‘I love you. Too much for this.’ With a gesture of disgust, he threw his sword away and stood facing his friend.

Brutus brought the point up to his throat and looked into Julius’ eyes.

‘They all know? Cabera, Domitius, Octavian?’

Julius looked steadily back at him, steeling himself not to flinch.

‘Perhaps. We didn’t plan it, Brutus. I didn’t want you to walk in on us.’

The sword was a still point in a moving world. Julius clenched his jaw, a vast sense of calm settling over him. He relaxed every muscle consciously and stood waiting. He did not want to die, but if it came, he would treat it with contempt.

‘This is no small thing, Marcus. Not for me, not for her,’ he said.

The sword came down suddenly and the manic light died from Brutus’ eyes.

‘There is so much between us, Julius, but if you hurt her, I will kill you.’

‘Go and see her. She’s worried about you,’ Julius replied, ignoring the threat.

Brutus held his gaze for a long moment more before walking away and leaving him alone in the training yard. Julius watched him go, then opened his hand with a wince. For a moment, anger surged again. He would have hanged any other man who dared to raise a sword against him. There could be no excuse.

Yet they had been boys together and that counted. Perhaps enough to swallow the betrayal of a blade aimed at his heart. Julius narrowed his eyes in thought. It would be harder to trust the man a second time.

The next six weeks were filled with almost unbearable tension. Though Brutus had spoken with his mother and given a tight-lipped blessing to the union, he walked the compound with his anger and loneliness like a cloak around him.

Without a word of explanation, Julius began to drill the Tenth himself again. He took them out alone for days at a time and never spoke except to give his orders. For their part, the legionaries struggled through pain and exhaustion just to receive a nod from him and that seemed to be worth more than effusive praise from anyone else.

When he was in the barracks, Julius wrote letters and orders far into the night, cutting deeply into the reserves of gold he’d built up. He sent riders back to Rome to commission new armour from Alexandria’s workshop and caravans of supplies wound their way through the mountains from Spanish cities. New mines had to be cut to supply iron ore for the swords being produced at Cavallo’s design. Forests were felled for charcoal and there was never a moment when any one of the five thousand soldiers of the Tenth did not have two or three tasks that needed doing.

His officers were caught between the pain of being excluded and a kind of joy at seeing Julius rediscover the old energy. Long before Julius summoned his subordinates from their posts around the country, they guessed the time in Spain was coming to an end. Hispania was simply too small to contain the general of the Tenth.

Julius chose the most able of the Spanish quaestors to take his place in the interim until Rome appointed another of her sons. He handed over the seal of his office and then threw himself back into working all day and night, sometimes going without sleep for three days in a row before collapsing in exhaustion. After a short rest, he would rise and begin again. Those in the barracks trod carefully around him and waited nervously for the result of all his labour.

Brutus came to him in the early hours of a morning, when the camp was still and silent all around them. He knocked on the door and entered as Julius called out a muttered response.

Julius sat at a desk strewn with maps and clay tablets, with more on the floor at his feet. He stood as he saw Brutus and for a moment, the coldness between them seemed to prohibit speech. The habit of friendship was rusty for both of them.

Brutus swallowed painfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Julius remained silent, watching him. The face he presented was like a stranger’s, with nothing of the friendship Brutus missed.

Brutus tried again. ‘I was a fool, but you’ve known me long enough to let it go,’ he said. ‘I am your friend. Your sword, remember?’

Julius nodded, accepting him. ‘I love Servilia,’ he said softly. ‘I would have told you before anyone else, but it came too quickly between us. There are no games here, but my relationship is private. I will not answer to you for it.’

‘When I saw you together, I …’ Brutus began.

Julius held up a stiff hand.

‘No. I don’t want to hear that again. It’s done.’

‘Gods, you won’t make this easy for me, will you?’ Brutus said, shaking his head.

‘It shouldn’t be. I care more for you than any man I’ve ever met, and you struck to kill me in the training yard. That is hard to forgive.’

‘What?’ Brutus replied quickly. ‘I didn’t …’

‘I know, Brutus.’

Brutus slumped slightly. Without another word, he pulled up a stool. After a moment, Julius took his own seat.

‘Do you want me to keep apologising? I was raging. I thought you were using her like … It was a mistake, I’m sorry. What more do you want?’

‘I want to know I can trust you. I want all this to be forgotten,’ Julius replied.

Brutus stood. ‘You can trust me. You know it. I gave up Primigenia for you. Let this go.’

As they looked at each other, a smile crept onto Julius’ face.

‘Did you notice how I parried the stroke? I wish Renius could have seen that.’

‘Yes, you were very good,’ Brutus replied sarcastically. ‘Are you satisfied?’

‘I think I could have won,’ Julius said cheerfully.

Brutus blinked at him. ‘Now that’s going too far.’

The tension between them receded to a distant pressure.

‘I’m going to take the legion back to Rome,’ Julius said in a rush, relieved to have his friend to share his plans once again. He wondered if the weeks after the fight had hurt Brutus half as much as they had hurt him.

‘We all know, Julius. The men gossip like a group of old women. Is it to challenge Pompey?’ Brutus spoke casually, as if the lives of thousands didn’t hang on the answer.

‘No, he rules well enough, with Crassus. I will put my name forward to be consul at the elections.’ He watched Brutus for a reaction.

‘You think you can win?’ Brutus replied slowly, thinking it over. ‘You’ll have only a few months and the people have a short memory.’

‘I am the last surviving blood of Marius. I will remind them,’ Julius said and Brutus felt the stirring of the old excitement. He reflected on how his friend had experienced almost a rebirth in the last months. The snapping anger had gone and his mother had played her part in it. Even his dear little Angelina was in awe of Servilia and he could begin to understand why.

‘It’s almost dawn. You should get some sleep,’ he said.

‘Not yet, there’s a lot still to do before we can see Rome again.’

‘Then I will stay with you, unless you mind,’ Brutus said, stifling another yawn.

Julius smiled at him. ‘I don’t mind. I need someone to write as I dictate.’

CHAPTER SIX

Renius stood in the dry riverbed and looked up at the bridge. The structure swarmed with Romans and local men, clambering over a skeleton of wood that shifted and creaked as they moved along the walkways. Two hundred feet from the dry riverbed to the stones of the road above. When it was complete, the dam upriver would be removed and the water would hide the massive feet of the bridge, washing around the shaped edges for long after the builders had gone to dust. Just being in the shadow of it was a strange feeling for the old gladiator. When the waters came, no one would ever stand there again.

He shook his head in silent pride, listening to the orders and calls as the winch teams began to raise another of the blocks that would form the arch. Their voices echoed under the bridge and Renius could see they shared his satisfaction. This bridge would never fall and they knew it.

The road above his head would open up a fertile valley in a direct line to the coast. Towns would be built and the roads extended to meet the needs of the new settlers. They would come for the good ground and for trade and most of all for the clean, sweet water issuing from the underground aqueducts that had taken three years to build.

Renius watched as a team of men threw their strength on the heavy ropes as the archstone was swung over to its position. The pulleys squealed and he saw Ciro was leaning out over the rail to guide the block home. Men at his side slathered brown mortar over the surfaces and then Ciro wrapped his arms around it, chanting with the others in a lulling rhythm to the teams below. Renius held his breath. Though the giant’s strength was unmatched among the teams, a slip could easily crush a hand or a shoulder. If the block swung out of position, it was heavy enough to bring the supports crashing down, taking them all with it.

Even so far below, Renius could hear Ciro grunting as he moved the block into place, the mortar squeezing out to fall in wet pats on the riverbed below. Renius shaded his eyes to see if one would come close enough to make him duck away, smiling at their efforts.

He liked the big man. Ciro didn’t say a great deal, but he held nothing back when it came to hard work and Renius would have liked him for that alone. It had surprised him at first to find he enjoyed teaching Ciro the skills more experienced legionaries took for granted. A legion could not be stopped by valleys or mountains. Every man on the scaffolding knew that there wasn’t a river they couldn’t bridge or a road they couldn’t cut in all the world. They built Rome wherever they went.

Ciro had been awed by the water and the miles of tunnels they had cut to bring it down from springs high in the mountains. Now the people who settled in the valley would not face disease every summer, with their wells becoming stale and thick. Perhaps then they would think of the men of Rome who had built them.

The peace of Renius’ thoughts was interrupted by a single rider in light armour guiding his horse over the bank and down to where he stood. The man was sweating in the heat and craned his neck to look up in instinctive fear as he passed under the arches. A heavy hammer dropped from that height could kill the horse as well as the man on it, but Renius chuckled at his caution.

‘You have a message for me?’ Renius asked him.

The man trotted into the shadow of the arch and dismounted.

‘Yes, sir. The general requests your attendance at the barracks. He said to bring the legionary named Ciro with you, sir.’

‘The last arch is nearly finished, lad.’

‘He said to come immediately, sir.’

Renius frowned, then squinted up at Ciro high above him. Only a fool would shout orders to a man carrying a stone almost as heavy as he was, but he saw Ciro was standing back, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. Renius filled his lungs.

‘Come down, Ciro. We’re wanted.’

Despite the sun, Octavian felt chilled as the breeze whipped past his skin. His fifty were at full gallop down the steepest hill he had ever seen. If he hadn’t gone over every foot of it that morning, he would never have dared such a breakneck speed, but the turf was even and none of the experienced riders fell, using the strength of their legs to wedge them in the saddles. Even then, the pommel horns pressed sharply against their groins. Octavian gritted his teeth against the pain as the gallop bruised him unmercifully.

Brutus had chosen the hill with him, to show the reality and power of a charge. He awaited their arrival with a full century of the extraordinarii at the foot of the hill and even at that distance Octavian could see the mounts move skittishly as they instinctively tried to shy away from the thundering fifty coming down.

The noise was incredible, as Octavian shouted for his men to dress the line. The charging rank was becoming a little ragged and he had to roar at his best volume to catch the attention of the wavering riders around him. They showed their skill as the line firmed without slowing and Octavian drew his sword, gripping furiously with his knees. His legs were tortured at such an angle, but he held on.

The ground levelled slightly at the bottom and Octavian barely had time to balance his weight before his fifty were streaming through the wide-spaced ranks that faced them. Faces and horses blurred at appalling speed as they shot through the century and out the other side in what seemed like a single instant of time. Octavian saw an officer looking pale as he flashed past him. If he had held the sword out, the man’s head would have flown.

Octavian shouted in excitement as he called for his men to turn and re-form. Some of them laughed in relief as they rejoined Brutus and saw the tense expressions of the men he commanded that day.

‘With the right ground, we can be terrifying,’ Brutus said, raising his voice for them all to hear. ‘I practically lost my bladder there at the end and I knew you were just going through us!’

The riders under Octavian cheered the admission, though they didn’t believe it. One of them slapped Octavian on the back as Brutus turned to face them, with a leer.

‘Now you’ll get a taste of it. Form up into wide ranks while I take mine up the hill. Hold them steady as we come through and you’ll learn something.’

Octavian swallowed sudden nervousness to grin, still filled with the wild thrill of the charge. Brutus dismounted to lead his horse up the hill and then saw a lone horseman cantering towards them.

‘What’s this, I wonder?’ he murmured.

The soldier dismounted neatly and saluted Brutus.

‘General Caesar is asking for Octavian and yourself, sir.’

Brutus nodded, a slow smile beginning.

‘Is he now?’ He turned to his beloved extraordinarii.

‘What if your officers were killed in the first charge? Would there be chaos? Carry on without us. I will expect a full report when you return to barracks.’

Octavian and Brutus fell in behind the messenger as he wheeled his mount. After a while, they tired of the pace he set and galloped past him.

Cabera ran his fingers along a length of blue silk with childish delight. He seemed to be caught between amazement and laughter at the costly furnishings Servilia had shipped in for the Golden Hand, and her patience was wearing thin. He interrupted her again to dart past and handle a delicate piece of statuary.

‘So you see,’ she tried once more, ‘I would like to establish a reputation for a clean house and some soldiers use chalk dust to cover the rashes they have …’

‘All this for pleasure!’ Cabera interrupted, winking suggestively at her. ‘I want to die in a place like this.’ As she frowned at him, he approached the edge of a pit of silk cushions, set below the level of the floor. He looked at her for permission and Servilia shook her head firmly.

‘Julius said you have a fair knowledge of the diseases of the skin and I would pay well for you to be available to the house.’ She was forced to pause again as the old man jumped into the mass of cushions and scrambled around in them, chuckling.

‘It isn’t difficult work,’ Servilia continued doggedly. ‘My girls will recognise a problem when they see it, but if there’s an argument, I need someone to be able to examine the … man in question. Just until I can find a more permanent doctor from the town.’ She watched astonished as Cabera tumbled around.

‘I’ll pay five sesterces a month,’ she said.

‘Fifteen,’ Cabera replied, suddenly serious. As she blinked in surprise, he smoothed his old robe down with swift strokes from his fingers.

‘I will not go higher than ten, old man. For fifteen, I can have a local doctor living here.’

Cabera snorted. ‘They know nothing and you would lose a room. Twelve, but I won’t deal with pregnancy. You find someone else for that.’

‘I do not run a backstreet whorehouse,’ Servilia snapped. ‘My girls can watch the moon like any other woman. If they do fall pregnant, I pay them off. Most come back to me after the child is weaned. Ten is my final offer.’

‘Examining the rotting parts of soldiers is worth twelve sesterces to anyone,’ Cabera told her cheerfully. ‘I would also like some of these cushions.’

Servilia gritted her teeth.

‘They cost more than your services, old man. Twelve, then, but the cushions stay.’

Cabera clapped his hands in pleasure. ‘First month’s pay up front and a cup of wine to seal the agreement, I think?’ he said.

Servilia opened her mouth to reply and heard a throat delicately cleared behind her. It was Nadia, one of the new ones she had brought to the house, a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes as hard as her body was soft.

‘Mistress, there is a messenger from the legion at the door.’

‘Bring him to me, Nadia.’ Servilia said, forcing a smile. As the woman disappeared, she spun to Cabera.

‘Out of there, now. I will not be embarrassed by you.’

Cabera clambered out of the silken pit, his long fingers slipping one of the cushions under his robe as she turned back to greet the messenger.

The man was blushing furiously and Servilia could see from Nadia’s grin at his shoulder that she had been talking to him.

‘Madam, Caesar wants you at the barracks.’ His eyes swivelled to Cabera. ‘You too, healer. I’m to be your escort. The horses are outside.’

Servilia rubbed the corner of her mouth in thought, ignoring the way the messenger watched her.

‘Will my son be there?’ she asked.

The messenger nodded. ‘Everyone is being called in, madam. I have only Centurion Domitius to find.’

‘That’s easily done, then. He’s upstairs,’ she said, watching with interest as the man’s blush spread down his neck into his tunic. She could practically feel the heat coming off him.

‘I’d leave it a little while, if I were you,’ she said.

As they seated themselves in the long room overlooking the yard, every one of them felt hollow twinges of excitement as they caught each other’s eyes. Julius dominated the room as he stood by the window, waiting for the last to arrive. The breeze off the hills spun slowly through the room and cooled them, but the tension was almost painful. Octavian laughed nervously as Cabera pulled a silk cushion from under his robe and Renius held his wine cup in too tight a grip.

As the guard closed the door and went down the stairs, Brutus drained his wine and grinned. ‘So are you going to tell us why we’re here, Julius?’

They all watched the man who faced them. The familiar tiredness had vanished from his features and he stood straight, his armour shining with oil.

‘Gentlemen, Servilia. We are finished here. It’s time to go home,’ he said.

There was a moment of silence and then Servilia jumped in her seat as the others cheered and laughed together.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Renius said, tilting his cup.

Julius unrolled a map on his desk and they crowded around him as he laid weights at the corners. Servilia felt excluded and then Julius caught her eye and smiled at her. It would be all right.

As Julius discussed the problems of moving five thousand men, she began to calculate. The Golden Hand was barely started and who would run it if she left? Angelina didn’t have the iron in her. She’d be running a free house within a year if Servilia left her in charge. Nadia, possibly. A heart of flint and experienced enough, but could she be trusted not to steal half the profits? Hearing her own name snapped her back from her thoughts.

‘… not by land then, in the time. Servilia gave me the idea when we met the merchant captain she uses. I’ll write orders to commandeer every ship on the passage. That is not to be discussed except between ourselves. If they hear we’re going to use their ships, they’ll put to sea and stay there.’

‘Why are you leaving before you’re finished here?’ Cabera said softly.

The conversation around the table died to nothing and Julius paused with his finger on the map.

‘I am finished here. This is not where I should be,’ he replied. ‘You told me that yourself. If I wait out my term, Pompey will send me somewhere else well away from my city and if I refuse, that will be my last posting anywhere. There are no second chances from that man.’ Julius tapped his finger on the map over the tiny mark of the city he loved.

‘There are elections at the end of the year for two seats as consul. I’m going back to try for one of them.’

Cabera shrugged, still testing. ‘And then? Will you fight a war for the city like Sulla?’

Julius became very still for a moment and his eyes pinned Cabera.

‘No, old friend,’ he said softly. ‘Then I will no longer be posted at Pompey’s whim. As consul, I will be untouchable. I will be at the heart of things again.’

Cabera wanted to let the moment pass, but his stubbornness forced him to speak.

‘But after that? Will you have Brutus drill the Tenth while you write new laws the people will not understand? Will you lose yourself in maps and bridges as you have done here?’

Renius reached out and gripped Cabera by the shoulder to make him stop, but the old man ignored the hand.

‘You can do more than that, if you have eyes to see it,’ he said, wincing as Renius closed his hand on his thin muscles, hurting him.

‘If I am consul,’ Julius said slowly, ‘I will take what I love to the wildest places I can find. Is that what you want me to say? That Spain is too quiet for me? I know it. I will find my path there, Cabera. The gods listen more closely to those who speak from Rome. They just can’t hear me out here.’ He smiled to cover his anger and felt Servilia watching him over Octavian’s shoulder. Renius dropped his hand from the old man’s arm and Cabera scowled at him.

Brutus spoke to smooth the moment over. ‘If we start holding ships tonight, how long before we have enough to move the Tenth?’

Julius nodded his head a fraction in thanks. ‘A month at most. I have already sent word that we need captains for a large cargo. I think no more than thirty ships will be enough to land at Ostia. The Senate would never let me approach Rome with the whole legion as it is, so I’ll need a camp at the coast. I’ll take the gold with me on that first trip. We have enough for what I have in mind.’

Servilia watched them argue and wrangle as the sun set behind them. They barely noticed the guard enter the room to light more lamps. After a while, she left to begin her own arrangements, the night air of the yard making her feel alive after the heat of the room.

She could still hear their voices as she walked across the yard and saw the gate sentries stiffen as they saw her.

‘Is it true we’re going to Rome, madam?’ one of them said as she passed him. It came as no surprise to find the man had heard a rumour. Some of her best information in Rome came from the lower ranks.

‘It’s true,’ she said.

The man smiled. ‘It’s about time,’ he said.

When the Tenth moved, they moved quickly. Ten of the largest ships in Valentia port had guards preventing their escape within a day of the meeting in the long room. To the fury of the merchant captains, their precious cargoes were unloaded and left in the warehouses on the docks to make more room for the vast stores of equipment and men that made up a legion.

The gold at the fort was crated and taken out to the ships, with fully armed centuries attending every foot of the journey. The forges of the swordmakers were dismantled and tied on huge wooden pallets that took teams of oxen to lift into the dark holds. The great war ballistae and onagers were reduced to spars and the heavy ships sank lower and lower in the sea as they were filled. They would need the highest tide to sail out of the harbour and Julius set the day exactly one month after he had made the formal announcement. If all went well, they would reach Rome just over a hundred days before the consular elections.

The quaestor Julius had promoted was ambitious and Julius knew he would work like a slave to keep his new post. There would be no loss of discipline in the provinces when the Tenth had gone. The quaestor brought two cohorts to the east under Julius’ orders, some of them local men who had joined the Roman forces years before. It was enough of a force to keep the peace, and Julius took pleasure from the fact that the problem was no longer his.

There were a thousand things to organise before the ships could throw their lines from the dockside and move out to sea. Julius pushed himself to exhaustion, sleeping only one night in two, at best. He met with local leaders from all over the country to explain what was happening and the gifts he left them ensured their aid and blessing.

The quaestor had been quietly amazed when Julius told him how productive the new mines had become during his term. They had toured them together and the man took the opportunity to secure a loan from the coffers of the Tenth to be paid back over five years. No matter who ended up in the position of praetor, the debt would stand. The mines would be developed and no doubt part of the new wealth would be declared. Not before the post was made permanent, Julius thought wryly. It would not do to excite the hunger of men like Crassus in Rome.

As Julius walked out into the courtyard, he had to shade his eyes against the fierce sun. The gates were open and the fort had a vacant feel that reminded him of the village with the statue of Alexander. It was a strange thought, but the new cohorts were expected the following dawn and the fort would come back to life then.

In the glare, he did not see the young man standing by the gate, waiting for him. Julius was crossing to the stables and was jerked out of his reverie as the man spoke. His hand dropped to his gladius in reflex.

‘General? Do you have a moment?’ the man said.

Julius recognised him and narrowed his eyes. His name was Adàn, he remembered, the one he had spared.

‘What is it?’ he said impatiently.

Adàn approached him and Julius kept his hand near his hilt. He didn’t doubt he could handle the young Spaniard, but there could be others and he had lived long enough not to drop his guard too easily. His eyes scanned the gate, watching for moving shadows.

‘The Mayor, Del Subió, told me you need a scribe, sir. I can read and write Latin.’

Julius looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did Del Subió mention the fact that I am about to leave for Rome?’ he asked.

Adàn nodded. ‘Everyone knows it. I would like to see the city, but I do want the work.’

Julius looked him in the eye, weighing him. He trusted his instincts and he could sense nothing hidden in the man’s open face. Perhaps the young Spaniard was telling the truth, though Julius couldn’t help but suspect his motives with the legion about to set sail.

‘A free trip to Rome, then you disappear in the markets, Adàn?’ he said.

The young man shrugged. ‘You have my word. I can offer nothing else. I work hard and I want to see more of the world. That is all.’

‘Why come to work for me, though? It wasn’t long ago you had Roman blood on your hands.’

Adàn coloured, but raised his head, refusing to be cowed. ‘You are an honourable man, General. While I would rather Rome did not lay its hand on my people, you made me curious. You would not regret hiring me, I swear it.’

Julius frowned at him. The man seemed unaware of the danger of his words. He remembered the way he had stood before Julius’ men in the long room, struggling to control his fear.

‘I must be able to trust you, Adàn, and that will come only with time. What you hear from me will be worth money to those who pay for information. Can you be trusted to keep my business secret?’

‘As you say, you will know in time. My word is good.’

Julius came to a decision and his frown cleared.

‘Very well, Adàn. Go up to my rooms and fetch me the papers from the desk. I will dictate a letter to you and judge your hand. Then your time is your own to say goodbye to your family. We leave for Rome in three days.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brutus vomited helplessly over the side into the heaving sea.

‘I’d forgotten about this,’ he said miserably.

Ciro could only moan in reply as the last cups of wine they’d taken in Valentia came surging back. The wind gusted and blew some of the foul liquid spattering over both of them. Brutus froze in disgust.

‘Move away from me, you ox,’ he shouted over the gale. Though his stomach was empty, the painful spasms began again and he winced at the bitterness in his mouth.

The clouds had swept in from the east as the Spanish mountains sank behind them. The ships had scattered before the storm, forced away from each other. Those with oars kept some semblance of control, though the rolling decks had the long blades completely out of the water on one side and then another. The merchants who depended on their sails were trailing sea anchors, great bundles of canvas and spars to slow their progress and give the heavy rudders something to work against. It was little help. The storm brought the darkness early and they lost sight of each other, every ship suddenly alone to fight the waves.

Brutus shivered at the stern as another wild roll brought water over the side in a great rush of whiteness. He gripped the rail hard as it frothed around his knees and then poured away. The oars slapped and skipped over the mountains of dark water and Brutus wondered whether they would strike land in a sudden crash.

The blackness was absolute and even a few paces from him he could barely make out Ciro’s bulk. He heard the big man moan softly and Brutus closed his eyes, just wanting it all to stop. He’d been fine until they cleared the coast and the big rolling waves sent them heeling over. Then the sickness had begun with a bout of belching and the sudden urge to head for the rail. He’d known enough to aim out over the stern, though the men below had not had that luxury. Packed tight as they were in the hold, it was a scene from nightmares.

The small part of his mind that could think of anything except his discomfort realised they would have to anchor off Ostia for a day or two before going in, if only to wash the ship down and restore the polish to the Tenth. If they reached port at that moment, the dockworkers would think they were refugees from some terrible battle.

Brutus heard a step behind him. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, craning his head forward to make out the man’s features.

‘Julius,’ came a cheerful voice. ‘I have water for you. It’ll give you something to bring up, at least.’

Brutus smiled weakly, accepting the skin and pressing the bronze pipe to his lips. He swilled and spat twice before allowing some of the liquid to trickle down his throat. Ciro took it from him then and gulped noisily.

Brutus knew he should be asking about the men or the course they were cutting to take them between Sardinia and Corsica, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. His head felt heavy with sickness and he could only manage to wave an apologetic hand to Julius before he was hanging over the rail again. It was almost worse when he wasn’t vomiting. Then there was nothing to do but give way to it.

All three of them staggered as the ship rolled at a frightening angle and something fell with a clatter in the hold. Julius lost his footing on the slippery deck and was saved by grabbing Ciro’s arm. He pulled in a deep, appreciative breath.

‘I have missed this,’ he said to them. ‘Out of sight of land in the dark.’ He leaned closer to Ciro.

‘You’re on the late watch with me, tomorrow. The stars will take your breath away when the storm blows itself out. The sickness never lasts more than a day, or two at most.’

‘I hope so,’ Ciro managed doubtfully. As far as he was concerned, Julius was pushing the bounds of friendship by being so obscenely cheerful while they waited for death to take them. He would give a month’s pay for just a single hour of calm to settle his stomach. Then he could face anything, he was sure.

Julius worked his way around the rail to speak to the captain. The merchant had settled into surly acceptance of his new role, even going so far as to speak to the soldiers as they packed onto his ship. He’d warned them to have one hand for the ship and the other to save themselves at all times.

‘If you go over,’ he’d told the legionaries, ‘that’s the end of you. Even if I turn back, and I won’t, a man’s head is almost impossible to spot even when the sea is calm. If there’s a bit of wind, you might as well suck in a lungful and go under. It’ll be faster that way.’

‘Are we on course, Captain?’ Julius asked as he came up to the dark figure, hunched against the wind in heavy oilcloth.

‘We’ll know if we hit Sardinia, but I’ve made the run enough times,’ the captain replied. ‘The wind is coming from the south-east and we’re running across it.’

Julius couldn’t see his features in the pitch dark, but the voice didn’t seem worried. When the first gales had slapped at the ship, the captain had lashed the steering oars down to a few degrees of arc and taken his post, occasionally shouting orders to the crew as they moved invisibly around the deck.

With the railing at his back, Julius swayed with the roll, enjoying himself immensely. His time on Accipiter with Gaditicus as captain seemed a lifetime before, but if he let his mind drift he could almost have been back there, on a different sea in the dark. He wondered if Ciro ever thought of those times. They’d gambled their lives on countless occasions in the hunt for the pirate who had destroyed the little ship.

Julius closed his eyes as he thought of the ones who had died in the chase. Pelitas in particular had been a good man, now long gone. Everything had seemed so simple then, as if his path was waiting for him. Now there were more choices than he wanted. If he found a seat as consul, he could stay in Rome or take his legion to a new land anywhere in the world. Alexander had done it before him. The boy king had taken his armies east into the rising sun, to lands so distant they were little more than legends. Part of Julius wanted the wild freedom he had known in Africa and Greece. No one to persuade or answer to, just a new path to cut.

He smiled in the dark at the thought. Spain was behind them and all his worries and routines and meetings were lifted from his shoulders with the storm.

As he leaned against the rail, a patter of footsteps brought another one out to lose his last meal. Julius heard Adàn’s exclamation as he found the way blocked by Ciro and swore in frustration.

‘What is this, an elephant? Make room, heavy one!’ the young Spaniard snapped and Ciro chuckled weakly, pleased at the chance to share his misery with another.

Rain began to fall in torrents and somewhere ahead, a spike of lightning made them all jerk round at the sudden brightness.

Unseen, Julius raised his hands in a silent prayer to welcome the storm. Rome was somewhere ahead and he felt more alive than he had for years.

The rain poured from the dark sky over the city. Though Alexandria tried to take comfort from her two guards, she found that she was frightened as night fell early under the clouds. Without the sun, the streets emptied quickly as families barred their doors and lit the evening lamps. The stones of the roads were quickly lost under a slow moving tide of filth that swirled and clutched at her feet. Alexandria almost slipped on a hidden cobble and grimaced at the thought of getting it on her hands.

There were no lights on the streets and every dark figure out in them looked threatening. The gangs of raptores would be looking for easy victims to rape and rob and Alexandria could only hope Teddus and his son would put them off.

‘Stay close, miss. Not long now,’ Teddus said from ahead of her.

She could barely make out his shape as he limped along, but the sound of his voice helped to steady her fear.

The wind carried the smell of human excrement in a sudden, ripe gust and Alexandria had to swallow quickly as she gagged. It was difficult not to be afraid. Teddus was far from his best years and an old injury to his leg gave him a staggering gait that looked almost comical. His sullen son almost never spoke and she didn’t know if she could trust him.

As they moved through the empty street, Alexandria could hear the doors she passed being bolted with grunts as families made themselves secure. The good people of Rome had no protection from the gangs and only those with guards dared the city after dark.

A huddled group appeared at a corner ahead of them, shadows that watched the three figures and made Alexandria shudder. She heard Teddus draw his hunting knife, but they would either have to cross the street or go through the group and she controlled the urge to run. She knew she would die if she broke away from her guards, and only that thought held her steady as they approached the corner. Teddus’ son moved to her side, brushing her arm, but bringing no feeling of safety.

‘We’re nearly home,’ Teddus said clearly, more for the benefit of the men at the corner than Alexandria, who knew the streets as well as he did. He sounded unworried, and kept the long blade at his side as they moved past them. It was too dark to see their faces, but Alexandria could smell the dampness of wool and sour garlic. Her heart thudded as a shadow jarred her shoulder, making her stumble. Teddus’ son guided her away with his sword hand, showing them the blade as he did. They didn’t move and Alexandria could feel the threatening stares as the moment hung in the balance. One slip and they would attack, she was sure, her heart beating at painful speed.

Then they were through and Teddus took her arm in a tight grip, his son on the other side.

‘Don’t look back at them, miss,’ Teddus muttered softly.

She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. Were they following, trotting behind them like wild dogs? She ached to look over her shoulder, but Teddus bore her on through the streets, pulling her away. His limp was getting worse and his breath was laboured with pain as they left the corner behind. He never spoke of it, but his right leg had to be rubbed with liniment each night just to hold his weight in the morning.

Above them, the rain pounded on the roofs of houses packed with people who knew better than to be out on the streets after dark. Alexandria risked a glance behind, but could see nothing and wished she hadn’t. Anger stirred in her then. The Senate did not have to fear as she did. They never moved without armed guards and the raptores avoided them, recognising the presence of a greater threat than they could deal with. The poor had no such protection and even in the daylight there were thefts and sudden skirmishes in the streets that left one or two dead and the rest walking stiffly away, knowing they would not be caught or even chased.

‘We’re nearly there, miss,’ Teddus said again, this time meaning it.

She heard the relief in his voice and wondered what would have happened if the group had drawn their knives. Would he have died for her, or left her to the mercy of the gang? It was impossible to know, but she calculated the cost of hiring another guard to join them. Who would watch him?

Another two turnings brought them to her own street. The houses were larger than the maze they had walked through, but the slurry of filth was thicker if anything, swollen by the rain. She grimaced as a splash of it reached up under her stola to her knee. Another pair of sandals ruined. The leather would never smell clean again, no matter how often she soaked them.

Grunting slightly in pain, Teddus reached her door first and thumped on it. They waited in silence, the two men glancing up and down the street in case anyone was waiting to rush in after them. That had happened to someone only a few nights before in a street not far away from where she lived. No one had dared to come out to help.

Alexandria could hear footsteps approach from the other side.

‘Who’s there?’ came Atia’s voice and Alexandria breathed out slowly in relief at being home. She had known the woman for years and though she lived in the house and cooked for her, Atia was the closest thing she had to family in Rome.

‘It’s me, Ati,’ she said.

Light spilled out as the door opened and they moved in quickly, Teddus waiting until she was off the street before following. He replaced the locking bar carefully and then finally sheathed his knife, the tension easing out of his shoulders.

‘Thank you, both of you,’ Alexandria said.

The son was silent, but Teddus grunted a reply, patting his hand against the solidity of the door as if for reassurance. ‘It’s what we’re paid for,’ he said.

She saw his weak leg was slightly raised as he stood without putting weight on it and her heart went out to him. There were different kinds of courage.

‘I’ll bring you a hot drink after you’ve seen to your leg,’ she said.

To her surprise, he blushed slightly. ‘No need for that, mistress. Me and the boy will look after ourselves. Perhaps later.’

Alexandria nodded, unsure whether she should try again. Teddus seemed uncomfortable with anything approaching an offer of friendship. He appeared to want nothing more from her than regular pay and she had accepted his reserve. Tonight though, she was still shaken and needed people around her.

‘You must be hungry and there’s cold beef in the kitchen. I’d be pleased if you would eat with us when you’re ready.’

Atia shifted her feet and Teddus looked at the floor for a moment, frowning slightly.

‘If you’re sure, mistress,’ he said at last.

Alexandria watched as the two men made their way to their own rooms. She looked at Atia and smiled at the woman’s stern expression.

‘You are too kind to those two,’ Atia said. ‘There’s little good in either of them, father or son. If you let them have the run of the house, they’ll take advantage, I’m sure of it. Servants should not forget their place, nor those who pay them.’

Alexandria chuckled, the fear of the evening beginning to ease. In theory, Atia was a servant herself, though they never mentioned it. Alexandria had known her first when she went looking for clean rooms in the city, and when her jewellery business had grown Atia had come with her to the new house to run it for her. The woman was a tyrant with the other servants, but she made the place feel like a home.

‘I’m glad they were with me, Atia. The raptores were out early with the storm and a cup or two of hot wine is fair pay for safety. Come on, I’m starving.’

Atia sniffed rather than reply, but overtook her in the corridor as they walked towards the kitchen.

The senate building was filled with the light of dozens of spluttering lamps around the walls. The echoing hall was warm and dry despite the muted drumming of the rain outside and few of the men present relished the thought of getting wet on the way to their homes. The afternoon had been taken over with the reports on the city budget, with a string of votes to approve vast sums for the legions keeping the Pax Romana in distant lands. The sums were daunting, but the reserves were healthy enough to tide the city over for another year. One or two of the more elderly senators had let the warmth lull them to dozing and only the storm outside held them from making their way to late meals and their own beds.

Senator Prandus stood at the rostrum, his gaze sweeping along the semicircular rows of benches, looking for support. It annoyed him that Pompey sat muttering to a colleague while Prandus announced his candidacy for the seat of consul. It was at Pompey’s request that he had agreed to put his name forward and the least the man could do was look attentive.

‘If I am elected to the post, I intend to gather the coin makers under a single roof and establish a currency on which the citizens can depend. There are too many coins that only claim to be gold or pure silver and every shop has to have its own scales to weigh the money they are given. A single senate mint will end the confusion and restore trust.’

He saw Crassus frown and wondered if he was responsible for some of those false coins that caused so much damage. It would not surprise him.

‘If the citizens grant me the right to sit as consul, I will act in the interests of Rome, restoring faith in the authority of the Senate.’ He paused again as Pompey looked up and Prandus realised he had made a mistake. Someone chuckled and he felt himself growing flustered.

‘… greater faith in the Senate,’ he added. ‘Respect for authority and the rule of law. Justice that must be seen to be free of bribery or corruption.’ He paused again, his mind going blank.

‘It will be an honour to serve. Thank you,’ he said, stepping down from the rostrum and taking his seat in the front bench with evident relief. One or two of the men closest to him clapped him on the shoulder and he began to relax. Perhaps the speech hadn’t been too bad, after all. He glanced at his son Suetonius to see how he had taken it, but the young man was gazing stonily ahead.

Pompey walked down between the benches and smiled at Senator Prandus as he passed him. Those who had begun whispered conversations fell silent as the consul stepped up to the rostrum. He looked relaxed and confident, Prandus thought with a touch of irritation.

‘I thank the candidates for their words,’ Pompey said, allowing his eyes to rest on the men in silent recognition before continuing. ‘It gives me hope that this great city can still find those willing to devote their lives to her without thought of personal gain or ambition.’ He waited through the appreciative chuckle, leaning forward and resting on his arms.

‘The election will give my builders a chance to enlarge this place and I am willing to give the use of my new theatre while the work goes on. It should be adequate, I think.’ He smiled at them and they responded, knowing the theatre was twice as large as the senate building and at least twice as luxurious. There were no objections.

‘As well as those we have heard here, any other candidates must declare before the feast of Volturnalia, ten days from now. Let me know in good time, please. Before we dare the rain, I must announce a public gathering in the forum a week from now. The trial of Hospius will be postponed for a month. Crassus and I will give the consuls’ address to the people then. If any of the other candidates would like to add their voices to ours, you should see me before I leave tonight.’

Pompey caught Prandus’ eye for a brief moment before moving on. It had all been arranged and Prandus knew his candidacy would be strengthened by association with the more experienced men. He had better practise his speech. For all Pompey’s promises, the crowds of Rome could be a difficult audience.

‘The day is at an end, senators. Rise for the oath,’ Pompey said, his voice raised to be heard over the rain that battered the city.

The storm lasted for three days, sweeping the scattered ships towards their destination. When it had passed, the fleet carrying the Tenth slowly gathered again, each one a hive of activity as they made repairs to sails and oars and heated tar to dribble between the wide planks of the decks where water had leaked through. As Brutus had predicted, Julius signalled the fleet to anchor outside Ostia and the small boats moved between them, carrying supplies and carpenters and making sure that they would stand up under scrutiny. The sun baked the decks dry and the Tenth washed out the holds of the ships, cleaning away the smell of vomit with seawater and white grease.

When the anchors were winched up and scrubbed clean of clay, they moved into the port, with Julius at the bow of the first ship. He stood with one arm wrapped around the high prow, drinking in the sight of his homeland. Looking back over his shoulder showed him the white wings of the oared vessels making an arrowhead behind him, with the sails of the others bringing up the rear. He could not have put his feelings into words if he’d been asked and didn’t try to examine them. His headaches had vanished in the fresh sea wind and he had burnt incense in a brazier in thanks to the gods for the safe passage through the storm.

He knew the Tenth could make a permanent camp in the fields beyond the port while he took the road to the city. The men were as excited as the officers at the chance to see families and friends again, but there would be no leave granted until the camp was set up and secure. Five thousand men were too many to descend on his estate. Just feeding such a number caused problems and the prices were better at the docks. Like locusts, the Tenth could eat away the gold he had brought if he let them. At least they would be spending their own pay in the city inns and whorehouses.

The thought of seeing his estate brought a mixture of grief and excitement to him. He would see how his daughter had grown and walk by the river his father had dammed to flow through the estate. Julius’ smile faded as he thought of his father. The family tomb was on the road into the city and before anything else, he had to see the graves of those he had left behind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Crassus breathed in the steam from the pool as he eased himself in up to his waist. The marble sill was icy against his shoulders as he sat on the inner step and the contrast was exquisite. He felt the knots of tension in his neck and waved a hand to summon a bath slave to massage them away while he talked.

The other men in the pool were all his clients and loyal beyond the monthly stipend they received. Crassus closed his eyes as the slave’s hard thumbs began to worry at his muscles and sighed with pleasure before speaking.

‘My term as consul has made little mark on the city, gentlemen.’ He smiled wryly as the men with him shifted in consternation. Before they could protest, he continued. ‘I thought I would have done more in my time. There are too few things I can point to and say “That was mine, alone.” It seems renegotiated trade agreements are not what stirs the blood of our citizens.’

His expression became tinged with bitterness as he looked at them and traced a swirl in the surface of the water with a finger.

‘Oh, I gave them bread when they said they had none. But when the loaves were gone, nothing had changed. They have had a few race days from my purse and seen a temple restored in the forum. I wonder, though, if they will remember this year, or ever think of me when I was consul.’

‘We are for you,’ one of the men said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the others.

Crassus nodded, breathing his cynicism into the steam. ‘I have won no wars for them, you see. Instead, they fawn on Pompey and old Crassus is forgotten.’

The clients did not dare to meet each other’s faces and see the truth of the words reflected there. Crassus raised his eyes at their embarrassment before going on, his voice firming with purpose.

‘I do not want my year to be forgotten, gentlemen. I have bought another day at the racetrack for them, which is a start. I want those who rent from me to be given first choice of tickets, and try to get families.’ He paused to reach behind his head for a cup of cool water and the slave interrupted his kneading to pass it into the bony fingers. Crassus smiled at the lad before continuing.

‘The new sesterces with my head on them are ready. I will need you all to manage the distribution, gentlemen. They are to go only to the poorest of homes and no more than one to each man and woman. You will have to employ guards and take only small amounts with you at a time.’

‘May I mention an idea, Consul?’ a man asked.

‘Of course, Pareus,’ Crassus replied, raising an eyebrow.

‘Hire men to clean the streets,’ he said, the words spilling out too quickly under the consul’s gaze. ‘Much of the city is stinking and the people would thank you for it.’

Crassus laughed.

‘If I do as you say, will they stop throwing their filth on the roads? No, they will say, let fly, for old Crassus will come after us with buckets to clean it up again. No, my friend, if they want clean streets, they should get water and cloths and clean them up themselves. If the stench grows too bad in summer, they may be forced to, and that will teach them to be clean.’ Crassus saw the man’s disappointment and spoke kindly, ‘I admire a man who thinks the best of our people, but there are too many who lack the sense not to foul their own steps. There is no sense in courting the goodwill of such as they.’ Crassus chuckled at the thought for a moment, then fell silent.

‘On the other hand, if it was popular … no. I will not be known as Crassus the cleaner of shit. No.’

‘The street gangs, then?’ Pareus went on stubbornly. ‘They are out of control in some areas. A few hundred men with permission to break the gangs would do more for the city than …’

‘You want another gang to control the others? And who would keep them in control? Would you ask for a still larger group to handle the first?’ Crassus tutted to himself, amused by the man’s persistence.

‘A legion century could …’ the man stammered.

Crassus sat up, sending a ripple out over the pool. He held up a hand for silence and his clients shifted nervously.

‘Yes, Pareus, a legion could do many things, but I do not have one at my call, as you should perhaps have remembered. Would you have me beg more soldiers from Pompey to patrol the poor areas? He asks for fortunes just to have guards at the races and I have had my fill of bolstering his reputation with my gold.’ Crassus swung his hand out and knocked the metal cup spinning over the tiles of the bath-house.

‘Enough for now, gentlemen. You have your tasks for the moment and I will have more for you tomorrow. Leave me.’

The men climbed out of the pool without a word, hurrying away from their irascible master.

Julius was pleased to leave the noise of the port behind him as he and Octavian took the road to the city. With Brutus overseeing the unloading of men and equipment, the work would be quickly finished. The centurions had been chosen personally and they could be trusted to keep the men on a tight rein until the first groups were allowed to take their leave.

He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.

They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.

The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.

The sun was rising towards the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.

The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile further on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.

‘This is the one,’ Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.

His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.

The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.

‘Do you have the wine, Octavian?’ Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hand he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honour those he loved the most.

On the top of the tomb, a shallow bowl had been cut into the marble, leading to a hole no larger than a copper coin. As Julius broke the seal on the wine, he wondered if Clodia ever took his daughter out to feed the dead. He didn’t think the old woman would have forgotten Cornelia, any more than he could.

The dark wine sloshed into the bowl and Julius could hear it dripping down to fall inside.

‘This cup for my father, who made me strong,’ he whispered. ‘This for my mother, who gave her love. This last for my wife.’ He paused, hypnotised by the swirling wine as it vanished into the tomb. ‘Cornelia, whom I loved and honour still.’

When at last he returned the amphora to Octavian, his eyes were red with weeping.

‘Bind the neck securely, lad. There is another grave to see before we go home to the estate and Tubruk will want more than just a cupful.’ Julius forced himself to smile and felt some of his grief lighten in him as he remounted, the gelding’s hooves clattering enough to break the stillness of the line of tombs stretching away.

Julius approached his estate with something like fear gnawing at him. It was a place of so many memories and so much pain. The eye of his childhood noted the rough weeds among the straggling crops and saw a subtle air of decay in every overgrown track or poorly repaired wall. The low drone of the hives could be heard and he felt his eyes prickle at the sound.

The white walls around the main buildings caused an ache to start in him. The paint was mottled with bare patches and he felt a stab of guilt at his lack of contact with them. The house had been a part of every wound in memory and not a single letter had come from his hand to his daughter or Clodia. He gripped the reins and slowed his mount, each step bringing more pain.

There was the gatepost where he had watched for his father coming back from the city. Beyond it would be the stables where he had tasted his first kiss and the courtyard where he had almost died at the hand of Renius, years before. Despite its run-down appearance, it was still the same where it counted, an anchor in the changes of his life. Yet he would have given anything for Tubruk to come out to greet him, or for Cornelia to be there.

He paused before the gate and waited in silence, lost in memories that he clutched to him as if they could remain real until the gate opened and everything changed again.

A man he did not know appeared above the wall and Julius smiled as he thought of the steps hidden from view. He knew them as well as anything else in the world. His steps. His home.

‘What is your business here?’ the man asked, keeping his voice neutral. Though Julius wore the simplest of armour, there was nonetheless an aura of authority in his silent appraisal of the walls and the man sensed it.

‘I have come to see Clodia and my daughter,’ Julius replied.

The man’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before he disappeared to signal those within.

The gate swung open slowly and Julius rode through into the courtyard with Octavian behind him. Distantly, he heard someone calling for Clodia, but the moment of memory held for him and he took a deep breath.

His father had died defending that wall. Tubruk had carried him on his shoulders under the gate. Julius shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. There were too many ghosts in that place. He wondered if he would ever be truly comfortable there, with every corner and turn reminding him of his past.

Clodia came out of the buildings in a rush and froze as she saw him. As he dismounted, she went down into a low bow. Age had not been kind to her, he thought, as he took her by the shoulders and raised her into his embrace. She had always been a large, capable woman, but her face was lined by more than time. If Tubruk had lived she would have married him, but that chance for happiness had been stolen away by the same knives that had taken Cornelia.

As she raised her face to him, he saw fresh tears and the sight seemed to pull his private grief closer to the surface. They had shared a loss together and he was unprepared for the rawness of his feelings as the years vanished and they were standing again in the yard while the slave rebellion tore through the south. She had promised to stay and raise his daughter then, the last words they had spoken before he left.

‘It’s been so long without hearing from you, Julius. I didn’t know where to send the news about your mother,’ she said. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she spoke and Julius held her tightly.

‘I … knew it was coming. Was it hard?’

Clodia shook her head, wiping at her eyes.

‘She spoke of you at the end and took comfort from Julia. There was no pain for her, none at all.’

‘I’m glad,’ Julius said softly. His mother had been a distant figure to him for so long that he was surprised at how much he missed the chance to see her and sit on her bed to tell her all the details of Spain and the battles he had seen. How many times had he come to tell her what he had done with his life? Even when her illness had stolen her reason, she seemed to hear him. Now there was no one. No father to run to, no Tubruk to laugh at his mistakes, no one who loved him without limit left in the world. He ached for them all.

‘Where is Julia now?’ he said, stepping back.

Clodia’s face changed slightly as pride and love suffused her features. ‘Out riding. She takes her pony into the woods whenever she can. She looks like Cornelia, Julius. The same hair. Sometimes, when she laughs, it’s like thirty years have gone and she’s there again with me.’ She saw the tension in him and misunderstood. ‘I never let her ride alone. She has two servants with her, for safety.’

‘Will she know me?’ Julius asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at the gates as if speaking of Julia could bring her into sight. He remembered only a little of the daughter he had left in her care. Just a fragile girl he had comforted while her mother was laid out in the darkness. The memory of her tiny hands wrapped around his neck was strangely powerful.

‘She will, I’m sure. She’s always asking for stories of you and I’ve told her all I can.’ Clodia’s gaze strayed past him to Octavian as he stood stiffly by the horses.

‘Octavian?’ she said, wondering at the changes in him.

Before he could resist, Clodia ran to him and administered a smothering hug. Julius chuckled at his discomfort.

‘There’s dust in our throats, Clodia. Will you keep us standing out here all day?’

Clodia let Octavian escape her.

‘Yes, of course. Give your horses to one of the boys there and I’ll see to the kitchen. There’s only a few of the slaves and me now. Without the papers in your name, the merchants wouldn’t deal with me. Without Tubruk to run the place, it’s been …’

Julius flushed as the woman came close to tears again. He had not done his duty by her, he realised, wondering at his own blindness. She was making little of hard years and, to his shame, he could have eased the burden. He should have replaced Tubruk before he left and signed the control of funds over to her. Clodia seemed suddenly flustered at the thought of Julius seeing the house she had come to think of as her home and he laid a hand on her arm to ease her.

‘I could not have asked for more,’ he said.

Some of the tightness in her eased. As the horses were led away to be brushed and fed, Clodia bustled before them into the house and they followed, Julius swallowing dryly as they passed from the courtyard into the rooms of his childhood.

The meal Clodia brought to them was interrupted by a high sweet call outside as a clatter of hooves marked Julia’s return. With his mouth filled with bread and honey, Julius leapt to his feet and strode out into the sun. He had thought he would let her come in to him and greet her formally, but the sound of her voice overrode his patience and he couldn’t wait.

Though she had seen only ten summers, she was the image of her mother and her dark hair was worn long in a braid down her back. Julius laughed at the sight of the girl as she jumped down from her pony and fussed around him, pulling thorns and snags from his mane with her fingers as a comb.

His daughter started at the sound of the strange voice and looked around to see who dared to chuckle at her in her own home. When her eyes met Julius’, she frowned in suspicion. Julius watched her closely as she walked over to him, her head tilted to one side in silent enquiry in a way he remembered Cornelia doing.

She walked with confidence, he noted with pleasure. A mistress of an estate come to meet visitors. She was dressed in a threadbare cream tunic and leggings for riding and with her hair tied back and no sign of breasts under the cloth, she could almost have passed for a boy. He saw a simple silver bangle at her wrist and recognised it as one of his mother’s.

Clodia had come out to witness the meeting and smiled at them both with maternal pride.

‘This is your father, Julia,’ she said. The little girl froze in the act of rubbing dust from her sleeve. She looked up at Julius with a blank expression.

‘I remember you,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you back to stay?’

‘For a while,’ Julius replied as seriously.

The little girl seemed to digest this and nodded.

‘Will you buy me a horse? I’m getting too big for old Gibi and Recidus says I would do well on a mount with a bit of spirit.’

Julius blinked at her and some of the past seemed to melt away in his amusement.

‘I will find you a beauty,’ he promised, rewarded with a smile that thumped his heart for the woman he had lost.

Alexandria stood back from the heat of the forge, watching as Tabbic removed the cup of molten gold and positioned it over the pouring holes in the clay.

‘A steady hand now,’ she cautioned unnecessarily, as Tabbic began to rotate the long wooden handle without a tremor. Both of them gave the liquid metal the respect it deserved as it hissed and gurgled into the cast. A single splash would burn flesh to the bone and every part of the process had to be slow and careful. Alexandria nodded in satisfaction as vapour whistled out of the air holes in the clay and the deep gulping sound began to rise in tone until the structure was full. When the gold had cooled, the clay would be painstakingly removed to reveal a mask as perfect as the face of the woman it represented. At a senator’s bidding, Alexandria had performed the unpleasant task of taking a cast from his dead wife only hours after her death. Three lesser masks had followed in clay as Alexandria altered the lines of the face to smooth away the ravages of disease. With infinite care, she had rebuilt the nose where sickness had eaten the flesh and at last the man had wept to see the image death had taken from him. In gold, she would be preserved forever young, long after the man who loved her was ashes himself.

Alexandria touched a hand to the clay, feeling the heat constrained within and wondering if a man would ever love her enough to keep her image all his life.

Lost in thought, she did not hear Brutus enter the workshop and only the stillness as he gazed at her made her turn, sensing something she could not have named.

‘Break out the good wine and take your clothes off,’ he said. His eyes were on her and he didn’t even notice Tabbic standing there with his mouth open. ‘I’m back, girl. Julius is back and Rome will be turned on its head when we’re done.’

CHAPTER NINE

Brutus patted Alexandria’s thigh, enjoying the feel of her as they rode through the dusk out to the estate. After spending the day in bed with her, he felt more relaxed and at ease with the world than he could remember. He wished all his homecomings were of that quality.

Not used to riding, she held him tightly and he could feel the whip of her hair as it struck his bare neck, something he found extraordinarily erotic. She had grown strong while he was away, her body taut with health and strength. Her face too had altered subtly and her forehead was marked with a scar from a splash of hot metal, almost in the shape of a tear.

Her black cloak snapped around him for a moment in the wind and he gripped the edge of it, pulling her in closer. She wrapped her arms around his chest and breathed deeply. The air was warm as the land gave back the heat of the sun and Brutus only wished there was someone there to witness how magnificent they must look as he cut across the fields to the estate.

He saw it from far away, the light of torches blurring together to make the walls a crown of light in the growing darkness. He slowed at the end and for a moment he thought it was Tubruk waiting for him by the open gate.

Julius stayed silent as he watched them slow to a walk, guessing at Brutus’ thoughts and understanding them. He put aside his impatience and gave silent thanks for his friend’s arrival. It was right that he be there, and they shared a private smile of regret as Brutus turned in the saddle to help Alexandria down and then jumped to the ground beside her.

Julius kissed Alexandria on the cheek. ‘I’m honoured to have you at my home. The servants will take you in while I have a word with Brutus,’ he said. Her eyes sparkled, he thought, wondering if her mind ever strayed back to one particular evening as his did.

When she had gone inside, Julius took a deep breath and clapped Brutus on the shoulder in affection.

‘I can’t believe Tubruk isn’t here,’ Julius said, looking out over the fields.

Brutus glanced at him in silence for a moment, then reached down and picked up a handful of dust.

‘Do you remember when he made you hold this?’ he said.

Julius nodded, copying the action. Brutus was pleased to see him smile as he let the dust trickle into the breeze.

‘Fed with the blood of those who have gone before us,’ Julius said.

‘And our blood. He was a good man,’ Brutus replied, letting his own handful lift away and bringing his hands together in a sharp clap. ‘You’ll have to find someone else to get the fields ploughed under again. I’ve never seen the place so ragged. Still, you’re back now.’

Julius frowned at him. ‘I was going to ask where you had disappeared to, but I see you found something better than seeing to the camp at Ostia.’

Julius could not bring himself to be angry with his friend, though he had intended to make the point very clearly.

‘Renius had it all in hand and it’s a good thing I did,’ Brutus replied. ‘Alexandria told me there will be a public debate tomorrow in the forum and I rode straight here to tell you.’

‘I know about it. Servilia told me as soon as she heard. Still, I’m glad you came. I would have sent for you even if you hadn’t disobeyed my orders.’

Brutus looked at his friend, trying to judge how seriously he was being criticised. The strain and exhaustion of the time in Spain had left Julius’ face and he seemed younger than he had for a long time. Brutus waited for a moment.

‘Am I forgiven?’ he said.

‘You are,’ Julius replied. ‘Now come inside and meet my daughter. There’s a room ready for you and I want you with me to plan a campaign. You are the last to come in.’

They walked together through the courtyard, the only sound the snap and flutter of the lamps along the wall. The breeze cut across them for a moment as the gate was shut and Brutus felt the hairs lift on his arms, making him shiver. Julius opened a door into a room of life and chatter and he ducked his head to go in, feeling the first touches of excitement.

Julius had summoned them all, Brutus saw as he looked round the room and greeted his friends. With Alexandria, everyone he cared about was in that one room and they had the bright eyes of joyful conspirators, planning how to rule a city. Servilia, Cabera, Domitius, Ciro, Octavian, all the ones Julius had gathered to his side. The only stranger was the young Spaniard who had come with them as Julius’ scribe. Adàn looked from face to face even as Brutus did and when their eyes met, Brutus nodded to him, acknowledging him as Julius would have wanted.

Brutus saw that Alexandria was standing stiffly amongst them and moved to her side instinctively. Julius caught the movement and understood it.

‘We need you here, Alexandria. No one else has lived in the city for the last few years and I want that knowledge.’

She blushed prettily as she relaxed and Brutus squeezed her buttock, unseen by the others. His mother looked sharply at him as Alexandria slapped his hand away, but Brutus only smiled at her before looking back at Julius.

‘Where is this daughter of yours?’ Brutus asked. He was curious to see the girl.

‘She’ll be out in the stables,’ Julius said. ‘She rides like a centaur, you know. I’ll call her in before she’s ready to sleep.’ For an instant, pride touched his features as he thought of his daughter and Brutus smiled with him. Then, Julius cleared his throat, looking round at them all.

‘Now, I need to decide what I am to do tomorrow morning, when I walk into the forum and declare for the consul’s post.’

Everyone tried to speak at once and the knock at the door went unheard for the first few moments. Clodia opened it and her expression brought quiet as they saw her.

‘There is … I could not stop him,’ she began.

Julius took her by the arm. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

He froze as he caught sight of the figure behind her and stood back with Clodia to let the door swing open.

Crassus stood there, dressed in a toga of startling white against his dark skin. A gold clasp glittered at his shoulder and Alexandria blinked as she recognised her own work, wondering if it was coincidence or subtle proof of his understanding of the relationships in the room.

‘Good evening, Caesar. I believe your post of tribune was never revoked. Should I address you by that title now that you have left the praetorship of Spain behind you?’

Julius bowed his head, struggling to hide the anger he felt at the man’s casual entry into his home. His mind spun with sudden thoughts. Were there soldiers outside? If there were, Crassus would find it harder to leave than to enter, he swore silently. Julius released his grip on Clodia’s arm and she left the room quickly without looking back. He did not blame her for letting Crassus into his home. Though she had run the house as its mistress, she had been too many years a slave not to be frightened by one of the most powerful men in the Senate. No door could be barred against a consul of Rome.

Crassus saw the tension in the young man he faced and continued. ‘Put yourself at ease, Julius. I am a friend to this house, as I was to Marius before you. Did you think you could land a legion on my coastline without word reaching me? I would imagine even Pompey’s feeble ring of spies has heard you are back by now.’ Crassus caught sight of Servilia in the room and lowered his head slightly in greeting.

‘You are welcome here,’ Julius said, trying to unbend. He knew he had hesitated too long and suspected the older man had enjoyed every moment of the confusion he had created.

‘I am glad,’ Crassus replied. ‘Well, if someone will fetch another chair, I will join you, with your permission. You will need a strong speech tomorrow if you mean to have a consul’s robe next year. Pompey will not be pleased to hear of it, but that is the sweetness to the sauce.’

‘Are there no secrets from you?’ Julius asked, beginning to recover.

Crassus smiled at him. ‘Confirmed by your own mouth! I thought there could be no other reason for you to leave the post as praetor. I trust you appointed a replacement before you sailed for Rome?’

‘I did, of course,’ Julius replied. To his surprise, he found he was enjoying the exchange.

Crassus took the chair Octavian vacated for him and settled himself, using his long fingers to tweak his toga into neatness. The tension in the room began to ease as they accepted him amongst them.

‘I wonder, did you think you would just stride through the forum and ascend the speakers’ platform?’ Crassus asked.

Julius looked blankly at him. ‘Why not? Servilia tells me Prandus will be there to speak. I have as much right as he.’

Crassus smiled, shaking his head. ‘I believe you would have done, at that. Better to come at my invitation, Julius. Pompey will not be asking for you to join us, after all. I look forward to seeing his face when you enter your name onto the lists.’

He accepted a cup of wine and sipped at it, wincing slightly.

‘You realise Pompey may claim you have abandoned your duty by leaving before your term in Spain was finished?’ he said, leaning forward in his seat.

‘I am immune from prosecution as tribune,’ Julius replied quickly.

‘Unless it is a crime of violence, my friend, though I suppose deserting your post is safe enough. Pompey knows your protection, but how will it look to the people? From now until the elections, Julius, you must not only act well, but be seen to act well, or the votes you need will be wasted on another candidate.’

Crassus looked around at the others in the room and smiled as his eyes met Alexandria’s. His fingers caressed the gold clasp at his shoulder for an instant and she knew he recognised her and experienced a thrill of danger. For the first time since Brutus had found her in the workshop, she realised that Julius collected as many enemies as he did friends and she was not yet sure which Crassus was.

‘What do you gain by helping me?’ Julius said suddenly.

‘You have a legion I helped to rebuild, Julius, when it was still named Primigenia. I have been … persuaded of the need for men in the city. Trained men who cannot be bribed or tempted away by the gangs of raptores.’

‘You claim a debt from me?’ Julius replied, tensing himself to refuse.

Crassus glanced at Servilia and exchanged a look of understanding that Julius could not fathom.

‘No. I waived any debts too long ago to mention. I am asking freely for your help and in return my clients will help to spread your name in the city. You do have only a hundred days, my friend. Even with my aid, that is a short time.’

He saw Julius hesitate and went on: ‘I was a friend to your father and Marius. Is it too much to ask for trust from the son?’

Servilia tried to will Julius to look at her. She knew Crassus better than anyone else in the room and hoped Julius would not be fool enough to refuse him. She watched the man she loved with something like pain as she waited for his reply.

‘Thank you, Consul,’ Julius said formally. ‘I do not forget my friends.’

Crassus smiled in genuine pleasure.

‘With my wealth …’ he began.

Julius shook his head. ‘I have enough for this, Crassus, though I thank you.’

For the first time, Crassus looked at the young general with the beginning of real respect. He had been right in his judgement, he thought. He could work with him and infuriate Pompey at the same time.

‘Shall we toast your candidacy, then?’ Crassus asked, raising his cup.

At Julius’ nod, the rest of them took wine and held the vessels awkwardly as they waited. For a moment, Julius regretted finishing the Falernian, but thought better of it. Tubruk could raise a cup of it to them, wherever he was.

Julia sat out in the darkness of the stables, enjoying the warm comfort that the horses brought. She walked down the stalls and patted their soft muzzles, speaking softly to each one. She paused at the enormous gelding her father’s friend had brought that woman on. It was strange to use the word. Her father. How many times had Clodia told her about the brave man who had been sent away from the city by a consul’s whim? She had made her own pictures of him, telling herself he was held by the bonds of duty and could not return for her. Clodia always said he would come back in the end and everything would be all right, but now that he was there, Julia found him more than a little frightening. As soon as he had put his foot in the dust of the yard, everything had changed and the house had a new master.

He seemed so stern, she thought as she reached up to rub her nose against the gelding’s velvet nostrils. The horse whickered gently in reply and pushed at her, blowing warm air against her face. He was not as old as she had expected. She’d imagined him with grey hair at the temples and the quiet dignity of a member of the Senate.

The night air carried a gust of noise from where the new people had gathered. So many of them! The house had never been so full of visitors, she thought, wondering at them. From her perch on the outer wall, she had watched them come in and shaken her head at so many strangers.

They were a different breed to the visitors Clodia invited, especially the old woman with diamonds at her throat. Julia had seen her father kiss her when he thought no one could see and Julia had felt her throat tighten with dislike. She had tried to tell herself it was just a friendship, but there had been something intimate in the way the woman relaxed against him and Julia’s cheeks had become hot with embarrassment. Whoever she was, she vowed they would never be friends.

She whiled away a little time imagining the woman trying to win her affection. She would be very cool towards her, Julia thought. Not rude; Clodia had taught her to despise rudeness. Just enough to make the woman feel unwelcome.

A heavy cloak hung on a peg by the gelding’s stall and Julia recognised it as the one that had draped the last pair. She remembered the man’s laughter as it carried over the fields. He was very handsome, she thought. Shorter than her father, he walked like the man Clodia had employed to teach her to ride, as if he had so much energy that he could only barely stop himself from dancing with the pleasure of it.

Julia thought his companion must love him, from the way she had draped herself against his back. They always seemed to be touching, almost by accident.

She stayed in the stables for a long time, trying to get to the root of what felt different since her father had arrived. She always came there when there was a problem or when she had upset Clodia. Amongst the smell of leather and straw, in the shadows, she had always felt safe. The main house had so many empty rooms that were cold and dark at night. When she crept through them to climb the wall under the moonlight, she could imagine her mother walking there and shiver. It was too easy to think of the men who had killed her, padding up behind until Julia would spin in terror and back away from phantoms she could never see.

A burst of laughter carried to her from the house and she raised her head to listen. The sound faded into a deeper silence and she blinked in the darkness as she realised that having her father’s friends here made her feel safe. There would be no assassins creeping over the wall for her tonight, no nightmares.

She patted the gelding’s nose and took the cloak from its peg, letting it fall onto the dusty floor in a moment of spite. Her father’s friend deserved better than that one, she thought, hugging herself in the gloom.

Pompey paced with his hands clasped tightly behind him. He wore a toga of thick white cloth that left his arms bare and the muscles moved visibly as he worked his fingers against each other. The lamps in his city home had begun to gutter, but he did not call for slaves to refill the reservoirs. The dim light suited the mood of the consul of Rome.

‘Only standing in the elections could repair the damage of leaving his post. Nothing else is worth the risk he has taken, Regulus.’

His most senior centurion stood to attention as his general paced the floor. He had been loyal to him for more than twenty years and knew his moods as well as any man.

‘I am yours to command, sir,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

Pompey looked at him and what he saw seemed to satisfy him.

‘You are my right arm, Regulus, I know it. However, I need more than obedience if Caesar is not to inherit the city from my hands. I need ideas. Speak freely and fear nothing.’

Regulus relaxed slightly with the command. ‘Have you considered drafting a law to allow you to stand again? He could not take the post if you were the alternative.’

Pompey frowned. If he thought for a moment that such a thing was possible, he would have considered it. The Senate, even the citizens, would revolt against even the suggestion of a return to those old days. The irony of having helped to bring about the very restrictions that now held him was not wasted on him, but such thoughts brought him no closer to a solution.

‘It is not possible,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘Then we must plan for the future, sir,’ Regulus said.

Pompey stopped to look at him with hope in his eyes. ‘What do you have in mind?’

Regulus took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Let me join his legion. If there is ever a time when you need him to be stopped, you would have a sword close to him.’

Pompey rubbed his face as he considered the offer. Such loyalty, coupled with so violent a man. Though part of him was repelled by the thought of such a dishonourable course, he would be a fool to refuse a weapon for the years to come. Who knew what the future held, for any of them?

‘You would have to enlist in the ranks,’ Pompey said, slowly.

The centurion breathed hard as he saw his idea was not to be dismissed without a hearing.

‘That will be no hardship for me. My promotions came on the battlefield, from your hand. I have been there before.’

‘But your scars, they will know you for what you are,’ Pompey replied.

‘I will say I’m a mercenary. I can play the part easily enough. Let me get close to him, Consul. I am your man.’

Pompey considered, objections coming and going in his thoughts. He sighed. Politics was a practical business, after all.

‘It could be years, Regulus. Will you be missed?’

‘No, sir. I am alone.’

‘Then it is my order to you, Regulus. Go with my blessing.’

Regulus struggled to find words. ‘It … it is an honour, sir. I will be close to him if you call. I swear it.’

‘I know you will, Regulus. I will reward you when …’

‘It is not necessary, sir,’ Regulus said quickly, surprising himself. He would not usually have dared to interrupt the consul, but he wanted to give some sign that the trust was well placed. He was gratified when Pompey smiled.

‘If only I had more like you, Regulus. No man is better served than I.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Regulus replied, his chest swelling. He knew he faced years of hard discipline and reduced pay, but it worried him not at all.

CHAPTER TEN

Rome was never still, and as dawn came the vast space of the forum had filled with a shifting mass of citizens, constantly changing as currents moved through them. Fathers held children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the consuls, just to say they had seen the men who defeated Spartacus and saved the city.

To Julius, the crowd seemed faceless and intimidating. Should he stare into space as he spoke, or fix his gaze on one unfortunate citizen? He wondered if they would even hear him. They were silent for Pompey, but Julius didn’t doubt the consul had salted the crowd with his clients. If they shouted and jeered when Julius followed him, it would be a poor start to his candidacy. He went over and over the speech in his mind, praying he wouldn’t stumble or lose his place. There could be questions when he was finished, perhaps from men in the pay of the consuls. He could be humiliated. Carefully, Julius rested his damp palms on his knees, letting the cloth soak up the sweat that clung to them.

He sat on the raised platform with Crassus and Suetonius’ father without looking at either of them. They were listening attentively as Pompey made a witticism and held up his hands to quiet the laughter. There was no hesitation in him, Julius saw. Pompey’s skill as an orator could be read in the crowd’s reactions. They raised their faces to the consul almost in worship and Julius felt an awful tightness in his gut at the thought of being next to speak.

Pompey’s voice became grave as he recounted his service in the consular year and the crowd spattered applause. The military successes were interspersed with promises of free grain and bread, games and commemorative coins. Crassus stiffened slightly at the last. He wondered where Pompey would find the funds to have his face struck in silver. The worst of it was knowing the bribes were unnecessary. Pompey held the crowd, moving them to laughter and stern pride in moments. It was a masterful performance and when it finished, Julius stood and had to force a smile onto his face as Pompey stepped back and gestured to him. Julius gritted his teeth in annoyance at the outstretched hand, as if he was being brought to the front by a fatherly sponsor.

As they passed, Pompey spoke quietly to him. ‘No shields in cloaks, Julius? I thought you would have something prepared.’

Julius was forced to smile as if the words were some playful comment rather than a barb. Both of them remembered the trial he had won in that forum, where shields depicting scenes from Marius’ life were revealed to the crowd.

Pompey took his seat without another word, appearing calm and interested. Julius stepped close to the rostrum and paused for a moment, looking over the sea of faces. How many had gathered to hear the consuls give their yearly address? Eight thousand, ten? With the rising sun still hidden behind the temples that bordered the great square, the light was grey and cold as his gaze swept over them. Julius took a deep breath, willing his voice to be steady and strong from the first. It was important that they hear every word.

‘My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, nephew of Marius, who was consul seven times in Rome. I have written my name in the senate house for the same post. I do it not for the memory of that man, but to continue his work. Do you want to hear me make promises of coins and bread to be handed to you? You are not children to be offered pretty things for your loyalty. A good father does not spoil the child with gifts.’

Julius paused and began to relax. Every eye in the forum was on him and he felt the first touch of confidence since ascending the platform.

‘I have known those who break their backs growing wheat for your bread. There are no fortunes in feeding others, but they have pride and they are men. I have known many who fought without complaint for this city. You will see them sometimes on the streets, missing eyes or limbs, passed by the crowds as we look aside, forgetting we can laugh and love only because those soldiers gave so much.

‘We have grown this city on the blood and sweat of those who have gone before, but there is still much to do. Did you hear Consul Crassus talk of soldiers to make the streets safe? I give my men to you without regret, but when I take them away to find new lands and riches for Rome, who will keep you safe then, if not yourselves?’

The crowd shifted restlessly and Julius hesitated for a moment. He could see the idea in his head, but he strained for a way to make them understand.

‘Aristotle said a statesman is anxious to produce a certain moral character in his citizens, a disposition to virtue. I look for it in you and it is there, ready to be called forth. You are the ones who took to the walls to defend Rome from the slave rebellion. You did not hide from your duty then and you will not now, when I ask it of you.’ He went on, louder than before. ‘I will set aside funds for any man without work if he cleans the streets and keeps the gangs from terrorizing the weakest of us. Where is the glory of Rome if we live in fear at night? How many of you bar your doors and wait behind them for the first scratching of the murderer or the thief?’

Silently, he thanked Alexandria for what she had told him and saw from the nodding heads that he had struck a chord with many of the crowd.

‘Consul Crassus has appointed me aedile, which means I am the one to whom you should complain if there is crime or disorder in the city. Come to me if you are wrongly accused and I will hear your case and defend you myself if I cannot find representation for you. My time and strength are yours now, if you want it. My clients and my men will make the streets safe and I will make the law fair for all. If I am consul, I will be the flood that clears Rome of the filth of centuries, but not alone. I will not give you a better city. Together, we will make her new.’

He felt a giddy joy in him as they responded. This was what it was like to be touched by gods. His chest swelled as his voice poured over the crowd and they strove to meet his eye.

‘Where is the wealth our legions have brought back to the city? In this forum alone? It is not enough, I think. If I am made consul, I will not shy from the smaller things. The roads are blocked by traffic so that trade is stifled. I will make them move by night and silence the endless shouting of the ox-drivers.’ They chuckled at that and Julius smiled back at them. His people.

‘Do you think I should not? Should I use my time to build another fine building you will never use?’

Someone shouted ‘No!’ and Julius grinned at the lone voice, enjoying the ripple of laughter that spread through them.

‘To that man who shouted, I say yes! We should build great soaring temples and bridges and aqueducts for clean water. If a foreign king comes to Rome, I want him to know we are blessed in all things. I want him to look up – but not tread in anything horrible when he does.’

Julius waited for the laughter to fade before going on. He knew they listened for the simple reason that his voice rang with conviction. He believed what he said and they heard him and were lifted.

‘We are a practical people, you and I. We need drains and safety and honest trade and cheap prices for the food to live. But we are also dreamers, practical dreamers who will remake the world to endure a thousand years. We build to last. We are the inheritors of Greece. We have strength, but not just that of the body. We invent and perfect until there is nothing so fine as Rome. One street at a time, if need be.’

He took a deep, slow breath and his eyes filled with affection for the people listening.

‘I look at you all and I am proud. My blood has helped to make Rome and I do not see it wasted when I look on her people. This is our land. Yet there is a world outside it that has yet to know what we have found. What we have made is great enough to take into the dark places, to spread the rule of law, the honour of our city, until anywhere in the world one of us can say “I am a Roman citizen” and be assured of good treatment. If I am made consul, I will work for that day.’

He had finished, though they didn’t know it at first. They waited patiently to hear what he would say next and Julius was almost tempted into continuing before an inner voice of caution told him to simply thank them and step down.

The silence broke in a roar of appreciation and Julius flushed with the excitement of it. He was unaware of the men on the platform behind him and could see only the people who had listened, each one hearing him alone and taking in the words. It was better than wine.

Behind his back, Pompey leaned over to Crassus and whispered as he applauded.

‘You made him aedile? He is no friend of yours, Crassus. Believe it.’

For the benefit of the crowd, Crassus smiled back at his colleague, his eyes glittering angrily.

‘I know how to judge a friend, Pompey.’

Pompey stood then and clapped a hand to Julius’ shoulder as he came abreast of him. As the crowd saw the two men smile at each other, they cheered again and Pompey raised his other arm to acknowledge them, as if Julius was his pupil and had done well to please them.

‘A wonderful speech, Caesar,’ Pompey said. ‘You will be like a fresh wind in the Senate if you are successful. Practical dreamers, a wonderful concept.’

Julius clasped the offered hand before turning to call Crassus to the front. The other consul was already moving, too astute to let the opportunity pass without his presence.

The three men stood together while the crowd cheered, and from a distance their smiles looked genuine. Senator Prandus also rose, but no one noticed.

Alexandria turned to Teddus at her side as the crowd cheered the men on the platform.

‘Well, what did you think of him?’ she said.

The old soldier rubbed the bristles on his chin. He had come because Alexandria had asked him, but he hadn’t the slightest interest in the promises of the men who ruled his city and didn’t know how to say that without offending his employer.

‘He was all right,’ he said, after reflection. ‘Though I didn’t hear him offer to have a coin stamped like the others. Promises are all very well, mistress, but a silver coin buys you a good meal and a jug.’

Alexandria frowned for a moment, then snapped open the heavy bangle she wore on her wrist, sliding a denarius out in her hand. She gave it to Teddus and he accepted it, raising his eyebrows.

‘What’s that for?’ he said.

‘You spend it,’ she replied. ‘When it’s gone and you’re hungry again, Caesar will still be there.’

Teddus nodded as if he understood her, carefully tucking the coin into the hidden pocket of his tunic. He glanced around to see if anyone had noted where he kept his money, but the crowd seemed focused on the raised stage. Still, it paid to be careful in Rome.

Servilia watched the man she loved as Pompey clapped an arm on his shoulders. The consul could scent a changing wind as fast as any of the other men in the Senate, though she wondered if Pompey knew Julius would not allow even the semblance of control from the outgoing consuls.

There were times when she hated the shallow games they all played. Even giving Julius and Prandus the chance to speak at the formal consuls’ address was part of it. She knew of two more candidates on the senate list and there were still a few days to go before the lists were closed. None of those had been allowed to cheapen the consuls’ address with their tin promises.

The crowd would remember only three men and Julius was one of them. She let out a breath of tension. Unlike most of those in the forum, she had not been able to relax and enjoy the speeches. While Julius stood to face them, her heart had pounded in fear and pride. He hadn’t slipped. The memory of the man she had found in Spain was simply that now. Julius had recaptured the old magic and it touched even her as she listened and saw his bright eyes sweep over her without stopping. He was so young; could the crowd see that? For all their skill and wit, Pompey and Crassus were fading powers compared to him, and he was hers.

A man stepped a little too closely to her as he wound his way through the crowd and Servilia caught a glimpse of a hard, scarred face, damp with sweat. Before she could react, a strong hand fastened on the man’s arm, making him cry out.

‘Be on your way,’ Brutus said softly.

The man yanked hard to free himself and retreated, though he paused to spit when he was safely out of range. Servilia turned to her son and he smiled at her, the incident forgotten.

‘I think you have backed the right horse, Mother,’ he said, looking up at Julius. ‘Can’t you feel it? Everything is in place for him.’

Servilia chuckled, caught by his enthusiasm. Without his armour, her son looked more boyish than usual and she reached up to ruffle his hair affectionately.

‘One speech doesn’t make a consul, you know. The work starts today.’ She followed his gaze up to where Julius was turning away at last to make his way into the crowd, taking outstretched hands and responding to the citizens as they called to him. Even at a distance, she could see his joy.

‘But it is a good start,’ she said.

Suetonius walked with his friends through empty streets away from the forum. The stalls and houses were shut and barred and they could still hear the muted sound of the crowd behind the rows of houses.

Suetonius didn’t speak for a long time, his face stiff with bitterness. Every cheer from the tradesmen had eaten at him until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Julius, always Julius. No matter what happened, the man seemed to have more luck than any three others. A few words to a crowd and they fawned on him, sickeningly, while Suetonius’ father was humiliated. It was appalling to see them swayed by tricks and words while a good Roman went unnoticed. He had been so proud when his father allowed his name to be entered for consul. Rome deserved a man of his dignity and his honour, not a Caesar, out for nothing more than his own glory.

Suetonius clenched his fists, almost growling at what he had witnessed. The two friends with him exchanged nervous glances.

‘He’s going to win, isn’t he?’ Suetonius said without looking at them.

Bibilus nodded, a pace behind his friend, then realised the gesture couldn’t be seen.

‘Perhaps. Pompey and Crassus seem to think so, at least. Your father could still take the second post.’

He wondered whether Suetonius was going to march them all the way back to the estate outside Rome. Good horses and comfortable rooms awaited them in the other direction as Suetonius stalked along, blind with his hatred. Bibilus hated to walk when horses were available. He hated riding as well, but it was easier on his legs and he sweated less.

‘He deserts his post in Spain and strolls in to announce he will try for consul and they simply accept it! I do wonder what bribes have changed hands to make this happen. He is capable of it, believe me. I know him well. The man has no honour. I remember that from the ships and Greece. That bastard, come back to haunt me. You would think he’d leave politics to better men after his wife died, wouldn’t you? He should have learned the dangers then. I tell you, Cato may have made enemies, but he was twice the man Caesar is. Your father knew that, Bibilus.’

Bibilus looked nervously around to see if anyone was within earshot. With Suetonius in this mood, there was no telling what he would say. Bibilus enjoyed his friend’s bitterness when they were in private rooms. He was quite in awe of the level of anger Suetonius seemed able to produce. In a public street, though, he felt his perspiration making his armpits slap wetly. Suetonius still marched as if the rising sun was nothing more than a vision, and the heat was growing.

Suetonius slipped on a loose stone and swore. Always Caesar to torment him. Whenever he was in the city, the fortunes of his family suffered. He knew Caesar had spread the slurs about him that had kept him from command in a legion. He had seen the covered smiles and whispers and known the source.

When he had seen the assassins creeping towards Caesar’s home, he had experienced a moment of true pleasure. He could have raised an alarm, sent riders to warn them. He could have stopped it, but he had walked away, saying nothing. They had torn Caesar’s wife apart. Suetonius remembered how he had laughed when his father told him the awful news. The old man had such an expression of gravity that Suetonius had not been able to help himself. His father’s amazement seemed to fuel it until his eyes were pouring tears.

Perhaps his father would understand a little better now he had seen Caesar’s flattery and promises for himself. The thought sat strangely in his mind, that he might be able to speak to his father again, with something shared between them. Suetonius couldn’t recall the last time he had said more than a few curt words to his son and that coldness too was Caesar’s doing. His father had given back the land they had won so cleverly while Julius was away. Given back the plot where Suetonius was to have built his house. He still remembered his father’s eyes when he protested. There was no love, just a cool appraisal that found him always wanting.

Suetonius raised his head and relaxed his tight hands. He would see his father and commiserate with him. Perhaps he wouldn’t flinch when Suetonius looked him in the eye, as if he was sickened by what he saw there. Perhaps he wouldn’t look so disappointed in his son.

Bibilus had seen the change in his friend’s gait and took the opportunity.

‘It’s getting hot, Suetonius. We should be heading back to the inn.’

Suetonius stopped and turned to his friend.

‘How wealthy are you, Bibilus?’ he asked suddenly.

Bibilus rubbed his hands nervously, as he always did when the subject of money came up between them. He had inherited a sum large enough never to have to work, but talking about it made him hot with embarrassment. He wished Suetonius didn’t find the subject so fascinating.

‘I have enough, you know. Not like Crassus, obviously, but enough,’ he said warily. Was he after another loan? Bibilus hoped not. Somehow the only time Suetonius promised repayment was at the moment of asking. When he had the money, it was never mentioned again. When Bibilus summoned enough courage to bring up the outstanding sums, Suetonius became irritable and usually ended up storming off, until Bibilus had to apologise.

‘Enough to stand for consul, Bibilus? There’s still another day or two before the senate list is closed to new names.’

Bibilus blinked in confusion and horror at the idea.

‘No, Suetonius, definitely not. I will not, even for you. I like my life and position in the Senate as it is. I wouldn’t want to be consul even if they offered it to me.’

Suetonius stepped closer to him and took hold of his damp toga, his face filled with distaste.

‘Do you want to see Caesar as consul? Do you even remember the civil war? Do you remember Marius and the damage he did? If you stand, you could split the vote for Caesar and let one of the others in with my father. If you are a friend to me, you won’t hesitate.’

‘I am of course, but it won’t work!’ Bibilus said, trying to pull away from the anger. The thought that Suetonius would smell his sweat was humiliating, but the grip was hard on his toga, exposing the white skin of his sagging chest.

‘Even if I stand and gather a few votes, I could take them from your father as easily as Caesar, don’t you see? Why don’t you stand yourself, if that’s what you want? I’ll give you campaign funds, I swear it.’

‘Have you lost your mind, telling me to stand against my own father? No, Bibilus. You may not be much of a friend, or much of anything, but there’s no one else on the list of any note. If we do nothing, my father will be destroyed by Caesar. I know how he panders to the mob, how they love him. How many would honour my father with Caesar parading himself like a glittering whore? You come from an old family and you have the money to raise your name before the election.’ His eyes brightened with malice as he considered the idea.

‘My father has not been away from Rome for years, remember, and he has support in the richer centuries, who vote first. You saw the speeches. Caesar appeals to the shiftless poor. If a majority is reached early, half of Rome may not be called to vote. It can be done.’

‘I don’t think –’ Bibilus stammered.

‘You must, Bibi, for me. Just a few of the early centuries at the vote would be enough and then he will be shamed into leaving Rome. If you see my father’s vote is suffering, you can withdraw. Nothing could be simpler, unless you would prefer to let Caesar be consul without a fight?’

Bibilus tried again. ‘I don’t have the funds to pay for …’

‘Your father left you a fortune, Bibi; did you think I didn’t know that? Do you think he would want to see Cato’s old enemy as consul? No, those petty loans you have given me in the past are nothing more than a few days’ living for you.’ Suetonius seemed to sense the incongruity of holding his friend so tightly even as he tried to persuade him. He let go and straightened Bibilus’ toga with a few twitches of his fingers.

‘That’s better. Now will you do this for me, Bibilus? You know how important it is to me. Who knows, you might enjoy being consul with my father, if it comes to that. More importantly, Caesar must not be allowed to slide his way into power in this city.’

‘No. Do you hear? I will not!’ Bibilus said, wheezing slightly in fear.

Suetonius narrowed his eyes and gripped Bibilus by the arm, pulling him away from their companions. When he could not be overheard, Suetonius leaned in close to the sweating face of the young Roman.

‘Do you remember what you told me last year? What I saw when I came to your house? I know why your father despised you, Bibilus, why he sent you away to your fine house and retired from the Senate. Perhaps that was why his heart gave out, who knows? How long do you think you would survive if your tastes became public knowledge?’

Bibilus looked ill, his face twisting.

‘It was an accident, that girl. She had a flux …’

‘Can you stand the light of day on you, Bibilus?’ Suetonius said, pressing still closer. ‘I’ve seen the results of your … enthusiasm. I could bring a case myself against you and the penalties are unpleasant, though not more than you deserve. How many little girls and boys have passed through your hands in the last few years, Bibilus? How many of the Senate are fathers, do you think?’

Bibilus’ wet mouth shook in frustration. ‘You have no right to threaten me! My slaves are my own property. No one would listen to you.’

Suetonius showed his teeth, his face ugly with triumph. ‘Pompey lost a daughter, Bibi. He’d listen. He’d make sure you suffered for your pleasures, don’t you think? I’m sure he would not turn me away if I went to him.’

Bibilus slumped, his eyes filling with tears.

‘Please …’ he whispered.

Suetonius patted him on the shoulder. ‘There is no need to mention it again, Bibi. Friends do not desert each other,’ he said, rubbing the damp flesh comfortingly.

‘One hundred days, Servilia,’ Julius said as he took her in his arms on the steps of the Senate. ‘I have men searching the law cases to come. I’ll choose the best of them to make my name and the tribes will come to listen. Gods, there’s so much to do! I need you to contact everyone with debts to my family. I need runners, organisers, anyone who can argue for me on the streets from dawn to dusk. Brutus must use the Tenth to bring the gangs to heel. It’s my responsibility now, thanks to Crassus. The old man is a genius, I swear it. In one stroke, I have the power I need to prove I can make the streets safe. It’s all come so quickly, I almost don’t …’

Servilia pressed her fingers onto his lips to stop the torrent of words. She laughed as he continued to talk, mouthing muffled ideas as they struck him. She kissed him then and for a second he continued to talk as their lips touched, until she slapped him lightly on the cheek with her free hand.

He broke away, laughing.

‘I have to meet the Senate and I can’t be late for them. Start the work, Servilia. I’ll meet you here at noon.’

She watched him as he ran up the steps and disappeared into the gloom within, and then walked down to where her guards waited, her step light.

As Julius reached the door to the outer chamber, he found Crassus waiting for him. The older man looked strangely nervous and beads of sweat ran into the lines of his face.

‘I must speak to you before you go in, Julius,’ Crassus said. ‘Not inside, where there are ears to hear us.’

‘What is it?’ Julius asked, feeling a sudden weight descend on him as he registered the consul’s nervousness.

‘I have not been entirely honest with you, my friend,’ Crassus replied.

They could both hear the droning voices of the senators behind them as the two men sat on the wide steps, facing the forum.

Julius shook his head in disbelief.

‘I would not have believed you capable of this, Crassus.’

‘I am not capable of it,’ Crassus snapped. ‘I am telling you now, before the conspirators move against Pompey.’

‘You should have stopped it when they came to you. You could have gone straight to the Senate and denounced this Catiline before he had anything more than ideas. Now you tell me he has gathered an army? It is a little late to claim the clean robe for you, Crassus, no matter how you protest.’

‘If I had refused, they would have killed me and, yes, when they promised me the rule of Rome, I was tempted by it. There, you have heard me say it. Should I have given them to Pompey to parade as another victory before the people? To see him made Dictator for Life like Sulla before him? I was tempted, Julius, and I let it go too long unreported, but I am changing that now. I know their plans and where they have gathered. With your legion, we can destroy them before any harm is done.’

‘Is that why you made me aedile?’ Julius asked.

Crassus shrugged. ‘Of course. Now it is your responsibility to stop them. It will make a fine pillar for your campaign for the people to see nobilitas like Catiline held responsible for crimes as any other citizen would be. They will see you as one above the petty bonds of class and tribe.’

Julius looked at the consul pityingly. ‘And if I had not returned from Spain?’

‘Then I would have found another way to beat them before the end.’

‘Would you?’ Julius pressed him softly.

Crassus turned to glare at the young man at his side.

‘Do not doubt it. However, now you are here. I can give the leaders to you and the Tenth will destroy the rabble they have gathered. They were only a danger when no one knew. Without that surprise, you will scatter them and the consulship will be yours. I trust you will not forget your friends then.’

Julius rose quickly, looking down at the consul. Had he heard the entire truth of it, or just the parts Crassus wanted him to hear? Perhaps the men he betrayed were guilty of nothing more than being enemies to Crassus. It would not do to send the Tenth into the homes of powerful men on the strength of a conversation Crassus could deny. The consul was capable of it, Julius was sure.

‘I will think what to do, Crassus. I will not be your sword to strike at enemies.’

Crassus rose to face him, his eyes glinting with suppressed anger.

‘Politics is bloody, Julius. Better to learn that now than too late. I waited too long to deal with them. Be sure you don’t make the same mistake.’

The two men entered the senate building together, but apart.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The house Servilia had found for the campaign was three floors high and filled with people. Most importantly, it was central in the Esquiline valley, a busy part of the city that kept Julius in contact with those who needed to see him. From before dawn until the sun fell, his clients rushed in and out of the open doors, carrying errands and orders as Julius began to organise his strategy. The Tenth deployed in groups at night and after three vicious fights with the gangs of raptores, they had cleared eleven streets in the poorest areas and were spreading out. Julius knew only a fool would believe the gangs were beaten, but they didn’t dare to gather in the areas he had chosen and in time the people would realise they were under the protection of the legion and walk with confidence.

He had accepted three cases in the forum court and won the first, with the next only three days away. The crowds had come to see the young orator and cheered the decision in his favour, though the crime was relatively mild. Julius still hoped, against reason, that he would be asked to try a murderer, or some other offence that would bring the people in their thousands to hear him speak.

He hadn’t seen Alexandria for nearly two weeks after she accepted the commission to armour the fighters for a great sword tourney outside the city. When Julius was exhausted by the work, he refreshed himself by riding out to the Campus Martius to see the arena being constructed. Brutus and Domitius had sent word to every Roman town and city within five hundred miles to ensure the best quality of challenger. Even so, both men expected to be in the final and Brutus was convinced he would win, going so far as to put most of a year’s salary on his success.

When Julius walked to the forum, or rode out to the ring being constructed, he made a point of travelling without guards, convinced the people must see his confidence in them. Brutus had argued against the decision, then given way with suspicious ease. Julius guessed his friend had men shadow their general whenever he moved around the city, ready to defend him. He didn’t mind such a tactic as long as it was hidden. The appearance was far more important than the reality.

As promised, Julius had argued in the Senate to order trade traffic to enter and leave Rome only at night, keeping the streets clear for citizens. His soldiers were on every corner to enforce the quiet after dark and after a few bouts of shouting with incensed merchants, the change had come easily enough. As aedile, the responsibility for city order was his and with Crassus openly supporting him there had been few restrictions imposed by the other members of the Senate.

Julius pressed the weariness from his eyes with his knuckles until he could see flashing lights. His clients and his soldiers were working hard for him. The campaign was going well and he could have been content if it hadn’t been for the problem Crassus had dropped in his lap.

The consul pressed him daily to move against those he had named as traitors. While Julius delayed, he was tormented by the thought that they could strike and the city would plunge into a chaos he could have prevented. He had spies watching their houses and it was clear enough that they met in private rooms and bath-houses where no listening ear could intrude. Still Julius did not act. To believe there was a plot of the magnitude Crassus had described seemed impossible when he looked out on the quiet streets around the campaign house. Yet he had seen war touch Rome before and that was enough for him to send Brutus to scout where Crassus had pointed them.

This was the burden of the responsibility he had craved, Julius could acknowledge wryly to himself. Though he could wish for someone else to risk their career and life, the decision had been left in his hands. He did not underestimate the stakes. With nothing but a few names, Julius could not accuse senators of treason without putting his own neck on the line. If he failed to make a case, the Senate would turn against him without a moment’s regret. Worse, the people might fear a return to the days of Sulla, where no one knew who next would be dragged out of their homes for treason. Rome could be damaged more by error than if he had done nothing, and that pressure was almost too much to bear.

Alone for a few precious moments, Julius thumped his fist on the table, shaking it. How could he trust Crassus after such a revelation? As consul, he should have denounced Catiline’s conspiracy the moment he stepped into the senate building. Of all the men in Rome, he had failed in his most basic duty and, despite his protestations of innocence, Julius found it hard to forgive him that weakness. Not since Sulla had an armed force threatened to enter the city and the memory of that night still caused Julius to shudder. He had seen Marius brought down by soldiers in dark cloaks, swarming over him like the ants of Africa. Crassus should have known better than to listen to men like Catiline, no matter what they promised him.

Julius was startled from his thoughts by a commotion downstairs. His hand dropped to the gladius laid on the table before he recognised Brutus’ voice and relaxed. That was what Crassus had brought about, a return to the fear he had felt when Cato threatened him and every man had to be considered an enemy. Anger swelled as he understood how Crassus had manipulated him, yet he knew the old man would have what he wanted. The conspirators had to be reined in before they acted. Could they be threatened, he wondered. A century of the Tenth sent with his best officers to their homes, perhaps. If the men realised their plans were known, the conspiracy could be allowed to die stillborn.

Brutus knocked and entered and Julius knew it was bad news as he saw his expression.

‘I had my men scout the villages Crassus warned you about. I think he’s telling the truth,’ Brutus said without preamble. There was none of his usual lightness of manner.

‘How many swords do they have?’ Julius asked.

‘Eight thousand, maybe more, though they’re spread out. Every town up there is full of men, far too many to support. No legion marks or banners, just an awful lot of blades too close to Rome for comfort. If my lads hadn’t been looking for signs, they might have missed them completely. I think the threat is real, Julius.’

‘Then I must move,’ Julius said. ‘It’s gone too far to warn them off. Take men to the houses we’ve been watching. Go to Catiline’s home yourself. Arrest the conspirators and bring them to the senate meeting this afternoon. I’ll take the floor there and tell our senators how close they came to destruction.’ He rose and buckled his sword onto his belt. ‘Be careful, Brutus. They must have supporters in the city for this to work. Crassus said they would start fires in the poor areas as the signal, so we must have men on the streets, ready for them. Who knows how many are involved?’

‘The Tenth will be spread thinly if we try to cover the whole city, Julius. I can’t keep order and take the field against the mercenaries at the same time.’

‘I will convince Pompey to use his men on the streets. He’ll see the need. After you have brought the men to the Senate, give me an hour to put the case and then march. If I’m not there to lead, go alone against them.’

Brutus paused for a moment, understanding what he was being asked to do.

‘If I take the field without a senate order, that could be the end of me, whether we bring victory or not,’ he said softly. ‘Are you sure you can trust Crassus not to betray you in this?’

Julius hesitated. It would be enough to finish them all if Crassus refused to repeat his accusations in the senate house. The old man was subtle enough to have created the conspiracy simply to remove a few of his opponents. Crassus could be rid of his competitors, while remaining unstained by all of it.

Still, what choice did he have? He could not allow a rebellion to begin while he had the chance to stop it.

‘I can’t trust him, no, but no matter who is responsible for that gathering of soldiers, I cannot allow a threat to Rome. Arrest the men he has named before any more harm is done by waiting. I’ll take the responsibility if I can get to you. If I am not there, it’s your decision. Wait as long as you can.’

Brutus led twenty of his best with Domitius to take Catiline at his own home. To his fury, they were delayed crucial moments as they broke through his outer gate. By the time they reached the private rooms, Catiline was warming his hands at a brazier filled with burning papers. The man seemed calm as he greeted the soldiers. His face was almost sculpted out of hard planes and the breadth of his shoulders showed he was one who took care of his strength. Unusually for a senator, he wore a gladius at his side in an ornate scabbard.

Rushing in, Brutus threw a jug of wine on the flames. As the wet smoke hissed out, he rammed his hand into the sodden ashes, but there was nothing left.

‘Your master has overstepped the mark, gentlemen,’ Catiline remarked.

‘My orders are to take you to the Curia, Senator, to answer charges of treason,’ Domitius told him.

Catiline let his right hand rest on the pommel of the gladius and both Brutus and Domitius stiffened.

‘If you touch that sword again, you will die right now,’ Brutus warned him softly and Catiline’s eyes opened wide under the heavy lids as he assessed the danger facing him.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Marcus Brutus of the Tenth.’

‘Well, Brutus, Consul Crassus is a good friend of mine and when I am free, I will discuss this with you in more detail. Now do as you have been told and take me to the Senate.’

Domitius put out a hand to hold the senator’s arm and Catiline knocked it aside, his temper showing through the false calm.

‘Do not dare to put hands on me! I am a senator of Rome. When this is over, do not think I will forget the insults to my person. Your master will not always be able to protect you from the law.’

Catiline swept out past them, his expression murderous. The soldiers of the Tenth formed up around him, exchanging worried glances. Domitius said nothing more as they reached the street, though he hoped for all their sakes that the other groups had found some proof with which to accuse the men. Without it, Julius could well have created his own destruction.

The road outside was heaving with the morning crowds and Brutus had to use the flat of his sword to clear the way for them. The press was too great for the citizens to move away easily and progress was slow. Brutus swore under his breath as they reached the first corner and didn’t sense the change in the crowd until it was almost too late.

The children and women had vanished and the soldiers of the Tenth were surrounded by hard-looking men. Brutus glanced back at Catiline. The senator’s face had lit with triumph. Brutus felt himself shoved and hemmed in and, in a sickening flash of understanding, knew Catiline had been prepared for them.

‘Defend yourselves!’ Brutus roared. Even as he gave the order, he saw swords torn free from under cloaks and tunics as the crowd came alive with violence. Catiline’s men had been hidden among the passers-by, waiting to free their leader. The street seethed with swords and screams as the first soldiers of the Tenth were caught unawares and cut down.

Brutus saw Catiline being drawn clear by his supporters and tried to grab him. It was impossible. Even as Brutus stretched out his arm, someone cut at it and he defended himself furiously. Pressed by bodies, he felt close to panic. Then he saw Domitius had cleared a bloody space in the street and moved to his side.

The soldiers of the Tenth held their nerve, cutting Catiline’s supporters down with the grim efficiency of their training. There were no weak men amongst them, but each was faced with two or three swords swinging wildly. For all the attackers’ lack of skill, they fought with fanatical energy and even the legionary armour could turn only a few of the blows.

Brutus grabbed a man by the throat with his left hand and jerked him into the path of two more, killing them with neat strokes as they struggled against each other. He felt his pounding heart settle then, giving him the chance to glance around him. He leaned back from a gladius aimed to cut through his sword arm and sent a riposte into the throat of the wielder. Throat and groin, the quickest deaths.

Brutus staggered as something hit him low in the back and he felt one of the straps give on his chestplate, shifting the weight. He spun with the sword at a sharp angle to cut into another man’s collarbone and drop him into the mess of filth and flesh at their feet. Blood spattered across him and he blinked quickly, looking for Catiline. The senator had gone.

‘Clear this damned street, Tenth!’ he shouted and his men responded, cutting their way through. The heavy gladius blades chopped into the enemy, cutting limbs free as easily as a butcher’s cleaver. With some of Catiline’s men retreating with the senator, the numbers were thinning and the legionaries were able to isolate those remaining, ramming their blades over and over into the bodies to repay the insult of the attack in the only coin it deserved.

When it was done, the legionaries stood panting, their armour covered in dark blood that dripped slowly from the polished metal. One or two of them walked carefully to each of Catiline’s men and thrust their swords in one last time to be sure.

Brutus wiped his gladius on a man he had killed and sheathed it carefully after checking the edge. There were no flaws on Cavallo’s work.

Of the original twenty, only eleven of them stood, with two more dying. Without having to be ordered, Brutus saw his men lift their comrades up from the street and support them, exchanging a last few words as their lives bled away.

Brutus tried to concentrate. Catiline’s men had been ready to steal him back from the Tenth. He could already be on the way to join the rebels, or they to him.

Brutus knew he had to make a decision quickly. His men watched him in silence, waiting for the word.

‘Domitius, leave our wounded in the care of the nearest houses. Before you catch us up, take a message to Julius at the Senate. We can’t wait for him now. The rest of you, run with me.’

Without another word, Brutus broke into a fast jog, his men falling in behind him as quickly as they were able.

The senate house was in chaos, as three hundred senators fought to shout over the others. The protests were loudest in the centre of the floor as four of the men Julius had arrested were chained there, demanding proof of the accusations against them. The men had been resigned at first, but when they realised Catiline would not be dragged in to join them, their confidence quickly returned.

Pompey waited impatiently for silence and finally was forced to add his own voice to the din, bellowing over them.

‘Take your seats and be still!’ he roared at the men, glaring around. Those nearest to him sat quickly enough and the ripple that followed restored some semblance of order.

Pompey waited until the noise had sunk to whispers. He gripped the rostrum tightly, but before he could begin to address the unruly Senate, one of the four accused lifted his chains up in appeal.

‘Consul, I demand our release. We have been dragged from our homes on …’

‘Be silent, or I will have you gagged with iron,’ Pompey replied. He spoke quietly, but this time, his voice carried to the furthest reaches of the house. ‘You will have a chance to answer the charges Caesar has brought against you.’ He took a deep breath.

‘Senators, these men are accused of a plot to create riots in the city leading to full-scale rebellion and an overturn of the power of this body, culminating in the murder of our officials. Those of you crying so loudly for justice would do well to consider the seriousness of these offences. Be silent for Caesar, who accuses them.’

As Julius walked towards the rostrum, he felt sweat break out on his skin. Where was Catiline? There had been enough time for Brutus to bring him with the others, but now Julius felt each step as a slow march to destruction. He had nothing except Crassus’ word with which to attack the men or to assuage his own doubts.

He faced the ranks of his colleagues, noting the rebellious expressions of many of them. Suetonius sat almost opposite with Bibilus. The two of them were practically quivering with interest at the proceedings. Cinna was there, his expression unreadable as he nodded to Julius. Since the death of his daughter, he had rarely been seen in the Senate. There could be no friendship between them, but Julius did not judge him an enemy. He wished he could be as sure about the other men of the Senate.

Julius took a calming breath as he arranged his thoughts. If he was wrong about any of it, it was all over for him. If Crassus had placed him at this point intending to leave him for the wolves, he faced disgrace and possibly even banishment.

Julius met Crassus’ eyes, looking for a sign of triumph. The old man touched himself lightly on the chest and Julius gave no sign he had seen.

‘I accuse these men and one other, by the name of Lucius Sergius Catiline, of treason against the city and her Senate,’ Julius began, the words echoing in the dead silence. The breath seemed to shudder out of him. There was no going back.

‘I can confirm that an army has been assembled in towns north of the city, eight to ten thousand strong. With Catiline as their leader, they were to attack on the signal of fires set on the hills of Rome, coupled with general unrest. This was to have been fomented by supporters within the city.’

Every eye turned on the four men who were chained at their feet. They stood together defiantly, glaring back. One of them shook his head as if in disbelief at Julius’ words.

Before Julius could continue, a messenger in senate livery ran to his side and handed up a wax tablet. Julius read it quickly, frowning.

‘I have further news that the leader of these men has escaped those I sent to arrest him. I ask now for a senate order to take the Tenth north against the brigands they have assembled. I must not delay here.’

A senator stood slowly from the seated ranks. ‘What proof do you offer us?’

‘My word and that of Crassus,’ Julius replied quickly, ignoring his own doubts. ‘It is the nature of a conspiracy not to leave too many traces, Senator. Catiline escaped by killing nine of my men. He approached Consul Crassus with these four before you, offering the death of Pompey and a new order in Rome. More will have to wait until I have dealt with the threat to the city.’

Crassus stood then and Julius met his eyes, still unsure whether he could trust him. The consul looked down at the chained conspirators in front of him and his expression showed a deep anger.

‘I name Catiline as traitor.’

Julius felt a great wave of relief as Crassus spoke. Whatever the old man was doing, at least he was not the one to fall. Crassus glanced over at him before continuing and Julius wondered how much the man understood of his thoughts.

‘As consul, I give my consent for the Tenth to leave Rome and take the field. Pompey?’

Pompey rose, his glance snapping to each man in turn. He too could feel there was more to the story than he was being told, but after a long pause, he nodded.

‘Go then. I will trust the need is as great as I am told, Julius. My own legion will guard against a rebellion in the city. However, these men you call conspirators will not be sentenced until you return and I am satisfied the issue is clear. I will question them myself.’

A storm of whispering broke out on the benches at this terse exchange and the three men took silent stock of each other’s positions. There was no give in any of them.

Crassus broke first and called for a scribe to write the order, handing it into Julius’ hands as he came down from the rostrum.

‘Do your duty and you will be safe,’ he murmured.

Julius stared at him for a moment before hurrying out into the forum.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Brutus rode with his extraordinarii at the head of the Tenth, covering many times the distance of the marching ranks as they scouted ahead and to the sides of the column. Of necessity, they were north and west of the city as the bulk of the legion had to be summoned from the camp near the coast and make their way across country to meet the single century Brutus had brought from the old Primigenia barracks.

When they had joined, some of the nerves that had affected Brutus vanished in the excitement of leading the legion against an enemy for the first time. Though he hoped to see Julius coming up behind them, another part of him wanted to be left alone to lead them in battle. His extraordinarii wheeled at his order as if they had fought together for years. Brutus revelled in the sight and felt more than a little reluctance at the thought of giving it up to anyone.

Renius had stayed at the coast with five centuries to protect the equipment and gold from Spain. It had to be done, but Brutus begrudged every man lost while the numbers of the enemy were unknown. As he cast a professional eye back down the column, he felt a thrill of pride at the men who marched for him. They had started with nothing more than a gold eagle and a memory of Marius, but were once again a legion, and they were his.

He cast an eye up to the position of the sun and remembered the maps his scouts had drawn. Catiline’s forces were more than a day’s march away from the city and he would have to decide whether to make a fortified camp, or to march through the night. The Tenth were undoubtedly as fresh as they could ever hope to be, long recovered from the sea journey that had brought them home. As well as that, a rebellious thought reminded him that Julius would be able to catch them if they camped and the command would shift to him once more. The broken ground would be treacherous in the dark, but Brutus resolved to drive his men on until they met the enemy.

The region of Etruria, of which Rome formed the southernmost point, was a land of hills and ravines, difficult to cross. The Tenth were forced to spread into wider lines to negotiate their way around ancient tors and valleys and Brutus was pleased to see the formations change with speed and discipline.

Octavian galloped across his line of vision, turning his gelding in a flashy display of skill as he came abreast.

‘How much further?’ he called over the jingle and tramp of the ranks.

‘Another thirty miles to the villages we scouted,’ Brutus replied, smiling. He could see the excitement he felt mirrored in Octavian’s face. The boy had never known a battle and for him, the march was untempered by thoughts of death and pain. Brutus should have been immune, but the Tenth shone in the sun and the boy he had once been revelled in command.

‘Take a century to scout the back trail,’ Brutus ordered, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashed across the younger man’s face. It was hard on him, but Brutus knew better than to allow Octavian the first charge before he had learned a little more of the reality of battle.

He watched as Octavian gathered riders and moved in perfect formation to the rear of the column. Brutus nodded in satisfaction, taking pleasure from the chance to think as a general.

He remembered how, years before, he had handed Primigenia over to Julius and a bitter regret stole over him before he crushed it. The command he exercised was only a proxy until Julius arrived, but he knew the moments of this march would stay in his memory for a long time.

One of the scouts came in fast, the horse skidding in the loose earth as the rider yanked on the reins. The man’s face was pale with excitement.

‘The enemy is in sight, sir. They are marching towards Rome.’

‘How many?’ Brutus snapped, his heart racing.

‘Two legions of irregulars, sir, in open squares. No cavalry that I could see.’

A shout went up from behind and Brutus turned in his saddle with a feeling almost of dread. Behind the column, two riders galloped towards them. He knew then that Domitius had done his duty and brought Julius to the Tenth. He clenched his jaw against the anger that swamped him.

He turned to the scout and hesitated. Should he wait for Julius to arrive and take command? No, he would not. The order was his to give and he took a cool breath.

‘Pass the word. Advance and engage the enemy. Have the cornicens sound maniple orders. Velites on point to meet them. Extraordinarii to the flanks. We’ll break these bastards on the first charge.’

The scout saluted before galloping away and Brutus felt empty as he watched the dust cloud that promised blood and battle. Julius would take them in now.

As they sighted the legion coming at them, the ranks of mercenaries wavered and slowed. The Tenth were sliding over the land towards them like some great silvered beast and the ground shivered delicately with the cadence of their march. A host of flags had been raised into the wind and the wail of the cornicens could be heard thinly against the breeze.

Four thousand of those who had come for Catiline’s gold were from Gaul and their leader turned to the Roman, resting a powerful hand on his shoulder.

‘You said the way to the city would be undefended,’ he growled.

Catiline shook the hand free.

‘We have the numbers to take them, Glavis,’ he snapped. ‘You knew it would be bloody work.’

The Gaul nodded, squinting through the dust to the Roman ranks. His teeth showed through his beard as he pulled a heavy sword from a scabbard across his back, grunting as he took the weight. All around him, his men followed the gesture, until a host of blades were raised above their heads to meet the charge.

‘Just this little legion then, and one more in the city. We’ll eat them,’ Glavis promised, tilting back his head to roar. The Gauls around him responded and the front ranks separated and moved faster, sprinting across the broken ground.

Catiline drew his own gladius and wiped sweat from his eyes. His heart pounded with unaccustomed fear and he wondered if the Gaul had seen it. He shook his head in bitterness and cursed Crassus for his lies. There may have been a chance to take Rome in confusion and panic and the dark, but a legion in the field?

‘We have the numbers,’ he whispered to himself, swallowing hard. Ahead of him, he saw a flowing mass of horses overtake the ranks. The ground shook with the weight of the charge and Catiline suddenly believed he was going to die. In that moment, his fear vanished and his feet were light as he ran.

Julius took command without hesitation as he rode his lathered mount up to Brutus. He handed over the wax tablet signed by the consuls.

‘Now we are legitimate. You have given the battle orders?’

‘I have,’ Brutus replied. He tried to hide the coldness he felt, but Julius was looking away from him, judging the line of approach to the rebel forces.

‘The extraordinarii are ready on the flanks,’ Brutus said. ‘I would like to join them there.’

Julius nodded. ‘I want these mercenaries broken quickly. Take the right and lead them in on my signal. Two short notes from the horns. Listen well for it.’

Brutus saluted and moved away, relinquishing his command without a backward glance. His extraordinarii had taken station in ranks. They let his horse through to the front as they saw him join them and a few cheerful voices called out a welcome. Brutus frowned at that, hoping they were not too confident. As with Octavian, there was a difference between smashing target shields to pieces and sending spears into living men.

‘Hold your line,’ Brutus bellowed over their heads, glaring at them.

They quietened then, though the excitement was palpable. The horses whinnied and pulled to be allowed to run, but were reined in with tight hands. The men were nervous, Brutus could see. Many of them checked their spears over and over, loosening them in the long leather holders that hung down by the horses’ sides.

They could see the faces of the rebels now, a mass of shouting, running men who held swords high over their shoulders for one smashing blow. The blades caught the sun.

The centuries of the Tenth tightened their formations, each man ready with his drawn gladius, his shield protecting the man on his left. There were no gaps in their lines as they trotted forward. Then the cornicens blew three short blasts and the Tenth broke into a run, holding silence until the last moment when they roared as one and heaved their spears into the air.

The heavy iron points punched men from their feet along the enemy line and Brutus had the extraordinarii launch a fraction behind, their more accurate strikes aimed at anyone trying to rally the enemy. Before the armies met in earnest, hundreds had died without a Roman life taken. The extraordinarii circled on the wings and Julius could see the riders bring their shields around automatically to cover their backs as they wheeled. It was a superb display of skill and training and Julius exulted at the sight of it as the main lines crashed together.

Glavis spent his first mighty blow on a shield, smashing it through. As he tried to recover, a sword entered his stomach. He winced in expectation of the pain to come, dragging his blade up again. As he tried for a second blow, another Roman crashed his shield into him and he fell sideways, the sword knocked from numb fingers. Glavis panicked then as he looked up and saw the forest of legs and swords beginning to pass over him. They kicked and stamped at him and in seconds his body had been stabbed four more times. The blood poured out of him and he spat wearily, tasting it in his throat. He struggled to rise, but they kept pounding at his body. No one could have marked the exact instant of his death. He didn’t have time to see the front line of his Gauls collapse as they found they could not break the fighting rhythm of the Tenth.

As Glavis was seen to fall, the Gauls wavered and that was the moment Julius had waited to see. He shouted to his signaller and two short notes rang out.

Brutus heard and felt his heart leap in his chest. Despite the advantage of numbers, the mercenaries were breaking against the Roman charge. Some of them were already streaming away, dropping their swords. Brutus grinned as he raised his fist in the air, sweeping it down towards the enemy. Their spear holders were empty and now they would prove their true worth. The extraordinarii responded as if they had fought together all their lives, wheeling away to give themselves room and then hitting the enemy like a knife into their ranks, tearing them. Each rider guided his mount with one hand on the reins and his long spatha sword cutting heads from those that faced them. The horses were heavy enough to smash men from their feet and nothing could stand against the sheer weight of them as they plunged into the lines, deeper and deeper, breaking the rebels apart.

The front rank of the Tenth moved quickly over their enemies, each man using his blade and shield in the knowledge that he was protected by his brother on the right. They were unstoppable and after the first ranks went down they picked up speed, heaving and grunting with the strain as arms began to tire.

Julius called the maniple orders and his centurions roared them out. The velites moved back on light feet and let the triarii come forward in their heavier armour.

The rebels broke then as the fresh soldiers came at them. Hundreds threw down their weapons and hundreds more sprinted away, ignoring the calls of their leaders.

For those that surrendered too early, there could be no mercy. The Roman line could not afford to let them through the advance and they were killed with the rest.

The extraordinarii flowed around the rebels, a black mass of snorting horses and shouting riders, splashed red with blood and wild enough for nightmares. They hemmed them in and, as if there had been a general signal, thousands of men dropped their swords and raised empty hands, panting.

Julius hesitated as he saw the end. If he did not have the cornicens sound the disengage, his Tenth would continue until the last of the rebels were dead. Part of him was tempted to let that happen. What would he do with so many prisoners? Thousands of them had been left alive and they could not be allowed to go back to their lands and homes. He waited, sensing the eyes of his centurions on him as they waited for the signal to stop the killing. It was butchery by then and already those closest to the Roman ranks were beginning to reach for their weapons again, rather than die unarmed. Julius swore softly to himself, chopping a hand down. The cornicens saw the motion and blew a falling tone. And it was finished.

Those left alive had been disarmed as quickly as the Tenth could spread amongst them. In small groups, they searched the mercenaries, a single Roman removing blades while the others watched in grim concentration, ready to punish any sudden movement.

The mercenary officers had been called out of the ranks to stand in front of Julius. They watched him in silent resignation, a strange group, dressed in rough cloth and mismatched armour.

A breeze blew coldly through the battlefield as the sun sank towards the horizon. Julius looked at the kneeling prisoners arranged in a semblance of ranks, with corpses breaking the neat lines. Catiline’s body had been found and dragged to the front. Julius had looked down at the pierced and bloody thing that had been a senator. There would be no answers from him.

Though Julius thought he knew the truth of the failed rebellion, he suspected Crassus would remain untouched by his part in it. Perhaps some secrets were better kept from the public gaze. It could not hurt to have the richest man in Rome in his debt.

He glanced over as Octavian slapped his mount’s neck, practically glowing with the fading thrill of speed and fear. The extraordinarii had been blooded at last. Horses and men were spattered with gore and earth thrown up in the charge. Brutus stood amongst them, exchanging quiet words of praise while he waited for Julius to end it. It was not an order he would have enjoyed, Brutus admitted to himself, but Rome would not allow a show of mercy.

Julius signalled to the men of the Tenth to herd the officers closer to him. The optios thumped their staffs into the mercenaries, knocking one of them sprawling. The man cried out in anger and would have thrown himself at them if another hadn’t reached out to hold him. Julius listened as they argued, but the language was unknown to him.

‘Is there a commander amongst you?’ he asked them at last.

The leaders looked at each other and then one stood forward.

‘Glavis was, for those of us from Gaul,’ the man said. He jerked a thumb back at the piles of bodies that littered the ground. ‘He’s back there, somewhere.’

The man returned Julius’ cold appraisal before looking away. He gazed over the battlefield with a sad expression before his eyes snapped back.

‘You have our weapons, Roman. We’re no threat to you any more. Let us go.’

Julius shook his head slowly. ‘You were never a threat to us,’ he said, noting the spark of fire that shone in the man’s eyes before it was hidden. He raised his voice to carry to all of them.

‘You have a choice, gentlemen. Either you die at my word …’ He hesitated. Pompey would go berserk when he heard. ‘Or you take an oath as legionaries for me, under my orders.’

The babble of noise that followed was not restricted to the mercenaries. The soldiers of the Tenth gaped at what they were hearing.

‘You will be paid on the first day of each month. Seventy-five silver coins to each man, though part of that will be kept back.’

‘How much of it?’ someone called.

Julius turned in the direction of the voice.

‘Enough for salt, food, weapons, armour, and a tithe to the widows and orphans. Forty-two denarii will be left for each man to spend as he sees fit.’ A thought struck him then and made him hesitate. The pay for so many men would amount to thousands of coins. It would take huge wealth to keep two legions, and even the gold he had brought back from Spain would quickly dwindle under such a demand. How had Catiline found the money? He thrust the sudden suspicions aside to continue.

‘I will seed your ranks with my officers and train you to fight as well as the men who made you look like children today. You will have good swords and armour and your pay will come on time. That or you die now. Go amongst your men and tell them. Warn them that if they are thinking of slipping away, I will hunt them down and hang them. Those who choose to live will be marched back to Rome, but not as prisoners. The training will be hard, but they have courage enough to make a beginning. Anything else can be taught.’

‘Will you give us back our weapons?’ the voice came from the officers.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Julius said. ‘Now move! One way or another, this will be over by sunset.’

Unable to meet his glare, the mercenaries moved off, heading back to their brothers kneeling in the mud. The legionaries let them pass through, exchanging glances of amazement.

While they waited, Brutus walked over to stand at Julius’ side.

‘The Senate will not be pleased, Julius. You don’t need any more enemies.’

‘I am in the field,’ Julius replied. ‘Whether they like it or not, in the field I speak for the city. I am Rome, here, and the decision is mine.’

‘But we had orders to destroy them,’ Brutus said quietly enough not to be overheard.

Julius shrugged. ‘It may come to that yet, my friend, but you should be hoping they will take the oath.’

‘Why should I be hoping that?’ Brutus asked suspiciously.

Julius smiled at him, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

‘Because they will be your legion.’

Brutus held himself very still, taking it in.

‘They broke against us, Julius. Mars himself couldn’t make a legion out of this lot.’

‘You did it once, with Primigenia. You will do it with these. Tell them they survived a charge by the best legion ever to come out of Rome, under a general blessed. Raise their heads for them, Brutus, and they will follow you.’

‘They will be mine alone?’ Brutus asked.

Julius looked into his eyes then. ‘If you will still be my sword, I swear I will not interfere, though the overall command must be mine when we fight together. Aside from that, if you walk my path, it will be by your own choice – as it has always been.’

One by one, the mercenary officers were gathering again. As they met, they nodded sharply to each other, visibly relaxing. Julius knew he had them before their spokesman walked towards him.

‘It wasn’t much of a choice,’ the man said.

‘There are no … dissenters?’ Julius said softly. The Gaul shook his head.

‘Good. Then have them stand. When every man has taken the oath, we will light torches and march through the night back to Rome. There is a barracks there for you and a hot meal.’ Julius turned to Brutus.

‘Send out the freshest riders carrying messages for the Senate. They won’t know whether we’re the enemy or not and I don’t want to set off the very rebellion we have fought to prevent.’

‘We are the enemy,’ Brutus muttered.

‘No longer, Brutus. Not one of them will take a step before he is bound by oath. After that, they will be ours, whether they know it or not.’

As Julius rode up to the city with a picked guard of the extraordinarii, he saw the gates had been closed against them. The first grey light of dawn was already showing on the horizon and he felt a gritty tiredness in his joints. There was still more to be done before he could sleep.

‘Open the gate!’ he shouted as he reined in, looking up at the shadowed mass of timber and iron that blocked his way.

A legionary wearing Pompey’s armour appeared on the wall, looking down at them. After a glance at the small group of riders, he peered out along the road, satisfying himself that there was no hidden force waiting to storm into the city.

‘Not till dawn, sir,’ he called down, recognising Julius’ armour. ‘Pompey’s orders.’

Julius swore under his breath. ‘Throw me a rope then. I have business with the consul and it won’t wait.’

The soldier disappeared, presumably to see his superior officer. The extraordinarii stirred restlessly.

‘We were told to escort you to the senate house, General,’ one of them ventured.

Julius turned in his saddle to look at the man.

‘If Pompey has sealed the city, his legion will be out in force. I’ll be in no danger.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the rider replied, discipline preventing him contesting the order.

On the walls, an officer appeared in full armour, his helmet plume moving slightly in the night breeze.

‘Aedile Caesar? I’ll send a rope down to you if you give me your word to come alone. The consuls made no allowance for you to return this early.’

‘You have my oath,’ Julius replied, watching as the man signalled and heavy coils came thumping down to the ground at the foot of the gate. He saw archers covering him from the gate towers and nodded to himself. Pompey was no one’s fool.

As he dismounted and took hold of the rope, Julius looked back at the extraordinarii.

‘Return to the old Primigenia barracks with the others. Brutus is in command until my return.’

Without another word, he began to climb hand over hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A light rain began to fall as Julius walked through the empty city. With dawn on the horizon, the streets should have been filled with workers, servants and slaves, bustling along on a thousand errands. The cries of vendors should have been heard, coupled with the din of a thousand trades. Instead, it was eerily quiet.

Julius hunched his shoulders against the rain, hearing his own footsteps echo back from the houses on either side. He saw faces at the high windows of the tenements, but no one called down to him and he hurried on towards the forum.

Pompey’s men stood at every corner in small groups, ready to enforce the curfew. One of them gripped his hilt as he caught sight of the lonely figure. Julius threw back his riding cloak to reveal the armour underneath and they let him pass. The whole city was nervous and Julius felt a prickling anger at the part Crassus had played in it.

He strode quickly along the Alta Semita, following the Quirinal hill down into the forum. The great flat crossing stones kept him clear of the sluggish filth of the roadbed below his feet. The rain had begun to wash the city clean, but it would take more than a brief shower to finish the task.

In all his life, he had never seen the vast space of the forum so empty. A wind that had been blocked by the rows of houses hit him as he passed into it, making his cloak snap out behind. There were soldiers at the entrances to the temples and the senate house itself, but no lights showed within. The temple priests had lit flickering torches for those who prayed inside, but Julius had no business with them. As he passed the temple to Minerva, he muttered under his breath to her, that he might have the wisdom to see his way through the tangle Crassus had made.

The iron studs of his sandals clacked on the flagstones of the great space as he approached the senate building. Two legionaries held station there, absolutely still despite the rain and wind that bit at their exposed skin. As Julius set his foot on the first step, both men drew their swords and Julius frowned at them. They were both young. More experienced men would not have drawn with so little provocation.

‘By order of Consul Pompey, no one may enter until the Senate is called again,’ one of them said to Julius, filled with the importance of his duty.

‘I need to see the consuls before that meeting,’ Julius replied. ‘Where are they?’

The two soldiers glanced at each other for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be right for them to volunteer the information. Soaked to the skin by then, Julius felt his temper rising.

‘I was told to report as soon as I returned to Rome. I am here. Where is your commander?’

‘The prison house, sir,’ the soldier answered. He opened his mouth to continue, then thought better of it, resuming his position as before and sheathing his gladius. Once again they were like twin statues in the rain.

There were dark clouds over the city by then and the wind was growing in strength, beginning to howl as it rushed across the empty forum. Julius resisted the urge to run for cover and stalked over to the prison that adjoined the senate house. It was a small building, with only two cells below ground. Those who were to be executed were held there on the night before their death. There were no other prisons in the city: execution and banishment prevented the need to build them. The very fact that Pompey was there told Julius what he would find and he prepared to face it without flinching.

Another pair of Pompey’s men guarded the outer door. As Julius approached, they nodded to him as if he were expected and threw open the locking bars.

The armour he wore was marked with the insignia of the Tenth and he was not questioned until he reached the steps leading down to the cells. Three men moved subtly apart as he announced himself and another went down the steps behind them. Julius waited patiently as he heard his name spoken somewhere below and Pompey’s answering rumble. The men who watched him were stiff with tension and so he leaned against the wall in the most relaxed fashion he could, brushing some of the surface water from his armour and squeezing it from his hair. The actions helped him to relax under their silent stares and he was able to smile as Pompey came up with the soldier.

‘That is Caesar,’ Pompey confirmed. His eyes were hard and there was no answering smile. At the confirmation from their general, the men in the room took their hands from their sword hilts and moved away, leaving the entrance to the steps open.

‘Is there still a threat to the city?’ Pompey asked.

‘It is ended,’ Julius replied. ‘Catiline did not survive the battle.’

Pompey swore softly. ‘That is unfortunate. Come down with me, Caesar. You should be part of this,’ Pompey said.

As he spoke, he wiped sweat from his hairline and Julius saw a smear of blood on his hand. He followed Pompey down the steps with his heart thumping in anticipation.

Crassus was there in the cells. The blood seemed to have drained from his face, so that under the lamplight he looked like a figure of wax. He looked up as Julius entered the low room and his eyes glittered unhealthily. There was a sickly smell in the air and Julius tried not to look at the figures bound to chairs in the centre of it. There were four of them and the smell of fresh blood was one he knew well.

‘Catiline? Did you bring him back?’ Crassus asked, putting a hand on Julius’ arm.

‘He was killed in the first charge, Consul,’ Julius replied, watching the man’s eyes. He saw the fear go out of them as he had expected. Catiline’s secrets had died with him.

Pompey grunted, motioning to the torturers who stood by the broken bodies of the conspirators.

‘A pity. These creatures named him as their leader, but they know nothing of the details I wanted. They would have told us by now.’

Julius looked at the men and repressed a shudder at what had been done to them. Pompey had been thorough and he too doubted the men could have held anything back. Three of them lay as still as the dead, but the last rolled his head towards them with a sudden jerk. One of his eyes had been pierced and wept a shining stream of liquid down his cheek, but the other peered around aimlessly, lighting up as he saw Julius.

‘You! I accuse you!’ he spat, then cackled weakly, dribbling blood over his chin.

Julius fought against a rising gorge as he caught sight of white shards on the stone floor. Some of them still had the roots attached.

‘He has lost his mind,’ he said softly and, to his relief, Pompey nodded.

‘Yes, though he held out the longest. They will live long enough to be executed and that will be the end of it. I must thank you both for bringing this to the Senate in time. It was a noble deed and worthy of your ranks.’ Pompey looked at the man who would stand for the position of consul in only two months.

‘When my curfew is over, I suppose the people will rejoice at being saved from bloody insurrection. They will elect you, don’t you think? How can they not?’

His eyes belied the light tone and Julius did not look at him as he felt the man’s gaze. He felt shamed by all of it.

‘Perhaps they will,’ Crassus said softly. ‘We three will have to work together for Rome. A triumvirate will bring its own problems, I am sure. Perhaps we should …’

‘Another time, Crassus,’ Pompey snapped. ‘Not now, with the stink of this place in my lungs. We still have a senate meeting at sunrise and I want to visit the bath-house before that.’

‘Dawn is here now,’ Julius said.

Pompey swore softly, using a rag to wipe his hands clean. ‘It’s always night down in this place. I am finished with these.’

He gave orders to the torturers to have the men cleaned and made presentable before turning back to Crassus. As Julius watched, dark sponges were dipped in buckets and the worst of the blood began to be sluiced away, running in stone gutters along the floor between his legs.

‘I will set the execution for noon,’ Pompey promised, leading them up the stairs to the cool rooms above.

The grey light had taken on a reddish tint as Julius and Crassus stepped out into the forum. The rain pounded on the stones, rebounding in thousands of tiny spatters that drummed in the emptiness. Though Julius called his name, Crassus walked quickly away into the downpour. No doubt a bath and a change of clothes would remove some of the sickly pallor from his skin, Julius thought. He hurried to catch up with the consul.

‘Something occurred to me when I was destroying the rebels gathered in your name,’ Julius called, his voice echoing.

The consul stopped dead at that, looking around. There was no one close.

‘In my name, Julius? Catiline led them. Did his followers not murder your soldiers in the street?’

‘Perhaps, but the house you showed me was a modest one, Crassus. Where would Catiline have gathered enough gold to pay ten thousand men? Very few in this city could have paid for such an army, don’t you think? I wonder what would happen if I sent men to investigate his accounts. Would I find a traitor with huge reserves of hidden wealth, or should I look for another, a paymaster?’

Crassus could know nothing of the burnt papers Brutus had found at the house and the spark of worry Julius saw was all he needed to confirm his suspicions.

‘It strikes me that such a large force of mercenaries, coupled with riots and fires in the city could well have worked with only Pompey’s legion to guard Rome. It was not an empty offer they made you, Crassus, do you realise? The city could well have been yours. I am surprised you were not tempted. You would have been left standing on the heap of corpses, and Rome might have been ready for Dictatorship.’

As Crassus began to reply, Julius’ expression changed and his mocking tone became hard.

‘But without warning, another legion is brought home from Spain and then …? Then you must have been in a very difficult position. The forces are set, the conspiracy is in place, but Rome is guarded by ten thousand and victory is no longer guaranteed. A gambling man might have risked it, but not you. You are a man who knows when the game is over. I wonder when you decided it was better to betray Catiline than see it through? Was it when you came to my home and planned my campaign with me?’

Crassus put a hand on Julius’ shoulder.

‘I have said I am a friend to your house, Julius, and so I will ignore your words – for your own good, I will.’ He paused for an instant. ‘The conspirators are dead and Rome is safe. An excellent outcome, in fact. Let that be enough for you. There is nothing else that should trouble your thoughts. Let it go.’

Ducking his head against the rain, Crassus walked away, leaving Julius staring after him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cold grey clouds hung low in the sky over the vast crowd waiting in the Campus Martius. The ground was sodden underfoot, but thousands had left their houses and work to walk to the great field and witness the executions. Pompey’s soldiers waited in perfect, shining ranks, showing no sign of the labour that had gone into constructing the prisoners’ platform, or laying out a host of wooden benches for the Senate. Even the ground had been covered with dry rushes that crackled underfoot.

Children were held aloft by their parents to get a glimpse of the four men waiting miserably on the wooden platform and the crowd talked quietly amongst themselves, feeling something of the solemnity of the moment.

As noon had approached, the Senate had left their deliberations in the Curia and walked together to the Campus. Soldiers of the Tenth had joined Pompey’s men in closing the city, pressing wax seals against the gates and raising the flag on the Janiculum hill. With the Senate absent, the city was kept in a state of armed siege until their return. Many of the senators glanced idly at the distant flag on the hill to the west. It would remain as long as the city was safe and even the execution of traitors would be halted if the flag was pulled down to warn of an enemy approach.

Julius stood with the damp folds of his best cloak wrapped tightly around him. Even with the tunic and heavy toga underneath it, he shivered as he watched the miserable men his actions had brought to that place of death.

The prisoners had no protection from the biting wind. Only two could stand and they were hunched in pain, their chained hands pressed in mute misery against the wounds of the night. Perhaps because death was so close, those two gulped at the cold air, filling their lungs and ignoring the sting of their exposed skin.

The tallest of the pair had long dark hair that whipped and veiled his face. His eyes were swollen, but Julius could see a glint almost hidden by the bruised flesh, the feverish brightness of a trapped animal.

The one who had raved at Julius in the prison house was sobbing, his head wrapped in a cloth. A dark coin of blood had appeared in the material, marking the place his eye had been. Julius shuddered at the memory and took a tighter grip on his cloak, feeling the icy metal of one of Alexandria’s clasps touch his neck. He glanced at Pompey and Crassus, standing on the bed of rushes laid over the mud. The two consuls were talking quietly and the crowd waited for them, their eyes bright with anticipation.

Finally, the two men stood apart. Pompey caught the eye of a magistrate from the city and the crowd shuffled and chattered as the man ascended the platform and faced them.

‘These four have been found guilty of treason against the city. By order of consuls Crassus and Pompey and by order of the Senate, they will be executed. Their bodies will be cut apart and their flesh scattered for the fowls of the air. Their heads will be placed on four gates as a warning to those who threaten Rome. This is the will of our consuls, who speak as Rome.’

The executioner was a master butcher by trade, a powerfully built man with close-cropped grey hair. He wore a toga of rough brown wool, belted to hold in his swelling waist. He did not rush, enjoying the gaze of the crowd as it focused on him. The silver coins he would receive for the work were nothing to the satisfaction he took from it.

Julius watched as the man made a show of checking his knife, running a stone down its length one last time. It was a vicious-looking blade, a narrow cleaver as long as his forearm with the tang set in a sturdy wooden handle. The spine was almost a finger wide. A child laughed nervously and was shushed by her parents. The long-haired prisoner began to pray aloud, his eyes glassy. Perhaps it was his noise, or just a sense of showmanship, but the butcher came to him first, laying the cleaver alongside his neck.

The man flinched and his voice grew sharper, the air hissing in and out of his lungs in sharp jerks. His hands shook and his pale skin was wax-white. The crowd watched fascinated as the butcher took a handful of his hair in his hand and bent the head slowly to one side, exposing the clean line of the neck.

The man’s voice was deep and low. ‘No, no … no,’ he muttered, the crowd straining to hear his last words.

There was no fanfare or warning. The butcher adjusted his grip in the man’s hair and began to cut slowly into the flesh. Blood sprayed out, drenching them both, and the condemned man raised his hands to scrabble weakly at the blade as it ate at him, back and forth with terrible precision. He made a soft sound, an ugly cry that lasted only a moment. His legs collapsed, but the butcher was strong and held him up until his cleaver scraped against bone. He pulled it back then and with two quick chops he was through and the head tore clear, the body falling loose. Muscles still fluttered in the cheeks and the eyes remained open in a parody of life.

In the crowd, hands covered mouths in shuddering pleasure as the body slipped bonelessly from the platform onto the rushes below. They stood on tiptoes and jostled for a view as the butcher held the head to show them, blood running down his arm and staining his toga almost black. The jaw flopped open with the movement, revealing the teeth and tongue.

One of the other prisoners vomited over himself then cried out. As if at a signal, the other two joined him, wailing and pleading. The crowd were roused by the noise, jeering them and laughing wildly with the break in tension. The butcher shoved the head into a cloth bag and turned slowly to reach down to the man nearest him. He closed his heavy fist on an ear and dragged the screaming figure to his feet.

Julius looked away until it was finished. As he did so, he saw Crassus turn his head, but ignored the gaze. The crowd cheered each head as it was held up to them and Julius watched them curiously. He wondered if the events Crassus paid for gripped them half as much as this day’s entertainment.

They were his people, this crowd stretching darkly over the wet ground of the Campus Martius. The nominal masters of the city, sated with vicarious terror and cleansed by it. As it ended, he saw the faces ease as if some great weight had been lifted. Husbands and wives joked together, relaxing, and he knew there would be little work in the city that day. They would pass through the great gates and head for wineshops and inns to discuss what they had seen. The problems of their own lives would become less important for a few hours. The city would slip into the evening with none of the usual rush and hurry of the streets. They would sleep well and wake refreshed.

The lines of Pompey’s men opened to let the Senate through. Julius rose with the others and made his way back to the gates, watching as the seals were cracked and a bar of light appeared between them. He had two cases to prepare for the forum court and his sword tournament was only days away, but like the crowd of citizens, he felt strangely at peace when he thought of the work to come. There could be no striving on such a day and the damp air tasted clean and fresh in his lungs.

That evening, Julius stood and rapped his knuckles on the long table in the campaign house. The noise fell as quickly as good red wine would allow and he waited, looking around at those who had come with him in the race for consul. Every person at the table had risked a great deal in their public support of him. If he lost, they would all be made to suffer in some way. Alexandria could find her clients disappearing with a single word from Pompey, her business ruined. If Julius were allowed to take the Tenth to some distant post, those who went with him would be giving up their careers, forgotten men who would be lucky to see the city again before retirement.

As they fell silent, Julius looked down at Octavian, the only one at the table bound to him by blood. Seeing the hero-worship in the young man was painful when Julius thought of all the grey years that would follow his failure and banishment. Would Octavian look back on the campaign with bitterness then?

‘We have come so very far,’ he said to them. ‘Some of you have been with me almost from the beginning. I can’t even remember a time when Renius wasn’t there, or Cabera. My father would be proud to see his boy with such friends.’

‘Will he mention me, do you think?’ Brutus said to Alexandria.

Julius smiled gently. He had been going to raise a simple toast to those who had entered the sword tournament, but the executions that morning had stayed with him through the day, casting a grey spell over his mood.

‘I wish there were others at this table,’ Julius said. ‘Marius for one. When I look back, the good memories are lost in the rest, but I have known great men.’ He felt his heart thumping in his chest as the words came.

‘I have never known a straight path in my life. I stood at Marius’ side as we rode through Rome throwing coins to the crowds. The air was full of petals and cheering and I heard the slave whose task it was whisper in his ear, “Remember you are mortal.”’ Julius sighed as he saw again the colours and excitement of that day.

‘I have been so close to death that even Cabera gave me up. I’ve lost friends and lost hope and I’ve seen kings fall and Cato cut his own throat in the forum. I have been so drenched in death I thought I would never laugh or care for anyone again.’

They stared at him over the dishes that littered the long table, but his gaze was far away and he did not see the effect of his words.

‘I saw Tubruk die and Cornelia’s body so white she did not look real until I touched her.’ His voice faded to a whisper and Brutus glanced at his mother. She had paled, pressing a hand against her mouth as Julius spoke.

‘I tell you, I would not wish what I have seen on anyone,’ Julius murmured. He seemed to come back to them, aware of the chill in the room.

‘I am here, though, still. I honour the dead, but I will use my time. Rome has only seen the beginning of my struggle. I have known despair and it holds no fear for me now. This is my city, my summer. I have given my youth to her and I would throw the years at her again if I had the chance.’

He raised his cup to the stunned table.

‘When I look at you all, I cannot imagine a force in the world that can stop us,’ he said. ‘Drink to friendship and love, for the rest is just tin.’

They stood slowly, raised their cups and drank the blood-red wine.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sight of twenty thousand citizens of Rome standing in their seats was a memory to cherish, Julius thought, his gaze sweeping over them. Every place had been filled for each day of the sword tournament and the clay tokens that gave entrance to the Thirty-twos were still changing hands for larger and larger sums each morning. Julius had been surprised at first to see callers on the four gates of the circus ring, offering to buy the tokens from the crowd as they streamed in. There were few takers once the early rounds were over.

The consular box was cool in the shade from a cream linen awning suspended between slender columns. It commanded the best view of the ring and not one of the men Julius had invited had refused the offer. All the candidates had arrived with their families and Julius had been amused to see the conflict in Suetonius and his father as they accepted his generosity.

The heat had built all morning and by noon the sand would be baked enough to sting bare flesh. Many of the crowd had brought water and wine with them, but still Julius thought he would have a fair return on the drinks and food his clients were selling for him. Cushions cost only a few coppers to hire for the day and the stocks vanished quickly.

Pompey had responded to the invitation with grace and as he and Crassus took their seats the crowd had stood out of respect until the blaring horns announced the first bouts.

Renius too was there and Julius had posted runners near him in case there was trouble at the barracks. He didn’t have it in him to deny the old gladiator his place, but with Brutus still in the last Thirty-two with Octavian and Domitius, he hoped his mercenary recruits would behave themselves. With that in mind, he had been forced to deny most of the Tenth the chance to see the combats, though he changed the guards three times a day to share the experience among as many as possible. As an exercise of his new authority, Brutus had added ten of the most promising of the new men to the muster of guards. Julius thought it was too early, but he had not imposed his will, knowing how important it was for them to see their general excel. Though the men looked uncomfortable in their legionary kit, they seemed docile enough.

The betting was as fierce as always. His people loved to gamble and Julius guessed fortunes would be won and lost before the final bouts were played out. Even Crassus had placed a handful of silver on Brutus at Julius’ word. As far as Julius knew, Brutus himself had bet everything he owned on winning the final. If he won, he would be less dependent on Julius and creditors for supplies. His friend had reached the Thirty-twos without upset, but the standard was high and bad luck could spoil the best chance.

Below the consular box, the last fighters stepped from their barracks onto the roasting sand. The silver armour glowed almost white and the crowd gasped at the sight of them, already cheering for their favourites. Alexandria had excelled herself with the high sheen of the metal they wore. Julius was sure the quality of the finalists was in part due to the promise that they would be allowed to keep the armour after the bouts were over. In sheer weight, each set would buy a man a small farm if he sold it and with the fame of the contest spread far, they could bring more than that. Julius tried not to think how much they had cost him. The whole of Rome had talked about his generosity and they did look fine in the sun.

A few of the fighters showed bruises from the early rounds. It had been a civilised few days, with only four men dead and those from accidental strikes in the heat of a contest. First blood ended each bout, with no other limit except exhaustion. The longest before the finals had lasted the best part of an hour and both men had barely been able to stand when it was settled with a clumsy cut across the back of a leg. The crowd had cheered the loser as loudly as the man who went on to the finals.

The first rounds had been a riot of skill and strength, with more than a hundred pairs on the sand at the same time. In its way, seeing so many swords flashing was as exciting as the individual bouts of the last Thirty-two, though the true connoisseurs preferred the single contests, where they could concentrate on styles and skill.

The range was staggering and Julius had made notes on a number of men to recruit for the new legion at the barracks. Already he had bought the services of three good swordsmen. Of necessity, he had been forced to hire those who fought in the Roman style, but it pained him to overlook some of the others. The call for fighters had spread much further than his messengers and there were men there from all over Roman lands and even further. Africans mixed with men the colour of mahogany from India and Egypt. One man, Sung, had the slanted eyes of races so far to the east they were almost mythical. Julius had been forced to assign guards to stop the crowds trying to touch him in the streets. The gods alone knew what he was doing so far from his home, but the long sword Sung carried was wielded with a skill that had brought him into the last rounds with the shortest bouts of all the men there. Julius watched him as he saluted the consuls with the others and determined to make the man an offer if he reached the Eights, Roman style or not.

At this late stage, the names of the men on the sand were announced to the crowd, each stepping forward to be cheered by the people of Rome. Brutus and Octavian stood together with Domitius, their armour glowing in the sun. Julius smiled at the pleasure he saw in their expressions. No matter who won the victor’s sword, they would never forget the experience.

The three Romans raised their blades to the crowd and then to the consuls. The crowd roared, a wall of sound that was astonishing, almost painful. The day had begun. The announcer stepped up to the brass tubes that magnified his voice and bellowed the names of the first bout.

Domitius was to face a northerner who had travelled home with his legion commander’s permission to attend the tournament. He was a big man with powerful forearms and a narrow, supple waist. As the others left the sand, he eyed Domitius warily, watching as Domitius began his stretching exercises. Even from a distance, Julius could see no sign of tension on Domitius’ face. He felt his heart beat faster with growing excitement and the others in the box sensed it too. Pompey stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

‘Should I bet on your man, Julius? Will he make the Sixteens?’

Julius turned and saw the glint in the consul’s eyes. A line of shining perspiration had appeared on Pompey’s forehead and his eyes were bright with anticipation. Julius nodded.

‘Domitius is the second best swordsman I have ever seen. Summon the betting slaves and we will throw a fortune on him,’ he said. They grinned like boys together and it was difficult to remember this man was not a friend.

The slave came in at their call, ready for them. Pompey raised his eyes in exasperation as Crassus counted out three silver coins to hand to the boy.

‘Just once, Crassus. Just once, I would like to see you bet enough for it to hurt you. There is no joy in small coins. It must sting a little.’

Crassus frowned, glancing at Julius. A dark flush spread into his cheeks as he put his coins away.

‘Very well. Boy, give me your betting slate.’

The slave produced a wooden square covered in a thin skin of wax and Crassus pressed his ring into it, writing his name and figures without showing them to the others. As he passed it back, Pompey reached out and twitched it away, whistling softly to himself. The slave waited patiently.

‘A fortune indeed, Crassus. You amaze me. One gold piece is more than I have ever seen you bet on anything.’

Crassus snorted and looked away at the two fighters, watching them walk to their positions and wait for the horn to be blown.

‘I’ll put a hundred on your man, Julius. Will you match me?’ Pompey asked.

‘A thousand for me. I know my man,’ Julius replied.

Pompey’s face hardened at the challenge. ‘Then I shall match you, Julius.’

The two men wrote the sums and their names on the wax square.

Renius cleared his throat. ‘Five gold on Domitius for me,’ he said gruffly.

Of all of them, he was the only one to actually produce the coins, holding them out stiffly until the slave took them from his hands. The old gladiator watched until the gleam disappeared into a cloth bag, then sat back, sweating. Suetonius had been about to hand over his own bet, but returned to his father for funds after seeing that. Ten gold pieces were produced from them and the slate was passed around one more time, with even Bibilus risking a few silvers from his purse.

The slave scurried back to his master and Julius stood to signal the cornicens. The crowd became quiet as they saw him stand and he wondered how many of them would remember his name at the elections. He savoured the stillness for an instant, then brought his hand chopping down. The sharp wail of the horns rang out over the sand.

Domitius had watched as many of the early bouts as he could when he was not fighting himself. He had made notes on those he thought would win through to the later rounds, and of the last thirty-two only half of them were truly dangerous. The northerner he faced was skilled enough to have reached this stage, but he panicked when he was crowded and Domitius intended to crowd him from the very first moment.

He felt the man’s eyes on him as Domitius stretched his back and legs and kept his face as peaceful and unhurried as he possibly could. He had fought in enough tournaments to know that many bouts were won not with the sword but in the moments before it. His old trainer had had a habit of sitting with his legs split and flat on the ground in utter stillness before his opponents. While they lunged and jumped to loosen their muscles, that man had been like a rock and nothing unnerved them as much as that. When finally he had risen like smoke to face them, the battle was already half won. Domitius had understood the lesson and he allowed none of his tiredness to show in his movements. In truth, his right knee felt stiff and painful where it had been jolted in an earlier bout, but he did not wince, moving slowly and fluidly through his exercises, mesmerising in their smoothness. He felt a great calm descend on him and offered up a silent prayer for his old teacher.

Holding his sword low and away from his body, Domitius came to his mark and stood motionless. His opponent rolled his shoulders in a nervous action, flicking his head from side to side. When their eyes met, the northerner glared at him, unwilling to be the first to look away. Domitius stood like a statue, the sharply defined muscles of his shoulders shining with sweat. The silver armour protected the chests of the fighters, but Domitius could shave a lock of hair from a man running past him and he felt strong.

The horns snapped him out of his stillness and he lunged before the sound had fully registered with the other man. The northerner’s footwork had brought him to the finals and before the blade could cut, he had shifted out of range. Domitius could hear his breathing and focused on it as the man counterattacked. The northerner used his breath to increase the force of the blow, grunting with each strike. Domitius let him relax into a rhythm, backing up a dozen steps against the rush, watching for further weaknesses.

On the last step, Domitius felt a spike of pain as his weight came on his right leg, as if a needle had been jammed into his kneecap. It buckled, destroying his balance and he was hard-pressed as the northerner sensed the weakness. Domitius tried to put it out of his mind, but dared not trust the leg. He pressed forward in shuffling steps until their sweat mingled as it spattered. The northerner backed away and then further as he tried to gain space, but Domitius stayed with him, breaking the rhythm of blows with a short punch as their blades locked.

The northerner swayed away from the blow and they broke apart, beginning to circle each other. Domitius listened to his breath and waited for the tiny sip of air that came before each attack. He dared not look at his knee, but every step brought a fresh protest.

The northerner tried to wear him down with a flurry of strikes but Domitius blocked them, reading his man’s breath and waiting for the right moment. The sun was high above them and the sweat poured into their eyes, stinging. The northerner drew in a gasp and Domitius lunged. Even before the touch, he knew the stroke was perfect, slicing open a flap of skin on the man’s skull. A sliver of ear fell to the ground as blood poured out and the northerner roared, cutting wildly back as Domitius tried to pull away.

Domitius’ knee buckled, shooting agony up into his groin. The northerner hesitated, his eyes clearing as he felt the growing pain of his wound. Blood poured from him. Domitius watched him closely, trying to ignore the pain in his knee.

The northerner touched the hot wetness on his neck, staring at his bloody fingers. Grim resignation came into his face then and he nodded to Domitius, both men walking back to their marks.

‘You should bind that knee of yours, my friend. The others will have noted it,’ the northerner said softly, gesturing to where the rest of the finalists watched from the shadowed awnings of their enclosure. Domitius shrugged. He tested the joint and winced, stifling a cry.

Understanding, the northerner shook his head as they saluted the crowd and the consuls. Domitius tried not to show the sudden fear that had come to him. The joint felt strange and he prayed it was only a sprain or a partial dislocation that could be shoved back into place. The alternative was unbearable for a man who had nothing else in his life but his sword and the Tenth. As the two men walked back across the baking sand, Domitius struggled not to limp, gritting his teeth against the pain. Another pair in silver armour came out into the sun for the next bout and Domitius could feel their confidence as they looked at him and smiled.

Julius watched his friend disappear into the shade and winced in sympathy.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like to go down and see their wounds are well treated,’ he said.

Pompey clapped him on the back in response, too hoarse from shouting to reply. Crassus called for cooling drinks for all of them and the mood was infectiously light as they settled back in their seats for the next contest. Food would be brought to them in their seats as they watched and each man there felt the thrill of blood and talent. Suetonius was demonstrating a feint to his father and the older man smiled with him, joining in the excitement.

Renius stood as Julius reached his seat at the edge of the box. He fell in behind without a word and they walked from the heat into the cool of the path under the seating without exchanging a word.

It was a different world below the crowds, the roaring muted and somehow distant. The sunlight came through chinks in the great timbers and lay on the ground in mottled bars, shifting as people moved above. The ground there was the soft earth of the Campus Martius, without the layer of sand that had been brought from the coast.

‘Will he fight again?’ Julius asked.

Renius shrugged. ‘Cabera will help him. The old man has power.’

Julius did not reply, remembering how Cabera had touched his hands to Tubruk as he lay, his body pierced over and over in the attack on the estate that had killed Cornelia. Cabera refused to talk about his healing, but Julius remembered that he had once told him it was a matter of paths. If the path was ended, there was nothing he could do, but with some, like Renius, he had stolen back a little time.

Julius cast a sideways glance at the old gladiator. As the years passed, the brief energy of youth was giving way to age. The face was again showing the craggy, bitter features of an old man and Julius still didn’t know why he had been saved from death. Cabera believed the gods watched them all with jealous love and Julius envied him his conviction. When he prayed, it was like shouting into a void with no response, until he despaired.

Above, the crowd stood to cheer a blow, changing the pattern of light on the dusty ground. Julius passed between the last two pillars of wood into the open area beyond and gasped at the heated air that seemed too thick to breathe.

He looked out onto the sand, squinting against the glare to see two figures rushing at each other as if it were a dance. Their swords caught the light in bright flashes and the crowd stayed on their feet stamping in time. Julius blinked as a trickle of dust touched his skin from above. He glanced up at the heavy bolts that held the seating, feeling the tremble in the wood as he pressed his hand against it. He hoped it would hold.

Cabera was wrapping a thin cloth around Domitius’ knee and Brutus was kneeling by them with Octavian, oblivious to the fight on the sand. They looked up as Julius joined them and Domitius waved a hand, smiling feebly.

‘I can feel the rest of them watching me. Vultures, every one of them,’ he said, gasping as Cabera pulled the cloth tighter.

‘How bad is it?’ Julius asked.

Domitius didn’t answer, but there was a fear in his eyes that shook them all.

‘I don’t know,’ Cabera snapped at the silent pressure. ‘The kneecap is cracked and I don’t know how it held him this long. He should not have been able to walk and the joint may be … who knows. I will do my best.’

‘He needs it, Cabera,’ Julius said softly.

The old healer snorted under his breath. ‘What does it matter if he fights once more out there. It is not …’

‘No, not for that. He’s one of us. He has a path to follow,’ Julius said more urgently. If he had to, he would beg the old man.

Cabera stiffened and sat back on his heels. ‘You don’t know what you are asking, my friend. Whatever I have is not to be used on every scrape or broken bone.’ He looked up at Julius and seemed to slump with weariness. ‘Would you have me lose it for a whim? The trance is … agony, I cannot tell you. And each time, I do not know if the pain is wasted or whether there are gods who move my hands.’

They were all silent as Julius held his gaze, willing him to try. Another of the Thirty-twos cleared his throat as he approached them and Julius turned to the man, recognising him as one of those he had noted for skill. His face was the colour of old teak and, of all of them, he did not wear the armour he had been given, preferring the freedom of a simple robe. The man bowed.

‘My name is Salomin,’ he said, pausing as if the name might be recognised. When it was not, he shrugged. ‘You fought well,’ he said. ‘Are you able to continue?’

Domitius forced a smile. ‘I will rest it for a while, then I’ll see.’

‘You must use cold cloths against the swelling, my friend. As cold as you can find in this heat. I hope you will be ready if we should be called together. I would not like to fight an injured man.’

‘I would,’ Domitius replied.

Salomin blinked in confusion as Brutus chuckled, wondering what joke was being made. He bowed to them and walked away and Domitius looked down at his knee stretched out in front of him.

‘I’m finished if I can’t march,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Cabera used his fingers to massage fluids away from the joint, his expression hard. The silence stretched interminably and a bead of sweat ran down from the old man’s hairline to the tip of his nose, where it shivered, ignored.

None of them heard Brutus called the first time. The man who was to fight him strode past them out into the sun without a backward glance, but Salomin came close and nudged the Roman out of his concentration.

‘It is your turn,’ Salomin said, his large eyes dark even against his skin.

‘I’ll finish this one quickly,’ Brutus replied, unsheathing his sword and stalking out after his opponent.

Salomin shook his head in amazement, shielding his eyes as he edged to the shadowline to watch the bout.

Julius sensed Cabera would not be moved while he stood there staring at him and took the opportunity to leave Domitius alone with him.

‘Give them room, Octavian,’ he said, motioning to Renius to follow.

Octavian took the hint, moving away, his face creased with worry. He too shaded his face to squint out to where Brutus was waiting impatiently for the horns to sound.

Under the seats, Julius heard the sharp wail of the cornicens and broke into a run. Before he and Renius had moved more than a few paces, the crowd’s cheering was suddenly cut off into an eerie silence. Julius broke into a sprint, arriving panting back at the consular box.

They too were frozen in surprise as Julius entered. Brutus was already walking stiffly back to the fighters’ area, leaving a figure sprawled on the sand behind him.

‘What happened?’ Julius demanded.

Pompey shook his head in amazement. ‘So fast, Julius. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Of all of them, only Crassus seemed unmoved. ‘Your man stood still and ducked away from two blows without moving his feet, then he knocked his opponent out with a punch and cut his leg while he lay on the ground. Is it a win, then? It doesn’t seem a fair blow.’

Mindful of another large bet on Brutus, Pompey was quick to speak.

‘Brutus drew first blood, even if his man was unconscious. It will count.’

The crowd’s silence had broken as the same question was asked all over the benches. Many of the faces looked to the consular box for guidance and Julius sent a runner to the cornicens to confirm Brutus’ win.

There were grumblings then from those who had bet against the young Roman, but the majority of the crowd seemed content with the decision. Julius saw them act out the blow to each other, laughing all the while. Two soldiers from the Tenth woke the fallen fighter with a slap on his cheeks and helped him from the sand. As his wits returned, he began to struggle in their grip, shouting angrily at the result. They were unmoved by his protests as they vanished from sight into the shadowed awnings.

The afternoon wore on with the remaining battles of the Thirty-two. Octavian made it through his bout with a cut to his opponent’s thigh as he stepped along the outside of a blow. The crowd suffered under the sun, unwilling to miss a moment.

The sixteen victors were brought out once more in their armour for the crowd to show their appreciation. The torchlight session would begin at sunset to whittle them down for the final day, giving the victors a chance to heal and recover overnight. Coins littered the sand around their feet as they raised their swords, and flowers that had been hoarded since morning were thrown down in splashes of colour. Julius watched closely as Domitius was called and his heart lifted as he saw him walk as smoothly and surely as he had ever done. There was no need for words, but he saw Renius’ knuckles whiten on the railing as they looked over the sand and cheered as wildly as the crowd.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Servilia joined them in the box for the final day. She wore a loose-fitting sheath of white silk, open at the neck. Julius was amused at the way the other men seemed hypnotised by the deep cleavage that was revealed as she stood to cheer the men of the Tenth who had made it to the last sixteen.

Octavian took a cut to his cheek in the last match of the Sixteens. He lost to Salomin, who went triumphantly on to the Eights with Domitius, Brutus and five others Julius did not know except for his notes. When there were strangers in the ring, Julius dictated letters to Adàn in quick succession, only falling silent when a fight reached a climax and the young Spaniard could not tear his eyes away from the men on the sand. Adàn was fascinated by the spectacle and awed by the sheer numbers of people present. The increasing sums wagered by Pompey and Julius made him shake his head in silent amazement, though he did his best to seem as casual as the other occupants of the box.

The first session of the day had been long and hot, with the pace of the battles slowing. Each man still in the lists was a master and there were no quick victories. The mood of the crowd had changed too, keeping up a constant discussion of technique and style as they watched and cheered the better strokes.

Salomin was hard-pressed as he fought to reach the last four for the evening climax. Despite the pressure of work, Julius broke off his dictation to watch the man after Adàn had twice lost the thread of the dictation. Choosing to fight without the silver armour marked Salomin apart and he was already a favourite of the crowd. His style showed the wisdom of the choice. The little man fought like an acrobat, never still. He tumbled and rolled in a fluid series of strikes that made his opponents look clumsy.

Yet the man Salomin fought for the Fours was no novice to be startled into overreaching himself. Renius nodded approval at footwork that was good enough to keep the spinning Salomin from finding a gap in his defence.

‘Salomin will exhaust himself, surely,’ Crassus said.

None of the others answered, entranced by the spectacle. Salomin’s sword was inches longer than the gladius the others used and had a frightening reach at the end of a lunge.

It was the extra length that tipped the contest, after the sun had moved a half-span across the sky in the afternoon heat. Both men poured with sweat and Salomin was a little off in a straight blow that he had disguised with his body. The other man never saw it as it entered his throat and he collapsed, pumping blood onto the sand.

As close as they were, Julius could see Salomin had not intended a mortal stroke. The little man stood appalled, his hands trembling as he stood over his fallen opponent. He knelt by the body and bowed his head.

The crowd came onto their feet to shout for him and after a long time their noise seemed to reach through his reverie. Salomin looked angrily at the baying citizens. Without raising his sword in the customary salute, the small man ran a finger and thumb down his blade to clean it and stalked back to the shaded enclosure.

‘Not one of us,’ Pompey pronounced with amusement. He had won another of the large bets and nothing could shake his good humour, though a few of the crowd began to jeer as they realised there would be no salute to the consuls. The body was dragged away and another battle was called quickly before the crowd could become restless.

‘He’s earned his place in the Fours, though,’ Julius said.

Domitius had struggled through the Eights, but he too would be one of the last two pairs to fight in the contest. There was only one place still to be decided and Brutus would fight for it. By then, the crowd had watched them all for days and the whole of Rome followed their progress, runners taking news out to those who could not get seats. With the election less than a month away, Julius was already being treated as if he had gained a seat as consul. Pompey had mellowed noticeably towards him and Julius had refused meetings with both men to discuss the future. He did not want to tempt fate until his people had voted, though in quiet moments he daydreamed of addressing the Senate as one of the leaders of Rome.

Bibilus had attended the last day and Julius glanced at the young man, wondering at his motivation for staying in the race for consul. Many of the initial candidates had dropped out as the election neared, having gained a temporary status over their colleagues. Bibilus, it seemed, was there to stay. Despite his apparent tenacity, Bibilus spoke poorly and an attempt to defend a man charged with theft had ended in farce. Still, his clients roamed the city with his name on their lips and the young of Rome seemed to have adopted him as a mascot. The old money in Rome might well prefer one of their own against Julius and he could not be ruled out.

Julius fretted at the costs of the campaign as he waited for Brutus to be called for his bout. More than a thousand men collected their pay from the house at the bottom of the Esquiline hill each morning. What good they could actually achieve in a secret ballot, Julius wasn’t sure, but he had accepted Servilia’s argument that he must be seen to have supporters. It was a dangerous game, as too much support might mean many of Rome staying at home for the vote, content in the knowledge that their candidate could not lose. It was a fault of the system that had the free men of Rome voting in centuries. If only a few of the named group were present, they could carry the vote for all of them. Bibilus could benefit from such misplaced confidence, or Senator Prandus, who seemed to have as many men in his employ as Julius.

Still, his part in defeating Catiline was becoming well known and even his enemies must concede that the sword tourney was a success. In addition, Julius had won enough on his men to clear a few of the campaign debts. Adàn kept the accounts and each day the Spanish gold dwindled, forcing him to run lines of credit. At times, the figures owed worried him, but if he were made consul, none of it would matter.

‘My son!’ Servilia said suddenly, as Brutus came out onto the sand with Aulus, a slim fighter from the slopes of Vesuvius in the south.

Both men looked splendid in the silver armour and Julius smiled down at Brutus as he saluted the consuls’ box, winking at his mother before turning and jerking his sword up for the crowd. They bellowed their approval and the two men walked lightly to their marks in the centre. Renius snorted softly under his breath, but Julius could see the tension in him as he leaned forward, drinking it in.

Julius hoped Brutus could bear a loss as easily as he bore his wins. Just reaching the last eight was an achievement with which to regale the grandchildren, but Brutus had said from the beginning that he would be in the final. Even he had stopped short of swearing he would win it, but his confidence was clear enough.

‘Put everything on him, Pompey. I will take your bets myself,’ Julius said, caught up in the excitement.

Pompey hesitated only a moment. ‘The betting men share your confidence, Julius. If you will give me decent odds, I may take you up on the offer.’

‘One coin for your fifty on Brutus. Five coins to your one on Aulus,’ Julius said quickly. Pompey smiled.

‘You are so convinced Marcus Brutus will win? You tempt me to this Aulus with such a return. Five thousand gold against your man, at that rate. Will you take it?’

Julius looked out onto the sand, his good mood suddenly wavering. It was the last match of the Eights and Salomin and Domitius had already gone through. Surely there could be no other fighter with skill enough to beat his oldest friend?

‘I’ll take it, Pompey. My word on it,’ he said, feeling fresh sweat break out on his skin. Adàn was clearly appalled and Julius did not look at him. He held a calm expression as he tried to remember how much his reserves had shrunk after the new armour for the mercenaries and the wages for his clients each week. If Brutus lost, twenty-five thousand in gold was enough to break him, but there was always the thought that as consul, his credit would be good. The moneylenders would queue for him, then.

‘This Aulus. Is he skilful?’ Servilia asked to break the silence that had sprung up in the box.

Bibilus had changed his seat to be close to her and he answered with what he thought was a winning smile.

‘They all are at this stage, madam. Both have won seven battles to reach this point, though I am sure your son will prevail. He is the crowd’s favourite and they say that can lift a man wonderfully.’

‘Thank you,’ Servilia replied, favouring him with a smile.

Bibilus blushed and wound his fingers into knots. Julius watched him with something less than affection, wondering whether the manner concealed a sharper mind, or if Bibilus was really the hopeless fool he seemed to be.

The horns sounded and the first clash of blades had them all against the rail, jostling for space without thought for rank. Servilia breathed quickly and her nervousness showed enough for Julius to touch her arm. She didn’t seem to feel it.

On the sand, the swords flickered, the two men moving around each other at a speed that mocked the heat. They circled quickly, breaking step to reverse with a skill that was beautiful to watch. Aulus had a similar build to Brutus’ taut frame and the two men seemed well matched. Adàn counted the number of blows under his breath, almost unconsciously, clenching his fists with the excitement. His notes and letters were forgotten on the chair behind him.

Brutus struck armour three times in quick succession. Aulus allowed the blows through his defence to give him the chance to counter and only Brutus’ footwork saved him each time after the ring of metal. Both men poured with sweat, their hair black and sopping with it. They broke apart in a strained pause and Julius could hear Brutus’ voice over the sand. No one in the box could make out the words, but Julius knew they would be barbs to spoil Aulus with anger.

Aulus laughed at the attempt and they joined again, standing frighteningly close as their swords spun and flashed, the hilts and blades knocking and sliding in a flurry that was too fast for Adàn to count. The young Spaniard’s mouth opened in amazement at the level of skill and the whole crowd fell silent. In the awful tension, many of them held their breath, waiting for the first splash of blood to spring from the battling pair.

‘There!’ Servilia cried at a stripe that had appeared on Aulus’ right thigh. ‘Do you see it? Look, there!’ She pointed wildly, even as the swordplay reached a manic intensity on the sand. Whether Brutus knew or not, it was clear that Aulus had no idea he had been wounded and Brutus could not disengage at such close range without risking a fatal cut. They remained locked in the rhythms while sweat spattered off them.

At Julius’ signal, the cornicens blew a warning note across the arena. It was dangerous to jar their concentration in such a fashion, but both men stepped back at once, panting in great heaves. Aulus touched a hand to his thigh and held up the reddened palm to Brutus. Neither could speak and Brutus pressed his hands onto his knees to suck in great lungfuls over the pounding of his heart that seemed to throb at every part of him. He spat out a sinewy mouthful of saliva and had to spit again to clear the long strand that reached down to the ground. As their pulses ceased hammering, the two men could hear the crowd cheering and they embraced briefly before raising their blades once again in salute.

Servilia hugged herself, laughing aloud with the thrill of it.

‘He has made the last four, then? My darling son. He was astonishing, was he not?’

‘He has a chance to win it now and bring honour to Rome,’ Pompey replied with a sour glance at Julius. ‘Two Romans in the last two pairs. The gods alone know where the other two come from. That Salomin is as dark as a pit and the other with the slanted eyes, who knows? Let us hope it is enough to have a Roman take that sword of yours, Julius. It would be a shame to see a pagan win it after all this.’

Julius shrugged. ‘In the hands of the gods.’

He waited for the consul to bring up the bet that stood between them and Pompey sensed his thoughts, frowning.

‘I will have a man bring it to you, Julius. No need to stand there like a pregnant hen.’

Julius nodded instantly. Despite the friendly appearances, every scrap of conversation in the box was like a bloodless duel as they manoeuvred for advantage. He looked forward to the final session that evening, if only to see the end of it.

‘Of course, Consul. I will be at the house on Esquiline until the last bouts tonight.’

Pompey frowned. He had not expected to have to produce such a large sum so quickly, but now the occupants of the box were watching him closely and Crassus had a nasty little smile ghosting around his lips. Pompey seethed inwardly. He would have to collect his winnings to pay it, all his earlier success wiped out. Only Crassus would have that sort of gold to hand. No doubt the vulture was thinking smugly of the solitary coin he had won on Brutus.

‘Excellent,’ Pompey said, unwilling to give a definite commitment. Even with his winnings, it would leave him short, but he would see Rome burn before turning to Crassus for another loan.

‘Until then, gentlemen, Servilia,’ Pompey said, smiling tightly. He signalled his guards and left the box stiff-backed.

Julius watched him go before grinning with pleasure. Five thousand! In a single bet, his campaign was solvent once again.

‘I love this city,’ he said aloud.

Suetonius stood with his father to leave and though courtesy forced the young man to mumble a platitude as he passed, there was no pleasure in his thin face. Bibilus rose with them, looking nervously at his friend as he too murmured his thanks and fell in behind.

Servilia stayed, her eyes reflecting something of the same excitement she saw in Julius. The crowd were streaming away to find food and the soldiers of the Tenth were in full view as she kissed him hungrily.

‘If you had your men adjust the awning and stand back, we would have privacy to be as naughty as children, Julius.’

‘You are too old to be naughty, my beautiful lover,’ Julius replied, opening his arms to embrace her. She stiffened then, a flush of anger making her cheeks glow.

Her eyes flashed as she spoke and Julius was appalled at the sudden change in her.

‘Another time then,’ she snapped, sweeping past him.

‘Servilia!’ he called after her, but she did not turn back and he was left alone in the empty box, furious with himself for the slip.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In the coolness of the evening, Julius paced the box waiting for Servilia to arrive. Pompey’s man had sent a trunk of coins to him only minutes before he left for the final bouts and Julius had been forced to delay while he summoned enough of the Tenth to guard such a fortune. Even with men he trusted, he worried at the thought of so much wealth sitting openly.

All the others had arrived long before him and Pompey smiled mirthlessly at his worried expression as Julius came running up the steps to take his seat. Where was Servilia? She had not joined him at the campaign house, but surely she would not miss her son’s final contests? Julius could not remain seated for more than a moment, and paced up and down the edge of the box, fretting.

The sand ring was lit with flickering torches and the evening had brought a gentle breeze to ease the heat of the day. The seats were packed with citizens and every member of the Senate was in attendance. There would be no work in the city until the tournament was over and the tension seemed to have spilled over the meanest streets. The people gathered in a formless crowd on the Campus Martius, as they would again in the election to come.

Servilia’s arrival coincided with the first blast from the cornicens, summoning the final four to the sand. Julius looked questioningly at her as they settled, but she did not meet his eyes and looked colder than he had ever seen her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, bending his head towards her. She gave no sign she had heard and he sat back, irritated. He vowed he would not try again.

The crowd stood to cheer their favourites and the betting slaves hovered. Pompey ignored them, Julius saw, taking a vicious pleasure in the change in attitude he had brought about. He glanced at Servilia to see if she had noticed and his resolve vanished at the cold mask she turned to him. He leaned close again.

‘Do I mean so little to you?’ he whispered too loudly, so that Bibilus and Adàn jerked in their seats and then tried to pretend they hadn’t heard. She did not reply and Julius set his jaw in anger, staring out over the dark sand.

The final competitors walked slowly out under the light of the torches. The crowd stood for them and the sound was crushing as they roared together, twenty thousand throats joined as one. Brutus walked at Domitius’ side, trying to speak over the noise. Salomin followed and behind him the final fighter trotted out, hardly acknowledged by the crowd. Somehow, Sung’s style and victories had not caught their imagination. He showed no emotion and his salutes were perfunctory. He was taller and more massive than Salomin and his flat face and shaved head gave him a forbidding aspect as he strode behind the others, almost as if he were stalking them. Sung carried the longest blade in the last four. Doubtless it gave him an advantage, though any of the competitors could have used a blade of similar dimensions if they chose. Julius knew Brutus had considered it, having some experience with the spatha sword, but in the end the familiarity of the gladius had won him.

Julius watched the four men closely, looking for stiffness or a favoured limb. Salomin particularly seemed to be suffering and he walked with his head down close to his chest. They all carried bruises and the exhaustion of the days before. To some extent, the final winner might be decided not by skill, but stamina. He wondered how the pairs would be split and hoped Brutus would fight Domitius, to force a Roman into the final. The political part of him was well aware that the crowd would lose interest if the last bout saw Salomin and Sung alone on the sand. It would be a terrific anticlimax to the week and his heart sank as he heard the pairs called: Brutus would fight Salomin; Domitius, Sung. The bets began to fly again in a cacophony of calls and nervous laughter. The tension hung over them and Julius felt sweat break out again in his armpits, despite the breeze that crossed the sand.

The four men watched closely as a steward tossed a coin into the air. Sung nodded at the result and Domitius made some aside to him that could not be heard over the noise of the crowd. There was a professional respect between the four men that was clear in every movement. They had seen each other win over and over and laboured under no illusions as to the harshness of the struggle to come.

Calling encouragement over his shoulder to Domitius, Brutus walked with Salomin back to the enclosure. He noted the new stiffness in Salomin’s movements and wondered if he had torn a muscle. Such a little thing could mean the difference between reaching the final and walking away with nothing. Brutus studied him closely, wondering if the little man was acting for his benefit. It wouldn’t have surprised him. At that stage, they were all willing to try anything for the slightest advantage.

The crowd fell silent so quickly that it was spoiled by nervous laughter. The cornicens were ready in their places, glancing upwards to see if Julius was still in his seat.

Julius waited patiently as Domitius began his stretching exercises. Sung ignored the Roman he was to fight, instead staring at the crowd until some of them noticed it and began to point and glare in return. It was all part of the excitement of the last night and Julius could see hundreds of young children by their parents, thrilled to be kept from their beds by the last night.

Domitius ended his slow movements with a lunge onto his right knee and Julius saw a smile crease the dark face as it held without pain. He thanked the gods for Cabera, though he felt guilt for having asked him. The old healer had fallen to the ground after the healing and was as grey and ill-looking as Julius had ever known him. When it was over, Julius swore to himself, he would give the old man whatever reward he wanted. The thought of being without him was something on which he did not dare dwell for long, but who knew how old Cabera was?

Julius brought down his hand and the horns blew. It was clear from the first moment that Sung intended to make use of the advantage his long sword gave him. His wrists must have been like iron to hold it so far from his body and take the weight of Domitius’ blade, Julius realised. Yet his powerful legs seemed anchored in the sand and the long silver length of metal kept Domitius away as they feinted and struck. Each man knew the style of the other almost as well as his own after so much study and the result was stalemate. Domitius did not dare to step inside the long reach of Sung’s blade, yet when he was pressed there was no gap in his defence.

Renius thumped his fist onto the railing at a good stroke, cheering in hacking barks as Domitius forced Sung onto his back foot for a moment, spoiling his balance. The long blade whipped round and Domitius ducked under it, darting in at last. His lunge was perfect, but Sung moved smoothly to one side, letting it slide past his armoured chest, then bringing his hilt down into Domitius’ cheek.

It was a glancing blow, but much of the crowd winced to see it. Julius shook his head in wonderment at the level of skill, though to the untrained eye, it could have seemed a messy fight. There were none of the perfect attacks and counters they had seen when better men fought novices in the early rounds. Here, each sudden parry and riposte was spoiled almost as soon as it had begun and the result was a flurry of ugly blows with not a drop of blood spilt between them.

Domitius pulled away first. His cheekbone was swollen from where the hilt had caught him and he raised his palm to it. Sung waited patiently with his blade ready while Domitius showed him the unmarked hand. The skin had not split and they leapt in again with greater ferocity.

Only the pounding of his pulse made Julius realise he was holding his breath. They could not hold such a pace for long, he was certain, and at any moment he expected one of them to cut.

They broke apart again and circled almost at a run, setting up and breaking rhythms as fast as the other man saw them. Twice Domitius almost lured Sung into a false step as he changed direction and the second time led to a blow that should have cut Sung’s arm from his body if he had not flung it back and taken the impact on his armour.

The exhaustion of the previous days was beginning to show in both men, perhaps more so in Domitius, who was panting visibly. Julius knew the battle he watched was fought as much in their minds as with their blades and could not guess whether it was another ruse, or whether Domitius was really suffering. His strength seemed to come in spurts and the speed of his arm varied as it grew heavy.

Sung too was unsure and twice let opportunities go by where he might have taken advantage of a late parry. He tilted his head to one side as if in judgement and again he held the Roman away with a dazzling series of sweeps with the point.

A blisteringly fast reverse almost won the match, as Domitius slapped his hand into the flat of his blade and changed direction so quickly that Sung threw himself flat on his back. Renius cried out in excitement. There were few with the knowledge to see the collapse was deliberate and controlled. There was no faster way of avoiding a stroke, but the crowd cheered as if their favourite had won and howled as they saw Sung skitter like a crab away from Domitius’ stabs until, miraculously, he was on his feet again.

Perhaps it was the frustration of coming so close, but Domitius checked his rush a fraction too late and Sung’s point whipped up, biting into flesh at the bottom edge of Domitius’ armour. Both men froze then and those with keen eyes in the crowd wailed in frustration, even as their neighbours craned to see who had won.

Blood dribbled down Domitius’ leg and Julius could see him mouthing a torrent of curses before he gathered his control and returned to the first mark. Sung’s face never changed, but when both men faced each other, he bowed for the first time in the contest. To the pleasure of the crowd, Domitius returned the gesture and grinned openly through his exhaustion as they saluted the crowd together.

Renius turned to Julius, his eyes bright.

‘With your permission, sir. If I had Domitius, my training of the new men would go much better. He is a thinking fighter and they would respond to him.’

Julius could feel every ear in the box pricking up at this mention of his ragged new legion.

‘If he and Brutus agree, I will send him to you. I promised my best centurions and optios for the task. He shall go with them.’

‘We need smiths and tanners as much –’ Renius began, halting as Julius shook his head.

Servilia stood as Brutus and Salomin walked out onto the sand. She shuddered unconsciously as she watched her son, tightening her hand into a fist. There was something terribly forbidding about the torch-lit ring.

Julius wanted to reach out to her, but controlled the impulse, aware of every aspect of her movement close by his shoulder. He could smell her scent in the night air and it tormented him. His anger and confusion almost spoiled the moment when he put his signet ring against a bet of five thousand gold on Brutus. Pompey’s expression was a delight and he felt his mood lift, despite Servilia’s stiffness. Adàn too stifled a look of horror and Julius winked at him. They had gone over the reserves together and the simple fact was that the Spanish gold he had brought back was very nearly gone. If he lost the five thousand, they would be forced to rely on credit until the campaign was over. Julius chose not to tell the young Spaniard about the black pearl he had bought for Servilia. He felt the weight of it in a pouch against his chest, and was so pleased with it that he wanted to hand it over regardless of her mood. The price made him shrink slightly as he considered the armour and supplies he could have bought in its stead. Sixty thousand gold coins. He had been mad. Certainly, it was far too extravagant to put in his accounts. The merchant had sworn on his mother’s blood not to reveal the sum, which meant it might be at least a few days before the huge sale was known to every inn and whorehouse in Rome. Julius could feel the weight of it pull at his toga, and occasionally he would reach almost unconsciously to feel the curve of the pearl under the cloth.

Salomin too had watched every battle fought by Brutus, including the one where he had knocked a man senseless, then taken first blood with an almost contemptuous slice of the leg. If he had been at his best, he would still have preferred to be drawn against Domitius, or the lazy Chinese, Sung. He had watched the young Roman fight without the slightest pause for thought or tactics, as if his body and muscles were trained to act without conscious direction. As he faced him over the sand, Salomin swallowed dryly, willing himself to focus. Despair filled him as he loosened his shoulder muscles and felt the scabs and bruises break open on his back. The sweat poured from his brow as he stood waiting for the horns to sound.

The soldiers had come for him that afternoon as he ate and rested at a modest rooming house near the outer wall of the city. He did not know why they had dragged him out into the street and held him to be whipped until their sticks broke. He had rubbed goose grease into each of the cuts and tried to remain supple, but whatever chance he may have had was gone and only his pride made him take his place. He mumbled a short prayer in the language of his own city and felt it calm him.

As the horns sounded, he reacted instinctively, trying to slide away. His back wrenched in agony and tears filled his eyes, making stars of the torches. He brought up his blade blindly and Brutus swayed away from it. Salomin cried out with pain and frustration as his rigid muscles tore. He tried another blow and missed cleanly. The sweat ran in great drops from his face as he stood, willing himself on.

Brutus stepped away, puzzled and frowning. He pointed to Salomin’s arm. For a moment, Salomin did not dare look, but when he felt the sting, his eyes darted to a shallow cut in his skin and he nodded in resignation.

‘Not my worst cut, today, my friend. I hope you were innocent of the others,’ Salomin said softly.

Brutus looked blank as he raised his sword to the crowd, suddenly aware of the cramped way the usually lithe little man was standing. His face cleared in a flash of horrified understanding.

‘Who was it?’

Salomin shrugged. ‘Who can tell one Roman from another? They were soldiers. It is done.’

Brutus paled in rage, his eyes snapping up in suspicion to where Julius was cheering him. He strode from the sand, deaf to the cheers in his name.

With a break of two hours before the final, the sand was raked clean while many of the citizens left to eat and wash, talking excitedly amongst themselves. The box emptied quickly and Julius noticed that Senator Prandus left before his son, who walked into the crowd with Bibilus, barely acknowledging his father as they passed.

Julius heard Brutus approach as the shifting crowd near the box recognised their champion and cheered with fresh enthusiasm. Though he shook with emotion, Brutus kept enough of his sense to sheathe his blade before approaching the guards around the box. Their duty would have forced them to challenge, regardless of his new status.

Julius and Servilia went quickly to him and Julius’ congratulations died in his throat as he saw his friend’s expression. He was white with rage.

‘Did you have Salomin beaten?’ Brutus snapped as he came up. ‘He could barely stand. Did you do it?’

‘I …’ Julius began, appalled. He was interrupted by the sudden snap to attention of Pompey’s soldiers as the curtain was swept aside and the consul stepped out.

Trembling with suppressed emotion, Brutus saluted and stood stiffly to attention while Pompey looked him over.

‘I gave that order. Whether you profited from it or not is of no interest to me. A foreigner who does not salute can expect no better and deserves worse. If he had not been amongst the last four, I would have had him swinging in the breeze by now.’

He returned their astonished gazes levelly.

‘Even a foreigner can be taught respect, I believe. Now, Brutus, go and rest for the final.’

Dismissed, Brutus could do no more than shoot a glance of apology at his friend and mother.

‘Perhaps it might have been better to wait until the tournament was over,’ Julius said after Brutus had gone. Something about Pompey’s reptilian gaze made him careful in his choice of words. The man’s arrogance was greater than he had ever realised.

‘Or just forget it altogether, perhaps?’ Pompey replied. ‘A consul is Rome, Caesar. He must not be mocked or treated lightly. Perhaps you will understand that in time, if the citizens give you the chance to stand where I stand today.’

Julius opened his mouth to ask if Pompey had bet on Brutus and closed it just in time before he destroyed himself. He recalled that Pompey had not: his twisted sense of honour would have prevented taking a profit from his punishment.

Suddenly tired and sick of it all, Julius nodded as if he understood, holding the curtain open so that Servilia and Pompey could pass through it. She did not look at him even then and he sighed bitterly to himself as he followed them. He knew she would expect him to come to her in private and though it galled him, there was little choice. His hand strayed to the pearl’s bulge and he tapped it thoughtfully.

Still panting from his ride, Julius took a deep breath before knocking on the door. The tavern keeper had confirmed Servilia had come back to her room and Julius could hear the splash of water inside as she bathed before the last bout. Despite his agitation, Julius could not help but feel the first silken touches of arousal as he heard footsteps approach, but the voice that called was that of the slave girl who filled the baths of customers.

‘Julius,’ he replied to the query. Perhaps his titles might have made the girl move a little faster, but there were ears along the little corridor and there was something faintly ludicrous in addressing a closed door like a lovesick boy. He cracked his knuckles as he waited. At least the tavern was close enough to the city walls for him to make it back in time. His horse was munching hay in the small stable and he only needed a minute to give Servilia the pearl, bear her delighted embraces and gallop back to the Campus with her for the last bout at midnight.

The slave girl opened the door at last, bowing to him. Julius could see amusement in her eyes as she edged past into the corridor, but he forgot her as soon as the door closed behind him.

Servilia was dressed in a simple white robe, with her hair tied into a coil on her neck. Part of him wondered how she had found time to apply paint and oils to her face, but he rushed forward to her.

‘I do not care about the years between us. Did they matter in Spain?’ he demanded. Before he could touch her, she held up a hand, her back stiff as a queen.

‘You understand nothing, Julius, and that is the simple truth.’

He tried to protest, but she spoke loudly over him, her eyes flashing.

‘I knew it was impossible in Spain, but everything was different there. I can’t explain … it was as if Rome was too far away and you were all that mattered. When I am here, I feel the years, the decades, Julius. Decades between us. My forty-third birthday passed yesterday. When you are in your forties, I will be an old woman with grey hair. I have them now, but covered in the best dyes from Egypt. Let me go, Julius. We can have no more time together.’

‘I don’t care, Servilia!’ Julius snapped. ‘You are still beautiful …’

Servilia laughed unpleasantly. ‘Still beautiful, Julius? Yes, it is a wonder I have kept my looks, though you know nothing of the work it takes me to present a smooth face to the world.’

For a moment, her eyes crumpled and she struggled against tears. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with an infinite weariness.

‘I will not let you watch me grow old, Julius. Not you. Go back to your friends, before I call the tavern guards to throw you out. Leave me to finish dressing.’

Julius opened his hand and showed her the pearl. He knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he had planned the gesture all the way from the Campus and now it was as if his arm moved without conscious will. She shook her head in disbelief at him.

‘Should I throw myself into your arms now, Julius? Should I weep and say I’m sorry I ever thought you were a boy?’

With jerky spite, she snatched at the pearl and threw it straight at him, striking him in the forehead and making him flinch. He heard it roll into the recesses of the room and the sound seemed to go on endlessly.

She spoke slowly, as if to one lacking in wits. ‘Now get out.’

As the door closed behind him, she rubbed angrily at her eyes and stood to search the corners of the room for the pearl. When her fingers closed over it, she held it up to the lamplight and for a moment her expression softened. Despite its beauty, it was cold and hard in her hand, as she pretended to be.

Servilia stroked the pearl with the pads of her long fingers, thinking of him. He had not yet lived thirty years and though he didn’t seem to think of it, he would want a wife to give him sons. Tears glittered on her eyelashes as she thought of her drying womb. No blood for three months and no life stirring within her. For a while, she had dared to hope for a child, but when another period was missed, she knew she was past the last age of youth. There would be no son from her and it was better to send him away before his thoughts turned to children she could not give him. Better than waiting for him to cast her off. He wore his strength so easily and well that she knew he would never understand her fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself. He would recover, the young always did.

When Brutus and Sung emerged at midnight, the torches had been refilled with oil and the ring glowed in the darkness of the Campus. The betting slaves had been discreetly withdrawn and no more money was being taken. Many of the citizens had been drinking steadily through the afternoon in preparation for the climax and Julius sent runners to summon more of the Tenth in case of a riot at the end. Despite the weariness that assailed his spirit, Julius felt the thrill of pride as he watched Brutus raise one of Cavallo’s swords for the last time. The gesture had a personal, painful meaning for all of them who understood it.

Without thinking, Julius reached out his hand to take Servilia’s and then let it drop.

Her mood would change if Brutus won, he was almost certain.

The moon had risen, a pale crescent that hung above the ring of torches. Though it was late, the news of the finalists had passed quickly across the city and all of Rome was awake and waiting for the result. If he won, Brutus would be famous and the wry thought occurred to Julius that if his friend stood for consul, he would almost certainly win the seat.

As the cornicens blew their horns, Sung attacked without warning, trying for a win in the first instant. His blade blurred as it whipped out at Brutus’ legs and the young Roman batted it aside with a ring of metal. He did not counter and for a moment Sung was left off balance. The sharp slits of his eyes remained impassive as Sung shrugged and moved in again, his long sword cutting a curve in the air.

Once again, Brutus knocked the blade away and the sound of metal was like a bell that rang out over the silent crowd. They watched in fascination at this last battle that was so different from those that had gone before.

Julius could see the mottle of anger still on Brutus’ face and neck and wondered whether he would kill Sung or be killed himself as his mind dwelled on the false win against Salomin.

The bout developed into a series of dashes and clangs, but Brutus had not moved a step from his mark. Where Sung’s blade would reach him, it was blocked with a short jab of the gladius. Where the blow was a feint, Brutus ignored it, even when the metal passed close enough for him to hear it cut the air. Sung was breathing heavily as the crowd began to raise their voices with each of his attacks, falling silent for the blow and then letting out a hissing gasp that seemed like mockery. They thought Brutus was teaching the man a lesson about Rome.

As Julius watched, he knew Brutus was wrestling with himself alone. He wanted to win almost to desperation, but the shame of Salomin’s treatment ate at him and he merely held Sung while he thought it through. Julius realised he was witnessing the display of a perfect swordsman. It was a staggering truth, but the boy he had known had become a master, greater than Renius or any other.

Sung knew it, as sweat stung his eyes, and still the Roman stood before him. Sung’s face filled with rage and frustration. He had begun to grunt with every blow and without making a conscious choice, he was no longer striking to take first blood, but to kill.

Julius couldn’t bear to watch it. He leaned out over the railing and bellowed across the sand to his friend: ‘Win, Brutus! For us, win!’

His people roared as they heard him. Brutus turned Sung’s blade on his own, trapping it long enough to hammer his elbow into the man’s mouth. Blood spilled visibly over Sung’s pale skin and Sung stepped back, stunned. Julius saw Brutus raise his hand and speak to the man and then Sung shook his head and darted in again.

Brutus came alive then and it was like watching a cat startled into a leap. He let the long blade slide along his ribs to get inside the guard and rammed his gladius down into Sung’s neck with every ounce of his anger. The blade vanished under the silver armour and Brutus walked away across the sand without looking back.

Sung looked after him, his face twisted. His left hand plucked at the blade as he tried to shout, but his lungs were ribbons of flesh inside him and only a hoarse croaking could be heard in the deathly silence.

The crowd began to jeer and Julius felt ashamed of them. He stood and bellowed for quiet, enough to silence those who could hear. The rest followed into a tense stillness as the people of Rome waited for Sung to fall.

Sung spat angrily onto the sand, all colour seeping out of his face. Even at a distance, they could hear each heaving breath torn out. Slowly, with infinite care, he unbuckled his armour and let it fall. The cloth underneath was drenched and black in the torchlight and Sung looked at it in amazement, his dark gaze flickering up at the rows of Romans watching him.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ Renius whispered to himself. ‘Show them how to die.’

With the precision of agony, Sung sheathed his long sword and then his legs betrayed him and he dropped to his knees. Still, he looked around at them all and the hard breaths were like screams, each one shorter than the last. Then he fell and the crowd released their breath, sitting like statues of gods in judgement.

Pompey mopped at his brow, shaking his head.

‘You must congratulate your man, Caesar. I have never seen better,’ he said.

Julius turned cold eyes on him and Pompey nodded as if to himself, calling for his guards to escort him back to the city walls.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bibilus glared in silence as Suetonius paced up and down the long room where he met visitors. Like every part of the house, it was decorated to Bibilus’ taste and even as he watched Suetonius, he took comfort from the simple colours of the couches and gold-capped columns. Somehow, the stark cleanliness never failed to calm him and on entering any room in the villa, he would know if anything was out of place at a glance. The black marble floor was so highly polished that every step Suetonius took was matched by a coloured shadow under his feet, as if he walked on water. They were alone, with even the slaves dismissed. The fire had died long before and the air was cold enough to frost their breath. Bibilus would have liked to call for wine heated with a burning iron, or some food, but he dared not interrupt his friend.

He began to count the turns as Suetonius strode, the tension showing in his tight shoulders and the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his back. Bibilus bore the nightly use of his home with resentment, but Suetonius had a hold over him and he felt bound to listen, even as he grew to despise the man.

Suetonius’ hard voice snapped the silence without warning, as if the anger could no longer be held within. ‘I swear if I could reach him, I would have him killed, Bibi. By Jupiter’s head, I swear it!’

‘Don’t say it,’ Bibilus stammered, shocked. Even in his own house, some words should never be spoken.

Suetonius broke his stride as if he had been challenged and Bibilus shrank back into his padded couch. Drops of white spittle had gathered at the corners of Suetonius’ mouth and Bibilus stared at them, unable to look away.

‘You don’t know him, Bibilus. You haven’t seen how he plays the part of a noble Roman, like his uncle before him. As if his family were anything more than merchants! He flatters those he needs, puffing them up in his wake like cock birds. Oh, I’ll give him that! He is a master at finding those to love him. All built on lies, Bibilus. I have seen it.’ He glared at his friend as if waiting to be contradicted.

‘His vanity shines out until I can’t believe I am the only one who notices, yet they fall into line for him and call him the young lion of Rome.’

Suetonius spat on the polished floor and Bibilus looked at the wet lump of phlegm with distress. Suetonius sneered, his bitterness making an ugly mask of his features.

‘It’s all a game to them – Pompey and Crassus. I saw it when we came back from Greece together. The city was poor, the slaves were on the edge of the greatest rebellion in our history and they put Caesar up as a tribune. I should have known then I would never see justice. What had he done to deserve it, after all? I was there when we fought Mithridates, Bibi. Caesar was no more the leader than I was, though he played at it. Mithridates practically gave us the victory, but I never saw Julius fight. Did I mention that? I never saw him even draw his sword to help us when the blood was flying.’

Bibilus sighed. He had heard it all before, too many times to count. The rage had seemed justified to him once, but every time he heard the tale of grievances, Caesar became more and more the villain Suetonius wanted him to be.

‘And Spain? Oh, Bibi, I know all about Spain. He goes there with nothing and returns with enough gold to run for consul, but do they challenge him? Is he broken by the courts? I wrote to the man who took his place there and questioned the figures he gave the Senate. I did their work for them, Bibi, those old fools.’

‘What did he say?’ Bibilus asked, looking up from his hands. This was a new part of the rant and it interested him. He watched as Suetonius searched for words and hoped he would not spit again.

‘Nothing! I wrote again and again and finally the man sent me a curt little note, a warning not to interfere with the government of Rome. A threat, Bibilus, a nasty little threat. I knew then that he was one of Caesar’s men. No doubt his hands are as dirty as the man before him. He covers himself well, does Julius, but I’ll trap him.’

Tired and hungry, Bibilus could not resist a little barb. ‘If he becomes consul, he will be immune from prosecution, Suetonius, even for capital crimes. You will not be able to touch him then.’

Suetonius sneered and hesitated before speaking. He remembered watching the dark men heading down to Caesar’s estate to murder Cornelia and her servants. Sometimes, he thought that memory was all that prevented him from going insane. The gods had not protected Julius that day. Julius had been sent to Spain with rumours of disgrace, while his beautiful wife had her throat cut. Suetonius thought he had finally conquered his anger then. The death of Cornelia was like a boil bursting in him, with all the poison flowing away.

Suetonius sighed for the loss of that peace. Julius had abused his term in Spain, raping the country of gold. He should have been stoned in the streets, but he had come back and spoken his lies to the simple crowds and won them over. His tournament had spread his name over the city.

‘Is there surprise when his friend wins the sword tournament, Bibi? No, they just cheer in their empty-headed way, though anyone with eyes could see that Salomin could barely walk to his mark. That was the true Caesar, the one I know. Right there in front of thousands and they would not see it. Where was his precious honour then?’ Suetonius began to pace again, every step clattering against his mirrored image. ‘He must not be consul, Bibilus. I will do what I have to, but he must not. You are not my only hope, my friend. You may yet take enough of the century votes to break him, but I will find another way if that is not enough.’

‘If you are caught doing something, I …’ Bibilus began.

Suetonius waved him to silence.

‘Do your own work, Bibilus, while I do mine. Wave to crowds, attend the courts, make your speeches.’

‘And if that is not enough?’ he asked, fearing the answer.

‘Do not disappoint me, Bibilus. You will see it through to the end unless your withdrawal would help my father. Is that too much to ask of you? It is nothing.’

‘But what if …’

‘I am tired of your objections, my friend,’ Suetonius said softly. ‘If you like, I can go to Pompey now and show him why you are not fit to stand for Rome. Would you like that, Bibi? Would you like him to know your secrets?’

‘Don’t,’ Bibilus said, tears pricking his eyes. At times like that, he felt nothing but hatred for the man before him. Suetonius made everything sound sordid.

Suetonius approached and cupped his hand under the flesh of his chin.

‘Even small dogs can bite, can’t they, Bibilus? Would you betray me, I wonder? Yes, of course you would, if I gave you the chance. But you would fall with me, and harder. You know that, don’t you?’

Suetonius gripped a jowl between two fingers and twisted. Bibilus shivered with the pain.

‘You really are a dirty bastard, Bibilus. I need you, though, and that binds us better than friendship, better than blood. Don’t forget it, Bibi. You could not stand torture and Pompey is known to be thorough.’

With a jerk, Bibilus pulled away, his soft white hands pressed against his bruised throat.

‘Call your pretty children and have them light the fire again. It’s cold in here,’ Suetonius said, his eyes glittering.

In the dining room of the campaign house, Brutus stood at the head of the table and held up his cup as he looked at his friends. They rose to honour him and some of the bitterness he felt over Salomin eased in their company. Julius met his eyes and Brutus forced a smile, ashamed that he had ever believed his friend responsible for the beating.

‘What shall we drink to?’ Brutus said.

Alexandria cleared her throat and they looked to her.

‘We will need more than one toast, but the first should be to Marcus Brutus, first sword in Rome.’

They smiled and echoed the words and Brutus could hear Renius’ bass voice growl above the rest. The old gladiator had spoken to him for a long time after winning the tournament and, as it was him, Brutus had listened.

Brutus raised his cup as their eyes met, making it a private thanks. Renius grinned in response and Brutus felt his mood lighten.

‘Then the next must be to my beautiful goldsmith,’ he said, ‘who loves a good swordsman, in more ways than one.’

Alexandria blushed at the laughter that followed and Brutus leered into her cleavage.

‘You are drunk, you lecher,’ she replied, her eyes bright with amusement.

Julius called for the cups to be refilled.

‘To those we love who are not here,’ he said and something in his tone made them all pause. Cabera lay upstairs with the best physicians in Rome at his side, not one of them with half his skill. Though he had healed Domitius, the old man had collapsed immediately afterwards and his illness cast a pall over the rest of them.

They echoed the toast, falling silent as they remembered those they had lost. As well as the old healer, Julius thought of Servilia, and his gaze strayed to the empty chair set aside for her. He rubbed his forehead in memory of where the pearl had struck him.

‘Are we going to stand all night?’ Domitius asked. ‘Octavian should be in bed by now.’

Octavian tilted his cup back, emptying it. ‘I was told I could stay up late if I’m good,’ he replied cheerfully.

Julius looked affectionately at his young relative as they sat. He was growing into a fine man, though his manners were a little rough. Even Brutus had remarked on the number of times Octavian had been seen at Servilia’s house and apparently he was becoming something of a favourite with the girls there. Julius watched as Octavian laughed at something Renius had said and hoped the extraordinary confidence of his youth would not be too harshly taken from him. Yet if the young man was never truly tested, he would be a shell. There were many things Julius would change from his own past, but without them, he knew he would still be the angry, proud little boy that Renius had trained. It was a terrible thing to consider, but he hoped that Octavian would know at least some pain, to take him into manhood. It was the only way he knew and while Julius could forget his triumphs, his failures had shaped him.

The food came on Julius’ own silver plates, fashioned in Spain. They were all hungry and for a long time no one spoke to interrupt the soft sound of chewing mouths.

Brutus leaned back in his chair and covered a belch with his hand.

‘So are you going to be consul, Julius?’ he asked.

‘If they vote in sufficient numbers,’ Julius replied.

‘Alexandria is making you a consul’s clasp for your cloak. It’s very fine,’ Brutus continued.

Alexandria rested her head on a hand. ‘A surprise, remember Brutus? I said it was to be a surprise. What did that mean to you, exactly?’

Brutus reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry. It is fine, though, Julius.’

‘I hope I have the chance to wear it. Thank you, Alexandria,’ Julius replied. ‘I just wish I could be as sure of victory as Brutus.’

‘Why wouldn’t you be? You lost one case in the forum that no one could have won. You won three that you should have lost. Your clients are out every night for you and the reports are good.’

Julius nodded, thinking of the debts he had amassed to achieve it. The gold he had won from Pompey had vanished over a few short days of the campaign. Despite the extravagant reputation he had earned, he regretted some of the wilder expenses, the pearl particularly. Even worse was the way the moneylenders assumed a familiarity with him as the debts increased. It was as if they felt they owned a part of him and he longed for the day when he would be free of their grasping hands.

Flushed with the wine, Brutus stood once more. ‘We should have another toast,’ he said. ‘To victory, but victory with honour.’

They all came to their feet and raised their cups. Julius wished his father could see them.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.

Sleep had been impossible the night before and when the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.

He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.

Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.

If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each success and Julius was forced to smile his congratulation, though it was like acid in him.

He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores face down to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favoured. Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.

‘… Caesar,’ the magistrate cried and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn. Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.

The results of the second class were more even and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’ fourteen and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’ father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.

Over the next hour, the lead changed three times and at the end, the total for Suetonius’ father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’ side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them and Bibilus blushed crimson.

‘Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!’ Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.

Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’ shoulders as if Suetonius was not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.

‘I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,’ Pompey said.

Bibilus made a sound that could have been a reply, but Pompey went on over it.

‘You have made a fair showing amongst the first classes, and may do better still before the end. See it through and who knows? Even if you are not successful, there is always a place for the old families in the Senate.’

Bibilus plastered a sick smile onto his face and Pompey patted his arm as he let him go. Suetonius turned away rather than try again and watched coldly as Bibilus took another three votes.

By noon, every result was greeted with cheers as the wine sellers sold their wares to the crowd. Julius felt able to unbend enough to drink a cup, but could not taste it. He exchanged inanities with Bibilus, but Senator Prandus remained aloof and only nodded stiffly when Julius congratulated him on his showing. Suetonius had nothing like his father’s skill at hiding his emotions and Julius felt his eyes on him constantly, wearing his nerves.

As the sun passed its zenith, Pompey called for awnings to shade them. A hundred centuries had voted and Julius was second and seventeen votes clear of Prandus. As things stood, Bibilus and Julius would take the seats, and the crowd began to show their interest more openly, cheering and jostling each other to observe the candidates. Julius watched as Suetonius drew a large red cloth from his toga and mopped his brow with it. It was a strangely flamboyant gesture and Julius smiled grimly, glancing to the west, where the Janiculum flag could be seen.

The Janiculum hill commanded a full view of the city and the land around it. A huge mast rose from a stone base at the highest point and the men who watched for invasion never shifted their gaze. It was usually an easy duty, more suited to the ancient days when the city was in constant danger from outlying tribes and armies. This year, the Catiline conspiracy had brought home the continued need for the duty and those who had won the task by lot were alert and watchful. There were six of them, four boys and two veterans from Pompey’s legion. They discussed the candidates as they ate a cold lunch, thoroughly enjoying the break from their normal duties. At sunset, they would complete their day with a note from a long horn and the solemn lowering of the flag.

They did not see the men creeping up the hill behind them until a pebble clicked against a rock and went skipping down the steep side below the crest. The boys turned to see what animal had disturbed them and one cried out in warning at the sight of armed men scrambling up. There were seven of them; big, scarred raptores who showed their teeth as they caught sight of the small number of defenders.

Pompey’s men jumped to their feet, scattering food and knocking over a clay jug of water that darkened the dusty ground. Even as their blades came free, they were surrounded, but they knew their duty and the first of the raptores was punched flat as he came too close. The others surged in, snarling, and then another voice snapped through the air.

‘Hold! Who moves, dies,’ Brutus shouted. He was running towards them with a full twenty soldiers at his heels. Even if he had been alone, it could have been enough. There were few in Rome who would not have recognised the silver armour he wore, or the gold-hilted sword he had won.

The raptores froze. They were thieves and killers and nothing in their experience had prepared them to face the soldiers of their own city. It took only an instant for them to abandon the attempt on the flag and leap away in all directions down the steep slopes. A couple of them lost their footing and rolled, dropping their weapons in the panic. By the time Brutus arrived at the flag mast, he was panting lightly and Pompey’s men saluted him, their faces flushed.

‘It would be a shame to have the election stopped by a few thieves, wouldn’t it?’ Brutus said, looking down at the dwindling figures.

‘I’m sure Briny and I could have held them, sir,’ one of Pompey’s men replied, ‘but these boys are good lads and no doubt we would have lost one or two.’ The man paused as it occurred to him he was being less than gracious about the rescue. ‘We were glad to see you, sir. Are you letting them go?’

The legionary moved to the edge with Brutus, watching the progress of the raptores below. Brutus shook his head.

‘I have a few riders at the bottom. They won’t reach the city.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the soldier replied, smiling grimly. ‘They don’t deserve to.’

‘Can you see which one of the candidates is losing at the moment?’ Brutus asked, narrowing his eyes at the dark mass of citizens in the distance. He could make out where Julius was standing and saw a speck of red appear on one of the men at his side. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Julius had guessed right.

Pompey’s soldier shrugged. ‘We can’t see much from here, sir. Do you think that red cloth was their signal?’

Brutus chuckled. ‘We’ll never be able to prove it, you know. It’s tempting to try to turn those thieves with a little gold, sending them against their master. More satisfying than just leaving their bodies out here, don’t you think?’

The soldier smiled stiffly. He knew his general was no friend of the man who stood at his shoulder, but the silver armour put him in awe. He could tell his children that he had talked to the greatest swordsman of Rome.

‘Better by far, sir,’ he said, ‘if they’ll do it.’

‘Oh, I think they will. My riders can be very persuasive,’ Brutus replied, looking at the flag snapping in the breeze above his head.

Suetonius glanced as casually as he could at the Janiculum flag. It was still flying! He bit his lower lip in irritation, wondering if he should take the red cloth from his toga one more time. Were they asleep? Or had they just taken his money and were sitting in some tavern drinking themselves blind? He thought he could make out figures moving on the dark crest and wondered if the men he had hired were unable to see his signal. He looked around guiltily and reached inside the soft cloth of his robe once more. At that moment, he saw Julius was smiling at him, the amused gaze seeming to know every thought in his head. Suetonius let his hand fall away to his side and stood stiffly, painfully aware of the flush that had started on his neck and cheeks.

Octavian lay in the long grass with his horse beside him, its great chest heaving in long, slow breaths. They had trained the mounts for months to be able to hold the unnatural position and now the extraordinarii only had to lay a hand on the soft muzzles to keep them still. They watched as the raptores came slipping and leaping down the Janiculum and Octavian grinned. Julius had been right that someone might try to lower the flag if the election turned against them. Though it was a simple ploy, the effects would have been devastating. The citizens of Rome would have streamed back to the city and the results up to that point declared void. Perhaps another month would pass before they assembled again and many things could change in that time.

Octavian waited until the running men were close, then gave a low whistle, swinging his leg into the saddle as his horse rose. The rest of his twenty leapt up smoothly with him, gaining their saddles before their mounts were fully upright.

To the fleeing thieves, it seemed as if fully armed cavalry sprang out of the ground at them. The seven men panicked completely, either throwing themselves flat or raising their hands in instant surrender. Octavian drew his sword, holding their eyes. Their leader watched him in resignation, turning his head to spit into the long grass.

‘Come on, then. Get it over with,’ he said.

Despite his apparent fatalism, the thief was fully aware of the positions of the riders and only relaxed when every avenue of retreat had been blocked. He had heard a man could outrun a horse over a short distance, but looking at the glossy mounts of the extraordinarii, it didn’t seem likely.

When the last few blades had been taken from the men, Octavian unstrapped his helmet from the saddle and put it on. The plume waved gently in the breeze, adding to his height and giving him a forbidding aspect. He thought it was well worth the portion of his pay that had gone to buy it. Certainly, the raptores all looked to him now, waiting grimly for the order to cut them down.

‘I don’t expect charges could ever be brought against your master,’ Octavian said.

The leader spat again. ‘Don’t know any master, soldier, except maybe silver,’ he said, his face suddenly cunning as he sensed something was up.

‘It would be a shame if he escaped without even a good beating, don’t you think?’ Octavian asked innocently.

The raptores nodded, even the slowest beginning to realise the order to kill wasn’t going to come.

‘I can find him again, if you let us go,’ their leader said, trying not to hope. There was something terrifying about horses to a man who had grown up in the city. He had never quite understood how big they were before and shuddered as one snorted behind him.

Octavian tossed a small pouch into the air and the man caught it, feeling the weight automatically before making it disappear inside his tunic.

‘Do a professional job,’ Octavian said, backing his horse to leave a gap for the men to pass. A couple of them tried to salute as they walked through the riders and began to make their way back to the city. None of them dared look back.

Before the last centuries had voted, Julius knew he and Bibilus had won seats as consuls for the year to come. He was reminded of the motions of bees as senators clustered around both of them and he grinned at Bibilus’ bemused expression.

Julius had his shoulder gripped and his hand taken by scores of men he barely knew and before he had fully understood the change in his status, he was fielding questions and requests for his time and even being told of opportunities to invest. In their role as the formal ‘Comitia Centuriata’, the citizens of Rome had created two new bodies for the city to suck dry and Julius felt overwhelmed and irritated by the attention. Where had these smiling supporters been when he was campaigning?

In comparison to the shallow heartiness of the Senate, having Pompey and Crassus congratulate him was a genuine pleasure, particularly as he knew Pompey would rather have eaten glass than say the words. Julius shook the offered hand without a sign of relish, his mind already on the future. No matter who the people had elected to lead the Senate, the outgoing consuls were still a force in the city. Only a fool would scorn them at the moment of triumph.

The magistrate climbed onto a small platform to dismiss the last centuries. They bowed their heads as he bellowed a prayer of thanks at them, finishing with the traditional order, ‘Discedite!’

The citizens did as they were told and scattered, laughing and joking as they began the walk back to the sealed city.

Suetonius and his father had paid their respects and Julius had spoken warmly to them, knowing it was a chance to mend the bridges broken in the campaign and the past. He could afford the gesture and Prandus seemed to accept his good wishes, bowing slightly to the consul elect of Rome. His son Suetonius had looked straight through him, his face blank with defeat.

Pompey’s men had brought horses and Julius looked up as reins were passed into his hand. From the back of a grey gelding, Pompey looked down at him, his expression unreadable.

‘It will be hours before the Senate sit again to confirm the postings, Julius. If you ride with us now, we will have the Curia to ourselves.’

Crassus leaned down on his horse’s neck to speak more privately. ‘Will you trust me one more time?’

Julius looked up at both men, sensing the subtle tension in them as they waited for his response. He didn’t hesitate, swinging himself up into the saddle and raising an arm to those in the crowd who were watching the exchange. They cheered him as he wheeled and set off across the vast field with the two other men, a century of Pompey’s cavalry falling in behind as their escort. The crowd parted before them and their shadows stretched behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Without the voting centuries, the city was strangely empty as the three men rode through the streets. Julius was reminded of the night of the storm when he had gone down into the cells of the prison house and seen the tortured figures of Catiline’s men. He glanced at Crassus as they dismounted before the senate house and the old man raised his eyebrows, guessing at the reason for the attention.

Julius had never before entered the senate house without it being filled with men on the benches. It echoed extraordinarily, reflecting each footstep as they took seats together near the rostrum. The door had been left open and the sun shone in as a bar of gold, making the marble walls feel light and airy. Julius leaned back against the hard wooden bench with a sense of vast satisfaction. His election was just beginning to sink in and he could barely resist grinning to himself at the thought.

‘Crassus and I thought we might all benefit from a private conversation before the Senate sits,’ Pompey began. He stood and began to pace as he spoke. ‘Leaving aside the flowery words for the public, we three have little friendship between us. There is respect, I hope, but no great liking.’ He paused and Crassus shrugged. Julius said nothing.

‘If we do not come to some arrangement for next year,’ Pompey went on, ‘I expect it to be a wasted time for the city. You saw the influence Suetonius has over Bibilus. The whole Senate has heard his bleating complaints about you over the years. Together, they will delay or frustrate anything you propose until nothing can be done. It would not be good for Rome.’

Julius looked up at the man, remembering when he had first met him, in that very hall. Pompey was a superb tactician on the field and in the Senate, but both he and Crassus were facing the loss of the power and respect they enjoyed. That was the real reason for the private meeting, rather than any concern for the best use of Julius’ consular year. A deal was certainly possible, if he could find terms that would satisfy them all.

‘I have already given the matter some thought,’ Julius said.

Suetonius rode back to the stables of the inn near the gates where he had taken a room for the day of the election. His father had hardly spoken to him and only nodded when Suetonius had offered his condolences for the loss. Senator Prandus had eaten quickly and in silence before making his way up to the room above, leaving his son to drown his own frustration in cheap wine.

The door to the tavern opened and Suetonius looked up, hoping it was Bibilus come to join him. No doubt his friend was back at his palatial home in the centre of the city, being massaged by attractive slaves without a care in the world. Suetonius had not yet begun to consider the implications of Bibilus as consul. His first, panicky thought was that the consular immunity would remove the hold he had over the man, but he dismissed that as soon as he thought of it. Immune or not, Bibilus would be terrified of his habits becoming generally known in the city. Perhaps there could even be benefits to having his fat friend leading the Senate. It was not what he had planned, but having a consul at his bidding could be interesting. Suetonius resolved blearily to visit his home and remind Bibilus of their relationship.

The man who entered was a stranger and Suetonius ignored him after the first glance. He was too drunk to be startled when the man cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Sir, the stable boy says there is a problem with your horse. He thinks it has taken a thorn in the hoof.’

‘I’ll have him flogged if it has,’ Suetonius snapped, rising too quickly. He barely noticed the steadying hand on his shoulder as he was guided out of the inn into the darkness.

The night air did something to remove the fog of wine from his thoughts and he pulled away from the arm that held him as he entered the low stables. There were men there, too many to be looking after the horses. They grinned at him as a cold panic settled his heaving blood.

‘What do you want? Who are you?’ Suetonius blustered.

The leader of the raptores stepped out from the shadows and Suetonius fell back at the man’s expression.

‘Just a job to me, this, though I always give value if I can,’ he said, strolling towards the young Roman.

Suetonius was held tightly by both arms even as he began to struggle and a hand was clamped over his mouth.

The leader flexed his hands menacingly.

‘Snuff the lamps, lads. I don’t need light for this,’ he said and in the sudden darkness there came the thud of heavy blows.

Julius wished he had slept the night before. His weariness weighed on him but now, of all times, he needed to be sharp to deal with the two men.

‘Together, you still command enough support in the Senate to force anything through.’

‘Unless there is a consular veto,’ Pompey replied immediately.

Julius shrugged. ‘Do not consider it. I will deal with Bibilus when the time comes.’

Pompey blinked at him as Julius continued.

‘Without that block, your factions in the Senate are enough. The question is merely what I must give you to ensure your support.’

‘I don’t think …’ Crassus began stiffly, but Pompey held up a hand.

‘Let him speak, Crassus. You and I have discussed this enough without a solution. I want to hear what he has in mind.’

Julius chuckled at their eagerness. ‘Crassus wants trade. Together, Pompey, we could grant him an absolute monopoly throughout Roman lands. A licence for two years, say. He would have a stranglehold on every coin in the dominions and yet, I do not doubt, the total wealth will increase under his hand. If I know Crassus, the treasury of Rome will be swollen to bursting in less than a year.’

Crassus smiled at the compliment, but he did not seem especially moved. Julius had hoped the old man would be tempted by the licence alone, but the deal had to leave them all satisfied or it would be broken at the first test.

‘But perhaps that is not enough?’ Julius said, watching them both carefully.

Pompey’s eyes glittered with interest and Crassus was deep in thought. The idea of a total grip on trade was wonderfully intoxicating to him and he knew better than Julius what he could achieve with that power. His competitors would be beggared at a single stroke, their houses and slaves put up for auction. In only a short time, he could treble his land holdings and own a merchant fleet as great as any the world had seen. He would be able to ignore the losses of distant storms and send his ships out to far countries, Egypt, India, places without names, even. None of this showed in his expression. Crassus frowned carefully to show the young man he still needed to be persuaded, while his mind reeled at the thought of the fleet he would gather.

‘What about your own concessions, Julius?’ Pompey said impatiently.

‘I want six months in Senate, working with you in mutual support. The promises I made to the people of Rome were not empty. I want to pass new laws and ordinances. Some will upset the more traditional members of the Senate and I must have your votes with me to ride over their objections. The people have elected me; let us not be held back by Bibilus or a pack of toothless old men.’

‘I cannot see what advantage there is to me in such an arrangement,’ Pompey prompted.

Julius raised his eyebrows. ‘Apart from the good of Rome, of course.’ He smiled to ease the barb as Pompey coloured, knowing he could still lose it all with a false step.

‘Your own desires are simple enough, my friend,’ Julius said. ‘You want Dictatorship, though you may resist the name. Crassus and I will endorse any motion or vote you put to the Senate. Anything. Between us, we could have the Senate at our feet.’

‘That is no small thing,’ Pompey said quietly. What Julius was proposing completely undermined the purpose of having two consuls as a check on each other, but Pompey couldn’t find it in himself to mention it.

Julius nodded. ‘I would not if I thought you were a lesser man, Pompey. We have disagreed in the past, but I have never questioned your love of this city, and who knows you better than I? We destroyed Cato together, remember? Rome will not suffer under you.’

The flattery was perhaps a little obvious, though Julius found to his surprise that he believed at least part of it. Pompey was a solid leader and would defend Roman interests with determination and strength, even if he would never extend them.

‘I do not trust you, Caesar,’ Pompey said bluntly. ‘All these promises could come to nothing unless we are more firmly bound.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I need a token of goodwill from you, a proof of your support that is more than air.’

‘Tell me what you want,’ Julius said, shrugging.

‘How old is your daughter?’ Pompey asked. His face was deadly serious and Julius understood his meaning immediately.

‘Ten this year,’ he replied. ‘Too young for you, Pompey.’

‘She will not always be. Bind your blood to me and I will accept your promises. My own wife is in the grave more than three years and a man is not meant to be alone. When she is fourteen, send her to me and I will marry her.’

Julius rubbed his eyes. So much depended on reaching an agreement with the two old wolves. If his daughter had been one of his soldiers, he knew he would sacrifice her without a moment’s thought for such stakes.

‘Sixteen. She will be your bride at sixteen,’ he said at last.

Pompey beamed at him and nodded, stretching out his hand. Julius felt cold as he took it. He had them both, if he could supply the final pieces, but still the problem of Crassus worried at his thoughts. In the silent Curia, Julius could hear the echoes of Pompey’s soldiers as they marched in the forum and listening to them gave him the answer.

‘A legion also, Crassus,’ Julius said, thinking quickly. ‘A new eagle in the Campus Martius, raised in your name. Men I would train and mingle with my best officers for half a year. We will send to the country for them, to the tens of thousands of simple men who have never had the chance to fight for Rome. They would become yours, Crassus, and I can tell you there is no greater bond or joy than forming them into a legion. I will make them for you, but you will wear the general’s plume.’

Crassus looked up sharply at both men, considering the offer. He had longed for a command ever since the disaster against Spartacus, held from it by the nagging doubt that he could not lead as easily as Pompey and Caesar. Listening to Julius made it seem possible, but he tried to speak, to explain his doubts.

Julius laid a hand on his arm.

‘I have taken men from Africa and Greece and made them soldiers, Crassus. I will do more with those of Roman blood. Catiline saw a weakness we must remove if Rome is to thrive with your trade, don’t you think? The city needs good men on the walls above all else.’

Crassus flushed. ‘I may … not be the man to lead them, Caesar,’ he said through clenched teeth.

Julius could imagine what it had cost him to make the admission in front of Pompey, but he snorted in reply, ‘Neither was I until Marius and Renius and, yes, Pompey showed me how, by example and by training. No man leaps full-grown into that role, Crassus. I will be with you in the first steps and Pompey will always be there. He knows Rome needs a second legion for protection. I doubt he would want anything less in a city that answers to him.’

Both of them looked to Pompey and he answered immediately.

‘Whatever you need, Crassus. There is truth in what he says.’ Before they could do more than smile, Pompey went on, ‘You paint a pretty picture for us, Julius. Crassus with his trade, I with a bride and the city I love. But you have not told us the price for this generosity. Say it now.’

Crassus interrupted, ‘I will accept these terms, with two additions. A licence for five years not two, and my eldest son Publius is to be taken into the Tenth as an officer, a centurion. I am an old man, Julius. My son will lead this new legion after me.’

‘I can agree to that,’ Julius said.

Pompey cleared his throat impatiently. ‘But what do you want, Caesar?’

Julius rubbed his eyes again. He had not considered binding his family to Pompey’s line, but his daughter would rise in one stroke to the highest social rank in Rome. It was a fair bargain. They were both too old in politics to refuse such an arrangement and what he offered was a world better than the misery of losing their power and influence, even in part. Julius knew the addictive nature of command. There was no greater satisfaction than to lead. When he looked up at them, his eyes were bright and sharp.

‘When my six months are up in the city and the laws I want have been added to the rolls, then it is simple. I want to take my two legions out to new lands. I will give my proxy to Pompey and I want you both to sign orders giving me complete freedom to levy soldiers, strike bargains and make laws in the name of Rome. I will not report back unless I see fit. I will answer to no man but myself.’

‘Will that be legal?’ Crassus asked.

Pompey nodded. ‘If I have the consul’s proxy, it will. There is some precedent.’ Pompey frowned in thought. ‘Where will you take these legions, to do this?’ he asked.

Julius grinned, carried away by his own enthusiasm. How he had argued with his friends over the destination! Yet in the end, there had been only one choice. Alexander had gone east and that path was well trodden. He would go west.

‘I want the wild land, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I want Gaul.’

In full armour, Julius strode through the night, heading towards Bibilus’ home. Pompey and Crassus believed he knew some way to muzzle his co-consul, but the truth was he had no clear idea of how to prevent Bibilus and Suetonius making a mockery of all their plans.

Julius clenched his fists as he walked. He had given up his daughter and pledged time and money and power to Pompey and Crassus. In return, he would have a freedom greater than any Roman general in the city’s history. Scipio Africanus had not had the range of powers Julius would have in Gaul. Even Marius had answered to the Senate. Julius knew he would not let such a thing fall from his hands because of one man, no matter what he had to do.

The crowds parted for him as he swept through. Those who recognised him fell silent. The new consul’s expression forbade any attempt to greet or congratulate him and more than a few wondered what news could have so angered a man on the very day of his election.

Julius left them murmuring in his wake as he approached the great gates and columns of Bibilus’ house. His resolve hardened as he raised his fist to hammer on the oak door. He would not be denied this last step.

The slave that answered the summons was a youth whose face was heavily painted, giving him a lascivious expression even as he recognised the visitor and his eyes opened in surprise.

‘I am a consul of Rome. You know the law?’

The slave nodded, terrified.

‘Then bar no door to me. Touch my sleeve and you will die. I have come to see your master. Lead me in.’

‘C-Consul …’

The young man tried to drop to one knee and Julius snapped at him.

‘Now!’

The painted boy needed no other urging. He turned and almost ran from Julius, leaving the door to the street swinging behind them.

Julius marched behind, passing through rooms where a dozen similarly painted children watched, frozen as he passed. One or two of them cried out in amazement and Julius glared at them. Were there no adults in this place? The way they were dressed reminded him more of Servilia’s whores than …

He almost lost the boy slave around a corner as the thought came to him. Then he hurried and the slave increased his speed through antechambers and corridors until they burst together into a lighted room.

‘Master!’ the young man cried out. ‘Consul Caesar is here!’

Julius paused, panting slightly with the anger that coursed through his veins. Bibilus was there in the room and Suetonius stood bent over him, whispering into his ear. More of the pretty slaves were standing at the edges and two naked boys lolled at the feet of the two men. Julius saw their faces were flushed with wine and their eyes were older than their flesh. He shuddered as he turned his face to Suetonius.

‘Get out,’ he said.

Suetonius had risen slowly as if in a trance at Julius’ entrance. His face was swollen and distended, with crusted blood blocking his nostrils. His expression was malevolent as he struggled with conflicting emotions. A consul could not be touched, could not be held. Even Suetonius’ position in the Senate would not save him after an insult.

Casually, Julius dropped his hand to his sword. He knew Bibilus would be weaker without his friend. Julius had known that even when he had not had a lever to twist into the fat man’s innards. Now he had found one.

As Suetonius looked to Bibilus for a reprieve, he found nothing but terror in the consul’s fleshy face. Suetonius heard Julius march across the marble floor and still he delayed, waiting for the single word that would allow him to stay.

Bibilus watched like a child with a snake as Julius came close to Suetonius and leaned in towards him. Suetonius shrank back.

‘Get out,’ Julius repeated softly and Suetonius fled.

As Julius turned to Bibilus, the consul found a stammering voice.

‘This is my h-home …’ he attempted.

Julius roared at him, a crash of sound that sent Bibilus scrambling backwards on his couch.

‘You filth! You dare to talk to me with these children sitting at your feet! If I killed you now, it would be a blessing for Rome. No, better, I should cut off the last thing that makes you a man. I will do it, now.’

Drawing his sword, Julius advanced on the couch and Bibilus screamed, clawing at the cloth to try to get away. He wept heavy tears as Julius held the gleaming blade next to his groin.

Bibilus froze. ‘Please,’ he whimpered.

Julius twisted the blade, worrying it deeper into the folds of cloth. Bibilus pressed himself against the back of the couch, but could retreat no further.

‘Please, whatever you want …’ he began a series of choking sobs that added shining mucus to his tears until his face was barely human.

Julius knew the fates had given everything into his hands. The coldest part of him rejoiced in Bibilus revealing such a weakness. A few choice threats and the man would never dare show his face in the Senate again. Yet even as Julius began to speak, one of the children shifted and Julius glanced at him. The boy was not looking at Julius, but at his master, craning to get a better view. There was hatred there, horrifying in such a young face. The boy’s ribs could be clearly seen and his neck bore a purple bruise. Julius realised his daughter was the same age. He turned his anger on Bibilus.

‘Sell your slaves. Sell them where they will not be hurt and send me the addresses, that I may check each one. You will live alone, if I let you live at all.’

Bibilus nodded, his jowls quivering.

‘Yes, yes, I will … don’t cut me.’ He broke down again into a stream of miserable sound and Julius struck him twice across the face, rocking his head back. A thin stream of blood dribbled down across his lips and he shook visibly.

‘If I see you in the Senate, your immunity will not protect you, I swear by all the gods. I will see to it that you are taken somewhere quiet and burnt and broken over days. You will beg for an end to it.’

‘But I am consul!’ Bibilus choked.

Julius leaned in with the sword tip, making him gasp.

‘Only in name. I will not have a man like you in my senate house. Never in this life. Your time there is over.’

‘Can he hurt me now?’ the slave boy asked suddenly.

Julius looked at him and saw that he had risen to his feet. He shook his head.

‘Then give me a knife. I’ll cut him,’ the boy said.

Julius looked into his eyes and saw nothing but resolve.

‘You’ll be killed if you do,’ Julius said softly.

The boy shrugged. ‘Worth it,’ he said. ‘Give me a blade and I’ll do it.’

Bibilus opened his mouth and Julius twisted the gladius viciously.

‘You be quiet. There are men talking here. You’ve no part in it.’ He turned back to the slave and saw the way he stood a little straighter at the words.

‘I won’t stop you, lad, if you want it, but he’s more use to me alive than dead. At least for now.’ A corpse would mean another election and a new adversary who might not have Bibilus’ weaknesses. Yet Julius did not send the boy away.

‘You want him alive?’ the child said.

Julius returned the gaze for a long moment before nodding.

‘All right, but I want to leave here tonight.’

‘I can find you a place, lad. You have my gratitude.’

‘Not just me. All of us. No more nights here.’

Julius looked at him in surprise. ‘All of you?’

‘All of us,’ the slave said, holding his eyes without the slightest tremor. Julius looked away first.

‘Very well, boy. Gather them at the front door. Leave me alone with Bibilus for a little while longer and I’ll come to you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said. In a few moments, all the children in the room had vanished with him and the only sound was Bibilus’ tortured breathing.

‘How d-did you find out?’ Bibilus whispered.

‘Until I saw them, I did not know you for what you are. Even if I had not, you are greasy with guilt.’ Julius growled, ‘Remember, I will know if you bring more children into your home. If I hear of a single boy or girl coming through your doors, I will know and I will not hold back from you. Do you understand me? The Senate is mine, now. Completely.’

At the last word, Julius jerked his blade and Bibilus screamed, releasing his bladder in terror. Moaning, he clutched at the spreading stain of urine tinged with blood. Julius sheathed the sword and headed back to the front, where more than thirty of the slaves had gathered.

Each one of the refugees held a few items of clothing bundled in their arms. Their eyes were large and fearful in the light of the lamps and the silence was almost painful as they all turned to look at him.

‘All right. Tonight you’ll stay in my own home,’ Julius said. ‘I’ll find you families who have lost a child and who will love you.’ The happiness in their expressions shamed him worse than knives. He had not come to the house for them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The summer had come and gone with its long, busy days, but winter was still far off as Julius mounted his horse at the Quirinal gate, ready to join the legions in the Campus. He looked around him as he took the reins, trying to fix this last picture of the city in his mind. Who knew how long it would have to sustain him in distant Gaul? Those travellers and merchants who had been to the small Roman camp at the far foot of the Alps said it was a bitter place, colder than any they had known. Julius had punished his lines of credit for furs and provisions for ten thousand soldiers. Eventually, he knew there would have to be a reckoning, but he did not allow the thought of debt to spoil the final moments in his city.

The Quirinal gate was open and Julius could see the Campus Martius through it, with his soldiers waiting patiently in shining squares. Julius doubted there was a legion anywhere to equal the Tenth and Brutus had worked hard to make something greater out of the men he had conscripted. Not one of them had been allowed leave in almost a year and they had used their time well. Julius was pleased with the name Brutus had chosen for them. The Third Gallica would be hardened in the land for which they had been named.

Brutus and Octavian mounted up beside him, while Domitius checked his saddle straps for tightness one last time. Julius smiled to himself at their silver armour. All three men had earned the right to wear it, but they made an unusual sight in the streets by the gate and already there was a crowd of urchins come to point and gawk at them. As well they might. Every part of their armour shone as brightly as polish and cloths could make them and Julius felt a thrill at riding for Rome with these men.

If Salomin had come with them, it would have been perfect, Julius thought. It was just one more nagging regret in a sea of them that he had not been able to persuade the little fighter to make the trip to Gaul. Salomin had spoken for a long time about Roman honour and Julius had listened. It was all he could offer after Pompey’s shameful treatment of him, but he had not pressed him after the first refusal.

The months in Senate had exceeded Julius’ hopes and the triumvirate was holding better than he had any right to expect. Crassus had begun his domination of trade and his great fleet already rivalled anything Carthage had ever put to sea. His fledgling legion had been hammered into some sort of shape by the best officers in the Tenth and Pompey would continue that work when they were gone. The three men had developed a grudging respect for each other in their months together and Julius did not regret the bargain he had struck with them.

After the night of the election, Bibilus had not been seen in the senate house for a single meeting. Rumours of a long-term illness had spread through the city but Julius maintained his silence about what had happened. He had kept his promises to the children, sending them to be raised in loving families far in the north. His private shame at profiting from their distress had prompted him to buy them free, though it bled his funds even whiter on top of everything else. Strangely, that simple act had given him more satisfaction than almost anything else in his months as consul.

‘Brutus!’ a voice called, shattering the moment.

Julius turned his horse in a tight circle and Brutus laughed aloud at the sight of Alexandria struggling through the crowds to the gate. As she reached him, she stood on tiptoe to be kissed, but Brutus reached down and heaved her into the saddle. Julius looked away, not that they would have noticed. It was difficult not to think of Servilia as he saw their happiness together.

When Alexandria was lowered to the road, Julius noticed she carried a cloth package. He raised his eyebrows as she held it out for him, blushing with embarrassment from the embrace he had witnessed. Julius took the bundle and unwrapped it slowly, his eyes widening as he revealed a helmet worked with extraordinary skill. It was polished iron and shining with oil, but the strangest thing was the full face of it, shaped to resemble his own features.

Reverently, Julius lifted it above his head and then lowered it, pressing the hinged face back until it clicked. It fitted like a second skin. The eyes were large enough to see out easily and he knew from the reactions of his companions that it achieved the effect Alexandria had wanted.

‘It has a cold expression,’ Octavian murmured, gazing at him.

Brutus nodded and Alexandria reached up to Julius’ saddle to speak privately to him.

‘I thought it would protect your head better than the one you usually wear. There is a slide on the top for a plume, if you want one. There is nothing like it in Rome.’

Julius looked out through the iron mask at her, wishing for one painful moment that she was his and not his friend’s.

‘It is perfect,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He reached down and hugged her, smelling the rich scent she used. An impulse struck him then and he removed the helmet as she stood back, his face flushed with more than just the heat. The legion would wait a little longer, after all. Perhaps there was still time to visit Servilia before he left.

‘Alexandria, I must ask you to excuse us,’ Julius said. ‘Gentlemen? I have an errand to run in the city before we join the men.’

Domitius vaulted into his saddle as an answer and the other two formed up. Alexandria blew a kiss to Brutus as Julius dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and they trotted down the road, the crowd scattering before them.

As they neared Servilia’s house, Brutus lost some of the glow Alexandria had imparted. If anything, he was relieved that the relationship between Julius and his mother had ended. But now, seeing his friend’s eager expression, he groaned inwardly. He should have known Julius wouldn’t give up so easily.

‘Are you sure?’ Brutus asked him as they dismounted at the door and passed the horses into the hands of her slaves.

‘I am,’ Julius replied, striding in.

As consul, he could go where he pleased in the city, but all four of them were known to the house in various fashions and Octavian and Domitius paused in an outer chamber to say their own goodbyes to their favourites while they had the chance. Brutus threw himself onto a long couch and settled down to wait. He alone of them had never visited the house for anything except to see his mother. There was something vaguely incestuous about the idea and he ignored the interest of the girls she kept there. Anyway, there was Alexandria, he told himself virtuously.

Julius strode through the corridors to Servilia’s private rooms. What would he say to her? They had not spoken in months, but there was a magic to leaving, a lack of consequence that might help them find some sort of friendship, at least.

His spirits lifted as he saw her. She wore a dark blue wrap that left her shoulders bare and he smiled as he saw his black pearl set in gold against the first gentle swell of her breasts. Alexandria deserved her reputation, he thought.

‘I’m leaving, Servilia,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘For Gaul. I was at the gate when I thought of you.’

He thought he saw a smile touch her mouth as he reached her and took heart from it. She had never looked so beautiful as she did then, and he knew he would have no difficulty remembering her face on the long march ahead. He took her hands in his and pressed them, looking into her eyes.

‘Why don’t you come?’ he said. ‘I could have the best carriage in Rome brought to the column. There’s a Roman settlement in the south of Gaul and you could be with me.’

‘To save you finding your own whores, Julius?’ she said softly. ‘Are you worried what you’ll do without a woman so far from home?’

He gaped at her, seeing a cold hardness that was almost frightening in its intensity.

‘I don’t understand you,’ he said.

She pulled her hands back from him and he swayed. He was close enough to smell her perfume and it was maddening. Not to be able to touch her after every inch had been his. He felt anger surge in him.

‘You are cruel, Servilia,’ he muttered and she laughed at him.

‘Do you know how many jilted lovers I have seen shouting in this house? Consuls as well, Julius, or do you think they are too mighty for such a display? Whatever it is you wanted from me, it is not here. Do you understand?’

Somewhere behind her, Julius heard a man’s voice call out. He tensed.

‘Crassus? Is he here?’

Servilia took a step forward, pushing her hand against his chest. Her teeth bared as she spoke and her voice had lost all of the softness he loved.

‘It is no business of yours whom I see, Julius.’

Julius lost his temper, his hands clenching in impotent rage. In his passion, he thought of snatching the pearl from her neck and she moved back from him as if she sensed it.

‘You’ll be his whore now? He’s closer to your age, at least,’ Julius said.

She slapped him hard and he rocked her head back with a blow of his own, following instantly from hers so that the sounds came almost together.

Servilia raked her other hand at his eyes, scoring his cheek with her nails and Julius snarled at her, stepping in to attack. He was blind with fury as she fell back at last from him and then the anger left him empty and panting, his face bitter. A drop of blood fell from his chin where she had marked him. His gaze followed it.

‘So this is who you are, Julius,’ she said, standing stiffly before him.

He saw her mouth already beginning to swell and shame overwhelmed him.

She sneered. ‘I wonder what my son will say when you see him next.’ Her eyes glittered with malice and Julius shook his head.

‘I would have given you everything, Servilia. Anything you wanted,’ he said softly. She walked away from him then, leaving him alone.

Brutus was standing as Julius came back through the outer rooms of the house. Octavian and Domitius were with him and Julius knew from their expressions that they had heard. Brutus was pale, his eyes dead and Julius felt an involuntary shudder of fear as he looked at his friend.

‘You hit her, Julius?’ Brutus said.

Julius touched his bloody cheek. ‘I will not explain myself to you, even to you,’ he replied, beginning to walk past the three men.

Brutus dropped his hand to the gold hilt he had won and Domitius and Octavian touched their own, moving to stand between him and Julius.

‘Don’t,’ Domitius snapped. ‘Take a step back!’

Brutus broke off his gaze from Julius to the men facing him with such menace.

‘Do you really think you could stop me?’ he said.

Domitius returned his glare.

‘If I have to. Do you think drawing your sword will change anything? What goes on between them is no more your business than it is mine. Let it go.’

Brutus took his hand away from his sword. He opened his mouth to speak and then walked past them all out to the horses, leaping into the saddle and kicking his mount into a canter back towards the gates.

Domitius wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand. He glanced at Octavian and saw the worry there as the young man was caught between forces he could not stand.

‘He’ll calm down, Octavian, depend on it.’

‘The march will sweat it out of him,’ Julius said, looking after his friend. He hoped it was true. He touched his cheek again and winced.

‘Not the best omen,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Let’s go, gentlemen. I have seen enough of this city to last me for a long time. Once we step across the gate line, we are free of all of it.’

‘I hope so,’ Domitius replied, but Julius did not hear him.

As they trotted towards the Quirinal gate, Brutus was there in its shadow. Julius saw his eyes were bloodshot holes in a murderous expression and he reined in by him.

‘I made a mistake going back to her, Brutus,’ Julius said, watching him closely. He loved his friend more than anyone in the world, but if his hand moved for the hilt of his gladius, Julius was ready to kick his horse straight at him to spoil an attack. Every muscle of his legs was tense for the action as Brutus looked up.

‘The legions are ready to march. It’s time,’ he said. His eyes were cold and Julius let out a slow breath, words dying in his throat.

‘Then lead us out,’ he said softly.

Brutus nodded. Without a word, he rode under the gate and out onto the Campus, without looking back. Julius pressed his heels into his horse to follow him.

‘Consul!’ a shout came from the crowd.

Julius groaned aloud. Was there no end to it? The gate’s shadow was so close, beckoning him. With a grim expression, he watched a group of men run up to the horses. Herminius the moneylender was at their head and as Julius recognised him, he eyed the gate with real longing.

‘Sir, I’m glad I caught you. You cannot be meaning to leave the city without making good on your loans, I am sure?’ Herminius said, panting from his exertions.

‘Come over here,’ Julius said, beckoning to the man. He walked his horse under the shadow of the gate and onto the Campus and Herminius came with him, uncomprehending.

Julius looked down at the man.

‘Do you see that line, where the gate has left a ridge in the stone?’ he asked.

Herminius nodded blankly and Julius smiled.

‘Good. Then I can tell you I have spent every last copper coin I could borrow or beg to fit my men for Gaul. The provisions alone and the oxen and asses to carry them cost a small fortune. Salt, leather, iron pigs, gold for bribes, horses, spears, saddles, tents, tools, the list is endless.’

‘Sir? Are you saying …’ Herminius began, comprehension dawning.

‘I am saying the moment I crossed that line, my debts were left behind me. My word is good, Herminius. I will pay you when I return, on my honour. But for today, you will not get a coin from me.’

Herminius stiffened in impotent anger. He glanced at the silver armour of the men mounted at Julius’ side. Then he sighed and attempted a smile.

‘I will look forward to your return, Consul.’

‘Of course you will, Herminius,’ Julius replied, inclining his head in ironic salute.

When the moneylender had gone, Julius looked back through the gate for the last time. The problems of the city were no longer his, at least for a time.

‘Now,’ he said, turning to Domitius and Octavian, ‘we go north.’

PART TWO

Gaul

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘So why do you stay with him?’ Cabera asked. The silver-armoured warrior at his shoulder showed only flashes of the boy he had been and few others in the camp would have dared to ask Brutus such a question.

They watched as Julius climbed oak steps to the archers’ wall at the top of the barrier they had built. He was too far away to make out details, though Brutus could see the sun catch the breastplate he wore. Eventually Brutus looked away, then glanced at Cabera sharply as if he had remembered his presence.

‘Look at him,’ he replied. ‘Less than two years ago he left Spain with nothing and now he is a consul with a blank mandate from the Senate. Who else could have brought me to this place with my own legion to command? Who else would you have me follow?’

His voice was bitter and Cabera feared for the two men he had known as boys. He had heard the details of Julius’ parting from Servilia, though her son had never spoken of it. He longed to ask Brutus, if only to judge the damage it had caused.

‘He is your oldest friend,’ Cabera said and Brutus seemed to stir himself at the words.

‘And I am his sword. When I look calmly at what he has done, it staggers me, Cabera. Are they fools in Rome not to see his ambition? Julius told me of the bargain he made with them and I still can’t believe it. Does Pompey think he had the best of it, I wonder? The man may have the city, but he sits like a tenant waiting for the owner to come home. The people know it. You saw the crowds that came out to the Campus to see us off. Pompey must be a fool if he thinks Julius will be satisfied with anything less than a crown.’

He broke off then, looking around automatically to see if anyone was within hearing. The two men leaned against the fortification that had taken months to build. Twenty miles of wall and earth and never less than the height of three tall men. It towered over the river Rhone and dominated its course around the northern border of the Roman province. It was as solid a barrier as the Alps to the east.

Enough stone and iron had been gathered on the wall to sink any army that tried to cross the river. The legions were confident as they maintained their watch, though not a man there believed Julius would be satisfied with a defence, not with the document he had brought.

Julius had shown it to the praetor of the tiny Roman province that crouched at the foot of the Alps and the man had paled as he read, touching a reverent finger to the seal of the Senate. He had never seen such a vaguely worded command and could only bow his head as he considered the implications. Pompey and Crassus had not quibbled over the details; indeed, Brutus knew Julius had dictated the letter to Adàn and then sent it to them for their seals and the Senate vote. It was brief and complete in the powers it gave Julius in Gaul and every legionary with him knew it.

Cabera rubbed the loose muscles on the side of his face and Brutus looked at him in sympathy. After healing Domitius, the old man had suffered a weakness that left his face slack on one side and half his body almost useless. He would never draw a bow again and on the march across the Alps he had been carried in a litter by the men of the Tenth. He had never complained. Brutus thought that only the old man’s intense curiosity kept him alive. He simply would not die while there were things to see and Gaul was as wild and strange to him as to any of the others.

‘Are you in pain?’ Brutus asked.

Cabera shrugged as best as he was able and dropped his hand from his face. One eyelid drooped as he returned the look and occasionally he would dab at the left corner of his mouth to clean it of spittle before it could fall. The gesture had become a part of his life.

‘I am never better, beloved general of Rome, whom I knew as a snot-faced little boy. Never better, though I would like to see the view from the top and may need someone to carry me up. My weakness is upon me and the climb calls for a pair of strong legs.’

Brutus stood. ‘I was going to go myself, now that the Helvetii are gathering on the far bank. When they hear Julius will not let them through our little province, there may be an interesting scene. Up, old man. Gods, you are no weight at all.’

Cabera suffered himself to be lifted onto Brutus’ back, the general’s powerful arms holding his legs tight while he kept his own grip with his right arm. The other dangled uselessly.

‘It is the quality of the burden you must consider, Brutus, not the weight,’ he said and though the words were blurred by his illness, Brutus understood and smiled.

Julius stood at the top of the rampart, looking across the fast-running water of the Rhone, churned white in places by the force of the spring flood. On the other side of the wide river, the horizon was filled with people: men, women and children. Some sat and dangled their feet in the water as if they were contemplating nothing more serious than an idle afternoon. The children and the elderly were dressed in simple clothes, belted or drawn with cord. Amongst them, he saw hair of yellow and red as well as the more common brown. They drove oxen and asses along with them, carrying the vast amount of food and supplies needed to keep an army of that size on the march. Julius understood their difficulties, considering the problems he had found in feeding the legions under his own command. With so many hungry mouths, it simply was not possible to stay in one place for long and every living thing would be stripped out of the lands they passed through, depleting the stocks for generations. The Helvetii left poverty in their wake.

Their soldiers stood out, wearing some sort of dark leather armour. They moved amongst the crowd, calling to those who stepped too close to the river. Julius watched as one drew a blade and used the flat to clear a space for the boat they were bringing through. It was a chaotic scene and Julius could hear the notes of a tune carry over the cool air, the musician hidden from view in the mass.

The Helvetii lowered the boat with a rhythmic chanting and held it steady in the shallows while a team of rowers took their places. Even with three men to a side, Julius saw they would have to work hard against a current that threatened to sweep them downriver. The idea of an invasion to follow it was ludicrous and there was no tension amongst the Romans who watched them.

Even a rough estimate by centuries was impossible. Julius had been told the Helvetii had burnt their land behind them to come south and he didn’t doubt it. Every one of the vast tribe had left their homes and unless they could be stopped, their path lay right through the narrow Roman province at the base of the Alps.

‘I have never seen such a migration,’ Julius said, almost to himself.

The Roman officer at his side glanced at him as he spoke. He had welcomed the legions Julius brought with him, especially the veterans of the Tenth. Some of those in the trading outpost had resented the shift in authority that Caesar had brought, but for others it was like a sudden immersion in the energy of their old city. When they talked amongst themselves, it was with restrained glee and a new confidence in their dealings. No more would they have to suffer the scorn of Gaulish merchants and know they were tolerated but never accepted. With only one legion, the outpost was barely acknowledged by Rome and without the trade in wine, the province might have been abandoned completely. Those who still dreamed of promotion and a career welcomed Caesar with open arms and none more so than their commander, Mark Antony.

When Julius had presented him with the orders from the Senate, the general could not help the slow grin that spread across his face.

‘At last we will see action, then,’ he had said to Julius. ‘I have written so many letters and I was beginning to lose hope.’

Julius had been prepared for dismay, even the threat of disobedience. He had come into the Roman town with a face like thunder to impose his will, but at this response, the tension had vanished and he had laughed aloud at Mark Antony’s honest pleasure. They weighed each other up and both men found something to like. Julius had listened in fascination to the general’s summary of the region and the uneasy truce with local tribes. Mark Antony held nothing back of the problems they faced, but he spoke with a deep insight and Julius had included him immediately in his councils.

If the others resented the sudden rise of the new man, it did not show. Mark Antony had been in the province for four years and painted a detailed picture of the web of alliances and feuds that were the mire of trade and the bane of efficient administration.

‘It is not so much a migration as a march of conquest, sir,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Any smaller tribe will lose its women, its grain, everything.’ He was in awe of the man Rome had sent, but he had been told to speak freely and he enjoyed the new status it had given him, especially amongst his own men.

‘Then they cannot be turned?’ Julius asked, watching the shifting mass on the far shore.

Mark Antony looked down from the rampart to where the legions were arrayed in full battle order. A pleasurable shudder touched him at the thought of the strength represented in those squares. As well as the ten thousand men Julius had brought, another three legions had been summoned from the north of Italy. As nothing else could, it demonstrated the new power Julius had been granted that he had only to send riders carrying copies of his orders for them to return with fifteen thousand soldiers at a forced march over the Alps.

‘If they are turned, they will starve to death this winter, sir. My scouts reported four hundred villages in flames, with all their winter grain. They know they cannot go back and they will fight all the harder as a result.’

Brutus reached the platform behind them, letting Cabera down onto it so that he could grip the wooden railing with his good arm and watch the proceedings. Brutus saluted as he approached Julius, more than usually conscious of the appearance of discipline in front of the newcomer. He could not be said to like Mark Antony, exactly. Something about the way he seemed so completely in accord with Julius’ aims and ambitions struck a false note with Brutus, though he had said nothing rather than have it interpreted as jealousy. In fact, he felt a touch of that very emotion at seeing the two men talking as easily as old friends while they watched the army of the Helvetii on the far bank. Brutus frowned as Mark Antony made a humorous comment about the vast host and both he and Julius appeared to be trying to outdo the other in studied casualness.

It did not help that Mark Antony was such a big, hearty man, the sort that amused Julius on the rare occasion that he found them. Brutus knew Julius enjoyed nothing as much as the booming laugh and courage of men like his uncle Marius, and Mark Antony seemed to fit that type as if he had known the man personally. He stood a head taller than Julius and his nose shouted to the world that he was a man of ancient Roman blood. It dominated his face under heavy brows and unless he was laughing, in repose he looked naturally stern and dignified. At the slightest prompt, he would mention his family line and Mark Antony seemed to believe he was of noble blood simply by the number of ancestors he could name.

No doubt Sulla would have loved the man, Brutus thought irritably. Mark Antony was full of the things that could be achieved now Julius had arrived, yet somehow he had not managed to do any of them on his own. Brutus wondered if the noble Roman realised what Julius would have achieved in his place, one legion or not.

Putting these thoughts aside, Brutus leaned on the railing himself and looked out as the boat approached the Roman side and the oarsmen leapt out into the shallow water to drag it clear of the river. They stood in the very shadow of the wall the Romans had built to stop them. Even with their numbers, Brutus didn’t think they would try to break the Roman line.

‘They must see we could sink every boat with spears and stones before they can land. It would be suicide to attack,’ Julius said.

‘And if they go in peace?’ Mark Antony asked, without taking his eyes from the messengers that stood aside from their oarsmen below.

Julius shrugged. ‘Then I will have demonstrated Roman authority over them. One way or another, I will have my foothold in this country.’

Brutus and Cabera both turned to look at the man they knew and saw a savage pleasure in his face as he stood tall on the rampart to hear the words of the Helvetii.

They had seen a similar expression when Mark Antony had addressed the first council of generals months before.

‘I am glad you are here, gentlemen,’ Mark Antony had said. ‘We are about to be overrun.’

Julius had wanted a wild land to win, Brutus thought to himself. The Helvetii were only one of the tribes in that region, never mind the entire country that Julius dreamed of taking for Rome. Yet the dark moods of Spain could never be imagined in the man who stood with them on the ramparts. They could all feel it and Cabera closed his eyes as his senses were cast loose against his will into the tumbling roads of the future.

The old man slumped and would have fallen had Brutus not caught him. No one else moved as the messengers spoke and Julius turned to his interpreter to hear the words in halting Latin. Out of sight of the riders, he grinned to himself, then stood to face them, both hands on the wide railing.

‘No,’ he called down. ‘You shall not pass.’

Julius looked at Mark Antony.

‘If they march west around the Rhone before striking south, which tribes lie in their path?’

‘The Aedui are directly west of us, so they would suffer most, though the Ambarri and Allobroges …’ Mark Antony began.

‘Which of those is the richest?’ Julius interrupted.

Mark Antony hesitated. ‘The Aedui are reputed to have vast herds of cattle and …’

‘Summon their leader to me with the fastest riders and guarantees of safety,’ Julius said, looking back over the railing. Below, the boat was already pulling for the far shore, still close enough for him to see the anger of the men in it.

Two nights later, the small fort was quiet, though Julius could hear the tramp of feet as the watch changed on the walls. New barracks had been built for the soldiers he had brought from Rome, but the three legions from Ariminum still slept in their tents in fortified camps. Julius didn’t intend building anything more permanent for them. He hoped it would not be necessary.

He waited impatiently as his words were relayed to the chief of the Aedui through the interpreter Mark Antony had supplied. The man seemed to ramble on far longer than Julius thought was justified, but he had decided not to tell them Adàn could speak their language, preferring to keep that advantage secret. His Spanish scribe had been startled when they had first heard the words of the Gauls. His people spoke a variation of the same tongue, enough for him to understand most of the conversations. Julius wondered if they had been one nation at some time in the far past, some nomadic tribe from distant lands who had settled Gaul and Spain while Rome was still a small village amongst seven hills.

Adàn attended every meeting after that, masking his listening with laborious copying out of Julius’ dictated notes and letters. When they were alone, Julius would question him closely and his memory was usually faultless.

Julius glanced at the studious young Spaniard as the interpreter repeated the danger of the Helvetii in what must have been endless detail. The leader of the Aedui was typical of his race, a dark-haired man with black eyes and a hard, fleshless face, partly hidden by a growth of beard that shone with oil. The Aedui claimed to have no king, but Mhorbaine was their chief magistrate, elected rather than born.

Julius tapped the fingers of one hand on the other as Mhorbaine answered and the interpreter paused to consider his translation.

‘The Aedui are willing to accept your aid in repelling the Helvetii from their borders,’ the interpreter said at last.

Julius barked a laugh that made Mhorbaine jump.

‘“Are willing”?’ he said with amusement. ‘Tell him I will save his people from destruction if they pay in grain and meat. My men have to be fed. Thirty thousand men need more than two hundred cattle slaughtered each day, as a minimum. I will accept the equivalent in game or mutton, as well as grain, bread, oil, fish and spices. Without supplies, I do not move.’

The negotiation began in earnest then, delayed at every stage by the slow translation. Julius ached to throw the interpreter out and have Adàn’s quick wits in his place, but held his patience as the hours stretched on and the moon rose orange over the mountains behind them. Mhorbaine too seemed to be losing his patience, and when they were all waiting for the interpreter to complete another hesitant phrase, the Gaul chopped his hand in the air, speaking in clear Latin, with an accent of Rome.

‘Enough of this fool. I understand you well enough without him.’

Julius broke into laughter at the revelation. ‘He murders my language, I know that. Who taught you the words of Rome?’

Mhorbaine shrugged. ‘Mark Antony sent men to all the tribes when he first came. Most of them were killed and sent back to him, but I kept mine. This miserable creature learned from the same man, though badly. He has no ear for languages, but he was all I had to offer.’

The negotiations went faster after that and Julius was amused by the Gaul’s attempt to conceal his knowledge. He wondered if Mhorbaine guessed at Adàn’s function at the meeting. It was probable. The Aedui leader was sharply intelligent and Julius could feel the man’s cool assessment of him right to the end.

When it was finished, Julius stood to clasp Mhorbaine by the shoulder. There was muscle there, underneath the woollen cloth. The man was more a battle-leader than a magistrate, at least as Julius understood the role. He ushered Mhorbaine out to the horses and went back in to where Adàn stood to meet him.

‘Well?’ Julius said. ‘Did I miss anything useful before Mhorbaine lost his patience?’

Adàn smiled at his amusement. ‘Mhorbaine asked the interpreter if you had the strength to turn the Helvetii and he said he thought it likely. That’s all you did not hear. They have no choice if they do not wish to see their herds swallowed by the Helvetii.’

‘Perfect. I am transformed from a foreign invader every bit as dangerous as the Helvetii, to a Roman answering a call for help from a beleaguered tribe. Put that in the reports back to the city. I want my people to think well of what we do here.’

‘Is that important?’ Adàn asked.

Julius snorted. ‘You have no idea how important. The citizens do not want to know how countries are won. They prefer to think of foreign armies surrendering to our moral superiority rather than our strength. I am forced to tread carefully here, even with my orders from the Senate. If the powers shift in Rome, I can still be recalled and there will always be enemies who would delight in seeing me disgraced. Send the reports with enough coin to have them read on every street and in the forum. Let the people know how we are progressing in their name.’

Julius paused, his amusement fading as he thought of the problems he faced.

‘Now all we have to do is defeat the largest army I have ever seen and there really will be good news to send back to Rome,’ he said. ‘Summon Brutus, Mark Antony, Octavian, Domitius, all of my council. Renius too, his advice is always sound. Tell Brutus to send out his scouts. I want to know where the Helvetii are and how they are organised. Quickly, lad. We have a battle to plan and I want to be on the march by dawn.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Julius lay on his stomach to watch the Helvetii move across the plain. Even as he concentrated, some part of him noted the lush greenness of the land. It made the soil of Rome look poor in comparison. Instead of the barren mountains of the south he knew, where farmers scratched a living, he saw vast rolling plains of good earth and hungered for it with all the primitive desire of a man who had worked his own crops. Gaul could feed an empire.

The light was beginning to fade and he clenched his fist in excitement as he heard the notes of wailing horns carried to him on the breeze. The great column was halting for the night. One of his scouts came to a skidding stop by him, panting as he too stretched out.

‘It looks like all of them, sir. I couldn’t see any sort of rearguard or reserve. They’re moving fast, but they must rest tonight, or they’ll start leaving bodies on the plain.’

‘They’re stopping now,’ Julius said. ‘Can you see how the soldiers are settling into groups around the core? Greek spear phalanx, it looks like. I wonder if they came to it on their own, or if their ancestors ever passed through that land. If I have the chance, I’ll ask one of them.’

He scanned the plain, considering his alternatives. A mile behind him in the woods, he had thirty thousand legionaries ready to descend on the Helvetii, but after forcing a march of almost forty miles to intercept the tribe, the men were exhausted. Julius felt frustration that he had been unable to bring the great war ballistae and scorpion bows that formed such a part of the legions’ power. The plain would have been perfect for them, but until he cut roads through the land, they stayed in pieces on the carts he’d brought from Rome.

‘I’ve never seen so many warriors,’ the scout whispered, awed by the army they faced. The Helvetii were too far away to hear, but the sheer size of the migration was oppressive and Julius pitched his voice as low to reply.

‘I’d guess eighty thousand, but I can’t be sure amongst the followers,’ he replied.

It was too many to send the legions in a straight attack, even if they were not worn down by the march.

‘Bring Brutus to me,’ he ordered.

It was not long before he heard running footsteps and Brutus was there with him, crouching in the damp leaves.

The Helvetii had marched through a wide valley that led into the lands of the Aedui. They had forced a hard pace to skirt the river and Julius was impressed at their stamina and organisation as the night camp began to form on the plain. If they struck any deeper into Aedui lands, they would be into heavy forest and the legions’ advantages would be lost. These were not the wide-spaced woods he knew from Rome, but dense undergrowth that would trap horses and make any sort of organised fighting impossible. Sheer numbers would carry the day then, and the Helvetii had a host of warriors, with nowhere to go but onward.

The tribe had burnt the first village they came to on the border of the Aedui and the scouts reported no one left alive. Women and animals had been taken into the column and the rest butchered. Village by village, they would cross the land like locusts unless Julius could catch them on the plain. He thanked his gods that they were not pushing on through the night. No doubt their numbers made them overconfident, though even with his legions ready, it was difficult to see how to attack so many and win.

Julius turned to Brutus.

‘You see that hill to the west?’ He pointed to a solid crag of layered green and grey in the dim distance. Brutus nodded. ‘It’s a strong position. Take the Tenth and Third to the crest, ready for dawn. The Helvetii will see the threat and they cannot leave you there to harry them. Take the archers from Ariminum, but keep them far back from the front. The bowmen will be better used on your hill than on the plain.’

He smiled grimly and clapped Brutus on the shoulder with his hand.

‘These tribesmen have never fought legions, Brutus. They will see a mere ten thousand facing them as the sun comes up. You will educate them.’

Brutus looked at him. The sun was already setting and its light was reflected in Julius’ fierce gaze.

‘It will be dark before I reach it,’ Brutus replied. It was the closest he would come to questioning an order with the scouts listening all around them.

Julius seemed not to notice his reservations, continuing quickly, ‘You must have silence as you move up. When they see you and charge, I will hit them from the rear. Go quickly.’

Brutus slithered back until he was clear and could run for his men.

‘On your feet, lads,’ he said as he came to the first ranks of the Tenth. ‘You won’t get much sleep tonight.’

As dawn approached, Julius was back looking over the plain. The sun came up behind him and there was a grey light long before it rose over the mountains. The Helvetii began to move into their marching order and Julius watched as the warriors bullied the other castes onto their feet. Those with swords and spears had status, Julius could see. They did not carry supplies themselves, remaining free to fight and run. Julius watched for the moment when they would see the legions arrayed on the hill and the time seemed to stretch endlessly.

Behind him, Mark Antony waited with his legion and three others, cold and grim without breakfast or fires to warm them. It hardly seemed enough to tackle such a vast army, but Julius could think of nothing else to alter the balance.

A horse galloped up from behind and Julius turned in fury to wave the man down before he was seen. He rose to a crouch as he saw the scout’s pale features and when the man slid from his saddle, he could not speak at first for panting.

‘Sir, there is an enemy force on the hill to the west! A large number of them.’

Julius looked back at the Helvetii in the dim light. They were getting ready to decamp, with no sign of panic or distress. Had they spotted his scouts and prepared a flanking position? His respect for the tribe increased a notch. And where was Brutus? The two forces clearly hadn’t met in the darkness or the sound of battle would have been heard for miles. Had he climbed the wrong hill in the night? Julius swore aloud, furious with the setback. He had no way of communicating with his missing legions and until they showed themselves, he dared not attack.

‘I’ll have his balls,’ he promised, then turned to the men at his side.

‘No horns or signals. Just fall back. Pass the word to regroup at the stream.’

As they moved away, Julius heard the tinny blaring of horns as the Helvetii began to move on. The frustration was appalling and the thought of having to take them in the thick forests was nothing like the crushing victory he had hoped for.

Brutus waited for the sun to banish the dark shadows on the hill. He had the Tenth arranged before his Third Gallica, depending on their greater experience to stand anything the Helvetii could send against them. In addition, a part of his own legion were from Gaul. Julius had said a legion could be raised in less than a year. Living, working and fighting together bound men stronger than anything, but there was always the nagging suspicion of what could happen if those men were ordered to fight their own people. When Brutus had asked them about the Helvetii, they had only shrugged at him, as if there could be no conflict. None of them were from that tribe and those that had come to Rome for gold seemed to claim no special loyalty to those they had left behind. They had been the sort of mercenaries who lived for nothing except pay and found companionship only amongst their own kind. Brutus knew the regular silver and food of the legions would be a dream for some of them, but still he had placed the Tenth to take the first charge.

Though he was unutterably weary after the climb, he had to admit Julius had an eye for good land. If anything, Brutus regretted leaving the extraordinarii back in the camp, but he could not have known the ascent would be easy, with only a few sprains and one broken arm from a bad fall in the darkness. Three men had lost their swords and now carried daggers, but they had crested the hill before dawn and gone over to the far slope without losing a single man. The legionary with the broken arm had strapped it to his chest and would fight left-handed. He had scorned being sent back and pointed to Ciro in the front rank of the Tenth, saying that the big man could throw his spears for him.

In the first glimmers of grey light, Brutus sent whispered orders to dress the formation that stretched across the slopes. Even the veterans of the Tenth looked a little ragged after finding their positions in darkness and his own legion needed the staffs of their optios to create order. They loosened the ties on their spears as he watched and with four to a man, Brutus knew they would destroy any charge sent against them. The Helvetii carried oval shields, but the heavy spears would pin them to the ground, shields and all.

The sun rose behind the mountains as the Helvetii marched unaware towards their position. Brutus felt the old excitement build as he waited for their soldiers to see the Tenth and Third looking down at them. He grinned in anticipation of the first rays of light and when it came, he laughed aloud at the sight. The sun spread a beam across them from the peaks. Ten thousand helmets and sets of armour went from dull grey to gold in a few minutes. The yellow horsehair plumes of the centurions seemed to glow and the column of the Helvetii staggered below on the plain as men pointed and shouted a warning.

For the tribe, it was as if the legion had appeared out of nothing and yet they were not without courage. As soon as the initial shock had faded, they saw the small army that clung to the slopes and almost as one they roared defiance, filling the valley.

‘There must be half a million of them. I swear by Mars, there must,’ Brutus whispered.

He saw the fighting phalanxes swarm to the front, bristling with spears as they began to accelerate over the ground between the armies. Their front ranks carried wide shields to batter the enemy, but the formations would never survive the broken ridges of the hill. They raced across the shifting scree like wolves and Brutus shook his head in amazement at the numbers coming towards him.

‘Archers – range!’ Brutus cried, watching as four arrows flew high and marked the outermost limit of their shots. He had only three hundred from the Ariminum legions and didn’t know how skilled they were. Against unprotected men, their fire could be devastating, but he doubted they would be more than an irritation to the Helvetii under their shields.

‘Ready spears!’ he bellowed.

The Tenth gathered their four, checking the points one last time. They would not aim them, but launch the heavy iron-headed weapons high into the air, so that they would be dropping almost vertically at the moment of impact. It called for skill, but it was their trade and they were experts.

‘Range!’ Brutus shouted.

He watched as Ciro tied a red cloth around the butt of one of his spears and heaved it into flight with a grunt. None of them could match the big man’s distance and as it slammed quivering into the turf, Brutus had his outermost point marked, fifty paces short of the arrows further down the rocky slope. When the Helvetii charge crossed those lines, they would be running through a hail of missiles. As they pushed past Ciro’s spear, forty thousand more would be launched in less than ten heartbeats.

The Helvetii howled as they began to pound up the slope and a dawn breeze skimmed the hillside, blowing dust off the plains.

‘Archers!’ Brutus called and, ten ranks back, the lines of bowmen fired with smooth skill until their quivers were empty. Brutus watched the flight of arrows as they fell into the yelling men below, still out of range of the more deadly spears. Many of the shafts were deflected as the tribesmen raised their shields and ran on, leaving only a few bodies behind them. First blood had been taken. Brutus hoped Julius was ready.

Julius was in the saddle when he heard the tribe roar. He jerked his horse round viciously, looking for the scout who had brought him the news.

‘Where is the man who told me the enemy were on the hill?’ he shouted, his stomach suddenly dropping away in a hollow feeling.

The call went round and the man came trotting up on his horse. He was very young and pink around the cheeks in the morning cold. Julius glared at him in terrible suspicion.

‘The enemy you reported. Tell me what you saw,’ Julius said.

The young scout stammered nervously under the stare of his general. ‘There were thousands up on the hill, sir. In the dark, I could not be sure of numbers, but there were many of them, sir. An ambush.’

Julius closed his eyes for a moment.

‘Arrest that man and hold him for punishment. Those were our legions, you stupid bastard.’

Julius wheeled his horse, thinking furiously. They had not travelled more than a few miles from the plain. It might not be too late. He untied his helmet from the saddle horn and pulled it roughly over his face, turning the metal features to face the gathered men.

‘The Tenth and Third Gallica are without support. We will march at our fastest pace to attack the Helvetii. Straight in, gentlemen. Straight in, now.’

Brutus waited as the Helvetii streamed past the ranging spear until it could not be seen. If he gave the order too early, the Third behind him could throw short. Too late and the crushing damage of seeing an attack destroyed would be wasted as the front ranks were passed over.

‘Spears!’ Brutus cried at his best volume, launching his own into the air.

Ten thousand arms jerked forward and then they were reaching for the second at their feet. Before the first wave landed, Brutus knew the Tenth would have two more in the air. The Third were slower, but only by a little, inspired by the example of the veterans and the nervous fear of the attack.

He had judged it perfectly and the different ranks of the Tenth and Third sent spears in a carpet of whistling iron onto the enemy. Not just the front rank, but most of the first ten went from running warriors to broken corpses in moments. Hundreds died from the first wave, and the men who survived could see the black launch of the second coming at them, even as they urged each other on.

There was no way to avoid the death from the air. The spears moved in flight to fall in groups or widely apart. One man could be struck with a cluster of them, or a whole charging line destroyed bar one, miraculously untouched. Though the Helvetii ducked under their shields, the heavy iron heads punched through wood and bone into the soft ground beneath. Brutus saw many tribesmen struggle to free their shields, sometimes pinned to others through the overlapping edges. Many of them still lived, but could not rise as their blood poured from them.

Brutus watched as the attack stuttered to a stop. The third strike did less destruction and they pulled back from the last, running wildly from the men on the hill. The Tenth cheered as the Gauls turned and Brutus looked east for Julius. If he sent in his legions at that moment, they could very well panic the Helvetii into a rout. There was no sign of him.

The Helvetii re-formed at the edge of the range and began to advance once more over the bodies of their finest.

‘These men have never fought a legion of Rome!’ Brutus called to the men around him.

Some of them smiled, but their eyes were on the advancing hordes that made the broken bodies vanish as they climbed the hill again. A few of the legion spears were tugged from corpses and thrown up at the Tenth, but against the rise of the land, they fell short.

‘Ready swords!’ Brutus ordered and for the first time both legions drew their blades and held them high for the sun to catch. Brutus looked around him and raised his head proudly. Let them climb, he thought.

As they began to pant and blow, the phalanx formations broke apart as the Helvetii neared the Roman lines. The Tenth waited patiently for them, each man standing amongst friends he had known for years. There was no fear in the Roman lines. They stood in perfect formation with the cornicens ready to rotate the front ranks as they tired. They carried swords of hard iron and all along the faces of his men Brutus could see eager anticipation. Some of the legionaries even beckoned to the warriors, urging them on. In a flash of insight, Brutus saw them as the Helvetii did, a wall of men and shields without gaps.

The first of the Helvetii met the Tenth and were cut down with efficient ferocity. The hard Roman blades chopped into them all along the line, cutting arms and heads free in single blows. The long spears of the Helvetii could not pierce the Roman shields and Brutus exulted at the toll.

He stood in the third rank of the right and raised his head from the fascination of the carnage to view the position. There was a mass of men struggling to support their comrades and even more were streaming around the hill to flank them. He felt fresh sweat break out on his skin as he looked for Julius once again. The sun was in his eyes at that angle, but he squinted against the glare to the tree line.

‘Come on, come on,’ he said aloud.

Though it would be some time before the Helvetii could surround his men, if they reached the crest behind him the Tenth and Third would have no line of retreat. He groaned aloud in frustration as he saw the small number the Helvetii had left to guard the women and children. An attack at the rear would cause instant panic amongst the warriors.

The sheer numbers of the charge began to cut gaps in the front rank of the Tenth. The velites were fast and lightly armoured and though they could fight for two hours without a rest, Brutus thought of sending the heavy men in to keep them fresh for the retreat he may have to order. If Julius did not come quickly, Brutus knew he would have to take the legions back to the crest of the hill, fighting every inch of the way. It would be worse when they were followed down naked to the blades of the tribe behind.

Brutus looked over the heads of his men, his heart pounding with anger. If he survived the retreat, he swore Julius would pay for the destruction of the Tenth. He knew almost all of them after the years in Spain and every death was like a blow.

Suddenly, in the distance, he saw the silvered lines of Julius’ legions surging onto the plain and he shouted with pleasure and relief. The Helvetii of the column blew horns in warning and Brutus saw their phalanx reserves go out to meet the new threat. More horns sounded on the hill as the tribe halted and looked back at the plain. Brutus roared at them in incoherent triumph as they began to fall back from the Tenth, a gap opening between the armies. There would be no flanking movement then, with every warrior desperate to protect his spoils and his people.

‘Tenth and Third!’ Brutus shouted, over and over to his left and right. They were ready for his orders and he raised his arm to sweep down towards the plain.

‘Close formation! Archers gather shafts as you find them! Charge Tenth! Charge Third!’

Ten thousand men moved as one at his word and Brutus thought his chest would burst with pride.

The Helvetii had no cavalry and Julius sent the extraordinarii out to hammer their lines as they tried desperately to re-form to repel the new attack. As Julius marched with Mark Antony, he watched Octavian guide the lines of horsemen along an oblique angle to the Helvetii phalanxes. At full gallop, each man reached down to the long tube of leather at his leg and drew a thin javelin, releasing it with crushing accuracy. The Helvetii roared and brandished their shields, but Octavian would not close with them until the last spears had gone. By the time Julius reached the rear of the column, the reserves were in chaos and it was no difficulty to clear the last of them.

At his order, the cornicens sounded the command to double their speed and twenty thousand legionaries broke into the dog trot that could carry them for miles, straight at the enemy. The vast column of the Helvetii followers watched them in silence as they streamed by without even a call. There was no danger from them and Julius thought furiously how he should make the best use of the position.

The warriors who had attacked the hill were in full panicked flight back to the column by then and Julius smiled as he saw the shining squares of the Tenth and Third coming behind them, their tight formations making them look like silver plates in the dawn sun. The hill was littered with bodies and Julius saw the Helvetii had lost all direction, their phalanxes forgotten. Their fear was weakening them and Julius wanted it to increase. He considered calling the extraordinarii back to harass the column, but at that moment Octavian signalled a charge and the mass of horses formed into a great wedge that hammered into the running warriors. Julius waited until the extraordinarii had disengaged and were wheeling to go in again before he sent the signal to hold their position.

‘Ready spears!’ Julius called. He hefted his own in his hand, feeling the solid weight of the wooden stock. Already, he could see the faces of the warriors running at him. There would barely be time for more than one throw before the armies met.

‘Spears!’ he shouted, heaving his own into the air.

The ranks around him blackened the sky with iron and the front lines of the Helvetii were battered down. Before they could recover, the first legions met their charge and smashed through.

The centurions behind kept up the barrage as each group came into range and Julius roared as they went unstoppably deep into the mass of tribesmen. There were so many of them! His legionaries crushed anything that stood in their path and the advance was so fast that Julius felt a stab of worry that he was inviting a flanking manoeuvre. The cornicens blew his warning to widen the line and behind him the Ariminum legions spread out to envelop the enemy. The extraordinarii moved out with them, waiting to attack.

A splash of blood caught Julius in the mouth as he slowed and he spat quickly, rubbing his hand across his face. He called for second spears to be thrown in waves of ten ranks at a time, not even seeing where the iron spikes landed. It was a dangerous practice, as nothing damaged morale more than the weapons falling short into the Roman lines, but Julius needed every advantage to reduce the huge force of the tribe.

The Helvetii fought with desperate ferocity, trying to get back to their main column, now unprotected behind the Roman legions. Those who were not in the front lines milled like bees at the edges, spreading further out onto the plain. Julius countered with a wider and then wider front, until he had his four legions in a line only six deep, sweeping all before them.

For a time, Julius could not see much of the battle. He fought as a foot soldier with the others and wished he had stayed on some high outcrop to direct the fighting.

Brutus spread the Tenth and Third wide to cut off a retreat and both legions hacked their way through while the sun rose and baked them. Boys ran amongst the ranks with leather bags of water for those who had drunk the ration they carried and still they fought on.

Julius ordered the last two spears his men carried to be thrown blind. On the flat ground, many of them were sent back as fast as they were thrown, but the soft iron heads had bent on impact and they flew poorly, with little strength. Julius saw a man only feet from him reach up to bat one away as it spun at him and Julius heard his arm crack. He began to realise the Helvetii would fight to the last man and summoned the most senior of the Ariminum generals to him.

General Bericus arrived looking calm and fresh, as if they were engaged in nothing more difficult than a training manoeuvre.

‘General,’ Julius said, ‘I want you to take a thousand men and attack the column behind us.’

Bericus stood slightly stiffer at the order. ‘Sir, I do not believe them to be a threat. I saw only women and children as we passed.’

Julius nodded, wondering if he would regret having such a decent man leading his soldiers.

‘Those are my orders, General. However, you have my permission to make as much noise as you can during the disengage.’

For a moment, Bericus looked blank, then his lips twitched in understanding.

‘We’ll shout like maniacs, sir,’ he said, saluting.

Julius watched him go and called a messenger to him.

‘Tell the extraordinarii they are free to attack as they see fit,’ he said.

As soon as Bericus reached his lines, Julius saw them shift as the commands were passed down the chain of authority. In only a short while, two cohorts had detached from the battle and their places in the lines were filled. Julius heard them roar as they turned and began a deliberate march back to attack the column. Bericus had taken horns with him and the cornicens kept up a constant racket until there was not a man on the plain who was not aware of the threat they posed.

At first, the warriors of the Helvetii fought with renewed energy, but the extraordinarii had resumed their scything strikes on the wing and Roman discipline held the wild charges of the tribesmen. Suddenly they were despairing, dreading the sight of the legion lines cutting into the naked column.

A distant cheer went up and Julius craned to see the cause. He ordered the maniples to rotate the velites back to the front and went with them, gasping with weariness. How long had they been fighting? The sun seemed to have frozen overhead.

The cheering intensified on the left wing, but though it brought him hope, Julius found himself faced with two men who were using their shields to batter the Roman line. He had a glimpse of a mouth ringed in white spittle before he lunged forward and felt his gladius sink into flesh. The first fell screaming and Mark Antony cut his throat as they marched over him. The second was knocked from his feet by a legionary and Julius heard his ribs crack as the soldier dropped his weight onto a knee, caving in the chest. As the legionary stood, the Helvetii threw down their weapons in a great crash that stunned the ears and stood, panting and dazed. Julius ordered the halt with grim pleasure and looked back over the plain to the mass of bodies left behind them. There was more flesh than grass and only the two Roman cohorts moved over the red ground.

A great low wail went up from the column of followers as they saw the surrender and again Julius heard cheering, recognising it now as the voices of the Tenth and Third. Julius took the bronze horn from the nearest cornicen and blew a falling note to stop Bericus before he could begin his attack. They halted in perfect formation as the sound carried to them and Julius smiled. Whatever else went against him, he could not complain at the quality of the legions he commanded.

Julius paused then, removing his helmet and turning his face into the breeze. He sent the call for centurions and optios to gather the men back into their units. It had to be done quickly and sometimes brutally, if the surrender was to hold. Army tradition held that the slave price of captured enemy soldiers would be shared between the legions, which tended to prevent massacres of those who surrendered. Yet in the battle rage, Julius knew many of his legionaries would think nothing of cutting down an unarmed foe, especially if that man had just wounded them. Julius had the cornicens sound the halt over and over until it penetrated and some semblance of order began to come back to the plain.

Spears and swords were collected and removed from the battlefield, guarded by the extraordinarii as they reassembled. The Helvetii warriors were made to kneel and had their arms tied behind them. Those who asked were given water by the same boys who served the legions and Julius began to gather them into lines of prisoners, moving amongst his men, congratulating where it was due and simply being seen.

The legionaries walked with stiff pride as they surveyed the numbers of prisoners and dead. They knew they had beaten a far larger force and Julius was pleased to see one of his men calling a water boy over to a bound warrior, holding the bronze pipe to his lips for him.

As Julius passed through them, assessing the losses, the Romans stared in the hope of catching his eye and when they were successful they nodded as respectfully as children.

Brutus came cantering up on a horse he had found, its rider amongst the dead.

‘What a victory, Julius!’ he called, leaping from the saddle.

The soldiers around him gestured and whispered to each other as they recognised his silver armour and Julius grinned at the awe in their faces. He had thought wearing the silver into battle was dangerous, given that the metal was so much softer than good iron, but Brutus had kept it, saying it raised the men’s spirits to fight with the best of a generation.

Julius chuckled at the memory.

‘I was pleased to see you on the plain. I can’t tell you,’ Brutus said.

Julius looked sharply at him, sensing the question. A smile played about his lips as he called for the scout to be summoned and Brutus raised his eyebrows when he saw the miserable Roman with his hands tied as tightly as the prisoners. The young man had been forced to march with the legions, an optio’s staff thudding into his back every time he slowed. Julius was pleased he had survived and with the glow of victory on him, he decided against having the man whipped as he almost certainly deserved.

‘Untie him,’ Julius said to the scout’s optio, who did so with a swift jerk of a knife. The scout looked as if he was close to tears as he struggled to stand to attention before his general and the winner of the sword tournament in Rome.

‘This young gentleman brought me a report that the enemy had taken the hill I ordered you to climb. In the darkness, he mistook two good Roman legions for a mass of tribesmen.’

Brutus broke into a guffaw of delighted amusement.

‘You didn’t fall back? Julius, that is …’ he broke off to laugh and Julius turned a mock severe expression on the desolate young scout.

‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to build a reputation as a tactical genius if I am seen retreating from my own men?’ he asked.

‘I am sorry, sir. I thought I heard Gaulish voices,’ the scout stammered. He was flushed with confusion.

‘Yes, that would have been my lot,’ Brutus said, cheerfully. ‘That is why you carry a password, son. You should have called before haring home.’

The young scout began to smile in response and Brutus’ expression changed instantly.

‘Of course, if you’d delayed the attack much longer, I would be taking a skinning knife to you.’

The sickly grin died on the scout’s face.

‘Three months’ pay docked and you scout on foot until your optio is certain you can be trusted with a horse,’ Julius added.

The young man breathed out in relief, not daring to look at Brutus as he saluted and left. Julius turned to Brutus and they shared a smile.

‘It was a good plan,’ Brutus said.

Julius nodded, calling for a horse. As he mounted, he looked over the battlefield, seeing the beginnings of order return as Roman wounds were stitched and splinted and bodies readied for funeral pyres. He would have the worst of the wounded taken back to the Roman province for treatment. The armour of those who had died would be sold off for replacements. The gaps left by dead officers would be filled by promotions from the ranks, signed by his hand. The world was turning the right way up and the heat of the day was beginning to fade.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Julius sat on a folding stool in the great tent of the Helvetii king and drank from a golden cup. The mood was light amongst the men he had summoned. The Ariminum generals in particular had been drinking heavily from the king’s private stores and Julius had not stopped them. They had earned the right to rest, though the work ahead was still daunting. Julius had not appreciated at first how large a task it would be simply to catalogue the baggage, and the night was loud with the sound of soldiers counting and piling the Helvetii possessions. He had sent Publius Crassus with four cohorts to begin retrieving spears and weapons from the battlefield. It was not a glorious task, but the son of the former consul had gathered his men quickly and without fuss, showing something of his father’s ability for organisation.

By the time the sun was edging towards the far west, the spear shafts of the Tenth and Third had been returned to them. Many of the heavy iron heads were twisted into uselessness, but Crassus had filled Helvetii carts with them, ready to be repaired or melted down by the legion smiths. By a twist of fate, one of the cohorts had been commanded by Germinius Cato, promoted after Spain. Julius wondered if the two men ever considered the enmity of their fathers behind their polite salutes.

‘Enough grain and dried meat to feed us for months, if it doesn’t spoil,’ Domitius said with satisfaction. ‘The weapons alone are worth a small fortune, Julius. Some of the swords are good iron, and even the bronze ones have hilts worth keeping.’

‘Any coin?’ Julius asked, eyeing the cup in his hand.

Renius opened a sack at his feet and brought out a few rough-looking discs.

‘What passes for it here,’ he said. ‘A silver and copper mix. Hardly worth anything, though there are chests of them.’ Julius took one and held it up to the lamp. The circle of tarnished metal had a piece cut out of it, reaching right to the middle.

‘A strange thing. Looks like a bird on the face, though with that slice out of it, I can’t be sure.’

The night breeze came into the tent with Brutus and Mark Antony.

‘Are you calling the council, Julius?’ Brutus asked. Julius nodded and Brutus put his head back out of the flap, shouting for Ciro and Octavian to join them.

‘Are the prisoners secure?’ Renius asked Brutus.

Mark Antony answered. ‘The men are tied, but we don’t have nearly enough soldiers to stop the rest of them from leaving in the night if they want to.’ He noticed the sack of coins and picked one up.

‘Hand stamped?’ Julius asked as he saw his interest.

Mark Antony nodded.

‘This one is, though the larger towns can produce coins as good as anything you’ll see in Rome. Their metalwork is often very beautiful.’ He dropped the coin back into Renius’ outstretched palm. ‘Not these, though. Quite inferior.’

Julius indicated stools for the two men and they accepted the dark wine in the cups from the king’s private hoard.

Mark Antony tilted his up and gasped with satisfaction.

‘The wine, however, is not inferior at all. Have you thought what you will do with the rest of the Helvetii? I have a couple of suggestions, if you will allow me.’

Renius cleared his throat. ‘Like it or not, we’re responsible for them now. The Aedui will kill them all if they go south without their warriors.’

‘That is the problem,’ Julius said, rubbing tiredness from his eyes. ‘Or rather this is.’ He hefted a heavy roll of skin parchment and showed them the leading edge, marked with tiny characters.

‘Adàn says it is a list of their people. It took him hours just to get an estimate.’

‘How many?’ Mark Antony asked. They all looked to Julius, waiting.

‘Ninety thousand men of fighting age, three times that amount in women, children and the elderly.’

The numbers awed them all. Octavian spoke first, his eyes wide.

‘And how many men did we capture?’

‘Perhaps twenty thousand,’ Julius replied. He kept his face still as the rest of them broke into amazed laughter, clapping each other on the back. Octavian whistled.

‘Seventy thousand dead. We killed a city.’

His words sobered the others as they thought of the mounds of dead on the plain and on the hill.

‘And our own dead?’ Renius asked.

Julius recited the figures without a pause.

‘Eight hundred legionaries with twenty-four officers amongst them. Perhaps the same again in wounded. Many of those will fight again once we’ve stitched them.’

Renius shook his head in amazement. ‘It is a good price.’

‘May it always be so,’ Julius said, raising the king’s cup. The others drank with him.

‘But we still have quarter of a million people on our hands,’ Mark Antony pointed out. ‘And we are exposed on this plain, with the Aedui coming up fast to share in the plunder. Do not doubt it, gentlemen. By noon tomorrow, there will be another army claiming a part of the riches of the Helvetii.’

‘Ours, by right, such as they are,’ Renius replied. ‘I haven’t seen much in the way of actual riches apart from these cups.’

‘No, there may be something in cutting them a share,’ Julius said thoughtfully. ‘They lost a village and the battle took place on their land. We need allies amongst these people and Mhorbaine has influence.’ He turned to Bericus, still in his blood-spattered armour.

‘General, have your men take a tenth part of everything we have found here. Keep it safe under guard for the Aedui.’

Bericus rose and saluted. Like the others, he was pale with weariness, but he left the tent quickly and they all heard his voice growing in strength as it snapped out orders in the darkness.

‘So what are you going to do with the prisoners?’ Brutus asked.

‘Rome needs slaves,’ Julius replied. ‘Though the price will plunge, we must have funds for this campaign. At the moment, coins like this one are the only wealth we have. There is no silver to pay the Tenth and Third and six legions eat their way through a fortune each month. Our soldiers know the slave price of captured soldiers comes to them and many are already discussing their new wealth.’

Mark Antony looked a little stiff at hearing this. His own legion received their pay directly from Rome and he had assumed it was the same for the others.

‘I did not realise …’ he began, then paused. ‘May I speak?’

Julius nodded. Mark Antony held out his own cup to Brutus, who ignored him.

‘If you sell the tribe back in Rome, the lands of the Helvetii will remain empty, right up to the Rhine. There are Germanic tribes there who would be only too willing to cross and occupy undefended land. The Gauls revere strong warriors, but they have nothing good to say about the men across the river. You would not want them on the borders of the Roman province.’

‘We could take that land ourselves,’ Brutus broke in. Mark Antony shook his head.

‘If we left a few legions there to guard the Rhine banks, we would lose half our force for no good end. The land is worthless ash at present. Food would have to be brought in until the fields could be cleared and resown and then who would work them? Our legionaries? No, it is far better to send the Helvetii back to their own country. Let them guard the north for us. They have more to lose, after all.’

‘Would they not be overrun by these savage tribes you mentioned?’ Julius asked.

‘They have twenty thousand warriors left to them. No small number and more importantly, they will fight to the death to repel any new invader. They have seen what legions can do and if they can’t migrate south, they must stay and fight for their fields and homes. More wine, here, Brutus.’

Brutus looked at Mark Antony with dislike as the man held out his cup again, apparently unaware of the first refusal.

‘Very well,’ Julius said. ‘Though the men won’t be pleased, we will leave the Helvetii enough food to go home, taking the rest for ourselves. I will arm one in ten so that they may protect their people. Everything else comes back with us, bar the share for the Aedui. Thank you, Mark Antony. It is good advice.’

Julius looked around at the men in the tent.

‘I will tell Rome what we achieved here. My scribe is copying the reports as we speak. Now, I hope you are not tired, because I want that column moving home by first light.’ There was a barely audible groan from them and Julius smiled.

‘We will stay to hand over their portion to the Aedui and then an easy march back to the province, arriving the day after tomorrow.’ He yawned, setting off one or two of the others. ‘Then we can sleep.’ He rose to his feet and they stood with him. ‘Come on, the night is short enough in summer.’

The following day gave Julius a more than grudging respect for the organisational skills of the Helvetii. Just getting so many people ready to move was difficult enough, but weighing out enough food to keep them alive for the march home took many hours. The Tenth were given the task and soon long lines stretched out to the soldiers with their measuring cups and sacks, doling out the supplies to each surviving member of the tribe.

The Helvetii were still stunned by their sudden reversal of fortunes. Those of the Aedui they had taken as prisoners had to be forcibly separated after two stabbings in the morning. The Aedui women had taken revenge on their captors with a viciousness that appalled even hardened soldiers. Julius ordered two of them hanged and there were no more such incidents.

The army of the Aedui appeared out of the tree line before noon, when Julius was wondering if they were ever going to get the huge column moving. Seeing them in the distance, Julius sent a scout out to them with a one-word message: ‘Wait.’ He knew the chaos could only be increased with several thousand angry fighters itching to attack a beaten enemy. To help their patience, after an hour Julius followed the message with a train of oxen, bearing Helvetii weapons and valuables. The prisoners he had liberated were sent with them and Julius was pleased to have them off his hands. He had been generous with the Aedui, though Mark Antony told him they would assume he kept the best pieces for himself, no matter what he sent them. In fact, he had kept back the gold cups, splitting them between the generals of his legions.

As noon passed and the Helvetii were still on the plain, Julius became red-faced and irritated with the delays. Part of it was down to the inescapable fact that the leaders of the tribe had all been killed in the fighting, leaving a headless mass of people who milled about until he was tempted to have the optios use their staffs on them to start them on their way.

At last, Julius ordered swords to be returned to two thousand of the warriors. With weapons in their hands, the men stood a little more proudly and lost the forlorn look of prisoners and slaves. Those men bullied the column into something like order and then, with a single horn blowing against the breeze, the Helvetii moved off. Julius watched them go with relief and, as Mark Antony had predicted, the moment it was clear they were heading north the Aedui started streaming onto the plain, calling and shouting after them.

Julius had his cornicens summon the six legions to block the path of Mhorbaine’s warriors, and as they approached he wondered if they would stop or whether another battle would end the day. In the mood he was in, he almost welcomed it.

The lines of the Aedui halted a quarter of a mile away on the plain. They had crossed the site of the battle and tens of thousands of unburied bodies that were already beginning to stink. There could be no greater way of demonstrating the power of the legions facing them than walking over a field of the dead they had left behind. They would spread the word.

He watched as Mhorbaine rode out with two followers carrying high pennants that fluttered on the breeze. Julius waited for them, his impatience disappearing as the Helvetii began to dwindle behind. Many of his men threw glances at the receding column, feeling the soldier’s natural dislike at being trapped between large groups, but Julius showed nothing of this, his weariness giving him an empty calm, as if all his emotion had been drained away with the column.

Mhorbaine dismounted and opened his arms in a wide embrace. Gently, Julius deflected him and Mhorbaine covered his confusion with a laugh.

‘I have never seen so many of my enemies dead on the ground, Caesar. It is astonishing. Your word was good to me and the gifts you sent make it sweeter, knowing the source. I have brought cattle for a great feast, enough to fill your men until they are near bursting. Will you break bread with me?’

‘No,’ Julius replied, to the man’s obvious astonishment. ‘Not here. The bodies bring disease if they are left. They are on your land and they should be buried, or burnt. I am returning to the province.’

Mhorbaine looked angry for a moment at the refusal.

‘You think I should spend a day digging holes for Helvetii corpses? Let them rot as a warning. As a stranger here, you may not know the custom to hold a feast after a battle. The gods of the earth must be shown the living have respect for the dead. We must send those we kill on the path, or they cannot leave.’

Julius rubbed his eyes. When had he last slept? He struggled to find words to appease the man.

‘I will return to the foot of the mountains with my men. It would be an honour to have you join me there. We will feast then and toast the dead.’ He saw Mhorbaine look speculatively at the retreating column and continued, his voice hardening. ‘The Helvetii who live are under my protection until they return to their lands. Do you understand?’

The Gaul looked doubtfully at the Roman. He had assumed the column was under guard and being taken into slavery. The idea of simply letting them go was difficult for him to take in.

‘Under your protection?’ he repeated slowly.

‘Believe me when I say that whoever attacks them will be my enemy,’ Julius replied.

After a pause, Mhorbaine shrugged, running a hand over his beard.

‘Very well, Caesar. I will ride ahead with my personal guard and be there to meet you as you come in.’

Julius clapped him on the shoulder, turning away. He saw Mhorbaine was watching in fascination as Julius nodded to the cornicens. The notes blared out across the plain and six legions turned on the spot. The soft earth trembled and Julius grinned as they marched away in perfect lines, leaving Mhorbaine and the Aedui behind. As they entered the tree line at the edge of the plain, Julius called Brutus to him.

‘Pass the word. I will not be beaten home. We march through the night and will feast when we get there.’ Julius knew the men would accept the challenge, no matter how exhausted they were. He sent the Tenth to the front to set the pace.

As dawn came, the six legions crossed the last crest before the Roman settlement at the foot of the Alps. The men had jogged and marched for more than forty miles and Julius was just about finished. He had marched every step of the way with his men, knowing his example would force them to keep going. Such small things mattered to those he led. In spite of their blisters, the men gave a ragged cheer at the sight of the sprawling buildings, moving easily into the faster pace for the last time.

‘Tell the men they have eight hours of sleep and a feast to bulge their bellies when they wake. If they’re as hungry as I am, they won’t want to wait, so have cold meat and bread served to them to take the edge off. I am proud of them all,’ Julius said to his scouts, sending them away to the other generals. He wondered idly whether his legions would have proved a match for the armies of Sparta, or Alexander. He would have been surprised if they hadn’t been able to run the legs off them, at least.

By the time Mhorbaine reached the same crest with fifty of his best fighters, the sun was above the horizon and Julius was sound asleep. Mhorbaine reined in there, looking at the changes the Romans had wrought. The dark wall they had built curved north into the distance, a slash in the fertile landscape. Everywhere else he could see was being transformed into squares of buildings, tents and dirt roads. Mhorbaine had crossed the legion trail a few miles before, but he was still astonished to see the reality. Somehow, he had been left behind in the darkness. He leaned on his saddle-horns and looked back at the massive figure of his champion, Artorath.

‘What a strange people they are,’ he said.

Instead of replying, Artorath squinted behind them.

‘Riders coming,’ he said. ‘Not ours.’

Mhorbaine turned his horse and looked back down the gently sloping hill. After a while, he nodded.

‘The other leaders are gathering to see this new man in our land. They will not be pleased that he beat the Helvetii before they could get here.’

Holding flags of truce high above their heads, groups of riders approached. It looked as if every tribe for two hundred miles had sent their representatives to the Roman settlement.

Mhorbaine looked down at the vast encampment with its orderly lines and fortifications.

‘If we are canny, there is a great advantage here for the taking,’ he said aloud. ‘Trade in food, for one, but those pretty legions are not a standing army. From what I’ve seen so far, this Caesar is hungry for war. If he is, the Aedui have other enemies for him to fight.’

‘Your schemes will get us all killed, I think,’ Artorath rumbled.

Mhorbaine raised his eyebrows at the man who sat a heavy stallion as if it was a pony. Artorath was the biggest man he had ever known, though sometimes he despaired of finding an intelligence to match his strength.

‘Do you think bodyguards should talk to their masters in that way?’ Mhorbaine said.

Artorath turned his blue eyes to meet him and shrugged. ‘I was speaking then as your brother, Mhor. You saw what they did to the Helvetii. Riding a bear would be easier than using your silver tongue on these new men. At least when you jump off the bear, you can still run for it.’

‘There are times when I can’t believe we share the same father,’ Mhorbaine retorted.

Artorath chuckled. ‘He wanted a big woman for his second son, he said. Killed three men to take her from the Arverni.’

‘To make an ox like you, yes. But not a leader, little brother, remember that. A leader needs to be able to protect his people with more than just unpleasantly bulbous muscles.’

Artorath snorted as Mhorbaine continued, ‘We need them, Artorath. The Aedui will prosper with an alliance and that is the reality, whether you like it or not.’

‘If you use snakes to catch rats, Mhor …’

Mhorbaine sighed. ‘Just once, I would like to talk to you without having animal wisdom thrown in my face. It does not make you sound intelligent, you know. A child could put things more clearly, I swear it.’

Artorath glowered at him, remaining silent. Mhorbaine nodded in relief.

‘Thank you, brother. I think, for the rest of the day, you should consider yourself my bodyguard first and my brother second. Now are you coming with me?’

His men were given tents while they waited for Julius to wake. Mhorbaine sent riders back to hurry on the herd he had brought for the feast and before noon had fully passed the slaughter of the animals had begun, with Mhorbaine and Artorath taking a personal hand in the preparation and spicing of the meat.

As the other leaders began to arrive, Mhorbaine greeted them with intense inner amusement, thoroughly enjoying their surprise at seeing him red to the elbows and issuing orders to boys and men as the bellowing cattle were killed and cut into a feast for thirty thousand. The sizzle of beef filled the air as a hundred fire pits were fed and heavy iron spits erected. Drowsy legionaries were rousted out of their warm blankets to help with the work, rewarded with a taste as they licked burnt fingers.

When Mark Antony woke, he had slaves bring buckets of river water for him to wash and shave, refusing to be hurried. If Julius was prepared to sleep through the biggest gathering of tribal leaders in living memory, then he was certainly not going out to them with two days of stubble on his face. As each hour passed, Mark Antony was forced to wake more and more of the soldiers, ignoring the swearing that came from the tents as his messages broke through the numbness of their exhaustion. The promise of hot food did wonders for their tempers and hunger silenced the complaints as they followed Mark Antony’s example and washed before dressing in their best uniforms.

There were many small villages in the Roman province and Mark Antony sent riders out to them for oil, fish sauce, herbs and fruit. He thanked his gods the trees were heavy with unpicked apples and oranges, no matter how green. After drinking water for so long, the bitter juice was better than wine after it had been pressed out into jugs for the men.

Julius was one of the last to wake, sticky with the heat. He had slept in the solid buildings of the original settlement, now much extended. Whoever designed them had shared the Roman taste for cleanliness and Julius was able to sluice himself with cold water in the bathing room, then lie on a hard pallet to have olive oil scraped on and off his skin, leaving him clean and refreshed. The muscles that ached in his back finally eased as he sat to be shaved and he wondered whether the daily massage kept him supple. Before he dressed, he looked down at himself, checking his bruises. His stomach in particular was tender, and marked as if he had taken a heavy impact. Strange that he did not remember it. He dressed slowly, enjoying the coolness of clean linen against his skin after the smell of his own sweat on the march. His hair snagged in the fine teeth of the comb and when he tugged, he was appalled to see the mass of strands that came away. There was no mirror in the bathing rooms and Julius tried to remember the last time he had seen an image of himself. Was he losing his hair? It was a horrible idea.

Brutus entered with Domitius and Octavian, all three men wearing the silver armour they had won in the tournament, polished to a high sheen.

‘The tribes have sent their representatives to see you, Julius,’ Brutus said, flushed with excitement. ‘There must be thirty different groups on our land, all under flags of truce and trying to hide how interested they are in our numbers and strategy.’

‘Excellent,’ Julius replied, responding to their enthusiasm. ‘Have tables put up for them in the dining hall. We should be able to get them all in, if they don’t mind the crush.’

‘All done,’ Domitius said. ‘Everyone is waiting for you to join them, but Mark Antony is frantic. He says they won’t move until you invite them to your table and we wouldn’t let him wake you.’

Julius chuckled.

‘Then let us walk out to them.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The air in the dining hall was thick with the heat of bodies as Julius took his seat at the long table. Though linen covered its length, Julius could not resist running a hand underneath to feel the rough new wood. It had not been there when he’d arrived that morning and he smiled to himself at the energy of Mark Antony and the legion carpenters.

He asked Mhorbaine to sit on his right hand and the Gaul took his place with obvious pleasure. Julius liked the man and wondered how many of the others would be friends or enemies in the years to come.

The men at his table were a mixed group, though all of them shared features as if their ancestors had sprung from the same tribe. They had hard faces, as if carved from pine. Many were bearded, though there was no style that dominated the gathering, and Julius saw as many moustaches and shaved skulls as there were beards and long braids dyed red at the roots. In the same way, there was no pattern to their clothes or armour. Some wore silver and gold brooches that he knew would fascinate Alexandria, while others were bare of any ornament. Julius saw Brutus eyeing an ornate clasp on Mhorbaine’s cloak and decided to bargain for a few fine pieces to give to her when they next saw Rome. He sighed at the thought, wondering when he would sit with his own people at a long table and hear their beautiful language rather than the throaty expectoration of the Gauls.

When they were all seated, Julius motioned for Adàn to stand at his side and rose to address the chieftains. For such an important meeting, he’d banished the elderly interpreter back to his tribe.

‘You are welcome in my land,’ Julius said, waiting for Adàn to echo the words in their own language. ‘I believe you know I prevented the Helvetii cutting through my province and that of the Aedui. I did this at Mhorbaine’s request and I use it to show my good faith to you.’

While Adàn translated, Julius watched their responses. It was an odd advantage to be removed from them by that one step. The pauses gave him the chance to marshal his arguments and see how they went across while the eyes of the Gauls were on Adàn.

‘The people of Rome do not live in constant fear of enemy attack,’ he continued. ‘They have roads, trade, theatres, bathing houses, cheap food for their families. They have clean water and laws that protect them.’

He saw from the expressions around the table that he was on the wrong track with his description. These were not men to care about the luxuries given to those they ruled.

‘More importantly,’ Julius went on quickly, as Adàn struggled over a word, ‘the leaders of Rome have vast lands and homes ten times the size of this small fort. They have slaves to tend their needs and the finest wines and horses in the world.’

A better reaction.

‘Those of you who become my allies will come to know all of that. I intend to bring the roads of Rome further into Gaul and trade with the furthest recesses of the land. I will bring the biggest market in the world here for your goods.’

One or two of the men smiled and nodded, but then a young warrior stood and all the Gauls looked to him, becoming still. Julius could feel Brutus bristle on his left. There was nothing unusual in the figure who faced Julius twenty feet away. The Gaul wore his beard short and his blond hair tied back in a club on his neck. Like many of the others, he was a short, powerful figure dressed in wool and worn leather. Yet, despite his youth, the Gaul looked arrogantly around at the gathered representatives of the tribes. His face was badly scarred and cold blue eyes seemed to mock them all.

‘And if we refuse your empty promises?’ the man said.

As Adàn translated, Mhorbaine stood at Julius’ side.

‘Sit down, Cingeto. You want another enemy to add to your list? When did your father’s people last know peace?’

Mhorbaine spoke in his own language and the young Gaul responded far too quickly for Adàn to follow. The two men roared at each other across the table and Julius swore he would learn their language. He knew Brutus was already studying it and he would join his daily lesson.

Without warning, the yellow-haired warrior stormed away from the table, slamming the door open to the outside. Mhorbaine watched him go with narrowed eyes.

‘Cingeto’s people would rather fight than eat,’ Mhorbaine said. ‘The Arverni have always been that way, but do not let it trouble you. His elder brother, Madoc, has less of a temper and it is he who will wear his father’s crown.’

The exchange had clearly worried Mhorbaine, but he forced a smile onto his face as he looked at Julius.

‘You must ignore the rudeness of the boy. Not everyone feels as Cingeto does.’

Julius called for the plates of beef and mutton to be brought in from the fire pits, glistening with oil and herbs. He tried to hide his surprise as they were followed with heaped platters of fresh bread, sliced fruit and roasted game birds. Mark Antony had been busier than he realised.

The awkward pause after Cingeto’s departure disappeared in the clatter of plates. The chieftains fell to with a will, each man bringing out his own knife to slice and spear the hot food. Finger bowls of fresh water were used to dilute the wine, to the surprise of the servants, who quickly refilled them. Julius understood that the chieftains did not want to lose their wits in drunkenness and on reflection, he tipped his own water bowl into his wine cup as well. Brutus and Octavian followed his example with a private grin between them.

A sudden crash from outside the hall brought two of the guests half to their feet. Julius rose with them, but Mhorbaine remained in his seat, frowning.

‘That will be Artorath, my guard. He will have found some men to wrestle by now.’ Another crash and grunt punctuated his words and he sighed.

‘The big man?’ Julius asked, amused.

Mhorbaine nodded. ‘He becomes bored too easily, but what can you do with family? My father raided the Arverni for his mother when he was really too old for such activities. Cingeto’s people do not forgive, though they take their own wives in the same way when they can.’

‘The women must be very unhappy with such an arrangement,’ Julius said slowly, trying to understand.

Mhorbaine laughed aloud. ‘They are if we take the wrong one in the dark. You’ll never hear the end of it, then. No, Julius, when the tribes meet at the Beltane festival for barter and trade, there are a lot of matches made. You might even enjoy seeing it one year. The women make their wishes clear to the young warriors and it’s a grand adventure trying to steal them away from their people. I remember my wife fought me like a wolf, but she never called for help.’

‘Why not?’ Julius asked.

‘She might have been rescued! She was very taken with my beard, I think. Mind you, she pulled a handful of it out while I tried to get her over my shoulders. I had a bald patch for a while, right on the chin.’

Julius poured wine for the Gaul and watched as Mhorbaine topped it up with water.

‘I’ve never seen a finger bowl used like this before,’ Mhorbaine said. ‘Good idea, though, when the wine is so sharp.’

Artorath dropped his weight, shifting his centre of balance. Domitius collapsed over him and found himself being lifted into the air. There was a brief sensation of terrifying flight and then the ground connected and Domitius had the wind knocked out of him. He lay groaning while Artorath chuckled.

‘You’re strong for such a little fellow,’ he said, though he knew by then that not one of the Romans could understand real words. They did not seem particularly bright to the big Gaul. At first, when he had held up a coin and mimed holds for them, they seemed to think he was insane. Then one of them had come too close and Artorath had flipped him onto his back with a grunt. Their faces had lit up at that and they dug in their pouches for coins to match his own.

Domitius was his fifth opponent for the evening and though Artorath still went through the routine of biting the silver coins he was given, he thought he could well have enough for a new horse by the time Mhorbaine had finished charming the Roman leader.

Artorath had noticed Ciro standing apart from the others. Their eyes had met only once, but Artorath knew he had him. He relished the challenge and took pleasure from throwing Domitius as close to Ciro’s feet as he could.

‘Any more?’ Artorath boomed at them, pointing to each one and waggling his bushy eyebrows as if he spoke to children. Domitius had pulled himself upright by then and had a mischievous grin on his face. He held up a flat palm in an unmistakable gesture.

‘Wait here, elephant. I know the man for you,’ Domitius said slowly.

Artorath shrugged. As Domitius jogged away into the main buildings, Artorath looked questioningly at Ciro, beckoning him forward and waving a coin in the air with the other hand. To his pleasure, Ciro nodded and began to remove his armour until he stood wearing only a breechcloth and sandals.

Artorath had drawn a ring in the ground with a stick and he pointed for Ciro to step over the line. He loved to fight big men. Small ones were used to looking up at their opponents, but warriors of Ciro’s size had probably never met a man who towered over them as Artorath did. It gave him a great advantage, though the crowd never knew it.

Ciro began to stretch his back and legs and Artorath gave him room, moving swiftly into his own loosening routine. After five bouts, he hardly needed it, but he enjoyed showing off to a crowd and the Roman soldiers were already three deep around the little space. Artorath spun and leapt, enjoying himself immensely.

‘Do they say big men are slow where you come from, little soldiers?’ he taunted their blank faces. The evening was cool and he felt invincible.

As Ciro stepped into the ring, a voice called out and many of the soldiers grinned in anticipation as Brutus came running back with Domitius.

‘Hold, Ciro. Brutus wants a turn before you beat the big ox,’ Domitius said, panting.

Brutus came to a halt as he caught sight of Artorath. The man was enormous and more heavily muscled than anyone he had ever seen. It was not simply a question of strength, he saw. Artorath’s skull was half as large again as Ciro’s and every other bone was thicker than a normal man’s.

‘You have to be joking,’ Brutus said. ‘He must be seven feet tall! You go ahead, Ciro. Don’t wait for me.’

‘I fought him,’ Domitius said. ‘Nearly had him over as well.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Brutus said flatly. ‘Where are your marks? One punch from those big fists would put your nose through the back of your head.’

‘Ah, but he isn’t punching. It’s like Greek wrestling, if you’ve ever seen it. He uses his feet to trip you, but the rest is holds and balance. Very skilful, but as I said, I almost had him.’

Ciro still waited patiently and Artorath only raised an eyebrow in Brutus’ direction, completely oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

‘I can beat him,’ Ciro said, in the pause.

Brutus looked dubiously at Artorath. ‘How? He’s like a mountain.’

Ciro shrugged. ‘My father was a big man. He taught me a few throws. It is not Greek wrestling that he is doing. My father learned it from an Egyptian. Let me show you.’

‘He’s yours, then,’ Brutus said, clearly relieved.

Artorath looked at him as he spoke and Brutus waved a hand to Ciro, stepping back.

Once again, Ciro stepped over the line and this time he moved forward in a quick lunge. Artorath matched him and the two men met with a hard smack of flesh that made the watching soldiers wince. Without pausing, Ciro broke the grip on his shoulders and took an outside line, narrowly avoiding the big Gaul’s horny feet as they swept towards his ankles. Ciro slid past him and tried to leap away, but Artorath spun and held him before he was clear.

Their legs entwined as each man fought to throw the other. Artorath twisted out of Ciro’s hands and very nearly threw him over his hip, the move spoilt by Ciro dropping into a low crouch and then launching himself, trying to take Artorath off his feet. Against such a big opponent, it only made Artorath stagger and automatically he crossed his forearms and pressed them against Ciro’s throat, heaving backwards.

It might have been the end, if Ciro’s heel hadn’t blocked his step, so that Artorath fell like a tree, crashing into the earth with Ciro on top of him. Before the Romans could begin to cheer, the twined figures exploded into an even faster struggle, breaking and taking grips and using the slightest purchase to apply holds on joints that would have broken in smaller men.

Artorath used his powerful hands to lock Ciro’s throat again and Ciro found his little finger and snapped it with a jerk. Though he growled, Artorath maintained the grip and Ciro was growing purple as he found another finger and sent that the way of the first. Only then did the big man let go, holding the injured hand.

Ciro came to his feet first, bouncing lightly. The big Gaul rose more slowly, with anger showing for the first time.

‘Should we stop it?’ Domitius asked. No one answered.

Artorath launched a hard kick that missed, stamping the ground as Ciro sidestepped and grabbed Artorath around the waist. He failed completely to lift the big man. Artorath managed to lock Ciro’s wrist, but his broken fingers lost their hold and he bellowed in Ciro’s ear as the Roman chopped his foot into Artorath’s knee and brought him down on his head. The Gaul lay stunned, his great chest heaving. Ciro nodded to him and helped him to his feet.

Brutus watched with fascination as Artorath grudgingly opened his belt pouch to give back one of the coins he had won. Ciro waved it away and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You next, Brutus?’ Domitius asked slyly. ‘His fingers are broken, you know.’

‘I would, of course, but it wouldn’t be fair to hurt him further,’ Brutus replied. ‘Take him to Cabera and have that hand splinted.’

He tried to mime the action for Artorath, who shrugged. He’d had worse and there was still more silver in his belt than when he’d started. He was surprised to see open cheerfulness on the faces of the soldiers around the ring, even those he had beaten. One of them brought him an amphora of wine and broke the wax seal. Another patted him on the back before walking away. Mhorbaine was right, he thought. They really were a strange people.

The stars were incredibly sharp in the summer sky. Though Venus had set, Julius could see the tiny red disc of Mars and he saluted it with his cup before holding it out for Mhorbaine to fill. The rest of the Gauls had retired long before and even the watered wine had helped to relax the wariest of them towards the end of the feast. Julius had spoken to many of the men, learning their names and the locations of their tribes. He owed a debt to Mhorbaine for the introductions and felt a pleasant, drunken regard for the Gaul as they sat together.

The camp was silent around them. Somewhere an owl screamed and Julius jumped. He eyed the cup of wine and tried to remember when he had stopped adding water to it.

‘This is a beautiful land,’ he said.

Mhorbaine glanced at him. Though he had not drunk anywhere near as much as the others, he copied their sluggish movements with a rare skill.

‘Is that why you want it?’ Mhorbaine asked, holding his breath for an answer.

Julius did not seem to notice the tension in the man who sat on the damp ground at his side and simply waved his cup at the stars, slopping the red liquid over the rim.

‘What does any man want? If you had my legions, wouldn’t you dream of ruling this place?’

Mhorbaine nodded to himself. The wind had changed in Gaul and he had no regrets about doing what he had to, to preserve his people.

‘If I had your legions, I would make myself a king. I would call myself Mhorix, or Mhorbainrix, perhaps,’ he said.

Julius looked blearily at him, blinking. ‘Rix?’

‘It means king,’ Mhorbaine told him.

Julius was silent in thought and Mhorbaine filled their cups again, sipping at his own.

‘But even a king needs strong allies, Julius. Your men fight well on foot, but you have only a handful of cavalry, whereas my warriors were born in the saddle. You need the Aedui, but how can I be sure you will not turn on us? How can I trust you?’

Julius turned to face him.

‘I am a man of my word, Gaul. If I call you friend, it will last all my life. If the Aedui fight with me, their enemies will be mine, their friends will be my friends.’

‘We have many enemies, but there is one in particular that threatens my people.’

Julius snorted and the heat of the wine filled his veins. ‘Give me his name and he is a dead man,’ he said.

‘His name is Ariovistus, ruler of the Suebi and their vassal tribes. They are of Germanic blood, Julius, with cold skin, a plague of ruthless horsemen who live for battle. They raid further south each year. Those who resisted them at first were destroyed, their lands taken as right of conquest.’

Mhorbaine leaned closer, his voice urgent. ‘But you broke the back of the Helvetii, Julius. With my riders, your legions will feast on his white warriors, and all the tribes of Gaul will look to you.’

Julius stared at the stars above, silent for a long time.

‘I may be worse than Ariovistus, my friend,’ he whispered.

Mhorbaine’s eyes were black in the night as he forced a smile onto his hard face. Though he left omens to his druids, he feared for his people now that such a man had entered Gaul. Mhorbaine had offered his cavalry to bind the legions to his people. To keep the Aedui safe.

‘Perhaps you will be; we will know in time. If you march against him, you must bring him to battle before winter, Julius. After the first snow, the year is over for warriors.’

‘Can your winter be so terrible?’

Mhorbaine smiled mirthlessly. ‘Nothing I can say will prepare you, my friend. We call the first moon “Dumannios” – the darkest depths. And it gets colder after that. You will see, when it comes, especially if you travel further north, as you must to defeat my enemies.’

‘I will have your cavalry to command?’ Julius said.

Mhorbaine looked him in the eye.

‘If we are allies,’ he said softly.

‘Then let us make it so.’

To Mhorbaine’s astonishment, Julius drew a dagger from his belt and gashed his right palm. He held out the blade.

‘Bind it in blood, Mhorbaine, or it is not bound at all.’

Mhorbaine took the blade and cut his own palm, allowing Julius to take the wounded hand in a firm grip. He felt the sting of it and wondered what would come of the bargain. With his cup, Julius gestured to the red planet above them.

‘I swear under the eye of Mars that the Aedui are named friends. I swear it as consul and general.’ Julius let the hands fall apart and refilled their cups from the amphora he cradled in his lap.

‘There, it is done,’ he said. Mhorbaine shuddered and this time, drank deeply against the cold.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Pompey leaned on the white marble balcony of the temple to Jupiter, the vast space of the forum stretching away below him. From the top of the Capitol, he could gaze on the heart of the city and what he saw displeased him immensely.

Crassus showed nothing of his private amusement as he too looked over the swelling crowds. He kept his silence as Pompey muttered angrily to himself, turning at intervals to point out some newly infuriating aspect of the scene.

‘There, Crassus. Can you see them? The bastards!’ Pompey cried, pointing.

Crassus looked past the quivering finger to where a long line of men in black togas wound their way from one side of the forum towards the senate house, pausing at intervals to burn incense. Over the wind, Crassus thought he could hear the sound of the dirge that accompanied their steps and it was all he could do not to laugh as Pompey stiffened at the wailing notes.

‘What are they thinking to be mocking me in this way?’ Pompey shouted, purpling with rage. ‘The whole city to see them in their mourners’ cloths. By the gods, they will love to see it. And what will we have as a result? I swear, Crassus, the people will use the Senate’s disobedience as an excuse for riots tonight. I will be forced to declare another curfew and again I will be accused of ruling without them.’

Crassus cleared his throat delicately, taking care to choose his words. Below, the long line of senators paused in sequence as incense billowed out of golden censers against the breeze.

‘You knew they could rebel against our agreement, Pompey. You told me yourself that they were growing fractious,’ he said.

‘Yes, but I did not expect such a public display of disorder, for all the trouble they have been giving me in the Curia. That fool Suetonius is behind part of it, I know. He courts that trader Clodius as if he were something better than the gang leader he really is. I wish you had broken him properly, Crassus. You should see the way they discuss and scrutinise my legislation. As if any of them have been senators for more than the blink of an eye. It is insufferable! At times, they make me want to take the powers they accuse me of. Then we would see something. If I were made Dictator, even for six months, I could root out the dissenters and remove this … this …’ words failed him as he swept an arm at the forum below. The line of senators were nearing the Curia building and Crassus could hear the crowd cheering their stand against Pompey.

Crassus had no sympathy for his colleague. Pompey lacked the subtlety to massage his opponents, preferring to use his authority to batter the Senate into obedience. Privately, Crassus agreed with many of the other senators that Pompey already acted as Dictator over a city that was quickly losing patience with his autocratic style.

In the distance, the procession reached the steps up to the Curia and Crassus saw them pause. They played a perilous game in angering Pompey in such a way. Their mocking funeral for the death of the Republic was intended as a public warning, but the last embers of democracy could indeed be crushed if Pompey lost all restraint as a result of it. Certainly, if riots ensued, Pompey would be within his rights to clamp down on the city and, once pushed so far, Dictatorship was not such a great leap for him. If he declared himself in that position, Crassus knew only a war would wrest it from his hands.

‘If you can see past your anger for a moment,’ Crassus began gently, ‘you must realise that they do not want to force you further than you have already gone. Is it too much to re-establish the elections you have stopped? You have your creatures now as tribunes of the people. Could you not allow the voting again on future positions? That would take some of the sting out of the demonstrations against you, and at least gain you time.’

Pompey didn’t answer. The two men watched the senators disappear inside the Curia and the distant bronze doors swing closed behind them. The excited crowds remained, milling and shouting under the grim eyes of Pompey’s soldiers. Though the funeral procession had ended, the younger citizens especially had been infected by the display and were reluctant to leave. Pompey hoped his centurions would have the sense not to be too harsh with them. With Rome in that mood, a riot could spring from the slightest spark.

At last, Pompey spoke, his voice bitter.

‘They blocked me at every turn, Crassus. Even when I had the whole Senate with me, the whoreson tribunes stood up and vetoed my legislation. They set themselves against me. Why should I not put my own men into their positions? At least now I don’t have my work ruined for some petty point or whim.’

Crassus looked at his colleague, noting the changes in him over the previous year. Dark pouches had swollen under his eyes and he looked exhausted. It had not been an easy period and with the citizens testing the strength of their leaders, Crassus was pleased enough to be free of the constant wrangling. Pompey had aged under the responsibility and Crassus wondered if he secretly regretted the bargain he had struck. Julius had Gaul, Crassus his fleet of ships and his precious legion. Pompey had the struggle of his life, begun on the first day in Senate when he had forced through a bill with Julius’ proxy.

The Senate had borne the change in power well enough at first, but then the factions had begun to form and with new men like the merchants Clodius and Milo entering the Senate, it had become a dangerous game for all of them. Rumours had spread that Bibilus had been killed or mutilated and twice the Senate had demanded he be shown alive to them and made to explain his absence. Pompey had allowed them to send letters to the consul, but Julius’ word had been good. Bibilus had not come and visitors to his house found it barred and dark.

After two debates had come close to violence, Pompey had his soldiers stand guard over the sessions, ignoring the protests of the senators. Now they paraded their dissatisfaction in front of the people, making the dispute public. Though Crassus found Pompey’s fury amusing, he worried for what would come of it.

‘No man rules Rome alone, my friend,’ Crassus murmured.

Pompey glanced sharply at him.

‘Show me the laws I have broken! My tribunes are appointed rather than elected. They were never meant to bring the work of the Senate to a complete halt and now they do not.’

‘The balance in the system has been altered, Pompey. It is not a minor change you have brought about. The tribunes were the voice of the mob. You risk a great deal in altering that. And the Senate are discovering new teeth if they act together against you,’ Crassus replied.

Pompey’s shoulders slumped in weariness, but Crassus felt no sympathy. The man went at politics as if every problem could be met head-on. He was a fine general but a poor leader of a city, and the last one to know that truth was apparently Pompey himself. The very fact that he had asked to meet Crassus privately was proof of the problems Pompey faced, even though he would not ask outright for advice.

‘They were meant to limit the power of the Senate, Pompey. Perhaps they were wrong to block you so completely, but replacing them has earned you nothing but anger in the city.’

Pompey flushed again and Crassus continued quickly, trying to make him understand. ‘If you restore their posts to the vote, you will regain a great deal of the ground you have lost,’ he urged. ‘The factions will believe they have won a victory and fall apart. You should not let them grow any stronger. By Jupiter himself, you should not. You have made your point. Let it be known now that you care as much as they for the traditions of Rome. The laws you passed cannot be undone, after all.’

‘Let those sneering dogs back in to veto me?’ Pompey snapped.

Crassus shrugged. ‘Those, or whoever else the citizens elect. If it is the same men, you may have a difficult time of it for a while, but this is not an easy city to rule. Our people are fed on a diet of democracy from childhood. At times, I think they have dangerously high expectations. They do not like to see their representatives taken from them.’

‘I will think about it,’ Pompey said reluctantly, looking away across the forum.

Crassus doubted he fully understood the danger. As far as Pompey was concerned, the resistance in the Senate was a passing thing, not the kernel that could lead to open rebellion.

‘I know you will make the right decision,’ Crassus said.

Julius rubbed his face wearily. How long had he slept, an hour? He couldn’t remember exactly when he had passed out, but he thought the sky had been growing light. The colours seemed to have been washed out of the province and Mark Antony’s voice had taken on a whining tone Julius had not noticed before. While half the legions were bleary-eyed and pale, Mark Antony looked as if he was ready for a parade and Julius was convinced he felt a moral superiority over those who had indulged the night before. The general’s lips pursed as he listened to Julius’ report of the agreement with Mhorbaine.

‘I wish you had consulted me, before you pledged your support,’ Mark Antony said, barely hiding his irritation at what he had heard.

‘From what Mhorbaine said, this Ariovistus would be trouble for us at some point. Better to deal with him now, before he is so deeply rooted we’d never be able to throw him back over the Rhine. We do need allies, Mark Antony. The Aedui have promised three thousand of their cavalry at my disposal.’

Mark Antony struggled with his temper for a moment.

‘Yes, they will promise us anything, sir. I will not believe it until I see them. I warned you Mhorbaine is a clever leader, but it looks as if he has somehow managed to set the two most powerful armies in Gaul at each other’s throats. No doubt Ariovistus has pledged friendship as well, with the Aedui profiting from a war that could break both of his enemies.’

‘I’ve seen nothing in Gaul that could stand against us,’ Julius said dismissively.

‘You have not seen the Germanic tribes. They live for war, keeping a professional class in the field at all times, supported by the rest of their people. And in any case, Ariovistus is …’ Mark Antony sighed. ‘Ariovistus cannot be touched. He is already a friend of Rome, named so ten years ago. If you take the field against him, the Senate could well remove your command.’

Julius turned and gripped the larger man by the shoulders.

‘Do you not think this is something I should have been told?’ he demanded.

Mark Antony looked back at him, flushing.

‘I did not think you would make such a promise to Mhorbaine, sir. You barely even know the man! How could I possibly have foretold that you would pledge the legions nearly three hundred miles across the country?’

Julius dropped his hands from his general and stood back.

‘Ariovistus is a ruthless invader, Mark Antony. My only allies have asked me to help them. I’ll tell you honestly that I do not care if Mhorbaine hopes to see us broken against each other or not. I do not care if Ariovistus is twice the warrior you tell me. Why do you think I brought my legions to Gaul? Have you seen this land? I could drop a handful of seeds anywhere and see corn spring up before I could turn round. There are forests enough to build fleets, herds of cattle so great they could never be counted. And beyond Gaul? I want to see it all. Three hundred miles is just a step of the way I have in mind. We are not here for a summer, General. We are here to stay, just as soon as I have cut the path for the rest to follow.’

Mark Antony listened in astonishment.

‘But Ariovistus is one of ours! You can’t just …’

Julius nodded, holding up a hand. Mark Antony fell silent.

‘It will take a month to build a road from here to the plain for the ballistae and onagers. I do not intend to go to war without them again. I will send a messenger to this Ariovistus asking for a meeting. I will address him with the respect due to a friend of my city. Will you be satisfied then?’

Mark Antony sagged with relief.

‘Of course, sir. I hope you are not offended at my words. I was thinking of your position at home.’

‘I understand. Perhaps you could send a messenger to me to receive the letter,’ Julius replied, smiling.

Mark Antony nodded and left the room. Julius turned to Adàn, who had listened to the conversation with an open mouth.

‘What are you gaping at?’ Julius snapped, instantly regretting the words. His head throbbed and his stomach felt as if it had been squeezed dry by vomiting in the night. A vague memory came of staggering out to the bath-house in the dark and losing great gushes of dark fluid into the gutters there. Only yellow bile remained, but still it churned and surged up his throat.

Adàn chose his words carefully.

‘It must have been this way for my country, once. Romans deciding the future for us, as if we had no say at all in the matter.’

Julius began a sharp reply, then thought better of it.

‘Do you think the men of Carthage wept over their conquests? And how do you think your people decided the fate of those they found when they came to Spain? These Celts came from some foreign land. Do you think your ancestors troubled themselves over the original inhabitants? Perhaps even they were invaders from some distant past. Do not think your people are better than mine, Adàn.’

Julius gripped the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the throbbing headache.

‘I wish I had a clear head to tell you what I mean. It is more than just the strength that matters. Carthage was strong, but beating them changed the world. Greece was once the greatest power, but when they weakened, we came and made them ours. Gods, I drank too much wine for an argument this early.’

Adàn did not interrupt. He sensed that Julius was on the edge of something important and he strained forward in his chair to hear. Julius’ voice had a hypnotic quality, almost a whisper.

‘Countries are taken in blood. Women are raped, men killed, every horror you can imagine occurs a thousand times over, but then it ends and the victors settle the land. They farm and build cities and make laws. The people thrive, Adàn, whether you like it or not. Then there is justice and rule of law. Those who prey on their neighbours are executed, cut out from the rest. They have to be, because even conquerors grow old and value peace. The blood of the invaders is mingled with the people on the land until a hundred years later they are not Celt or Carthaginian, or even Roman. They are like … wine and water, impossible to separate. It begins in battle, but they are raised by each wave, Adàn. I tell you if I ever find a country that has not been tempered in fire, I will show you savages where we have built cities.’

‘You believe this?’ Adàn asked.

Julius opened his eyes, the dark pupils gleaming.

‘I do not believe in a sword, Adàn, because I can see it. It is just the truth. Rome is more than iron swords and harder men. I will bring them up, kicking and screaming. Gaul will suffer under my hand, but I will make them greater than they can imagine by the time I’m done.’

The messenger sent by Mark Antony arrived at the door, clearing his throat softly to draw their attention. Both men snapped out of the reverie and Julius groaned, holding his head.

‘Find me a cold cloth and see if Cabera has any of his powders for pain,’ he told the young man. As he turned back, he saw Adàn’s expression was grim.

‘It is a strange view, General,’ the young Spaniard ventured. ‘I can see why you would think such a thing, with an army poised to rush over Gaul. But it will be little comfort to the families that lose their men in the days to come.’

Julius felt anger spike in him as the headache throbbed.

‘Do you think they are weaving flowers for each other while we sit here? The tribes are at each other’s throats, boy. At forty years old, Mhorbaine’s one of the tribal ancients. Think of that! Disease and war take them before they go grey. They may hate us, but they hate each other a great deal more. Now, let us leave this for another time. I have a letter to dictate for this Ariovistus. We will ask this “Friend of Rome” to go quietly back from the lands he has conquered and leave Gaul behind him.’

‘Do you think he will?’ Adàn asked.

Julius did not answer, but gestured for Adàn to take up his writing tablet and began to dictate the letter to the King of the Suebi.

Clearing the forests for the new road out to the plain took longer than Julius had hoped. Though the legions worked full days in the summer heat, each massive oak had to be cut down and then dragged out by teams of axemen and oxen. Cabera had begun to train some of the legion boys as assistants to deal with the broken bones and wounds that were the inevitable result of such labour. Two months passed agonizingly slowly before the first stone could be laid, but by the end of the fourth, the flat stones stretched almost forty miles, wide and strong enough to take the great catapults and siege machines without a tremor. New quarries had been dug in the hills and granite posts marked the miles from Rome, spreading the shadow further than it had reached before.

Julius gathered his council in the hall of the Roman buildings, Mhorbaine and Artorath sitting with them as his favoured allies. He looked round at them all, resting his gaze at last on Adàn, who was looking strangely at him. The young Spaniard had translated the messages that had flown between Ariovistus and the Roman province and, of all of them, he knew what Julius was about to say. Julius wondered if there had ever been a time when he was as innocent as the young Spaniard. If there had been, it was too far back to remember.

Ariovistus had not been an easy man to reach. The first two messengers had been sent back with the briefest of replies, disdaining any further interest in Julius or his legions. Mark Antony had managed to impress Julius with the need to walk carefully around the king, but the wording was dismissive and infuriating. At the end of the first month, Julius was waiting only for the road to be finished before taking his legions out to crush Ariovistus, friend of Rome or not. Yet he needed to be seen to have made every attempt to settle the issue peacefully. He knew Adàn was not the only one of his men sending letters back to Rome. Pompey would have spies keeping him well informed and the last thing Julius wanted was to have Rome declare him an enemy of the state for his actions. Such a thing was far from impossible with Pompey at the head of the Senate. No doubt the man had the senators trained to perfection and a single vote could remove Julius’ authority at a stroke.

The weeks had passed slowly enough, with the days filled with meeting the tribal leaders, promising them whatever they wanted if they would allow passage through their lands and provide supplies for the army as they marched. Brutus had taken to the language with a flair that surprised them both and already he was able to take part in the negotiations, though his efforts reduced the Gauls to tears of laughter on occasion.

Adàn looked away as Julius smiled at him. The longer he spent in the company of the Roman leader, the more confused he felt. At times, when Julius tried to put him at his ease, Adàn could feel the immense personal charm and understand why others followed him. Then there were moments when he could not believe the utter callousness of the generals as they decided the fate of millions in their councils. He could never decide if Julius was as ruthless as men like Renius, or whether he truly believed bringing Rome to Gaul was a better path for the tribes than any they could have found on their own. It did matter to the young man. If he thought Julius believed his own words about the glories of civilisation, Adàn could justify the respect he felt for him. If it was all a game, or a mask for conquest, then Adàn had made the biggest mistake of his life in leaving Spain to follow him.

‘Ariovistus has scorned my messengers once again,’ Julius said to his generals. They exchanged glances. ‘Though Mark Antony has expressed a desire for me to uphold the title of friend conferred on him, I cannot ignore the arrogance of this king. The scouts have reported a large army gathering on his borders for further conquest and I have agreed to safeguard Aedui lands with our legions.’

Julius flickered a glance at Mark Antony, who kept his eyes on the long table.

‘Mhorbaine’s cavalry will accompany the extraordinarii, for which I thank him,’ Julius continued. Mhorbaine inclined his head with a wry smile.

‘As this Ariovistus has given service to Rome in the past, I will continue to send my messengers as we march. He will have every chance to meet me and create a peaceful resolution. I have informed the Senate of my actions and await a reply, though it may not come before we leave.’

As they watched, Julius unrolled a map of the thinnest calf-skin vellum. He placed lead weights at the corners and the men rose from their chairs to look at the land he revealed to them.

‘The scouts have marked the hills for us, gentlemen. The region is named Alsatia, three hundred miles to the north and west.’

‘It borders the Helvetii land,’ Brutus murmured, poring over the map Mhorbaine had given them. It was little better than a set of painted regions, without detail, but none of the Romans in the room had seen even that part of Gaul and were fascinated.

‘If we do not send the Suebi back over the Rhine, the Helvetii will not survive the next summer,’ Julius replied. ‘After that, Ariovistus may look further south to our own province. It is our duty to establish the Rhine as the natural border for Gaul. We will resist any attempt to cross it, no matter what the source. If necessary, I will bridge it and lead punishment raids deep into their own land. This Ariovistus has become arrogant, gentlemen. The Senate have let him run loose for far too long.’

He ignored Mark Antony’s wince at his words.

‘Now let us prepare the marching order. Though I can hope for peace, we must prepare for war.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After the rush to meet and turn the Helvetii, the more formal march along the new road was almost restful for the legion veterans. Though the days were still heavy with heat, the trees had begun their turn, already tinged with a thousand shades of red and brown. Crows lifted from the forests as they passed through, their voices harsh with warning. On the empty plains, it was easy for the legionaries to imagine they were the only men for a thousand miles.

Julius kept the Tenth and extraordinarii at the front. The Aedui riders were given into the care of Domitius and Octavian and began to learn the discipline Julius required of his allies. Though he had been grateful to Mhorbaine for the added force, he had made it clear that they had to learn to follow orders and structure themselves in the Roman fashion. The extraordinarii had a busy time with the Gaulish riders, who seemed individualists to a man and not at all used to any form of organised attack.

The great war machines accompanied the march, strapped down and safe while they were on the move, but with their expert teams close to them. Each of the heavy ballistae had a personal name cut into the great blocks of beech and each legion preferred to use its own, loyally certain that they could throw further and more accurately than any of the others. The scorpion bows looked little more than cart-loads of spars and iron before assembly. The heavy arms took three men to reset after each shot, but the bolt could punch through a horse and kill another behind it. They were valued weapons and the legionaries who came close would often reach out to touch the metal for luck.

The six legions stretched for ten miles on the road to the Helvetii plain, though that halved as Julius ordered a deeper formation over open ground. As near as he was to Aedui land, he did not yet fear an attack, but he was painfully aware of the exposed column and the vast array of equipment and baggage that accompanied them. There were weak links in the chain from the province, but at the first sign of danger, the legions could re-form into wide protective squares, proof against anything he had seen thus far in Gaul. Julius knew he had the men and generals he needed. If he failed, the disgrace would be his alone.

Mhorbaine had resisted the temptation to join them against his enemy. Though he had been torn, no leader of the Aedui could spend so long away from his people without usurpers rushing to take his place. Julius had bidden him farewell from the very edge of the Roman province, with the shining legions in a vast line behind him, standing with the tension of hunting hounds.

Mhorbaine had cast his eyes over the still ranks waiting for their general and shaken his head at their discipline. His own warriors would have been milling around aimlessly before a march and he found the Romans both depressing and frightening in comparison. As Julius turned away from him, Mhorbaine had called out the question he’d been turning over in his mind ever since he saw the strength of the force being sent against Ariovistus.

‘Who guards your land while you are gone?’ he called.

Julius turned back to him, his dark eyes boring into the Gaul.

‘You do, Mhorbaine. But there will be no need for guards.’

Mhorbaine had looked askance at the Roman general in his polished armour.

‘There are many tribes who would be willing to take advantage of your absence, my friend. The Helvetii may return, and the Allobroges would steal anything they can lift.’

He watched as Julius pulled his full-face helmet over his head, the iron features making him look like a statue come to life. His breastplate shone with oil and his brown arms were strong and scarred with a pattern of white lines against the darker skin.

‘They know we will return, Mhorbaine,’ Julius had said, smiling beneath the mask.

After the first mile, the iron helmet had come off, when the sweat pouring into his eyes began to sting and blur his vision. For all her best intentions, Alexandria had never walked a hundred miles in armour, no matter how well designed.

When they came across a town, Julius accepted grain or meat as tribute. There was never enough food to become complacent and he fretted at the guards he had to leave behind to keep the supplies coming from Mhorbaine. Using the legion night camps as way-stations, the first links to the north were laid down. Later would come more permanent roads and the merchants of Rome would reach further and further into the country, bringing anything they could sell. Given two or three years, he knew the roads would be manned by forts and guardposts. Those who had no land in Rome would come then to mark out new farms and start afresh, and fortunes would be made.

It was a heady dream for Julius, though on that first march to Ariovistus his legions were never more than ten meals from starvation, a margin as desperately important as any other factor of their strength. Julius felt as if his force was being bled as he gave orders for mixed groups of cavalry and velites to keep the ground clear for the lifeline behind. He stretched his supply line as thinly as he dared, but Gaul was too vast to keep a thread right back to the Aedui and he vowed to find other allies when he had dealt with Ariovistus.

There were times when the land itself seemed to impede them. The ground was covered in heavy mounds of grass that shifted and turned underfoot, slowing the legions still further. It was a good day when they were twenty miles from the previous camp.

When his scouts reported riders spying on the legions, Julius had thrown aside his lists and tallies with relief. The first sightings had been little more than glimpses of armed men, but the legions tautened subtly at the news. The soldiers oiled their blades with extra care each night and there were fewer names on the discipline lists. He ordered the fastest of the extraordinarii out to search, but they lost their quarries in the woods and valleys, one of the best geldings breaking his leg at full gallop and killing his rider.

Julius was convinced the spies were from Ariovistus, but he was still surprised when a lone rider appeared as the legions paused to eat their noon meal. The man trotted his mount from an arrowhead of trees on a sharp slope of granite in the line of march, causing a flurry of signals and warning horns. At the sound, the extraordinarii left their food untouched and ran to their horses, leaping into their saddles.

‘Wait!’ Julius called to them, holding up a hand. ‘Let him come to us.’

The legions formed ranks in a terrible silence, every eye focused on the rider who approached them with no sign of fear.

The stranger dismounted as he reached the first ranks of the Tenth. Briefly, he looked around him and then nodded to himself as he saw Julius in his armour and the array of flags and extraordinarii around him. As their eyes met, Julius struggled not to show the discomfort he felt. He could hear his legionaries murmuring nervously and one or two of them made protective signs with their hands at the rider’s unearthly appearance.

He was dressed in leather armour over rough cloth, his lower legs bare. Round iron plates capped his shoulders, making him seem even more massive than he already was. He was tall, though Ciro topped his height by inches and Artorath would have dwarfed him. It was his face and skull that made the Romans glance uneasily at each other as he passed.

He looked like no race of men Julius had ever seen, with such a line of bone above his eyes that they seemed to peer out from constant shadow. His skull was shaved bare except for a long tail of hair at the joint of his neck that swung behind him as he walked, weighed down with dark metal ornaments wound into its length. The skull itself was heavily deformed, with a second ridge above the first.

‘Do you understand me? What is your name and tribe?’ Julius asked.

The warrior studied him without replying and Julius shook himself mentally, suddenly aware that the man must know the effect he had. Indeed, Ariovistus had probably chosen him for that reason.

‘I am Redulf of the Suebi. I learned your words when my king fought for you and was named friend for life,’ the man replied.

It was eerie to hear Latin from such a demonic-looking individual, but Julius nodded, relieved not to have to depend on the interpreters Mhorbaine had provided.

‘You are from Ariovistus then?’ Julius said.

‘I have said it,’ the man replied.

Julius felt a prickle of irritation. The man was as arrogant as his master.

‘Say what you have been told then, boy,’ Julius replied. ‘I will not suffer a delay from you.’

The man stiffened at the taunt and Julius saw a slow flush spread along the bony ridges of his brow. Was it a deformity of birth, or the result of some strange ceremony amongst the men across the Rhine? Julius beckoned a messenger to him, murmuring that Cabera should be brought up to the front of the column. As the messenger darted away, the warrior spoke, his voice pitched to carry.

‘King Ariovistus will meet you by the rock known as the Hand in the north. I am to say he will not allow your walking soldiers to accompany you. He will come with his riding men only and will allow the same for you. Those are his terms.’

‘Where is this rock?’ Julius asked, narrowing his eyes in thought.

‘Three days’ march north. Fingers of rock crown the peak. You will know it. He will wait for you there.’

‘And if I choose to ignore the terms?’ Julius said.

The warrior shrugged. ‘Then he will not be there and will consider himself betrayed. You may expect war from us until one of our armies is broken.’

His sneer as he looked around at the Roman officers made his view of such an outcome perfectly clear. Redulf glanced at Cabera as he arrived, moving slowly on a stick and the messenger’s arm. The old healer was haggard from the privations of the march, but still his blue eyes looked with fascination at the warrior’s unusual skull.

‘Tell your master I will meet him where you say, Redulf,’ Julius said. ‘I will honour the friendship my city has given him and meet him in peace at the rock you named. Run back now and tell him all you have seen and heard.’

Redulf glared at this dismissal, but contented himself with another sneer at the Roman ranks before striding back to his horse. Julius saw that Brutus had brought the extraordinarii up to form a wide avenue down which the man was forced to ride. He looked neither left nor right as he passed their ranks and dwindled quickly into the distance of the north.

Brutus cantered up and dismounted.

‘By Mars, he was a strange one,’ Brutus said. He noticed one of the Tenth near him making a protective sign with his fingers. He frowned, considering the effect on the more superstitious men under his command.

‘Cabera? You saw him,’ Julius said. ‘Was it a birth deformity?’

Cabera looked into the distance after the rider.

‘I have never seen one that was so regular, as if it had been made deliberately. I don’t know, General. Perhaps if I could examine him more closely, I could be sure. I will think on it.’

‘I suppose this Ariovistus isn’t asking for peace and saving us the trouble of dealing with his ugly men?’ Brutus asked Julius.

‘Not yet. Now that we’re close to him, he has suddenly decided he will meet me, after all. Strange how Roman legions can influence a man’s mind,’ Julius replied. His smile faded as he thought of the rest of the king’s message.

‘He wants me to take cavalry alone to the meeting place, Brutus.’

‘What? I hope you refused. I will not leave you in the hands of our Gaulish riders, Julius. Never in this life. You must not give him the chance to trap you, friend of Rome or not.’ Brutus looked appalled at the idea, but then Julius spoke again.

‘Rome watches us, Brutus. Mark Antony was right about that. Ariovistus must be treated with respect.’

‘Mhorbaine said his people lived in the saddle,’ Brutus replied. ‘Did you see the way that ugly bastard rode? If they’re all like him, you won’t want to be caught in the open with just the Aedui and a handful of extraordinarii.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I will be,’ Julius said, a slow smile stealing across his face. ‘Summon the Aedui to me, Brutus.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Brutus asked, thrown by the sudden change in his general’s demeanour.

Julius grinned like a boy. ‘I am going to mount the Tenth on horseback, Brutus. Three thousand of my veterans and the extraordinarii should be enough to clip his wings, don’t you think?’

Pompey finished his address to the Senate and asked for speakers before the vote to come. Though there was a brittle tension in the three hundred men of the Curia, at least the threat of violence had diminished from their debates, if not the streets outside. At the thought, Pompey glanced over to where Clodius sat, a shaven-headed bull of a man who had been born in the gutters of the city and had risen simply by being more ruthless than any of his competitors. With Crassus’ stranglehold over trade, Clodius should have found himself a quiet retirement, but instead had cut his losses and stood for election to the Senate. Pompey shuddered as he considered the brutal, flat features. Some of the things he had heard were surely exaggerated, he told himself. If they were true, it would have meant another city hidden beneath Rome, one perhaps that Clodius already ruled. The bullish figure was to be seen at every session of the Senate and when he was baulked, gangs of raptores would rampage through the city, disappearing into the maze of alleys whenever the legion guards came after them. Clodius was cunning enough to denounce the gangs in public, throwing his hands up in amazement whenever their violence coincided with some check to his ambition.

Restoring the tribune posts to the vote had removed one pillar of Clodius’ popular support. After the disgraceful funeral procession two months before, Pompey had followed Crassus’ advice. To his pleasure, only one of the original holders of the post had been brought back into the Senate. The fickle public had voted in a stranger for the second and though Pompey’s enemies courted him outrageously, he had not yet declared any particular loyalties. It was just possible that Clodius had no hand in the man’s election, though Pompey doubted it. The man was not above threatening families to achieve his aims and Pompey had already witnessed one vote where decent men had turned against him for no clear reason. They had not even met his eyes as they stood with Clodius, and Pompey had barely been able to restrain his rage in the face of the merchant’s cold triumph. As a result of that, the free corn issued to the citizens now took a fifth of the entire revenue of the city and thousands more flooded in each month for the entitlement. Pompey knew Clodius found his most brutal supporters from amongst those rootless scavengers who came to the city. He could not prove it, but he thought a heavy tithe of that grain never reached the hungriest mouths, instead going into that darker Rome where Clodius and men like him bought lives as easily as they sold grain.

Pompey motioned for Suetonius to speak and sat down as the young Roman rose and cleared his throat. Nothing of his dislike showed on Pompey’s face, though he despised a man who would apparently follow any dog for scraps. Suetonius had grown in confidence as Clodius showered him with praise and funds. He spoke well enough to hold the attention of the Senate and his association with Clodius had given him a vicarious status he relished.

‘Senators, Tribunes,’ Suetonius began, ‘I am no friend to Caesar, as many of you know.’ He allowed himself a small smile at the chuckle from the benches. ‘We have all heard of his victory against the Helvetii in Gaul, a most worthy battle that had the citizens cheering in the markets. Yet the matter of his debts is not a minor concern. I have the estimate here.’

Suetonius made a show of checking a paper, though he knew the figures by heart.

‘To Herminius, he owes just under a million sesterces. The other lenders together, another million, two hundred thousand. These are not small sums, gentlemen. Without these funds, the men who advanced them in good faith may well be forced into poverty. They have the right to appeal to us when Caesar shows no sign or inclination to return to the city. The law of Twelve Tables is quite clear on the matter of debt and we should not support a general who scorns the statutes in this way. I urge the Senate to demand his return to clear his slate with the city. Failing that, perhaps an assurance from Pompey that the term in Gaul has some clear end, so that those who struggle in the wake of these debts can look forward to settlement on an agreed date. I will vote in favour of recalling Caesar.’

He sat down and Pompey was about to motion to the next speaker when he saw the new tribune had risen.

‘Have you anything to add, Polonus?’ Pompey said, smiling at the man.

‘Only that this seems a small stick with which to beat a successful general,’ Polonus replied. ‘As I understand the matter, these debts are personal to Caesar, despite his use of them to supply and outfit his soldiers. When he returns to the city, his creditors can lay hands on him for the sums and if he cannot pay, the penalties are harsh. Until then, I do not see a role for the Senate in demanding his return into the hands of coarse moneylenders.’

A murmur of approval sounded from the senators and Pompey stifled a smile. Large numbers of them had debts and Suetonius would have to be a genius to make them call back a general to satisfy the grubby urging of men like Herminius. Pompey was pleased Polonus had spoken against the vote. Perhaps he was not in Clodius’ pay after all. Pompey caught the tribune’s eye and inclined his head as the next speaker rose, barely listening to the speech by some minor son of the nobilitas.

Pompey knew there were many who described his dismissal and restoration of the tribunes as a masterful stroke. The older members especially looked to him for leadership and strength to face the new players of the game. Many of them had come to him in private, but in the Senate their fear made them weak. There were not many who dared to risk the enmity of one like Clodius. Even for Pompey, the thought of Clodius becoming consul one day was enough to make sweat break out on his skin.

As the young senator droned through his speech, Pompey’s gaze drifted to another of the new men, Titus Milo. Like Clodius before him, he had come to the Senate when his merchant ventures were lost. Perhaps because of that shared background, the pair appeared to dislike each other intensely. Milo was red-faced from drink and fat where Clodius was solid. Both men could be as coarse as the worst gutter whore. Pompey wondered privately if they could be set at each other’s throats. It would be a neat solution to the problem.

The vote was taken quickly and for once Pompey’s supporters did not waver. Clodius had not spoken and Pompey knew it was likely he had indulged Suetonius without pledging his full support. There would be no sudden reports of gangs rampaging through the markets that night. Clodius caught Pompey’s thoughtful gaze on him and nodded his massive head as one equal to another. Pompey returned the gesture out of habit, though his mind seethed with some of the ugliest rumours. It was said that Clodius employed bodyguards who used rape as a casual tool of persuasion when they were on his business. It was just another of the tales circulating like flies about the man. Pompey gritted his teeth as he saw the secret gleam of amusement in Clodius’ eyes. In that moment, he envied Julius in Gaul. For all the hardships of a campaign, his battles would be simpler and cleaner than those Pompey faced.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Brutus roared angry orders out to the Tenth as they trotted their Gaulish ponies towards the distant mass of horsemen at the foot of the crag of rock called the Hand. While he understood Julius’ desire to have the veterans of the Tenth with him, they rode like wayward children. Above a walking pace, horses drifted into each other and on anything but the smoothest ground, the red-faced soldiers were thrown off, suffering the humiliation of being forced to run alongside until they could heave themselves back into the saddles.

As if that wasn’t enough, Brutus seethed inwardly at Mark Antony being given control of the legions waiting behind them. He could accept the fact that Julius wanted Brutus and Octavian with him to control the extraordinarii, but Mark Antony had not earned the right to be Julius’ second-in-command. Brutus was in a savage temper as he wheeled his mount to respond to a commotion behind him.

‘Gather up your reins, by Mars, or I will have you whipped!’ he shouted to an unfortunate, milling group of triarii. In their heavy armour, they sat their horses like clanking sacks of corn and Brutus rolled his eyes as another leaned too far forward and slipped from sight under his pony’s legs with a crash.

It was no way to approach a possible battle. The Tenth were used to the rhythms of foot soldiers and the sweating, swearing men around him had nothing of the calm he was used to.

Octavian cantered past him, using his powerful gelding to force a wobbling rank of ponies back into line. The two men exchanged glances as they passed and Octavian grinned, clearly amused by the situation. Brutus gave no answering smile, instead cursing the Tenth under his breath as two horses somehow became joined together ahead of him, their riders heaving at the reins until the tortured ponies panicked and bolted. Brutus caught them with a quick dart, holding on until the legionaries had regained control. They could not be expected to have the casual balance of thousands of hours of training and he only hoped Julius would have the sense to call a halt long before Ariovistus could see their lack of skill. For men born in the saddle, there could be no deception.

Before they had set off, Julius had come to him. He had seen Brutus’ coldness and spoke to reassure him.

‘I must have you with me, Brutus,’ he had said. ‘The extraordinarii are the only competent riders I have and they are used to your orders.’

Julius had stood close to him then, unwilling to be overheard.

‘And if I am forced to fight, I do not want Mark Antony at my side. He thinks too much of this Ariovistus and his friendship with Rome.’

Brutus had nodded, though the words did not go far to appease his sense of betrayal. The post was owed.

The outriders saw the Hand and reported back before noon. As the Tenth neared the crag, Brutus could see thousands of horsemen in perfect ranks ahead. They had chosen a place for the meeting where cavalry were hampered by steep defiles on either side. The rock they called the Hand formed the highest point to the east, with the western side choked with dense forest. Brutus wondered if Ariovistus had men hidden in the dark oaks. He knew he would have placed them there and hoped the legions were not heading into a trap. One thing was certain, if it came to a retreat against those German riders, the Tenth would have to accomplish it on foot or be destroyed.

The cornicens sounded a dismount, a signal of two tones they had agreed on before leaving the camp. With relief, Brutus saw the Tenth lose their awkwardness as they touched the ground.

Only the extraordinarii stayed in the saddle to guard the flanks. The Tenth walked their ponies forward in grim bad humour. Brutus continued to harry them, calling out to the centurions to keep order as they advanced towards the meeting place and the King of the Germanic Suebi. The tension grew as they marched closer to the enemy and Brutus could see the details of the men they faced. He saw Ariovistus for the first time as the king rode out with three others and halted two hundred feet from his front line. Julius went forward to meet him with Domitius and Octavian, the tension visible in their stiff backs.

Brutus took a last look at the ranks of the Tenth.

‘Be ready!’ he called as he trotted out to join his general.

The noise of four thousand nervous horses dwindled behind them as he joined Domitius and Octavian, all three resplendent in their silver armour. Julius wore the full-face helmet and when he turned in the saddle to acknowledge Julius, Brutus saw the effect of the cold features that stared back at him.

‘Now let’s see what this little king has to say to me,’ Julius’ voice came from beneath the iron mouth.

The four men kicked their horses into a canter in perfect formation as they moved across the broken ground.

Julius recognised Redulf at Ariovistus’ right shoulder and saw with astonishment that the other two warriors with the king were as strangely deformed as the messenger. One of them was shaven bald, but the other had a crown of black hair that did nothing to disguise the strange double ridge, as if some great fist had gripped his skull and squeezed it. They were all bearded and fierce-looking, clearly chosen for strength. All were adorned with gold and silver, making Julius pleased he had his sword tourney finalists as his honour guard. The perfect sets of silver armour outshone the Suebi warriors and Julius knew that, man for man, his companions would be more deadly.

Ariovistus himself did not have the ridged brow of the warriors at his side. His face was dominated by dark eyebrows and an untrimmed beard that covered most of his face, leaving only the cheeks and forehead clear. His skin was pale and the eyes that glowered at Julius were as blue as Cabera’s. The king remained perfectly still as Julius rode up and halted without saluting.

The silence held as Julius and the king regarded each other, neither willing to be the first to speak. Brutus looked behind them to the ranks of horses and still further to where a greater force marked the southern tip of the lands Ariovistus had taken, fifteen miles down from the wide Rhine river. In the distance, Brutus could see two fortified camps that could have been twins of the Roman style. The mass of Suebi riders were not in formal array, but Brutus could see they had cleared the ground and could leap into a charge at short notice. He began to sweat as he saw the long spears they carried. Every man of the Roman infantry knew horses would not charge a shield wall any more than they could be forced to run into a tree. As long as the legions could hold their squares, they could advance through the forces of Ariovistus without real danger. The theory was little comfort in the face of so many of the pale, bearded warriors.

Julius lost patience under the calm scrutiny of the king.

‘I have come to you as you asked, friend of my city,’ he began. ‘Though this is not your land, I have ridden to it and honoured your terms. Now I tell you that you must remove your armies across the natural barrier of the Rhine. Remove them immediately and there will be no war between us.’

‘This is Roman friendship?’ Ariovistus snarled suddenly, his voice a bass boom that startled them. ‘I fought against your enemies ten years ago and the title was given to me, but for what purpose? So that I can be turned away from lands I have rightfully won as it suits you?’ His teeth were deeply yellow in his beard and his eyes glinted under the heavy brows.

‘It was not the right to take whatever lands you wanted,’ Julius retorted. ‘You have your home across the river and that is enough. I tell you, Rome will not allow you to have Gaul, or any part of it.’

‘Rome is far away, General. You are all that represents your city in this place and you have never known the fury of my white soldiers. How do you dare to speak to me in this way? I rode in Gaul when you were no more than a child! What lands I have won are mine by right of conquest, by more ancient law than yours. They are mine because I have shown the strength to hold them, Roman!’

The angry rumble caused Julius’ horse to shy nervously and Julius reached down to pat the gelding’s neck. He controlled his temper to reply.

‘I am here because you were named friend, Ariovistus. I honour you for my city, but I tell you again, you will cross the Rhine and leave the lands of Rome and Roman allies. If you live by right of conquest, then I will destroy your armies by the same right!’

Julius felt Brutus shift uncomfortably in the saddle on his right shoulder. The meeting was not going as he had intended, but the arrogance of Ariovistus nettled him.

‘And what are you doing, Caesar? By what right do you take the lands of the tribes from them? Were they given to you by your Greek gods perhaps?’ Ariovistus sneered as he raised his hands and gestured at the verdant countryside around them.

‘You had answer enough when I sent back your messengers with empty hands,’ he went on. ‘I want nothing from you or your city. Go on your way and leave me in peace, or you will not live. I have fought for these lands and paid the blood price. You have done nothing but send a pack of Helvetii scavengers back to their homeland. Do you think that gives you the right to deal with me as an equal? I am a king, Roman, and kings are not troubled by men like you. I do not fear your legions, particularly those riders behind you, who cannot even keep their mounts still.’

Julius resisted the urge to look behind him, though he could see the perfect ranks of the Suebi and knew there would be nothing like such a calm order in his own lines. Under his mask, he flushed, relieved that it could not be seen.

‘I am Rome,’ Julius said. ‘In my person you address the Senate and the people. You insult my city and all the countries under our rule. When you …’

Something whirred over their heads from the Suebi lines and Ariovistus cursed. Julius looked up to see a dozen long shafts arc towards his precious Tenth and turned savagely to Ariovistus.

‘This is your discipline?’ he snapped.

Ariovistus looked as furious as he was himself and Julius knew he had not ordered the attack. Both armies stirred restlessly and another single arrow looped over them.

‘My men are eager for war, Caesar. They live to bathe in blood,’ Ariovistus growled at him. He looked over his shoulder at his men.

‘Go back to them and we will come for you,’ Julius said, his voice hollow with finality under the mask. Ariovistus faced him and in his eyes Julius saw a glittering fear. It didn’t match anything he had seen so far and Julius wondered at the reason.

Before the king could answer, another flight of arrows whined overhead and Julius wheeled his horse away crying ‘Ha!’ to force a gallop back to his lines. Brutus, Domitius and Octavian went with him, pounding over the ground. Behind them, Ariovistus too dug in his heels and his men sent up a great cheer as they saw him return to them.

Julius issued a flurry of orders as he came back to the Tenth. The fastest of the extraordinarii galloped south to Mark Antony with instructions to make all speed in support. Others were sent into the forest to the west, to scout for hidden archers or a surprise force. The Gaulish ponies were taken to the rear and the Tenth were free at last of their distraction. They formed a huge defensive square, with shields overlapping against a cavalry charge. Spears were readied and arrows fitted to the sinew bowstrings. The front rank waited patiently to repel the first charge.

It did not come. To Julius’ surprise, Ariovistus vanished deep within the mass of horsemen and suddenly they began to retreat in perfect order. Some of the Tenth shouted and jeered at them, but the scouts were not back from the woods to the west and Julius was not about to risk an advance without knowing who lurked in those green depths.

Ariovistus took his men out of spear and then arrow range before halting once more. Though there were clearly hot-headed youngsters in the Suebi lines, they showed their discipline in the retreat, with sections of them covering others as they moved back.

‘What’s his game?’ Brutus muttered at Julius’ side. ‘While he delays, he must know our legions are coming up behind us.’

‘He may mean to draw us in. I don’t like the look of those woods,’ Julius replied.

As he spoke, the first of his scouts galloped back to the Roman lines.

‘Nothing, sir,’ the man panted as he came close and saluted. ‘No tracks or old fires and no sign of any force in hiding.’

Julius nodded, suddenly remembering the last time he had taken a scout’s report without corroborating it.

Two more of his riders came out of the trees and reported before Julius was satisfied and baffled by the situation. Ariovistus had acted as if he were about to launch a wild charge, but his men stood with stolid indifference, unmoved by the beckoning gestures of the Tenth front line.

Julius tapped his fingers irritably on his saddle. Had they trapped the ground perhaps? It seemed unlikely. Spiked pits would be more of a hindrance to their own army while they outnumbered the single Roman legion.

‘Shall we wait for Mark Antony?’ Brutus asked.

Julius calculated the time it would take for the legions to reach his position and let out a sharp breath of frustration. It would be hours before they were there to support him.

‘Yes. There is something here I do not understand. Their forces are swift and together they outnumber us perhaps two to our one. Ariovistus should attack unless he was bluffing, though I can’t see how he could have been. I will not risk the lives of my Tenth on a trap until we are supported.’

The soldiers who heard this exchanged pleased glances, though Julius didn’t see it as he stared towards the enemy. A commander who looked after his men was a valuable one, as far as they were concerned.

The horsemen of the Suebi stood silently a thousand paces from the Tenth and a fly buzzed around Julius’ face as he looked over their lines.

‘Stand ready, gentlemen. For now, we wait.’

By the time the vast column of legions had joined the Tenth, Ariovistus too had summoned his main force. At the best estimate of the scouts who dared the darts and arrows of the enemy horsemen, there must have been sixty thousand of the Suebi warriors. Each rider brought a running soldier, keeping up a terrific pace as one hand gripped the mane of the horse he ran alongside. Julius was reminded of the Spartans running to battle in the same way and hoped he would not face opponents of a similar calibre. Brutus had made a wry remark about the battle of Thermopylae, remembered from their tutors years before, but the Spartan king had been able to defend a narrow pass in mountains, whereas Julius could be flanked or even surrounded by such a mobile force. A better model was the battle of Cannae, he thought, where the Romans had been annihilated, though he did not voice the worry aloud.

Two hours after noon, Julius had his sixteen scorpion bows set up and pointing towards the enemy. They were perfect defensive weapons against a charge, but were so poorly manoeuvrable that they fell behind an advance after the first shots.

‘I have never known a battle like this, Brutus, but they have waited too long now. Have Octavian protect our flanks with the extraordinarii. The rest is up to us.’

He chopped his hand down and all along the lines, cornicens blew their long horns in a single note that matched no order. The sound was intended merely to frighten the enemy and Julius saw a restless shifting amongst the Suebi as they reacted to it. Moments later, the scorpions fired and bolts as long as a man blurred across the distance between them, faster than could be seen or avoided. Horses in the front lines were spitted, the great bolts continuing on to kill indiscriminately behind them. As the scorpion teams worked feverishly to reload, Julius signalled the advance and with the Tenth at their head, the legions began their loping run towards the enemy, spears ready in their hands. Though they moved quickly, no man left his position and if the Suebi charged them, they could form impregnable squares with barely a check to their pace.

With the perfection of discipline, the legions spread out as soon as they were through the pinch between the forest and the Hand. Brutus commanded the Third on the right flank and Mark Antony took the left.

As they came into range for archers, the men readied their shields, but without warning the Suebi lines began to move away once more, faster by far than the Roman advance. Thousands of warriors cantered clear and re-formed half a mile distant.

It was not too far, though Julius feared being drawn out onto the green fields. Ahead of him, he could see the first of the Suebi camps struggling to close its gates. Hundreds of cart drivers were in a panic as they tried to get in. Julius shook his head in amazement that Ariovistus had abandoned them.

Bericus detached to the west to handle the stockade and another of the Ariminum legions moved smoothly up to the front to take the place of that five thousand. They swept past the stockade as Bericus took the people there without fuss or bloodshed. Julius saw their arms raised in panic as he passed them, but the rest of the Suebi were once again on the move, the solid formations becoming liquid as they broke apart to reform another half mile distant.

Julius signalled the halt and the legions crashed to a panting stop. Brutus came galloping in from the right wing.

‘Let me take the extraordinarii. I can stop them long enough for you to bring up the rest,’ he said, glaring at the enemy in the distance.

‘No, I won’t risk the only good horsemen I have,’ Julius said, casting an eye over the whooping, ragged-looking Aedui, overjoyed to be reunited with their ponies. ‘We are deep in his lands now. I want a hostile camp set up around the stockade as a base. I am not going to exhaust the men by charging all over Gaul after him. I want the legions behind camp walls and gates before nightfall. Have the ballistae readied when the carts come up behind us. Some hot food as well. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

Julius looked over at the black mass of horsemen of the Suebi and shook his head.

‘Ariovistus is no fool. There has to be a reason for this cowardice. When the camps are ready, summon my council to me.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Building fortified camps under the very noses of the enemy was a new experience for the six legions. Every man who could be spared dug the outer trenches, throwing the loose earth up into great ramparts, shifting many tons of earth to the height of three men. The extraordinarii patrolled the perimeter and twice during the long afternoon, small groups had ridden hard at them, sending javelins flying before racing back to their own lines. It had been no more than young men showing their courage, but Julius could make nothing of Ariovistus’ plans. His warriors seemed eager enough, but still the main army kept their distance, watching as the Romans raised earthworks and felled trees. Julius had smelt spices on the breeze as the day wore on and knew the Suebi were busy preparing food for their own men as he was about to do for his.

By the early evening, the huge camps were finished and the legions marched inside gates as solid as anything in Gaul. The legion carpenters were old hands at turning heavy trunks into shaped beams and the earthen ramparts were spiked solidly enough to resist the most determined attack. Julius could sense a mood of optimism amongst his men. The sight of a retreating enemy had raised their morale enormously and he hoped it would continue.

He gathered his council in the generals’ tent inside the walls after a hot meal had been prepared and eaten. The Aedui horses had munched their way through a good part of his grain supply, but there could be no grazing outside with the Suebi so close. As night fell, Julius waited for Brutus to come and join the others. Lamps were lit and the first night watch went on duty without their shields, climbing wooden steps to the ramparts to scan the darkness for an attack.

Julius looked around at his council with a quiet satisfaction. Octavian had grown into a fine leader of men and Ciro too had justified his promotion to the position of centurion. Publius Crassus was a fearless commander and Julius would be sorry when he was sent back to lead his father’s legion. Renius continued to train the men in gladius technique and Julius never hesitated in promoting those he recommended. If Renius said they were able to lead, they were. Domitius was capable of commanding a full legion and the men loved the silver armour he now wore constantly. At that time, in that place, they were in their prime and Julius was proud of them all.

As Brutus joined them, Cabera brought out a ball of clay he had wrapped in damp cloth. It shone in the lamplight as he massaged the brown ball into a semblance of a face, pinching out a nose and poking eyes with his fingernails.

‘If ropes were placed in this way, you could alter the shape of the skull,’ he said, winding a piece of cord around the little head and tightening it with a stick that he twisted until the clay began to bulge. When he had created a heavy ridge above the eyes, he repeated the process above it, until a copy of the odd Suebi features stared back at them.

‘But the skull would break, surely?’ Octavian said, wincing at the image.

Cabera shook his head. ‘For a man, yes, but for a newborn child, when the skull is still soft, such a binding would produce the ridges. No demons, these men, for all the gossip in camp. They are brutal, though. I have never heard of a race that could mistreat their young in such a way. The first year, perhaps two, of their lives must be spent in agony, with these things pressing against their bones. I doubt they are ever fully free of pain. If I am right, it would mean they mark their warrior castes almost from birth.’

‘You must show it around the camps, if they are talking, Cabera,’ Julius said, fascinated by the contorted head. ‘The Suebi need no other advantages with their numbers and our men are superstitious.’

A commotion outside the tent brought the council to their feet in an instant. The guards who were stationed there snapped muffled words at someone and then the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle could be heard. Brutus strode to the flap and flung it back.

Two of the Gaulish slaves taken by the Suebi were writhing on the ground.

‘Sorry, sir,’ one guard said quickly as he saluted Brutus. ‘Consul Caesar said he should not be disturbed and these two ignored my warning.’

‘You did well,’ Brutus replied. He reached down and helped one of the Gauls to his feet. ‘What was so important?’ he asked.

The man glared at the guard before speaking, but Brutus didn’t understand a word of the torrent that came in reply. Raising his eyebrows, Brutus exchanged glances with the guard.

‘I don’t suppose he understood your warning, either. Adàn? Would you come and translate for me, please?’

With Adàn there, the man spoke even faster. By then, his companion had risen to his feet and stood sullenly rubbing his stomach.

‘Are you going to stand out here all night?’ Julius said, coming out to them.

‘I think you’re going to want to hear this, sir,’ Adàn said.

‘It explains why we couldn’t bring them to battle, at least,’ Julius said. ‘If this Ariovistus is fool enough to listen to his priests, we can only benefit from it. I make it three days until the new moon. If he won’t fight us till then, we can push him right back to the Rhine and hammer him against it.’

Julius’ mood of worry and anger had disappeared at the news brought by the Gaulish slaves. His riders had rejoiced to find some of their own people amongst the rest and the crucial piece of information explained a great deal of the Suebi king’s behaviour.

Julius listened as Adàn translated the man’s torrent of words for his benefit. Ariovistus had been told he would die if he fought before the new moon. It meant the angry meeting had been a bluff of sorts, and Julius had called it when he ordered the Tenth into battle formation. Julius remembered the glimpse of fear he had seen in the king’s eyes and understood it at last. It was a weakness in a leader to allow his priests so much sway over his army, Julius was certain. The Greeks had been crippled by their reliance on oracles. Even Roman generals had been known to delay and lose positions if the entrails of birds or fish showed disaster waiting to fall. Julius refused to bring such men to his battlefields, convinced they did more harm than good.

Julius had his rough map of the area held with lead weights on the table. He pointed to the black line that marked the winding Rhine to the north, less than fifteen miles away. Even with the heavy carts of the baggage train, it was a distance they could cross easily before the new moon and he blessed the gods for delivering Aedui slaves into his hands.

‘We will break camp an hour before dawn, gentlemen,’ Julius told his generals. ‘I want the ballistae, onagers and scorpions with us as far as the ground will allow. If they fall behind, they are to be brought up slowly for the final battle. Octavian will command the extraordinarii, Mark Antony will take my right flank. Bericus on the left and all the scorpions to be brought to the front of any halt. The Tenth and Third Gallica will hold the centre. The men are to have a good breakfast tomorrow and fill their waterskins from the casks. Let them all know what we have learned tonight. It will give them heart. Make sure each man has his spears and weapons in good order.’

He paused as Mark Antony filled his cup, the Roman flushed with pleasure at the position he had been given. Mark Antony had heard about the arrogance of Ariovistus at the meeting and accepted that the friendship with Rome was at an end. No doubt Caesar’s enemies would make much of it in the Senate, but that was a problem for another day.

Crassus sighed as Servilia’s slave girl massaged the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders. The frozen fruit he had eaten lay cold in his stomach and after he had been fully relaxed on the table, the luxury of a hot pool awaited him, steaming in the open night. Across from him, Servilia lay along a padded couch, looking up at the stars. Though there was no moon to light the heavens, the sky was clear and she could see the tiny red disc of Mars above the line of the tiled roof that surrounded the open courtyard. The hot pool gleamed under the light of lamps and heavy moths fluttered into the flames, crackling as they died.

‘This place is worth every coin,’ Crassus murmured, wincing slightly as the slave girl worked a painful point between his shoulder blades.

‘I knew you would appreciate it,’ Servilia replied, smiling with real pleasure. ‘So few who come to my house have an eye for the beautiful things, but what are we without them?’

Her gaze fell on the freshly painted plaster of the new wing of her town house. Crassus had secured the land and she had paid a full market rate for it, without resentment. Anything else would have meant a shift of their relationship and she liked and honoured the old man who lay so comfortably under the strong fingers of her Nubian girl.

‘Are you not going to press me for information then?’ he asked without opening his eyes. ‘Am I no longer useful to you?’

Servilia chuckled, sitting up.

‘Old father, be silent if that is what you want. My house is yours for as long as you need it. There is no obligation.’

‘Ah, the worst kind,’ he replied, smiling to himself. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘These new men in the Senate, Clodius and now Titus Milo, the owner of the meat market. Are they dangerous?’ she said. Though she spoke lightly, Crassus knew her full attention was on the answer.

‘Very much so,’ he replied. ‘I would not like to enter the Senate when they are there.’

Servilia snorted. ‘You don’t fool me with your sudden devotion to trade, old man. I doubt there is a word spoken there that doesn’t find its way back to you.’

She smiled sweetly at him then and he opened his eyes and winked at her before shifting under the hands of the slave to guide her to a new place. Servilia shook her head at his games.

‘How is your new legion shaping?’ she asked.

‘Well enough, my dear. When my son, Publius, returns from Gaul, I may find a use for them. If I survive the current unrest.’

‘Is it that bad?’ she asked.

Crassus propped himself up on his elbows, his expression becoming serious.

‘It is. These new men sway the mob of Rome and recruit more and more to their gangs each day. The streets are no longer safe even for members of the Senate, Servilia. We must be thankful that Milo occupies so much of Clodius’ time. If either one of them should destroy the other, the victor would be free to wreak havoc in the city. As it is, each man is the check on his colleague, at least for the moment. I have heard they consider parts of the city their own, so that the followers of Clodius may not cross certain streets without a beating, even in the day. Most of Rome cannot see the struggle, but it is there nonetheless. I have seen the bodies in the Tiber.’

‘And Pompey? Does he not see the threat?’

Crassus shrugged. ‘What can he do against their code of silence? The raptores fear their masters more than anything Pompey can do to them. He at least will not attack their families after they are dead. When a trial is considered, the witnesses disappear or become unable to remember. It is a shameful thing to see, Servilia. It is as if a great sickness has come into the city and I do not see how it can be cut out.’ He sighed in distaste.

‘The senate house is the core of it and I spoke the truth when I said I was glad my business takes me away from it. Clodius and Milo meet openly to sniff and taunt each other before their animals terrorize the city at night. The Senate do not have the will to control them. All the little men have fallen in with one or the other and Pompey has less support than he realises. He cannot match their bribes, nor their threats. At times, I wish Julius would come back. He would not see Rome descend into chaos while he had life in him.’

Servilia looked up at the bright evening star, trying to hide her interest. When she glanced at Crassus, she saw his eyes were open, studying her. There was little the old man didn’t know or guess.

‘Have you heard from Julius?’ she asked at last.

‘I have. He offers me trade concessions with the new lands in Gaul, though I think he paints a prettier picture than the full truth to tempt me in. Mind you, if half of what he says is true, I would be a fool to miss the opportunity.’

‘I saw the notices around the city,’ Servilia said softly, thinking of Julius. ‘How many will respond?’

‘With Clodius and Milo making life a misery with their struggle, I would think there will be thousands crossing the Alps in the spring. Land for the taking: who can resist such an offer? Slaves and trade for every man with enough energy to make the trip. If I were younger and poor, I might consider his offer myself. Of course, I am ready to provide the stores and supplies to anyone who wants to go to his fabulous new provinces.’

Servilia laughed. ‘Always the merchant?’

‘A merchant prince, Servilia. Julius used the term in one of his letters and I rather like it.’ He waved away the slave girl and sat up on the long bench.

‘He is more useful than he knows, is Julius. When the city looks too long inward to its own affairs, we create men like Clodius and Milo, who care nothing for the greater events of the world. The reports Julius pays to be read on every street corner raise the spirits of the lowest tanner or dyer in the markets.’ He chuckled. ‘Pompey knows it, though he hates to see Julius so successful. He is forced to fight for him in the Senate whenever Suetonius objects to some little breach of the laws. Such a bitter draught for that man to swallow, but without Julius and his conquests, Rome would become a stagnant pool, with all the fish eating each other out of desperation.’

‘And you, Crassus? What does the future hold for you?’

Crassus rose from the table and lowered himself into the warm bath set in the floor, oblivious of his nudity.

‘I find that old age is the perfect balm for raging ambition, Servilia. My dreams are all for my son.’ His eyes twinkled in the starlight and she did not believe him.

‘Will you join me?’ he asked.

As an answer, Servilia stood and undid the single clasp that held the cool material to her. She was naked underneath and Crassus smiled at the unveiling.

‘How you do love drama, my dear,’ he said with amusement.

Julius swore as the Roman squares faltered. After two days of pursuit, he had forced the Suebi to face them only a few miles short of the Rhine. He knew he should have expected the attack, but when it came, the reversal had been so sudden that the armies clashed before the Roman legions could even untie their spears.

The warriors of Ariovistus were every bit as brutal as they had expected. They gave no ground unless it was over the corpses of their men and the cavalry swirled like smoke around the battlefield, with charges forming the instant the Romans broke their squares to attack.

‘Mark Antony! Support the left!’ Julius bellowed, glimpsing the general in the heaving mass. There was no sign of his order having been heard over the clash of arms.

The battlefield was in chaos and, for the first time, he began to fear a defeat. Every Suebi rider ran with another man hanging on the horse’s mane and that speed of movement was making it almost impossible to counter them. Julius saw with horror that two of the Ariminum legions were close to being overwhelmed on the left flank and there was no sign of a supporting force arriving to help them. He could no longer see Mark Antony and Brutus was embroiled in the fighting, too far away to help. Julius tore a shield from a legionary’s grasp and raced on foot across the battlefield.

The clash of arms and dying men grew in intensity as he neared them. Julius could feel the fear amongst his own legionaries and he began to call them by name. The chain of command seemed to have been broken in the attack and Julius was forced to gather optios and centurions to him to give his orders.

‘Join the Twelfth and Fifth together. Double the square!’ he told them, watching as they began to create order from the milling ranks around him. His extraordinarii were off on the flanks holding the Suebi from surrounding them. Where was Mark Antony? Julius craned around him, but could see no sign of him in the press.

Under Julius’ constant barrage of orders, the two legions joined together and then wheeled to fight back to back as the Suebi crumbled the edges of their squares, picking men off with sudden flights of darts and stones. Again and again, the horses galloped at the legions only to halt in the face of the unbroken shield walls. The legionaries charged forward as the riders tried to turn and the carnage was horrific.

With the Rhine behind them, the Suebi had nowhere to run and Julius knew panic when he saw the front ranks of his beloved Tenth being smashed down by spears thrown at the gallop. The shields saved many and they rose in a daze, brought back to their position by their friends around them.

Still the legions forced themselves onward. The great ballistae and onagers were brought up and tore red ribbons in the enemy. The Tenth roared as Julius rejoined them, fighting all the harder under his watchful eye.

Julius saw the left and right flanks were holding. Brutus controlled the right, and the extraordinarii and Aedui cavalry had blunted the Suebi’s attacks with wild courage. He advanced the centre and the Suebi were forced to fall back by the sheer ferocity of the legion formations.

Julius saw with pride that his officers knew their business, even without orders. When the foot soldiers of the Suebi rushed them, they widened their line to bring as many swords as possible into the attack. When the cavalry charged, they clashed into squares and fought on. The ballistae and onagers launched again and again until they were too far behind to risk their missiles falling on the Roman troops.

Julius saw Ariovistus gather his bodyguard around him, a thousand of the very best of the Suebi. Each one stood a head taller than the Romans and was marked with the strange ridges that frightened the legionaries. They charged the Tenth in the centre and Julius saw the square formed just too late to prevent the armoured warriors from reaching them.

The centre buckled and then, with a roar, the Tenth fought back like maniacs in a blood rage. Julius remembered how they had been created from the deaths of those who had faltered and he smiled with a vicious pleasure. The Tenth were his and they would not be turned. They would never run.

He surged forward with the soldiers around him, calling out for the flanks to form horns to compress the enemy. Julius caught a glimpse of the dark horses of the Aedui coming from the left and isolating a block of the Suebi from the main force. The Tenth climbed over bodies to reach the enemy. The ground was red and shining as they built speed into a charge and Ariovistus was forced to ride back from the front before the roaring Tenth and Third could reach him.

The whole of the Roman lines saw the king retreat and they responded, raising their heads. Julius exulted. The Rhine was less than a mile distant and he could see the shining water. He called his cornicens to him and ordered spears to be thrown, watching as the mass of missiles hampered any attempt by Ariovistus to re-form. A gap opened between the armies and Julius urged them all forward, calling to the men he knew. As he mentioned their names, they stood a little straighter and forgot their weariness under his gaze.

‘Bring up the ballistae and scorpions!’ he ordered and his messengers weaved their way back to help the sweating teams over the rough ground.

Without an apparent signal, the entire mass of the Suebi formed another charge and thundered down towards the Roman lines. Spears plucked some of them from their saddles and killed mounts that fouled those behind. Julius knew it was their last charge and his men moved into tight squares before he could order it.

The long Roman shields were overlapped and the men behind braced themselves to take an impact, their swords ready. Not one part of the Roman lines fell back from the terrifying sight of the horses coming at them. When it faltered, the legions tore them apart.

The army of Ariovistus began to be compressed against the river. Without the extraordinarii and the Aedui, Julius knew they could have overwhelmed the Romans, but though they hammered the flanks again and again, the legions continued their advance, killing anything that faced them.

The banks of the Rhine seethed with men and horses as they risked their lives to cross against the current. The great river was almost a hundred yards wide and those without mounts to cling to were swept away and drowned. Julius could see tiny fishing boats crammed with desperate men and watched as one of them overturned, the dark bobbing heads of the Suebi disappearing under the water.

On the left flank, a thousand of the enemy threw down their arms and surrendered to the Ariminum legions they had failed to break. Julius pushed on with his Tenth until they were standing on the banks of the river, looking at the mass of drowning men that choked the water from his side right to the deepest centre. Those of the Tenth who had been able to salvage or keep their spears threw them at the men in the water and Julius saw many struck in that way, slipping beneath the surface with no more than a single cry.

On the far bank, Julius saw a boat make it into the shallows and watched as the figure of Ariovistus climbed out and collapsed onto his knees for a moment.

‘Ciro!’ Julius called. His voice echoed as the name went back into the ranks of the Tenth, producing the powerful figure of the legionary, still panting with the strain of the battle. Julius handed him a single spear and pointed to the figure on the far bank.

‘Can you reach him?’

Ciro hefted the spear in his hand. The soldiers around him stood back to give him room as he stared across the wide river.

‘Quickly, before he rises,’ Julius snapped.

Ciro took five steps back and then ran forward, heaving the spear into the air. The men of the Tenth watched it in fascination as it rose high into the sun and then fell.

Ariovistus stood to face the Romans on the far bank and never saw it. The spear hammered him off his feet, puncturing his leather armour over the stomach. The king flailed limply as the survivors of his bodyguard dragged him into the trees.

After a moment of awed silence, the legions cheered themselves hoarse. Ciro raised a single arm to them in salute and grinned as Julius clapped him on the back.

‘A hero’s throw, Ciro. By the gods, I have never seen a finer. Hercules himself could not have done better.’ Julius roared his triumph with the others then and felt the exultation that comes from victory, when the blood seemed to rush like fire through the veins and tired muscles surged with fresh strength.

‘My glorious Tenth!’ Julius shouted to them. ‘My brothers! Is there anything you cannot achieve? You, Belinus, I saw you strike down three of the warriors in the line. You, Regulus, you gathered in your century when poor Decidas fell. You will do him honour when you wear his plume.’

One by one, he called the names of the men who were with him, praising their courage. He had missed nothing of the day’s fighting and they stood tall as his gaze swept the faces of his men. The other legions came closer to hear him and he could feel their pride and pleasure. He raised his voice to carry as far as it could.

‘What can we not achieve, after this?’ They cheered the words. ‘We are the sons of Rome and I tell you this land will be ours! Every man who has fought for me will have land and gold and slaves to work it for him. You will be the new nobilitas of Rome and drink wine good enough to make you weep. I swear it before you all, on my honour. I swear it as consul. I swear it as Rome in Gaul.’

Julius reached down into the churned mud of the river bank, mixed with the blood of the Suebi. He grasped a handful and held it up to the assembled men.

‘You see this clay? This bloody clay I hold? I say it is yours. It belongs to my city as much as the chariot races or the markets. Take it, hold it in your hands. Can you not feel it?’

He watched with wild pleasure as the legions copied his action, joking and laughing as they did so. They grinned at him as they held up their pieces of the land and Julius squeezed his fist closed, so that the clay dripped from between his fingers.

‘I may never go home,’ he whispered. ‘This is my time. This is my path.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

Tabbic and Alexandria wrapped their cloaks tight against the cold as they approached the locked door of the shop. The streets were rimed with dirty ice, making every step a danger. Alexandria held on to Tabbic’s arm to help steady them both. Her two guards made their habitual inspection of the area as Tabbic pushed his key into the lock and swore under his breath when it jammed. All around them, the workers of Rome went to their jobs and shops and one or two nodded stiffly to Alexandria as they passed, miserable in the biting wind.

‘Lock’s frozen,’ Tabbic said, pulling out the key and thumping his fist against the ornate door plate.

Alexandria rubbed her arms while she waited, knowing better than to offer advice. Tabbic may have been an irritable old man, but he had made the lock himself and if anyone could open it, he could. While she tried to ignore the wind, Tabbic reached for his jewellery tools and used a tiny pick to clear the ice. When that failed, he tried a few drops of oil and pressed one hand after another against the metal in an attempt to warm the mechanism, blowing on his fingers as they froze on contact.

‘There she goes,’ he said as the lock clicked at last and the door swung open to reveal the dark recesses of the workshop.

Alexandria’s teeth chattered and her hands shook. It would be some time before she was warm enough to attempt any fine work and as usual she wished Tabbic would employ a slave to come in early and light the forge for them. He wouldn’t hear of it. He had never owned slaves and had been irritated at Alexandria’s suggestion, saying she of all people should know better.

If that hadn’t been enough, it was even possible that the slave would be provided by one of the gangs and all their precious stock would disappear into the coffers of Clodius or Milo. The same reason prevented them from hiring a night guard, and Alexandria was thankful every morning when they found the shop untouched. For all Tabbic’s traps and locks, they had been lucky so far. At least it wouldn’t be long before they completed the purchase of a spacious new place in an area less troubled by the raptores. Tabbic had agreed to that at last, if only to fill the large orders that were the backbone of their business.

Tabbic hurried over to light the forge and Alexandria shut the door securely against the wind, unclenching her stiff fingers in something like ecstasy.

‘We’ll be going then, mistress,’ Teddus said.

As always after the morning walk to the shop, his leg was barely holding him and Alexandria shook her head. Teddus never changed from one morning to the next and though she had never sent him straight back into the cold, he still gave her the opportunity.

‘Not until you have something hot inside you,’ she said firmly.

He was a good man, though his son might as well have been mute for all the interest he took in those he guarded with his father. In the mornings, he was particularly sullen.

They could all hear the welcome crackle of the spills and wood chippings in the furnace as Tabbic nursed it into life. With the great iron block to warm them, the shop needed no other fire. Alexandria broke the ice on a water bucket she had filled the day before and poured it into the old iron kettle Tabbic had made in that same forge. The routine was comforting and the three men with her began to relax as the room temperature eased above freezing.

Alexandria was startled when the door opened behind them.

‘Come back later,’ she called, then fell silent as three hard-looking men entered the confined space and carefully shut the door behind them.

‘I hope we won’t have to,’ the first said.

He was a typical product of the back alleys of Rome. Too cunning to be interested in the legions and too vicious for any sort of normal work. Alexandria realised she could smell him, an unwashed stale reek that made her want to take a step back. The man grinned at her, revealing dark yellow teeth in shrivelled gums. He didn’t have to go on for her to know he was one of the raptores who clustered under Clodius or Milo. The shop owners in the area told terrible tales of their threats and violence and Alexandria found herself hoping Teddus would not provoke them. The leering menace of the men made her face the truth that her guard was just too old for this sort of work.

‘We’re closed,’ Tabbic said behind her.

Alexandria heard a faint clink as he picked up some sort of tool. She didn’t look round, but the eyes of the intruders fastened on him. The leader snorted contemptuously.

‘Not to us, old man. Unless you want to be closed to everyone else,’ he said.

Alexandria hated him for his knowing arrogance. He built and made nothing, but still seemed to think he had the right to enter the shops and homes of hard-working people and make them afraid.

‘What do you want?’ Tabbic asked.

The leader of the three scratched his neck and examined what he found there before cracking something dark between his nails.

‘I want your tithe, old man. This street isn’t safe unless you pay your tithe. Eighty sesterces a month and nothing will happen. No one will be beaten as they walk home. Nothing valuable will be burnt.’ He paused and winked at Alexandria. ‘No one will be dragged into an alleyway and raped. We’ll keep you safe.’

‘You filth!’ Tabbic shouted. ‘How dare you come into my shop with your threats? Get out now, or I will call the guards. Take your grinning friends with you!’

The three men looked bored at the outburst.

‘Come on, old man,’ the first said, rolling his massive shoulders. ‘See what I’ll give you if you don’t put that hammer down. Or perhaps the lad? I’ll do him here in front of you, if you want. Either way, I’m not leaving until I have your first month’s payment. Clodius don’t like those who make a fuss and this street is his now. Better just to pay what you owe and be left in peace.’ He chuckled and the sound made Alexandria shudder. ‘The trick is not to think of it as your money. It’s just another city tax.’

‘I pay my taxes!’ Tabbic roared. He waved a heavy hammer in the man’s direction, making him flinch. The other two behind him shuffled in closer and Alexandria could see knives in their belts.

Teddus drew his short gladius in one sweeping movement and the atmosphere in the shop changed. All three of the men produced their knives, but Teddus held the sword with a wrist stronger than his lame leg. Alexandria could see the irritation in the leader’s face. None of them looked round as Teddus’ son drew his own dagger and held it. The younger man was nothing like the threat of his father and the leader of the raptores knew it. More importantly, he knew he would either have to kill the swordsman or leave.

‘I won’t warn you, whoreson. Get out,’ Teddus said slowly, looking the leader in the eye.

The leader of the raptores lunged his head forward and back in a sudden spasm like a fighting cock. Teddus moved, but the man guffawed, his coarse laughter filling the shop.

‘Bit slow, aren’t you? I could take you here, but why should I bother when it’s so much easier to wait for you in the dark?’ He ignored Teddus then and looked back at Tabbic, still standing with his hammer raised to one shoulder.

‘Eighty sesterces on the first of each month. First payment by the end of today. It’s just business, you old fool. Will I take it with me now, or shall I come back for you one at a time?’

Once again, he winked at Alexandria and she recoiled from the knowledge in that glance.

‘No. I’ll pay you. Then when you’re gone, I’ll tell the guards and see you cut.’

Tabbic reached into his cloak and the chink of coins made the three men smile. The leader tutted aloud.

‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘I have friends, me. Lots of friends who would be angry if I was taken out to the Campus and shown the butcher’s knife. Your wife and children would be very sorry if my friends were angry about something like that.’

Deftly, he caught the thrown pouch of coins, counting them quickly before placing it inside his grubby tunic next to the skin. He chuckled at their expressions and spat a wad of dark phlegm onto the tiled floor.

‘That’s the way. I hope business is good, old man. I’ll see you next month.’

The three of them opened the door, leaning into the wind that came rushing into the shop. They left it open behind them and disappeared into the dark streets. Teddus walked over and shoved it closed, pulling down the locking bar. Tabbic did indeed look like an old man as he turned away from Alexandria, unable to meet her gaze. He was pale and shaking as he laid the hammer down on the bench and picked up his long brush. He began to sweep the clean floor in slow strokes.

‘What are we going to do?’ Alexandria demanded.

For a long time, Tabbic remained silent until she wanted to shout the question at him and break the stillness.

‘What can we do?’ he said at last. ‘I won’t risk my family for anything.’

‘We can shut the shop until the new place is ready. It’s halfway across the city, Tabbic. In a better area. It will be different there.’

Despair and weariness showed in Tabbic’s face.

‘No. That bastard didn’t say anything about whether the shop was open or closed. He’ll still want his money if we don’t sell a single piece.’

‘Just for a month, then. Until we close up and get out,’ she said, wanting to see some spark of life break his stunned misery.

Tabbic hated thieves. Handing over coins he had worked days for hurt him more deeply than a physical pain. His hands shook with reaction as he changed his grip on the broom. Then he looked up at her.

‘There is nowhere else, girl. Don’t you know that? I’m just surprised they haven’t been to us earlier. You remember little Geranas?’

Alexandria nodded. The man had been a jeweller longer even than Tabbic and produced beautiful work in gold.

‘They used a hammer on his right hand when he wouldn’t pay. Can you believe that? He can’t earn with the mess they made of him, but they don’t care about that. They just want the story to spread, so men like me will just meekly give up what we worked so hard for.’ He stopped then, tightening his grip on the broom until it snapped loudly.

‘Better lay out your tools, Alexandria. We have three pieces to finish today.’

His voice was hard and flat and Tabbic made no move to continue the morning routine as the shop was readied for customers.

‘I have friends, Tabbic,’ Alexandria said. ‘Julius and Brutus may be away, but Crassus knows me. I can try to bring pressure on them. It must be better than doing nothing.’

Tabbic’s grim expression didn’t change. ‘You do that. It can’t hurt,’ he said.

Teddus sighed, sheathing his sword at last.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

Tabbic heard him. ‘Don’t be. That cocky bastard didn’t like the look of you, for all his words.’

‘Why did you pay him then?’ Alexandria asked him.

Tabbic snorted. ‘Because your man would have killed him and they’d have come back to burn us out. They can’t let even one of us win, girl, or the rest stop paying.’

He turned to Teddus and clapped his big hand on the man’s shoulder, ignoring his embarrassment.

‘You did well enough, though I’d find a man to replace your son, you understand me? You need a killer for your kind of work. Now I’ll give you a hot drink against the cold and a bite to eat before you go on your way, but I want you here in plenty of time tonight, understand?’

‘I’ll be here,’ Teddus promised, glancing at his son’s flushed face.

Tabbic looked him in the eye and nodded, satisfied.

‘You’re a good man,’ he said. ‘I just wish courage was all it took.’

Brutus examined the cracked glass of the water clock. Even with fur gloves, his fingers were numb with cold. All he wanted was to go back to his barracks and wrap himself up like a hibernating bear. Yet the routines of the legions had to continue. Though the cold ate into the men worse than anything they had ever known, the legion watches had to be marked by the three-hour trickle of water from one glass bowl into another. Brutus swore softly to himself as his touch removed a piece of the glass, which fell with a thud into the snow. He rubbed the growth of beard that covered his face. Julius had seen the benefit of suspending shaving in the cold months, but Brutus found the moisture of his breath would crust into ice after only an hour outside.

‘The shelters aren’t working. We’ll have to light fires under them. Just enough to keep the water from freezing. You have my permission to take a few billets of wood from the supply for each one. The sentries can keep it going during their watch. They’ll be glad of the heat, I should think. Have the smiths make you an iron sheath to protect the glass and wood from the flames, or you’ll boil half of it away.’

‘I will, sir. Thank you,’ the tesserarius replied, relieved he was not to be criticised. Privately, Brutus thought the man was an idiot not to have thought of it and the result was the destruction of the only way the Tenth had to fix the length of a watch.

The soldiers of Rome had finally understood why the tribes did not go to war in winter. The first snow had fallen heavily enough to break the roof of the barracks, turning the snug bunks into a chaos of wind and ice. The following day had seen the drifts made deeper and after a month Brutus could barely remember what it felt like to be warm. Though they lit huge fires below the walls each night, the heat reached only a few feet, blown away on the endless wind. He had seen ice floes the size of carts on the Rhine and sometimes the snow fell so heavily as to make a shifting crust from one bank to the other. He wondered if the river would freeze solid before spring.

They seemed to spend their entire day in darkness. Julius had kept the men working as long as he could, but frozen hands slipped and a rash of injuries forced Julius to suspend the building as he came to terms with the winter at last.

Brutus passed on through the camp, his feet skidding painfully on the iced ruts left by the baggage trains. Denied grazing, they had been forced to slaughter most of the oxen, unable to afford the grain from the legion supplies. At least the meat stayed fresh, Brutus thought grimly. His glance strayed to the pile of carcasses under a dusting of snow. The meat was as hard as stone, like everything else in the country.

Brutus climbed the earthen wall of the camp and peered out into the greyness. Soft flakes touched him on the cheek and did not melt against his cold skin. He could see nothing out there but the stumps of the first trees they had felled and dragged back to be burnt for warmth.

The forest had at least protected them from the wind while it lasted. They knew now that they should have kept the closest trees to be cut last, but nothing the Romans had ever seen could have prepared them for the ferocity of that first winter. It was a killing cold.

Brutus knew many of the men were not well supplied with warm clothing. Those who had been given oxhides greased them daily, but they still became like iron. The going rate for a pair of fur gloves was more than a month’s pay and that was rising as every hare and fox for a hundred miles was killed and brought in by the trappers.

At least the legions had been paid at last. Julius had captured enough silver and gold from Ariovistus to issue three months of back salary to each man. In Rome, it would have run through their fingers on whores and wine, but here there was little to do with it but gamble and many of the men had been returned to poverty only a few days after their share had been handed out. The more responsible ones sent part of their pay back to relatives and dependants in Rome.

Brutus envied those who had been sent back across the Alps to Ariminum before the passes had closed. It was a gesture that had pleased the men, though Brutus had known it was made out of necessity. In such a harsh winter, just staying alive was difficult enough. The warriors of the Suebi who had survived the battle could not be guarded for so many dark months. Better to sell them as gladiators and house guards, splitting them apart and retraining them. With the tradition that the proceeds of fighting slaves went to the legionaries, the Suebi would bring at least a gold coin to each man who had fought them.

The wind gusted harder along the wall and Brutus began to count to five hundred in his head, forcing himself to stay at least that long. Those who had to stand a watch up there were in a world of grey misery and they needed to see him bear it with them.

He pulled his cloak closer around his chest, wincing with each breath that bit at his throat until he wished it was as numb as the rest of him. Cabera had warned him about the danger and he wore two pairs of woollen socks under his sandals, though they seemed to make no difference at all. Eighteen men had lost toes or fingers since the first snow and without Cabera it would have been more. All those had been in the first few weeks, before the men learned to respect the cold. Brutus had seen one of the shrivelled black lumps clipped off with a hoof tool and the strangest thing had been the passive look on the legionary’s face. Even with jaws of iron snipping through his bone, he had felt no pain.

The closest legionary was like a statue and as Brutus shuffled closer to him, he saw that the man’s eyes were closed, his face pale and bruised-looking under a straggling beard. The penalty for falling asleep on watch was death, but Brutus clapped the man on his back in a greeting, pretending not to notice the spasm of fear as the eyes snapped open, immediately narrowing against the wind.

‘Where are your gloves, lad?’ Brutus asked, seeing the cramped blue fingers as the soldier pulled them out from his tunic and stood to attention.

‘I lost them, sir,’ he replied.

Brutus nodded. No doubt the man was as good a gambler as he was a sentry.

‘You’ll lose your hands too if you don’t keep warm. Take mine. I have another pair.’ Brutus watched as the young legionary tried to pull them on. He couldn’t do it and after a brief struggle, one of them fell. Brutus picked it up and worked them over the man’s frozen fingers. He hoped it was not too late. On impulse, he undid the clasp of his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it around the young soldier, trying not to wince as the wind seemed to bite every part of his exposed body, despite the under-layers. His teeth began to chatter and Brutus bit down hard to quieten them.

‘Please, sir, I can’t take your cloak,’ the sentry said.

‘It’ll keep you warm enough to finish your watch, lad. Then you might choose to give it to the next one up in your place. I’ll leave that to you.’

‘I will, sir. Thank you.’

Brutus watched as the first tinges of colour began to return to the soldier’s cheeks before he was satisfied. For some reason, he felt surprisingly cheerful as he made his way down. The fact that he had completed his tour of the camp was part of it, of course. A hot beef stew and a bed warmed with heated bricks would help him bear the loss of his only cloak and gloves. He hoped he would be as cheerful the next night when he had to walk the camp without them.

Julius pulled an iron poker from the fire and plunged it into two cups of wine. Shredded cloves sizzled on the surface and steam curled upwards as he placed the iron back into the flames and offered a cup to Mhorbaine.

Looking around him, Julius could almost believe in the permanence of the new buildings. Even in the short time before the first snows of winter, his legions had extended the road from the Roman province in the south to within almost five miles of the new camps. The trees they had felled became the structures of new barracks and Julius had been pleased with their progress until the winter struck in a single night and the following morning a sentry had been found frozen to death on the wall. Their quarry work had been abandoned and the pace of their lives had changed as all attempts to make a permanent link to the south were turned into a more basic struggle for survival.

Even in the midst of it, Julius had used the time. The Aedui were old hands at dealing with the bitter winters and he employed them as messengers to as many tribes as they knew. At the last count, Julius had made alliances with nine of them and claimed the lands of three more in easy reach of the country vacated by Ariovistus. How much of it would hold when the winter finally ended, he did not know. If they fulfilled their promises, he would have enough volunteers to form two new legions in the spring. No doubt many of the smaller tribes had agreed only to learn the skills that had destroyed the Helvetii and the Suebi, but Julius had planned with Mark Antony how to seed the legions with his most trusted men. He had done it with those Cato sent to protect his son. He had even made legionaries out of the mercenaries under Catiline. Whether they knew it or not, the Gauls who came to him would become as solidly of Rome as Ciro or Julius himself.

He worried more about those tribes who would not respond to his summons. The Belgae had blinded the Aedui messenger and then led his horse within a short distance of the Roman camps, letting the animal find its own way back to food and warmth. The Nervii had refused to meet his man and three other tribes had followed their lead.

Julius could hardly wait for the spring. The moment of exultation he had experienced as Ariovistus was struck down did not repeat itself, but still he felt a confidence that could hardly be explained. Gaul would be his.

‘The tribes you mention have never fought together, Julius. It is easier to imagine the Aedui standing back to back with the Arverni than any of those becoming brothers.’ Mhorbaine sipped at his hot wine and leaned closer to the fire, relaxing.

‘Perhaps,’ Julius admitted, ‘but my men have barely made a mark on most of Gaul. There are still tribes who haven’t even heard of us and how can they accept the rule of those they have never seen?’

‘You cannot fight them all, Julius. Even your legions could not do that,’ Mhorbaine replied.

Julius snorted. ‘Do not be so sure, my friend. My legions could murder Alexander himself if he stood against them, but with this winter I cannot see where I should take them next. Further to the north? The west? Should I seek out the more powerful tribes and beat them one by one? I almost hope they will fight together, Mhorbaine. If I can break the strongest of them, the others will accept our right to the land.’

‘You have already doubled the holdings of Rome,’ Mhorbaine reminded him.

Julius stared into the flames, gesturing with his cup at the unseen cold outside.

‘I cannot sit and wait for them to come to me. At any moment, I could be recalled to Rome. Another man could be appointed in my place.’ He caught himself before continuing, as he noted Mhorbaine’s bright interest. For all the man had been a valuable ally, Julius had let the wine spill too many words from him.

The last letter from Crassus before the winter closed the passes over the Alps had been troubling. Pompey was losing control of the city and Julius had been furious at the weakness of the Senate. He almost wished Pompey would declare a Dictatorship to end the tyranny of men like Clodius and Milo. They were just names to him, but Crassus took the threat seriously enough to confide his fear and Julius knew the old man was not one to jump at shadows. At one point, Julius had even considered returning to Rome to bolster Pompey in the Senate, but the winter of Gaul had put an end to that. It was appalling to think that while he won new lands, the city he loved was falling into corruption and violence. He had long accepted that the conquest of a country had to come in blood, but that vision had no place in his own home and the very thought of it made him rage.

‘There is so much to do!’ he said to Mhorbaine, reaching again for the poker in the flames. ‘All I can do is torment myself with plans and letters I cannot even send. I thought you said spring would have come by now? Where is the thaw you promised me?’

Mhorbaine shrugged.

‘Soon,’ he said, as he had so many times before.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When spring came, more than seven thousand families choked the roads north of Rome. Out of the teeming streets of the city, the exodus started to claim the new land that Julius promised. Those who feared the strength of Clodius and Milo took to the wide roads to start a new life away from the crime and dirt of the city, selling everything they owned to buy tools and grain and oxen to pull their carts. It was a perilous journey, with more than three hundred miles to the foothills of the Alps and unknown dangers beyond.

The legions Julius had taken from Ariminum had stripped the north of patrolling soldiers, stretching the protection of Rome to breaking point. Though the roadside inns and forts were still manned, long stretches in between were plagued by thieves and many of the families were attacked and left by the road in despair. Some were picked up by those who took pity on them, while others were left to beg for a few coins or starve. Those who could afford to hire guards were better off, and they kept their heads down when they passed the wailing, crying people who had gone before them, standing in the spring rain with hands outstretched.

In special sessions of the Senate, Pompey read out the reports of Julius’ victories as he received them. It was a bitter-sweet role he had found for himself and he could only shake his head at the irony of supporting Caesar as a way of controlling the new men of the Senate. Crassus had made him see that the victories in Gaul were all that kept the city from erupting in sheer panic as Clodius and Milo fought for supremacy in their secret, bloody battles. Despite the real power they had gained and the influence they wielded as brutally as a club, they had done nothing for Rome but feed on her. Neither Clodius nor Milo ever missed one of the reports. They had been formed in the gutters and the back-alleys of the city, but they thrilled to the details of battles in their name like any other citizen.

At first, Pompey had been prepared to declare a Dictatorship to control them. Freed from the restraints of the law, he could have had both men executed without a trial. Crassus had advised against such a final step. If they were killed, Crassus said, others would take their place and Pompey, perhaps Rome herself, would not survive. The Hydra of the Roman mob would grow new heads and whoever replaced them would know better than to walk in the open and attend the Senate. Crassus had spoken for hours to his old colleague and Pompey had seen the wisdom of his suggestions. Instead of resistance, he had gone out of his way to flatter and reward the men. He had sponsored Clodius for the position of chief magistrate and thrown a great dinner in his honour. Together, they had chosen candidates for the consular elections, lesser men who would do nothing to alter the fragile state of truce. It was a delicate balance that Pompey had found, knowing Clodius had chosen it in part to aid him against Milo as their own struggle continued.

Pompey considered the men as he read the latest report on the rostrum in front of him. In raising one, he had earned the enmity of the other and there was nothing but hatred in the eyes of Milo when he met them. Yet Clodius now spoke his name with pride of association and as spring had turned to summer, Pompey had even visited the man’s home in the city and been flattered and courted in his turn. It was a dangerous game, but better than scattering the pieces and trying for Dictator. As things stood, it would mean civil war and he was not at all sure he would emerge the victor by the end.

As Pompey cleared his throat to speak, he inclined his head to Clodius and saw the man’s pleasure at even the slightest mark of respect. That was what Crassus had seen in the newcomers to the Senate. Though they were savage, they craved the respectability of office and since Pompey had begun his new course, not one of his clients had suffered at the hands of Clodius’ bullies. When Pompey had announced his desire to refurbish the racetrack, it was Clodius who had come to him with the offer of unlimited funds. Pompey had raised a statue to him in gratitude, praising his generosity in the Senate. Milo had responded with an offer to rebuild the Via Appia and Pompey had masked his delight at the man’s transparency, allowing him to place his name on the Porta Capena where that road entered the city from the south. For the first time in more than a year, he felt that he had control of the city once again in his hands as the two men directed their energies more subtly, each as hungry as the other for recognition and acceptance. The new consuls were made aware of their precarious position and did nothing without first checking with their masters. It was stalemate and the private battles went on.

Pompey read the list of tribes Julius had smashed in the first battles of the spring, taking pleasure in the riveted stillness of the Senate. They listened with awe to the numbers of slaves that had been sent back over the Alps. The Remi had become vassals. The Nervii had been destroyed almost to the last man. The Belgae had been forced to give up their arms and surrender. The Atuatuci had been confined to a single walled town and then stormed. Fifty-three thousand had been sold back to the slave markets of Rome from that last tribe alone.

Pompey read Julius’ reports and even he could barely comprehend the hidden strife that lay behind the simple lines. Julius did nothing to sell his victories to the Senate, but the dry tone was all the more impressive for what it did not say. Pompey read it through to the concluding remarks, where Caesar commended the report to the Senate and estimated the yearly revenues in tax from the lands he had taken. Not a sound could be heard in the Curia as Pompey reached the last line.

‘“I declare that Gaul has been pacified and will now submit to the lawful rule of Rome.”’

The Senate rose to their feet and cheered themselves hoarse in a spontaneous display and Pompey had to raise his hand to quieten them.

When they had managed to restrain themselves, Pompey spoke, his voice filling the chamber.

‘Our gods have granted us new lands, Senators. We must prove that we are worthy to rule them. As we brought peace to Spain, so shall we bring it to that wilder land. Our citizens will build roads and raise crops there to feed our cities. They will be heard in distant courts that take their authority from us. We will bring Rome to them not because of the strength of our legions, but because we are right and because we are just and because we are beloved of the gods.’

‘Pacified? You told them Gaul was pacified?’ Brutus said in amazement. ‘There are places in Gaul where they haven’t even heard of us! What were you thinking?’

Julius frowned. ‘You would prefer I said “still dangerous, but almost pacified”? Hardly the most inspiring words to bring our settlers over the Alps, Brutus.’

‘I would have stopped short of “almost pacified” as well. It’s more truthful to say that these savages nearly did for us all on more occasions than I care to think of. That they fought each other for generations until they found a common enemy in Rome and now we’ve stuck our hands into the worst wasps’ nest I have ever seen. That would have been more truthful, at least.’

‘All right, Brutus. It is done and that’s the end of it. I know the situation as well as you and those tribes who have never seen a Roman soldier will see us soon enough as we build our roads across the country. If the Senate see me as the conqueror of Gaul, there will be no more talk of recalling me or forcing me to pay my debts. They can count the gold I send back to them and use the slaves to lower the price of wheat and corn. I will be free to run right through to the sea and beyond, even. This is my path, Brutus; can’t you see I’ve found it? This is what I was born for. All I ask is another few years, five perhaps, and Gaul will be pacified. You say they have never heard of us? Well then, I will take lands that Rome does not even know exist! I will see a temple to Jupiter rise above their towns like a cliff of marble. I will bring our civilization, our science, our art to these people who live in such squalor. I will take our legions right up to where the lands meet the sea and over it. Who knows what lies beyond the far coasts? We don’t even have maps of the countries there, Brutus. Just legends from the Greeks about foggy islands on the very edge of the world. Does it not fire your imagination?’

Brutus looked at his friend without answering, unsure if any response was really expected. He had seen Julius in this mood before and at times it could still touch him. At that moment, however, he was beginning to worry that Julius would not contemplate an end to their battles of conquest. Even the veterans compared their young commander to Alexander and Mark Antony did so shamelessly. When the handsome Roman had made the reference in the council, Brutus had expected Julius to scorn it for the clumsy flattery it was, but he had only smiled and gripped Mark Antony by the shoulder, refilling his cup with wine.

The plain of the Helvetii had been enclosed, the vast swathes of land sliced into farms for the settlers from Rome. Julius had been rash with his promises and, just to fulfil them, he had to stay in the field. Simply to pay his legions in silver, he was forced to sack towns and fight not for glory but to fill the coffers and send the tithe back to the senators. Brutus could see no end to it and, alone amongst Julius’ council, he had begun to doubt the purpose of the war they fought. As a Roman, he could accept the destruction that was the herald of peace, but if it was all to satisfy Julius’ desire for power, he could not take joy in it.

Julius never wavered. Though the coalition of the Belgae had pressed them cruelly in the spring, the legions had taken on some of their commander’s confidence and the tribes were swept away without mercy. It was as if they were all touched by fate and could not lose. At times, even Brutus was infected by it and could cheer the man who raised his sword to them, his iron-faced helmet glittering like some malevolent god. But he knew the man beneath it and he knew him too well to walk quietly around him as the legionaries did. Though they won their victories with strength and speed, they saw Julius as the one responsible for all of it. While he lived, they knew they could not be beaten.

Brutus sighed to himself. Perhaps they were right. The whole of eastern Gaul was under the control of the legions and the roads were being built over hundreds of miles. Rome was growing out of the ground there and Julius was the bloody seed for the change. He looked at his friend and saw the fierce pride. Apart from the thinning hair and his scars, he was much the same man he had always known. Yet the soldiers said he was blessed by the gods. His presence on the battlefield was worth an extra cohort at least as they strove to fight well for him and Brutus felt ashamed of his own small grievances and the kernel of dislike that he fought to deny.

Publius Crassus had been given the command of two legions to travel to the north and Julius’ current mood was owed to the fact that the senator’s son had brought about the complete surrender of the tribes there. They had their path to the sea and, though Brutus had argued against it, he knew nothing would prevent Julius taking his precious legions to the coast. He dreamed of Alexander and the edge of the world.

Julius’ council entered the long room of the fortified camp. They too had changed in their time in Gaul, Brutus noted. Octavian and Publius Crassus had lost the last traces of their youth in the years of campaign. Both men bore scars and had survived, now stronger. Ciro commanded his cohort with a devotion to Julius that reminded Brutus of a faithful hound. While Brutus could still discuss his doubts with Domitius or Renius, he had found Ciro would leave any room where he found the slightest hint of criticism. Both Romans regarded the other with dislike, forcibly masked for Julius’ sake.

How we pretend for him, Brutus thought to himself. While Julius was there, they all acted the part of brothers, leaving their professional disagreements outside. It was almost as if they couldn’t bear to see him disappointed in them.

Julius waited for the wine to be poured and laid his notes down on the table. He had already memorised the reports and would not need to refer to them again. Even as Brutus was submerged in his misgivings, he felt himself sit a little straighter under that blue gaze and saw the others respond in like fashion.

At the end of the day, we are all his dogs, Brutus thought, reaching for his cup.

‘Your treaty with the Veneti has failed, Crassus,’ Julius told the young Roman.

The senator’s son shook his head in disbelief and Julius spoke to relieve his distress.

‘I did not expect it to last. They are too strong by sea to feel bound by us and the treaty was only to hold them until we could reach the north-west. I will need control of that coast if I am ever to cross the sea.’ Julius looked into the distance as he contemplated the future, then shook himself free of it. ‘They have taken prisoners from the cohort you left and are demanding the release of their hostages in exchange. We must destroy them at sea if we are to bring them back to the negotiating table. I suspect they think that Rome fights only on the land, but there are a few of us who know better.’

He paused to let them chuckle and met Ciro’s eyes with a smile.

‘I have engaged shipwrights and carpenters to build a new port and ships. Pompey will provide crews to sail through the Pillars of Hercules and beat round Spain to meet us in the north. It suits my plans well enough in any case and we cannot let their oath-breaking go unanswered. Mhorbaine tells me the other tribes are restless and watch any challenge like hawks to see if we cannot respond.’

‘How long before the ships are built, though?’ Renius asked.

‘They will be ready by next spring, if I can find funds to pay for them. I have written to request the Senate take on the burden of paying for our new legions. Crassus has assured me he will make the loan if the Senate fail us, but there is every reason to suppose they are pleased with our progress here. Perhaps too, the winter will not be so hard this year and we can make our preparations in the dark months.’

Julius drummed his fingers on the table.

‘I have a single report from a scout on the Rhine. More of the Germanic tribes have crossed into our land and must be repulsed. I have sent five of the Aedui to confirm the sightings and bring a fresh estimate of their numbers. I will engage them before they come too far into our own land. Once they have been beaten, I plan to cross the river and pursue them as I should have done with the Suebi. I cannot allow the wild tribes over the river to attack our flanks whenever they smell a hint of weakness. I will make them a reply they will not forget in a generation and seal the Rhine behind me when I return.’

He looked around the table as they digested the news.

‘We must move quickly to crush each threat as it appears. Just one more at this time and we would be stretched from one end of Gaul to another. I will take my Tenth and the Third Gallica under Brutus to the Rhine. One of the new Gaul legions will accompany us in the rear. There will be no conflict of loyalty against such an enemy. Mhorbaine has agreed to have his cavalry travel with me once again. The rest of you will act independently in my name.

‘Crassus, I expect you to return to the north-west and destroy the land forces of the Veneti. Burn their ships, or at least force them off the coast and prevent them landing for supplies. Domitius, you will take the Fourth Gallica with him in support. Mark Antony, you will remain here with your legion. The Twelfth and Fifth Ariminum will stay with you. You will be my centre and I expect you not to lose any of the lands we have won while I am away. Use caution, but strike if the need arises.

‘The last task is an easy one, Bericus. Your Ariminum legion has earned a rest and I need a good man to oversee the new settlers coming over the Alps. The Senate will be sending four praetors to govern the new provinces and they will need to be shown the realities of our situation here.’

Bericus groaned and rolled his eyes, making Julius laugh. The thought of having to play nursemaid to thousands of green Roman settlers was hardly an ideal appointment, but Bericus was a sound administrator and Julius had spoken the truth when he said the legion had earned a period away from the pace of constant battle they had endured.

Julius continued to give out his orders and positions until each man there knew his lines of supply and the extent of his authority. He smiled when they replied with wit and he answered every query with the complete knowledge they had come to expect from him. The legionaries claimed that he knew the name of every man under his command and whether that was true or not, Julius had mastered every aspect of the legion life. He was never at a loss or unable to provide a quick answer to any question put to him and it all went further to establish the confidence of the men.

Brutus looked again around the table and found nothing but determination in those who were given tasks that meant hardship, pain and perhaps death for some or all of them. As Julius spread out his maps and began to move to the more detailed matters of terrain and supply, Brutus watched him, barely hearing the words. How many of the men in that room would see Rome again, he wondered. As Julius traced the line of the Rhine with his finger and told them his assessments, Brutus could not imagine a time when the man he followed could ever be made to stop.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

On the first autumn day of Julius’ fourth year in Gaul, Pompey and Crassus walked together through the forum, deep in conversation. Around them, the great open space at the centre of the city was filled with thousands of citizens and slaves. Orators addressed those who could be persuaded to listen and their voices carried over the heads of the crowd on a hundred different subjects. Slaves from wealthy houses hurried through, carrying packages and scrolls for their masters. It had become fashionable to dress house slaves in bright colours and many wore bright blue or gold tunics, a myriad of shades that wove through the darker reds and browns of workers and merchants. Armed guards made stately progress across the forum, each group surrounding their employer at the centre. It was the bustling, hurried heart of the city and neither Pompey nor Crassus noticed the subtle differences in the mood of the crowd around them.

The first Pompey knew of the trouble to come was a rough shove as one of his legionaries was knocked into him. Sheer astonishment made Pompey forget his instincts for survival and he stopped. The crowd was thickening even as he hesitated and the faces were ugly with intent. Crassus recovered faster and pulled Pompey towards the senate house. If there was to be yet another riot, it was best to get clear as quickly as possible and send the guards out to restore order.

The space around the senators was filled with pushing, jeering men. A stone flew over their heads and struck someone else in the crowd. Pompey saw one of his lictors brought down with a blow from a length of wood and felt a moment of panic before he gathered his courage. He drew a dagger from his belt and held it blade-down so that it could be used to stab or slash. When one of the crowd pressed too close, he opened the man’s cheek without hesitation, seeing him fall back with a cry.

‘Guards! To me!’ Pompey roared.

The crowd bayed at him and he saw three burly men force one of his legionaries to the ground, stabbing at him over and over as they were lost to view. A woman screamed nearby and Pompey heard his call taken up by the horror-struck citizens beyond the men who were attacking him. Milo’s men, he was certain. He should have expected it after their leader’s isolation in Senate, but Pompey had only a handful of soldiers and lictors with him and they would not be enough. He used his dagger again and saw Crassus lash out a fist, snapping the nose of an attacker.

The lictors were armed with a ceremonial axe and rods for scourging. Once they had freed them from the bindings, the hatchets were fearsome weapons in a crowd and they literally cut a path for Pompey and Crassus towards the senate house. Yet their numbers dwindled as knives were jabbed into them and the circle of safety around the two senators shrank until there was almost no room for them to move in the press.

Pompey knew hope and despair in the same moment when he heard horns sounding across the forum. His legion had turned out for him, but it would be too late. Fingers yanked cruelly at his toga and he sliced his dagger into them, sawing in a frenzy until they fell away. Crassus was knocked from his feet by another stone and Pompey dragged him up and onward, holding him close as the older man gathered his wits. There was blood on his mouth.

The noise hammered at them and then changed slightly. New faces appeared in even greater numbers and Pompey saw them cut down the ones who struggled to reach him. Knots of bellowing men separated from the mass, fighting not as legionaries, but with cleavers and meathooks and stones held in their hands. Pompey saw one man’s face smashed into pulp by repeated blows before he fell.

All forward movement ceased and though Pompey could see the steps of the senate house only a short distance away, it was too far. He jabbed his dagger into everything he could reach in a fury and didn’t know he was shouting in a mindless rage.

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’ 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 realised 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’ 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. They wheeled in the face of the enemy and galloped back inside the gap in the walls, with the king yelling across Brutus’ 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 further and further 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 organise 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.

Three miles away lay their largest town and Julius marched the Tenth towards it as soon as the warriors were disarmed and bound as slaves. The price for them would swell his coffers still further and the town was known to be wealthy. After he paid his share to the Senate, he still hoped to have enough to increase his fleet and finally be able to cross the grim channel between Gaul and the islands. They had captured nine ships from the Veneti, but he would need another twenty galleys to take more than a scouting force to sea. One more year to build them and then he would take his best men to lands no Roman had ever seen before.

As the Tenth marched towards the Senones’ stronghold, Julius laughed aloud with the excitement of such a prospect, even as his mind filled with the thousand details of supply and administration that his men required to take the field. He was to meet with a delegation from three tribes along the coast in two days and expected them to bring tribute and a new treaty. With the Veneti fleet sunk or run aground, that whole part of the north had surrendered to him and now that the Senones had been removed from the equation, a full half of Gaul was his. There were no tribes who hadn’t heard of the legions by then. Gaul was buzzing with the news of his conquests and he rarely saw a day when their leaders didn’t travel to his camps and wait for his signature on a treaty. Adàn was kept busy and had been forced to take on three other scribes to handle the endless copying and translation.

Julius wondered what to do with the king he had captured. If he was left alive, Julius thought him capable of leading a rebellion in the years to come. The king’s own ability prevented mercy and Julius decided his fate without regret.

As the Senones’ town came into view, Julius looked with pleasure on it, already imagining the temples within. It was known that the Senones showed their love of the gods with coins and jewellery, forming rooms of treasure over many years. After the legion smiths had melted the precious metal down into bars and struck new coins, Julius would strip anything of value from every house and public building. He would leave the people alive and under the protection of the legions, but he needed their wealth to go on.

A cold wind touched him from across the plain and Julius shivered at the first chill of another winter. He narrowed his eyes as he looked east, imagining the Alps and the distance that he would have to cross. For the first time, he would not be spending the cold months in Gaul. Instead, he would travel to Ariminum for a meeting to decide the future.

The letter from Crassus crackled against his skin as he rode and Julius hoped he could still trust the promises of the old man. It was not the time to be recalled, with Gaul opening up before him. The islands over the sea haunted his dreams. There were still some who said they did not exist, but Julius had stood on the coastal cliffs and seen them shimmering whitely in the distance.

The Senones’ town surrendered and the gates were thrown open. Julius rode in under the arches, his mind already on Ariminum and the future.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The legion guards on Ariminum’s walls were well protected against the cold. As night fell, they pulled heavy cloaks over their armour and wrapped their faces in strips of cloth so that only a thin slit was left.

Fires were lit in braziers all along the stone crest and the legionaries were allowed to huddle around them. Most of them were new recruits, brought up from the towns in the south to replace those fighting for Caesar in Gaul. They showed their youth in the muttered wisecracks and the illicit flask of spirits that made them gasp and choke and clap each other on the back.

The city of Ariminum was a working town and there were few lights in the windows as the winter night darkened. Before dawn, the streets would fill again with carts and produce for the ships. The tradesmen would grab a few hot mouthfuls for a bronze coin on their way to another day and the legionaries on the walls would be relieved.

Against the backdrop of the silent city, one of the guards looked up and peered into the darkness.

‘Thought I heard horses out there,’ he said.

Two more left the warmth of their brazier to stand by him. They listened in perfect silence and just before they turned away, they heard something. Noise seemed to carry further in the strange stillness that comes from frozen ground.

The youngest guard narrowed his eyes and moved his head back and forth. There was nothing but gloom outside the walls, yet he could have sworn the darkness shifted whenever he set his eyes on it.

The shadows coalesced into sharper shapes and the young legionary stiffened, pointing.

‘There! Riders … can’t tell how many.’

The others lacked his keen eyesight and could only stare where he pointed.

‘Are they ours?’ one of them said, hiding his fear. His mind was filled with the image of barbarian tribesmen storming their city walls and the cold seemed to intensify as he shuddered.

‘I can’t tell. Should we fetch Old Snapper?’

The question made the three young soldiers pause. The possibility of raiders was one thing, but rousing their centurion for a false alarm was simply asking for trouble.

Teras was the eldest of them. He had no more experience than the others, having joined up later in life after failing to make his way as a merchant. Yet they looked to him as they had learned to do in matters of money and young women. He didn’t know a great deal about either, but affected an air of worldly wisdom that had impressed the younger recruits.

While they hesitated, the force of riders came closer and the metallic noise of harness was mingled with the steady tread of marching men. The night wind snapped at long pennants that rippled unpleasantly as the dark figures advanced towards the gate.

‘All right, go and get him,’ Teras said, biting his lip in worry.

‘Approaching the gate!’ a voice shouted below them. The guards stood to stiff attention as they had been trained.

‘We’re closed. Come back in the morning,’ one of the other sentries called, his companions stifling laughter.

There was one who should have been searched for drink before coming on watch, Teras thought bitterly. He could have hit the young fool in frustration, but the words had been spoken. Teras closed his eyes as he waited through a pregnant silence below.

‘I will find whoever said that and kick his backside into bloody tatters,’ the same voice replied, halfway between amusement and anger. ‘Now open the gate.’

Teras turned to the men on the locking bar below. There were times when he wished he’d stayed a merchant, despite losing more money than he’d ever earned.

‘Open it,’ he said. The young men below looked up with worried expressions.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for …’

‘Oh, just open it. It’s cold and they are Romans. If they were barbarians, do you really think they would be waiting for us to finish our argument?’

By the end, his voice had risen to a shout and the anger seemed to get through to them as nothing else could. The heavy locking bars were heaved away and the gate pulled smartly open.

Brutus rode through first and dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to the nearest guard.

‘Right. Now where’s that cheeky bastard on the wall?’

Teras saw another rider come through the gate, as heavily muffled as the guards above. He was an imposing figure nonetheless and Teras could see how the men behind him waited patiently for him to move through the gate. An officer; Teras could spot them a mile away.

‘We don’t have time,’ the man said clearly. ‘I’m late enough as it is.’

With a quick nod, Brutus threw a leg over his horse and heaved himself back into the saddle. The officer didn’t wait for him, but kicked in his heels and trotted on through the dark streets, the rest following without a word.

Teras counted a full century by the time Snapper came climbing up to the wall beside him. The gate was securely fastened once again and the young guards resumed their positions, not daring to catch their centurion’s eye.

Snapper was a veteran and if you believed all the stories the men told about him, he had been part of every major battle since the days of Carthage. Despite the fact that it would have made him centuries old, he would talk of those times as if he had been there personally, with a clear implication that only his presence had saved the Republic from invaders, poor discipline and, possibly, pestilence. Whatever the truth was, he was scarred, bad-tempered and deeply resentful of being given green recruits to turn into something approaching legionaries.

‘You, you and … you,’ the old soldier said grimly, pointing last to Teras. ‘I don’t know what you think you were doing tonight, but tomorrow you will be digging out the shithouse on Famena road. That I do know.’

Without another word, Snapper stomped down the slippery steps, still swearing under his breath. Teras could smell the sweetness of the alcohol on his breath for some time after he had gone.

The young legionary who had called out to Brutus shuffled over as Teras resumed his post by the brazier, warming his hands. He opened his mouth to say something.

‘Don’t,’ Teras said grimly. ‘Or I’ll kill you myself.’

Julius found the meeting place without too much difficulty. The cryptic message from Crassus had asked him to remember where they had once planned the defeat of Spartacus. Though Julius had not seen Ariminum for a decade, the city was simply laid out and the house was the only one showing a light in an empty street near the docks. He had tried for secrecy as far as possible, leaving Gaul without warning to fly ahead of informers and making the best speed he could with a century of the Tenth. They had covered the first sixty miles in a little over ten hours and not once had the men complained or asked to rest longer than the short stops for food and water. When he was sure that even the fleetest of spies must be behind them, Julius had allowed a slower pace over the Alp passes and, in truth, they could not have gone much faster in the bitter cold and thin air. By the time they had completed their descent, Julius was certain that anyone who followed would have to wait until spring.

Julius left Brutus with the century to block the road. He strode up to the doorway he remembered from the old campaign and knocked on the timbers, pulling his cloak tightly around himself against the cold.

A man he did not know opened it and Julius wondered if he was the owner of the house.

‘Yes?’ the man said, looking blankly at Julius.

‘Gaul,’ Julius replied and the man stood back for him to enter.

Julius could hear the crackle and snap of a large wood fire before he entered the room. Pompey and Crassus rose to greet him and Julius felt a wave of affection for both of them as he clasped hands. They too seemed to feel it and the smiles were genuine.

‘It’s been a long time, my friend. Did you bring my son?’ Crassus said.

‘As you asked me to, yes. Shall I have him brought in?’

Julius watched Crassus struggle for a moment before replying.

‘No, not until we have spoken,’ he said reluctantly. ‘There’s food on the table and hot wine by the fire. Come and sit down and warm yourself.’

With a stab of guilt, Julius thought of his men shivering in the night outside. Crassus had asked for privacy for their meeting, but they would still need to find food and shelter before morning. He wondered how many men could be packed into the rambling Ariminum house or whether they would end up sleeping in stables.

‘Have you been in the city for long?’ Julius asked. Both men shook their heads.

‘Just a few days,’ Crassus replied. ‘Much longer and I would have had to return to Rome. I’m glad you came.’

‘How could I not after that mysterious note? Passwords and night marches across the north. All very exciting.’ Julius smiled at the older men. ‘In truth, I am glad to be here rather than in Gaul in winter. You have no idea how bitter it is in the dark months.’

The two former consuls exchanged glances and Julius saw that much of the friction between them had eased over time. He waited patiently for them to broach the reason for the meeting, though now he was actually with them, neither man seemed sure how to begin. Julius chewed on a piece of cold lamb as he waited.

‘You remember our agreement?’ Pompey said at last.

Julius nodded. ‘Of course. You have both honoured it as I have.’

Pompey grunted agreement. ‘But time has moved on. We must review the terms,’ he said.

‘I assumed as much,’ Julius replied. ‘There are new consuls now and you are wondering if there is still profit to be had from me. Tell me what you need.’

Crassus gave out a dry chuckle.

‘Always so direct, Julius. Very well. The Senate has changed a great deal in the years you have been away.’

‘I know it,’ Julius replied and Crassus smiled.

‘Yes, I’m sure you have your own sources. There is talk of recalling you from Gaul, you know. Your attacks over the Rhine did you no favours with the senators. The Germanic tribes were never part of your orders and Pompey was hard-pressed to protect you.’

Julius shrugged. ‘Then you have my thanks. I considered it necessary to hold the Rhine border there.’

Pompey leaned forward on his chair and warmed his hands against the flames.

‘You know how fickle they are, Julius. One year they are cheering you and the next calling for your head. It has always been that way.’

‘Will you be able to prevent the recall?’ Julius asked, holding himself absolutely still. Much depended on the answer.

‘That is why we are here, Julius,’ Pompey replied. ‘You want to have your time in Gaul extended and I can give you that.’

‘There was no talk of limits when I first set off,’ Julius reminded him.

Pompey frowned. ‘But now the situation has changed. You are no longer consul and none of us can stand again for years to come. There are too many new men in the Senate who know you only as a general somewhere impossibly distant. They look for some end to your reports, Julius.’

Julius looked calmly at him without replying.

Pompey snorted. ‘You left the north bare when you took the legions at Ariminum. That cost you a great deal of support and we’re hardly up to strength even now. Your debtors pursue you through the Senate. There is even talk of bringing a trial against you for killing Ariovistus. All of these things would require you to give up your command and return home.’

‘So the price for me staying will be what? My daughter is already promised to you,’ Julius said softly.

Pompey forced a smile onto his face and Julius could see how tired he was. Crassus spoke first.

‘You understand, Julius. I am glad. For me, the price of my support is the return of my son to lead my legion. Pompey will secure a province for me and I will continue the education of my son there, now that you have trained him. He speaks well of you in his letters.’

‘Where did you have in mind?’ Julius asked with genuine interest.

‘Syria. The Parthians are refusing to allow my ships to trade with them. The general of a legion can go where no mere merchant dares.’

‘A merchant prince,’ Julius murmured. Crassus grinned at him.

‘Even he needs a good legion on occasion.’

Julius turned in his seat to look at Pompey.

‘So Crassus has Syria to subdue for Rome. I give him his son to lead them. What could Pompey need from me? I have heard that Clodius and Milo create riots in the streets. Do you want my support? You would have it, Pompey. If you need me to vote for you as Dictator, I would return with my Tenth to deal with whatever may follow. On my word, I would. I still have friends there and I could carry it for you.’

Pompey smiled tightly at the younger man.

‘I have missed your energy around the city, Julius. I really have. No, I have put shackles on Clodius and Milo is a spent force. Your reports are out of date. My needs are simpler.’

He glanced again at Crassus, and Julius wondered at the friendship that had sprung up between them. It was strange how much men changed over the years. Julius would never have believed they could be anything but reluctant allies at best, but they seemed as comfortable with each other as brothers. He wondered if Pompey had ever learned the truth of Crassus’ involvement with Catiline. There were always secrets in Rome.

‘I need gold, Julius,’ Pompey said. ‘Crassus tells me you have found great wealth in Gaul, much more than the city ever sees in taxes.’

Julius glanced at Crassus with interest, wondering how good his sources were in their estimates. Pompey continued, the words spilling out now that he had begun.

‘My private income is not enough to rebuild the city, Julius. Parts have been damaged in rioting and the Senate does not have the funds. If you have, it would be used to finish the temples and houses we have begun.’

‘Surely Crassus could advance you the money?’ Julius asked.

Pompey flushed slightly. ‘I told you, Crassus,’ he snapped to his colleague. ‘I will not come like a beggar …’

Crassus interrupted, laying a hand on Pompey’s arm to soothe him.

‘It is not a loan, Julius, but a gift that Pompey is asking.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have never understood how money can be so uncomfortable a subject in so many quarters. It is simple enough. The senate treasury is not fat enough to supply the millions needed to rebuild parts of the city. Another aqueduct, temples, new streets. It all costs. Pompey does not wish to create new debts, even to me.’

Julius thought ruefully of the ships that waited on his payment. He suspected Pompey did not know the full content of the letter Crassus had sent him, but at least he had come prepared. Sometimes, Crassus’ bluntness was a blessing.

‘I have it,’ he said. ‘Though in return, I want the Tenth and Third added to the senate payroll. I cannot continue to fund their salaries out of my own purse.’

Pompey nodded. ‘That is … acceptable,’ he said.

Julius took another piece of cold meat from the table and ate it as he thought.

‘I would need my orders confirmed in writing, of course. Another five years in Gaul, bound as solidly as you can make it. I do not want to have to renegotiate the terms next year. Crassus, your son is ready for command. I am sorry to lose such a fine officer, but that was our agreement and I will hold to it. I wish you luck with your new province. Believe me when I say it is no easy task to cut new paths for Rome.’

Pompey said nothing, so with a smile Crassus spoke for him.

‘And the gold, Julius?’

‘Wait here,’ Julius replied, standing.

He returned with Publius and Brutus, the three men struggling with a long cedar chest that had been bound with strips of iron. Both Pompey and Crassus stood as they entered the room and Crassus went to embrace his son. Julius opened the box and revealed enough fat yellow coins to impress even Crassus, so that he stepped away from his son and ran a hand over the gold.

‘I have three more of these with me, gentlemen. More than three million sesterces by weight. Is it enough?’

Pompey too could not seem to look away from the precious metal.

‘It is,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Then we have an agreement?’ Julius said, looking from one to the other. Both senators nodded.

‘Excellent. I will need rooms for my men tonight, here or in a tavern, if you can recommend a few places. They’ve earned the right to some hot food and a bath. I will return here at dawn to go through the details with you both.’

‘There is something else that might interest you, Caesar,’ Crassus said, his eyes twinkling. He glanced at Brutus as he spoke, then shrugged.

‘A friend travelled up from Rome with us. I will show you the way.’

Julius raised an eyebrow, but Pompey too seemed to share some inner amusement as their eyes met.

‘Lead on, then,’ Julius said, following Crassus out into the colder corridors of the house.

Pompey was uncomfortable with the men Julius had brought into the room. Publius felt it and cleared his throat.

‘I should bring in the rest of the gold, Consul, with your permission.’

‘Thank you,’ Pompey replied. He pulled a cloak from a peg on the door and went out with them into the night.

Crassus took a lamp from a wall bracket and led Julius down a long hall to the rear of the property.

‘Who owns this house?’ Julius asked, looking around at the richness of the furnishings.

‘I do,’ Crassus said. ‘The owner fell into difficulties and I was able to acquire it at an excellent price.’

Julius knew that the owner would have been one of those who suffered under the monopoly of trade that had been Crassus’ part of their original agreement. He was interested that the old man hadn’t tried to have his licence extended, but the province Pompey had offered him would be enough to occupy his time. Julius hoped Crassus would have the sense to let his son make the decisions. Though he liked the old senator, the man was no sort of general, whereas his son could very well be a fine one.

‘In here, Julius,’ Crassus said, handing him the lamp.

Julius could see a childish delight on Crassus’ wrinkled features that baffled him. He opened the door, closing it on the darkness behind.

Servilia had never looked more beautiful. Julius froze when he saw her and then fumbled for a place to hang the lamp, the simple process suddenly seeming difficult.

The room was warmed by a fire in a hearth big enough to stand in. No touch of the howling winter reached them and Julius drank in the lines of her as she watched him without speaking. She lay on a long couch and wore a dress of dark red cloth, like blood against her skin. He did not know what to say and only gazed in silence for a long time.

‘Come here,’ she said, holding out her hands to him. Silver bangles chimed on her wrist as she moved. He crossed the room and as he touched her hands, he folded into her embrace and they were kissing. There was no need for words.

Pompey regretted leaving the warmth of the house for the winter street but a nagging curiosity would not leave him. As the boxes of gold were heaved up and carried into the house, he walked along the line of silent soldiers, falling naturally into his role as an officer of Rome. They had stood to attention and saluted as soon as he appeared and now his inspection was natural, almost expected.

In truth, Pompey felt a responsibility for the Tenth. It had been his own order to merge Primigenia with a legion who had shamed themselves in battle and he had felt a proprietary interest when reading Julius’ reports in the Senate. The Tenth had become Julius’ most trusted men and it was no surprise to see them in the ranks Julius had chosen for the meeting.

Pompey spoke to one or two of them and they responded to his questions nervously, staring straight ahead. One or two were shivering, but they clenched their jaws as he passed, unwilling to show any weakness.

Pompey stopped in front of the centurion and congratulated him on the discipline of his men.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, though he knew it.

‘Regulus, sir,’ the man replied.

‘I have had the pleasure of telling the Senate how well the Tenth have been doing in Gaul. Has it been difficult?’

‘No, sir,’ Regulus replied.

‘I’ve heard it said that a legionary finds the waiting the hardest part of war,’ Pompey said.

‘It is no hardship, sir,’ Regulus said.

‘I am glad to hear that, Regulus. From what I have heard, you haven’t had a chance for your swords to grow rusty. No doubt there will be more battles ahead.’

‘We are always ready, sir,’ Regulus said and Pompey moved on, speaking to another soldier a few places down the line.

Crassus came back into the warm room. His son was there waiting for him, and the old senator crossed to him, beaming.

‘I have been so proud of you, lad. Julius mentioned your name twice in reports to the Senate,’ Crassus said. ‘You have done well in Gaul, as well as I could have wanted. Now are you ready to lead a legion for your father?’

‘I am, sir,’ Publius replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Julius woke long before dawn and lay in the warmth created by Servilia beside him. He had left her only once the night before to ask Crassus to bring his men in from the cold. While Crassus opened rooms and summoned food and blankets for the century, Julius had quietly closed the door once more and forgotten them.

Now, in the darkness, Julius could hear the snores of soldiers packed along every space of the house. No doubt the kitchens would be preparing breakfast for them and Julius knew he too should be rousing himself and planning the day. Yet there was a delicious lethargy in that warm dark and he stretched, feeling her cool skin against his arm as he moved. She stirred and murmured something he could not catch, enough to make him sit up on one elbow and look at her face.

Some women looked their best in the bright light of the sun, but Servilia was most beautiful in the evening or under the moon. Her face had nothing of the sharp hardness he had once seen. He could still picture her acid contempt when he had come striding into her home for their last meeting. It was a mystery to him how he could have engendered such apparent hatred and yet now have her in his bed, stirring like a dreaming cat. He might have held back after that first embrace in the firelight, but her eyes had been full of some strange grief and he had never been able to resist the tears of a beautiful woman. It stirred him as no smile or coquetry ever could.

He yawned in silence, the strain making his jaw crack. If only life were as simple as he wanted it to be. If he could dress and leave with nothing more than a final glance at her sleeping form, he would have a perfect memory of the woman he had loved for so long. It would have been enough to banish some of the pain she had caused him. He watched her smile in her sleep and his own expression lightened in response. He wondered if he was in her dreams and thought of some of the extraordinarily erotic sequences that plagued his sleep for the first few months in Gaul. He leaned closer to her ear and breathed his name into it, over and over, grinning to himself. Perhaps she could be made to dream of him.

He froze as she raised a hand to rub the ear without waking. The movement in the soft linen revealed her left breast and Julius found the image endearing and arousing at the same time. Though age had left its marks on her, as she lay there her breast was pale and perfect. Julius watched with fascination as the exposed nipple firmed and darkened and he considered waking her with the warmth of his mouth on it.

He sighed, lying back. When she woke, the world would intrude on them once again. Though Crassus would keep any secret, Brutus would have to be told his own mother was there in the north. Julius frowned in the darkness as he considered his friend’s reaction to the news that Servilia once again shared his bed. Julius had seen Brutus’ relief at the end of that relationship, punctuated with twin slaps in Rome. To see it rekindled could weigh heavily on him. He clasped his hands behind his head as he thought.

There could be no returning to Gaul until spring; he had always known that. Once the passes were blocked, nothing living could make the trip. At one point, Julius had considered travelling to Rome, but dismissed the idea. Unless he could be certain of making the journey without being recognised, he would be too much of a temptation for his enemies, with only a hundred men for protection. Rome was as unreachable as the passes over the Alps and Julius struggled with a feeling of claustrophobia at the thought of spending months in the dreary streets of Ariminum.

At least his letters would get through, he thought. And he could travel to the shipyards to oversee the fleet he had ordered. It seemed a vain hope to expect them to release the vessels without any more than his deposits, no matter what he promised. Yet without them, his plans for the sea crossing would be delayed, perhaps by as much as another year.

He sighed to himself. There were always battles to be fought in Gaul. Even when a tribe had paid tribute for two summers, they could plant their flags in the hard ground and declare war on the third. Without outright extermination, Julius was forced to face the fact that such rebellions could continue for his full term there. They were a hard people to put down.

His eyes were cold as he considered the tribes. They were nothing like the men and women he had known as a boy in Rome. They sang and laughed more easily, despite their short, hard lives. Julius still remembered his astonishment the first time he had sat with Mhorbaine listening to a storyteller weave an ancient tale for them. Perhaps something had been lost in Adàn’s translation, but Julius had seen tears in the eyes of veteran warriors and at the conclusion of the story Mhorbaine had wept like a child, without a sign of embarrassment.

‘What are you thinking?’ Servilia said. ‘You look so cruel, sitting there.’

Julius met her dark eyes and forced a smile onto his face.

‘I was thinking of the songs of the Gauls.’

She pouted, pulling herself up on the cushion beside him. The fire was long dead and with a shiver she yanked the blankets to cover her shoulders, forming a nest of cloth from which she watched him.

‘I travel three hundred miles and throw myself into a night of lascivious pleasure with you and you are still thinking of some grubby tribesmen? You amaze me.’

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, pulling the whole bundle close to his chest.

‘I don’t care why you came. I’m just glad you did,’ he said.

This seemed to please her and she tilted her head to be kissed. Julius half-turned to respond and the scent of her perfume recalled all the passion and innocence of the past. It was almost too painful.

‘I missed you,’ she said. ‘Very much. I wanted to see you again.’

Julius looked at her, struggling with his emotions. Part of him wanted to be angry with her. She had caused him so much grief that he had hated her for a long time, or told himself he had. Yet he had not hesitated after that first moment the night before. All his internal arguments and scabs had drifted away and again he felt as vulnerable as any other young fool.

‘Am I an evening’s entertainment to you, then?’ he asked. ‘You seemed to have no doubts when I left your house in Rome.’

‘I did have doubts, even then. If I hadn’t sent you away you would have grown tired of having an old woman in your bed. Don’t interrupt, Julius. If I don’t say it, I may not be able …’

He waited while she stared off into the darkness. One of her hands tightened slowly in the heavy cloth that covered them both.

‘When you want a son, it cannot come from me, Julius, not any more.’

Julius hesitated before responding. ‘You’re sure?’

She sighed, raising her eyes. ‘Yes, of course I’m sure. I was sure when you left Rome. Perhaps you are already thinking of children to carry on your line. You will turn to some young girl with wide hips to give you them and I will be thrown aside.’

‘I have my daughter,’ he reminded her.

‘A son, Julius! Do you not want to have sons of your own to follow you? How often have I heard you speak of your own father? You would never be satisfied with a daughter who cannot set foot in the senate building. A daughter who cannot lead your legions for you.’

‘That was why you left me?’ he said, understanding. ‘I can find a wife from any family in Rome to carry my blood. Nothing between us would change.’

Servilia shook her head in weariness. ‘It would, Julius. It must. You would look at me with guilt for every hour we spent together. I couldn’t bear to see it.’

‘Then why are you here?’ he demanded, suddenly angry. ‘What has changed for you to come to me and set everything on its head once again?’

‘Nothing has changed. There are days when I do not think of you at all and others when you are constantly in my thoughts. When Crassus told me he was coming to this meeting, I joined him. Perhaps I should not have done. By your side, the future is miserable for me.’

‘I don’t understand you at all, you know,’ Julius said softly, touching her face. ‘I do not care about sons, Servilia. If there is a time when I do, I will marry some daughter of a senator for that reason. If you are mine, I will love no other.’

She closed her eyes and in the first light of dawn, he could see tears spilling down her cheeks.

‘I should not have come,’ she whispered. ‘I should have left you alone.’

‘I was alone,’ he said, gathering her in, ‘but now you are here with me.’

The winter sun had risen when Julius found Brutus in the small courtyard of the house, deep in conversation with Crassus over the lodgings for the century of the Tenth. They had brought ten mounts from Gaul and hobbled them in the yard the night before, with heavy blankets against the cold. Brutus had refilled their nosebags with grain and broken the thin sheet of ice that had formed on the water buckets. At the sound of footsteps, Brutus looked up.

‘I would like a private word,’ Julius said.

Crassus understood immediately and left them together. Brutus began to brush the shaggy winter coats of the horses in long strokes.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Your mother is here,’ Julius said.

Brutus stopped his brushing and looked at him. His face tightened with sudden knowledge.

‘To see me, or to see you?’

‘Both, Brutus.’

‘So you raise your fist to my mother and now she comes crawling back into your bed, is that it?’

Julius tensed with anger.

‘Just once, think before you speak to me. I will not suffer your anger this time, Brutus, I swear it. One more word in that tone and I will have you hanged in this courtyard. I’ll pull the rope myself.’

Brutus turned to face him and Julius saw he was unarmed. He was glad of it. He spoke with a terrible slowness, as if each word was forced out of him.

‘You know, Julius, I have given you a great deal. Do you know how many battles I have won for you? I’ve been your sword all the years of my life and I have never been anything but loyal. But the first moment you feel a prick of anger, you threaten me with a rope?’

He leaned very close to Julius.

‘You forget yourself. I’ve been there from the beginning. And what has it gained me? Do you praise my name as you do Mark Antony’s? Do you give me the right flank when I risk my life for you? No, you come out here and treat me like your dog.’

Julius could only stare at the pale rage he saw. Brutus’ mouth twisted in bitter mockery.

‘Very well, Julius. You and she are none of my concern. She made that perfectly clear to me before. But I will not stay here to watch you spend the winter … renewing your relationship. Is that sweetly enough phrased for you?’

For a moment, Julius could not answer him. He wanted to find words to ease the pain in his friend, but after his threats they would have been worthless. In the end, he set his jaw and retreated behind coldness.

‘I will not keep you, if you want to go,’ he said.

Brutus shook his head. ‘No, it would be unpleasant for the pair of you having me as a witness. I will travel down to Rome until spring. There is nothing holding me here.’

‘If that is what you want,’ Julius said.

Brutus did not reply, simply nodding and turning back to his brushing. Julius stood in painful silence, knowing he should speak. Brutus muttered softly to his horse, easing the bit into its mouth. As he mounted, he looked down at the man he revered above all others.

‘How will it end this time, do you think? Will you hit her?’ he said.

‘It is not your concern,’ Julius replied.

‘I don’t like to see her treated as one of your conquests, Julius. When will you be satisfied, I wonder? Even Gaul is not enough for you, with another twenty ships being built. Campaigns are meant to end, Julius, or did no one ever tell you that? Legions are meant to come home when the war is over, not find another one and another.’

‘Go to Rome,’ Julius replied. ‘Rest the winter. Just remember that I will need you in spring.’

Brutus unrolled a fur cloak and tied it tight around his shoulders before mounting. He had enough gold in his pouch to buy food on the journey south and he wanted to leave. Yet when he gathered the reins in his hands and looked down at the miserable face of his friend, he knew he could not dig in his heels and leave him there without speaking again.

‘I’ll be here,’ he said.

Crassus and Pompey travelled back to Rome the following morning, leaving Julius the full run of the house. Within a week, he had settled into a routine of writing letters and reports in the morning with Adàn and spending the rest of the day with Servilia. He travelled with her to the shipyards in the west and for those weeks it was as if they were a newly married couple. Julius blessed the fact that she had come to him. After the exhaustion of his campaigns in Gaul, it was a pure joy to visit the theatres in a Roman city and listen to his own language in every mouth of the markets. It made him yearn to see Rome again, but even in Ariminum he had to be careful. If the moneylenders of his city found that he was back in the country, they would demand a settlement and he had very little left to tide his men over the winter.

Julius knew his one advantage lay in the fact that men like Herminius wanted their money more than his blood. If he were taken and brought back to the city, they would end up with nothing. Even so, his men wore cloaks over their distinctive armour in public and Julius avoided the houses of those who might have known him.

He revelled in Servilia and their lovemaking was like water in a desert. He could not quench his thirst and the scent of her was on his skin and in his lungs at all times. As the winter began to ease and the days lengthened, the thought of parting from her was almost a physical pain. At times, Julius thought of taking her with him, or arranging visits to the new lands he was taking for Rome. Thousands of other settlers were already farming stretches of the virgin soil and he could promise at least some comfort.

It was just a dream and they both knew it, even as they fantasised about establishing a small house for her in the Roman provinces. Servilia could no more leave the city than the Senate could. It was part of her: away from it, she was lost.

Through her, Julius learned how far Clodius and Milo had come in their domination of the poorer areas. He hoped Pompey’s confidence was not misplaced and wrote to him again pledging support if Pompey wanted to force a vote for Dictatorship. Though Julius knew he could never fully trust the man, there were few others with the strength and ability to control their tempestuous city and the offer was genuine. Having Pompey as Dictator was far preferable to anarchy.

By the time the winter frosts had begun to lessen, Julius was already tired of the pale imitation of Rome that was Ariminum. He hungered for the mountain snows to clear, though the end of winter brought a secret guilt and fear. Each day that passed brought him closer to the point when he would either see his oldest friend return, or know he would have to cross the mountains without him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Brutus had shed his cloak for the last stage of the ride south to Rome. Though the air was still sharp, it had nothing like the bite of Gaul and the exertion of riding kept him warm. His original mount had been left far behind at the first legion post on the Via Flaminia. He had paid to have the gelding looked after and would collect the horse as his final change on his return. The system had allowed him a remount every thirty miles and he had made the journey in only seven days.

After his first joy at walking through the city gate, everything had soured as soon as he took in his surroundings. Rome looked the same in many ways, but his soldier’s instincts had brought an immediate prickling alarm. Alexandria’s letters should have prepared him for the changes, but she had not managed to convey the sense of raw panic that hung in the air. Half the men he passed were armed in some way or another. It was something a trained eye could spot at a glance. They walked differently with a concealed blade and Brutus could feel a tension he had never before experienced on the streets of his home. No one lingered or talked on street corners. It was almost a city under siege and unconsciously he copied the crowds as he hurried to Alexandria’s shop.

He knew a moment of fear when he found it boarded up and empty. Passers-by heard him calling, but not one of them dared to meet his eyes. Even the beggars were missing from the streets and Brutus stood still as he considered the implications. The city was terrified. He had seen it before amongst those who knew a war was coming.

Even knocking on the doors of the other shops in the road was worrying. The owners looked sick with nervousness at the sight of him and three of them only stared blankly as he tried to ask where Tabbic had gone. The fourth was a butcher who held a heavy cleaver defensively the whole time Brutus was in his shop. The iron blade seemed to give him a confidence the others lacked and he directed Brutus to an area many streets away. Brutus left him still holding the weapon.

Out in the road, the feeling intensified again. When he had been in Greece, the veterans talked of an ‘itch’ that told them trouble was coming. Brutus felt it tickle him as he marched through the thin crowds. By the time he reached the address, he was almost certain he should get Alexandria out of the city before it exploded. Whatever was coming, he did not want her in the middle of it.

The new shop was much larger and occupied two full floors of a well-kept tenement. Brutus raised his hand to knock and saw the door was open. He narrowed his eyes then and drew his gladius silently. He’d rather look a fool than go unprepared into a dangerous situation and by that point he was jumping at shadows.

The interior was five times the size of the little shop Tabbic had owned before. Brutus edged inside, his gaze fastening on the figures at the far end. Alexandria and Tabbic were there, with two other men. Facing them were four others, of a type he had seen too often in the streets outside. None of them had seen him and Brutus forced himself to walk slowly towards the group, passing the huge new forge that lurked against the wall and threw heat at him as he passed. Its crackle hid the slight noise of his sandals on the stone floor and he was very close when one of the men stepped forward and pushed Alexandria down.

With a shout, Brutus raced forward and the four men spun to face him. Two carried knives and two had swords like his own, but he did not pause in his rush. Alexandria shouted wildly at him and only the desperation in her voice made him hold his first blow.

‘No, Brutus! Don’t!’ she cried.

The men who threatened her were professionals, he saw. They moved aside so as not to be exposed to blades from behind as they faced him. Brutus lowered his sword and stepped into their range as if he had nothing to fear.

‘What goes on here?’ he demanded, glaring at the man who had pushed her.

‘None of your concern, boy,’ one of them said, jerking his sword in Brutus’ direction to make him flinch. Brutus regarded him impassively.

‘You really haven’t the first idea who you are speaking to, have you?’ he said, grinning nastily. His sword tip cut small circles in the air as he held it lazily at his side. The tiny movement seemed to draw the gazes of the other men, but the one who had spoken held his eyes, not daring to look away. There was something terrible in the way Brutus stood so casually before their blades and his confidence intimidated all of them.

‘Who are they, Ria?’ Brutus said, without looking at her.

‘Collectors for Clodius,’ she replied as she stood up. ‘They are demanding more money than we have. More than we earn. But you mustn’t kill them.’

Brutus frowned. ‘Why not? No one would miss them.’

One of the raptores answered him. ‘Because that pretty girl wouldn’t like what our friends would do to her, boy. So put your sword …’

Brutus cut the man’s throat and stood without expression as he collapsed, watching the others. Though he was only inches from their blades, not one of them dared to move.

‘Anyone else want to make threats?’ he said.

They stared wide-eyed at him and they could all hear the ghastly choking sounds coming from the floor. No one looked down.

‘Oh gods, no,’ he heard Alexandria whisper.

Brutus ignored her, waiting for one of the men to break the stillness that held them. He had seen Renius intimidate groups before, but there were always fools. He watched as the men shuffled backwards away from him until they were out of range of his gladius. Brutus took a sharp step towards them.

‘No little taunts now, lads. No calling out as you go. Just leave. I’ll find you if I have to.’

The men exchanged glances, but none of them broke the silence as they walked past the forges to the street door. The last to pass through closed it quietly behind him.

Alexandria was pale with anger and fear.

‘That’s it then,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done. They’ll come back with more and burn this place down. Gods, Brutus, did you not hear what I said?’

‘I heard, but I’m here now,’ he replied, wiping his sword on the cooling body at his feet.

‘For how long? We have to live with them when you’ve gone back to your legions, don’t you realise that?’

Brutus felt a flare of anger start in him. He’d had just about enough of being criticised from Julius.

‘I should have just watched, then? Yes? I’m not who you think I am if you expect me just to stand there while they threaten you.’

‘He’s right, Alexandria,’ Tabbic broke in, nodding to Brutus. ‘There’s no taking it back now, but Clodius won’t just forget us, or you. We’ll have to sleep in the workshop for the next few nights. Will you stay with us?’

Brutus eyed Alexandria. It wasn’t exactly the homecoming he had imagined on his ride south, but then he shrugged.

‘Of course. It will save me rent, at least. Now, am I going to get a welcoming kiss or not? Not from you, Tabbic, obviously.’

‘First, get rid of that body,’ Alexandria said.

She had begun to shake with reaction and Tabbic placed a kettle on the forge to make her a hot drink. Brutus sighed and took hold of the corpse by its ankles, dragging it over the stone flags.

When he was out of earshot, Teddus leaned close to Alexandria.

‘I’ve never seen anything that fast,’ he said.

She looked at him, accepting the cup of hot spiced wine from Tabbic’s hands.

‘He won Caesar’s tournament; remember it?’

Teddus whistled softly to himself.

‘The silver armour? I can believe it. I won a bit on him myself. Will you be wanting me to stay tonight? It could be a long one when Clodius finds out about his man.’

‘Can you stay?’ Alexandria asked.

The old soldier looked away, embarrassed.

‘Of course I can,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll fetch my son as well, with your permission.’ He cleared his throat to cover his discomfort. ‘If they send men for us tonight, we could do with someone up on the roof as a lookout. He’ll be no trouble up there.’

Tabbic looked at the pair of them and nodded as he came to a decision.

‘I’m going to take my wife and children to her sister’s house for a few days. Then I’ll drop in on the old street and see if I can’t bring a couple of stout lads back for tonight. They might relish the chance to hit back for once, you never know. Lock the door behind me when I’ve gone.’

Clodius’ men came in force in the dark, with torches to burn the shop to the ground. Teddus’ son clattered down the back stairs to shout a warning and Brutus swore aloud. He had retrieved his silver armour from the last posting house by the city walls and now fastened the buckles and ties on the chestplate as he readied himself. He looked around at the motley group that had assembled by Tabbic’s forges. The jeweller had brought four young men back from the shops along the old road. They carried good blades, though Brutus doubted they could do much more than hack wildly with them. In the last hour before darkness had fallen, he had taught them the value of a repeated lunge and had them practise until their stiff muscles had loosened. Their eyes shone in the lamplight as they watched the silver-armoured warrior stand before them.

‘We’ll have to go out and meet them if they’ve come to burn. This place is wood-framed and we’d better have water buckets ready in case they get through. If there are enough of them, it could be … difficult. Who’s coming?’

The four lads Tabbic had brought raised their new swords in response and Tabbic nodded. Teddus raised his hand with them, but Brutus shook his head.

‘Not you. One more won’t make a difference outside, but if they get past us, someone has to be here for Alexandria. I don’t want her alone.’

Brutus looked at her then and his face tightened with disapproval. She had refused to go with Tabbic’s wife and children and now he feared for her.

‘If they come, Teddus will hold them while you get to the back stairs, all right? His son will guide you down to the alleys and you may get clear. That’s if you are still staying? This is no place for you if they come in a mob. I’ve seen what can happen.’

His warning frightened her, but she raised her chin in defiance. ‘This shop is mine. I won’t run.’

Brutus glared at her, caught between admiration and anger. He tossed a small dagger at her and watched as she snatched it neatly from the air and checked the blade. Her skin was pale as milk in the gloom.

‘If they come past us, you’ll have to,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t want to be worrying about what they’ll do to you.’

Before she could reply, the shouting rose in the street outside and Brutus sighed. He drew his gladius and rolled his neck to loosen the muscles.

‘Right then, lads. On your feet. Do what I tell you and you’ll have a memory to cherish. Panic and your mothers wear black. Is that clear?’

Tabbic chuckled and the other men nodded mutely, in awe of the silver general. Without waiting for them, Brutus strode across the echoing floor and flung the door open. Orange flickers reflected in the metal he wore as he went out.

Brutus swallowed dryly as he saw how many men had been sent to make an example of them. The approaching crowd staggered to a stop as he came out and stood before them, his five men forming a single rank at his sides. It was one thing to terrify shop owners in the backstreets, quite another to attack fully armed soldiers. Every man in the crowd recognised the silver armour Brutus wore and their shouts and laughter died away to nothing. Brutus could hear the crackling of their torches as they watched him, their eyes catching the dim orange light and shining like a pack of dogs.

Renius had said once that one strong man could handle a mob, if he took the initiative and kept it. He had also admitted that the most successful bluff could be called when a crowd could hide behind their numbers. No man seriously expected to die when he was surrounded by his friends and that confidence could lead to a rush against swords that no single one of them would have dared. Brutus hoped they had not been drinking. He took a deep breath.

‘This is an unlawful assembly,’ Brutus bellowed. ‘I am the General of the Third Gallica and I tell you to go back to your homes and families. I have bowmen on the roof. Do not shame yourselves attacking old men and women in this place.’

In that moment, he wished Julius were with him. Julius would have found the words to turn them back. No doubt they would have ended up carrying him through the streets and joining a new legion. The thought made Brutus smile despite the tension and those who saw it hesitated. Some of them squinted up into the darkness, but could see nothing after the flare of the torches. In truth, there was nothing to see. If Brutus had been given another couple of days, he might have found a few good men to put up on the overhanging roof, but as it was, only Teddus’ son watched them and he was unarmed.

A sudden crash made every man jump or swear and Brutus tensed to be rushed. He saw a tile had been dislodged from the roof, shattering amongst the crowd. No one had been injured, but Brutus saw more faces look up and saw them talk nervously amongst themselves. He wondered if it had been deliberate, or whether the young man would follow the tile shortly afterwards and thump down on the crowd like the clumsy sod he was.

‘You should get out of our way!’ a man shouted from back in the mass. A growl from the crowd agreed with him.

Brutus sneered. ‘I’m a soldier of Rome, whoreson!’ he bellowed. ‘I didn’t run from the slaves. I didn’t run from the tribes in Gaul. What have you got that they didn’t have?’

The crowd lacked a leader, Brutus could see. They milled and shoved each other, but there was no one with the authority to force them onto the swords of the men in the road outside the shop.

‘I’ll tell you this much,’ Brutus called out. ‘You think you’re protected, lads? When Caesar returns from Gaul, he’ll find every one of the men who made threats against his friends. That is written in stone, lads. Every word of it. Some of you will be taking his pay already. They’ll have lists of names for him and where to find them. Be sure of it. He’ll go through you like a hot knife.’

In the darkness, it was difficult to be sure, but Brutus thought the crowd was thinning as those at the outskirts began to drift away. One of the torches was dropped by its bearer and picked up by another. No matter what hold Clodius had, Julius’ name had been read on every street corner for years and it worked as a talisman on those who could slip into the night, unseen.

In only a short time, Brutus was left facing no more than fifteen men, no doubt the original ones that Clodius had sent to burn them out. None of those could retreat without being dragged from their beds the following morning. Brutus could see their faces shining with sweat as they saw the numbers dwindle around them.

Brutus spoke gently to them, knowing their desperation could only be pushed so far.

‘If I were you, lads. I’d get out of the city for a while. Ariminum is quiet enough and there’s always work on the docks for those who don’t mind a bit of sweat.’

The core of men looked back angrily, undecided. It was still too many for Brutus to think he had a chance to win if they attacked. Their blades caught the light of the torches and there was no hint of weakness in the hard expressions they turned to him. He glanced at the men at his side and saw their tension. Only Teddus seemed calm.

‘Not a word, lads,’ Brutus murmured. ‘Don’t set anything off now.’

With a snort of disgust, one of the torchbearers threw his brand down onto the street and stalked away. Two more followed him and the others looked at each other in silent communication. In groups of twos and threes, they walked clear until there were only a few remaining in the street.

‘If I were a vengeful man, I would be very tempted to cut you down, right now,’ Brutus said to them. ‘You can’t stand here all night.’

One of them grimaced.

‘Clodius won’t let you get away with this, you know. He will raise hell in the morning.’

‘Perhaps. I may have a chance to speak to him before he does. He may be reasonable.’

‘You don’t know him, do you?’ the man said, grinning.

Brutus began to relax.

‘Are you going to go home then? It’s too cold to be standing out here.’

The man looked around at the last pair of his companions.

‘I think I will,’ he said. ‘Was it true what you said?’

‘Which part?’ Brutus replied, thinking of his non-existent archers.

‘About being a friend of Caesar?’

‘We’re like brothers,’ Brutus said easily.

‘He’s a good man for Rome. Some of us wouldn’t mind seeing him come back. Those with families at least.’

‘Gaul won’t hold him for ever,’ Brutus replied.

The man nodded and walked away into the dark with his friends.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Brutus slept on the floor of the shop for a full week. The night after the failed attack, he visited Clodius’ town house in the centre of the city, but found it better protected than a fortress and bristling with armed men. His sense of worry only deepened as the days crept by. It was as if the city were holding its breath.

Though Tabbic accepted his advice and kept his family away from the shop, Alexandria grew more and more irritable each day she was forced to spend sleeping on the hard floor. All her wealth was tied up in the new premises, from the walls and roof to the stocks of precious metals and the enormous forges. She would not leave it and Brutus could not return to the north while he felt she was in danger.

The young men who had stood with them against the collectors also stayed. Tabbic had offered them a salary as temporary guards, but they waved his coins away. They idolised the silver general who had called for their help and in return Brutus spent a few hours each day teaching them how to use the swords they carried.

The tense crowds thinned around noon, when much of the city paused to eat. Brutus went out then with one or two of the young men, to gather food and information. At least they could always prepare a hot meal on the forges, but the usual gossip of the markets seemed to have been stifled. At best, Brutus could only pick up a few fragments here and there and he missed having his mother in the city. Without her, the details of the Senate meetings were unknown and Brutus felt an increasing frustration and blindness as the city wound tighter and tighter each night.

Though Pompey had returned to Rome, there seemed to be no order on the streets, especially after dark. More than once, Brutus and the others were woken from sleep by dim, muffled sounds of conflict. From the roof, they could see the distant glow of fires somewhere in the maze of backstreets and alleys. The armed gangs made no second attempt to attack the shop and Brutus worried that their masters were involved in a more serious struggle.

In the middle of the second week, the markets were full of the news that Clodius’ raptores had attacked the house of the orator, Cicero, trying to trap him inside as they set it alight. The man escaped them, but there was no outcry against Clodius and to Brutus it was another sign that law in the city had broken down. His arguments with Alexandria became more heated and at last she agreed to leave and wait out the crisis at Julius’ estate. Rome was fast becoming a battleground by night and the shop was not worth their lives. For one who had been a slave, though, the shop was the symbol of everything she had achieved and Alexandria wept bitterly at leaving it for the gangs.

Following her directions, Brutus risked a trip to Alexandria’s house to pick up clothes and came back with Octavian’s mother Atia to add to those who huddled in the shop as darkness fell.

Each day became an agony of frustration for the young general. If he had been alone, it would have been simple enough to join Pompey’s legion at their barracks. As it was, the crowd of people looking to him for safety seemed to grow each day. Tabbic’s sister had brought her husband and children into the safety of the shop and joined Tabbic’s three young daughters. The families of the young men had swelled their number still further and Brutus despaired at the thought of moving twenty-seven people through the violent city, even in daylight. When the Senate declared a general curfew at sunset, Brutus decided he could wait no longer. Only law-abiding citizens seemed to obey the edict of the Senate. The curfew had no effect on the roving gangs, and that same night the street next to the shop was set alight, with pitiful screams sounding in the darkness until they were consumed.

As the sullen city stirred the following morning, Brutus armed his group with anything that Tabbic could find, from swords and knives to simple iron bars.

‘It’s going to be a good hour through the streets and you could see things that will make you want to stop,’ he said to them. He knew they looked to him to save them and he forced himself to remain cheerful in the face of that trust.

‘No matter what happens, we do not stop, does everyone understand? If we are attacked, we cut and keep moving. Once we are through the gate, the estate is only a few hours away from the city. We’ll be safe there until things have settled.’

He wore his silver armour, though it was now dulled with dirt and soot. One by one they nodded as he looked at them.

‘The troubles will pass in a few days or weeks,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen worse, believe me.’

He thought of what Julius had told him about the civil war between Marius and Sulla and wished his friend were there. Though there were times when he hated him, there were few men he would rather have had at his back in a crisis. Only Renius would have been more of a comfort.

‘Everyone ready?’ Brutus asked them. He took a deep breath and opened the door to the street, peering out.

Rubbish and filth had piled up on the corners and wild dogs that were little better than skeletons growled and snapped at each other as they fought over morsels. The smell of smoke was in the air and Brutus could see a group of armed men lounging at a crossroads as if they were the owners of the city.

‘Right. Move quickly now and follow me,’ he said, his voice betraying his tension.

They walked out into the street and Brutus saw the group of men shift and stiffen as they were spotted. He cursed under his breath. One of the little girls began to cry and Tabbic’s sister picked her up and shushed her as they walked on.

‘Will they let us past?’ Tabbic murmured at Brutus’ shoulder.

‘I don’t know,’ Brutus replied, watching the group. There were ten or twelve of them, all marked with soot smeared into their skin and hair. Most were red-eyed from their night’s work and Brutus knew they would attack the slightest weakness.

The men drew blades and strolled across the open road to block their path. Brutus swore softly.

‘Tabbic? If I go down, don’t stop. Alexandria knows the estate as well as I do. They won’t turn her away.’

As he spoke, Brutus lengthened his stride, drawing his gladius in one smooth sweep. He felt a rage in him that men such as these should threaten the innocents of his city. It struck at his most basic beliefs and he was spurred on by the wail of the children behind him.

The men scattered as Brutus took the head of the first, shouldering the body down and killing two more even as they turned to run. In moments, the rest of them were sprinting away, yelling in fear. Brutus let them go, turning back to the group that Tabbic and Alexandria were shepherding along, trying to stop the children from looking back at the bloody corpses Brutus had left in his wake.

‘Jackals,’ Brutus said shortly as he rejoined them. The children looked at him in terror and he realised his silver armour was splashed with blood. One of the youngest began to sob, pointing at him.

‘Keep moving towards the gate!’ he snapped, suddenly angry with them all. His place was with the legion of Rome, not shepherding frightened girls. He looked back and saw the men had gathered again, staring hungrily after him. They made no move in his direction and Brutus hawked and spat on the stones in disgust.

The streets were practically empty as they made their way to the gate. As far as possible, Brutus followed the main roads, but even there the signs of normal city life were missing. The great meat market owned by Milo was empty and desolate, with the wind whipping leaves and dust around their feet. They passed a whole row of gutted shops and houses and one of the young ones began screaming at the sight of a charred body caught in a doorway. Alexandria pressed her hand over the child’s eyes until they were past and Brutus saw her hands were shaking.

‘There’s the gate,’ Tabbic said to cheer them, but as he spoke, a mob of laughing, drunken men turned a corner into the road and froze as they saw Brutus. Like the group before them, they were filthy with ash and dirt from the fires they had started. Their eyes and teeth shone against their grimy skin as they scrabbled for weapons.

‘Let us pass,’ Brutus roared at them, frightening the children at his back.

The men only sneered as they took in his ragged followers. Their jeering was cut short as Brutus launched himself amongst them, spinning and cutting in a frenzy. His gladius had been forged by the greatest Spanish master of the blade and each of his blows sliced through their clothes and limbs, so that great gouts of blood sprang up around him. He did not hear himself screaming as he felt their blades slide off his armour.

A heavy blow stunned him down to one knee and Brutus growled like an animal and pushed himself up with renewed strength, jerking his gladius up into a man’s chest from below. The blade ripped through ribs just as Brutus was sent staggering by a hatchet. It was aimed at his neck but cut into the silver armour, remaining wedged. He didn’t feel any pain from his wounds and only dimly knew that Tabbic was there with the younger men. For once, he lost himself completely in the battle and made no defence in his lust for killing. Without the armour, he would not have survived, but Tabbic’s voice came through his fury at last and Brutus paused to look at the carnage around him.

None of the raptores had survived. The stones of the road were covered in scattered limbs and bodies, each surrounded by dark spreading pools.

‘All right, lad, it’s over,’ he heard Tabbic say, as if from a great distance. He felt the man’s strong fingers press into his neck where the hatchet was lodged and Brutus’ mind began to clear. Blood streamed from his armour and as he looked down, he saw it pumping sluggishly from a deep wound in his thigh. He prodded the gash in a daze, wondering at the lack of pain.

Brutus motioned with his sword towards the gate. They were so close and the thought of stopping was unbearable. He saw Alexandria tear her skirt to bind his leg while he panted like a dog, waiting for breath to tell them to keep moving.

‘I daren’t take that axe out until I know how deeply you’ve been cut,’ Tabbic said. ‘Put your arm around my shoulder, lad. I’ll take your sword.’

Brutus nodded, gulping rubbery spit.

‘Don’t stop,’ he said weakly, staggering forward with them. One of the young men supported his other arm and together they moved under the shadow of the gate. It was unmanned. As the stones changed beneath their feet, a light snow began to fall on the silent group and the smell of smoke and blood was torn away by the breeze.

Clodius took a deep breath of the icy air, wondering at the sight of the forum around him. He had thrown everything into a last-ditch attempt to bring Milo down and the fighting had ripped through the centre of the city, spilling at last into the forum.

As the snow fell, more than three thousand men struggled in groups and pairs to kill each other. There were no tactics or manoeuvres and each man fought in constant terror of those around him, hardly knowing friend from enemy. As one of Clodius’ men triumphed, he would be stabbed from behind or have his throat cut by another.

The snow fell harder and Clodius saw a bloody slush being churned up around the feet of his bodyguard as a group of Milo’s gladiators tried to reach him. He found himself being forced back against the steps of a temple. He considered running into it, though he knew there would be no sanctuary from his enemies.

Were his men winning? It was impossible to tell. It had started well enough with Pompey’s legion lured away to the east of the city to quell a false riot and a string of fires. Milo’s men were spread all over the city and Clodius had struck at his house, smashing down the gates. He had not been there and the attack had faltered as Clodius searched for him, desperate to break the stalemate of power that had to end with the death of one or the other of them.

He could not say exactly when their silent war had erupted into open conflict. Each night had forced them closer and closer until suddenly he was fighting for his life in the forum, with snow swirling all around and the senate building overlooking them all.

Clodius turned his head as more men rushed in from a side street. He breathed in relief when he saw they were his own, led by one of his chosen officers. Like Milo’s gladiators, they wore armour and cut through the struggling men to reach him.

Clodius spun to see three figures leaping at him with blades outstretched. He downed the first with a crushing blow from his sword, but the second shoved a dagger into his chest, making him gasp. He felt every inch of the metal, colder than the snow that lay so lightly on his skin. Clodius saw the man dragged off him, but the third attacker scrambled through and Clodius roared in agony as a knife entered his flesh over and over.

He sank onto one knee as his great strength gave out and still the man stabbed at him while Clodius’ friends went berserk in fury and grief. At last they reached his attacker, but as they tore him away Clodius sank gently down into the bloody snow around him. He could see the senate steps as he died and in the distance he could hear the horns of Pompey’s legion.

Milo fought a bitter retreat as the legion came smashing into the open space of the forum. Those who were too slow or entwined in their own struggles were cut down by the machine and Milo bawled for his men to get away before they were all destroyed. He had yelled with excitement when Clodius fell, but now he had to find a safe place to plan and regather his strength. There was nothing left to stand in his way if he could only survive the legion’s charge. He skidded in the snow as he ran with the others, streaming in their hundreds like rats before the scythe.

Many of Clodius’ men were caught before they could get clear and they too were forced into panicked flight as the legion destroyed everything in front of them. The forum emptied in all directions, the roads into it filling with running gangs, ignoring enemies in the face of a greater fear. The wounded screamed as they ran, but those that fell were cut to pieces as the line of legionaries rolled over them.

In only a short time, the vast space of the forum was empty, leaving the still, slumped figures of the dead, already being covered by a dusting of fine flakes. The wind howled along the temples. The legion officers conferred, snapping out orders to their units. Cohorts were dispatched to their posts around the city and more reports began to come in that the rioting had sprung up in the Esquiline valley. Pompey was there in full armour. He left a thousand men to control the centre of the city and took three cohorts north through the streets to enforce the broken curfew.

‘Clear the streets,’ he ordered. ‘Get them back inside until we can control the gangs.’ Behind him, new fires lit the grey sky and the snow still fell.

That night, the city erupted. Clodius’ body had been carried into the temple of Minerva and thousands of men stormed the building, wild with grief and anger at the death of their master. The legionaries there were torn apart and fires were set all over the city as those who had followed Clodius hunted for Milo and his supporters. Pitched battles were fought in the streets against Pompey’s men and twice the legionaries were forced to retreat as they were attacked on all sides and became lost in the maze of alleys. Some were trapped in buildings and burnt with them. Others were caught by large groups and overwhelmed by a savage mob. A city was no place for a legion to fight. Clodius’ officers lured them in by making women scream and then dropped on them, stabbing mindlessly until they were dead or forced to run.

Pompey himself was forced back towards the senate house by a mass of armed men. He broke them at last with a third shield charge, but there were always more. He thought that every man in Rome had armed himself and was on the streets and the numbers were simply overwhelming. He decided to retreat to the senate steps and use that building to coordinate his remaining forces, yet as he clattered back to the open space of the forum, his jaw dropped in horror at the sight of thousands of torches clustered around the building.

They had broken open the bronze doors and Clodius was being carried over their heads into the deeper darkness within. Pompey saw the senator’s bloody corpse jerk and flop as they passed it up the steps.

The forum was full of armed men, shouting and roaring. Pompey hesitated. He had never run from anything in his life, and what he was witnessing was the end of everything he loved in Rome, yet he knew his men would be destroyed if he took them into the forum. Half the city seemed to be there.

Inside the dark senate house, Pompey saw the flicker of flames. Cheering men came out onto the snow-covered steps, howling as they waved their blades in the air. Grey smoke billowed out of the doorway and Pompey felt tears on his face, warm against his cold skin.

‘My theatre. Re-form on my theatre,’ he called to his waiting men.

They backed from the surging crowd around the Curia and finally Pompey turned away from the flames that crackled through the roof, shattering the marble with reports that echoed across the forum. It was a worse pain than he could have imagined seeing the capering figures against the flames. Only the darkness hid his men and he felt a raging frustration at being forced to retreat from the heart of his city. Only dawn would bring an end to it, he knew. The raptores had destroyed the rule of law and were drunk with their new power. But when the morning came, they would be dazed and exhausted, appalled at what they had done. Then he would bring order, and write it in iron and blood.

The weak morning light streamed in from the high windows of Pompey’s theatre, illuminating the packed ranks of men he had summoned from all over the city. As well as the Senate themselves, Pompey had sent centuries of his legion to bring in the tribunes, the magistrates, the aediles, quaestors, praetors and every other rank of power in Rome. More than a thousand men sat on the wide rings around the central stage looking down on Pompey, and they were grim with fear and exhaustion. There were several faces missing from the ranks after the riots and not one of them failed to appreciate the seriousness of their position.

Pompey cleared his throat and rubbed briefly at the goosebumps that had come up on his bare arms. The theatre was not heated and he could see their breath frost the air as they watched him in silence.

‘Last night was the closest I have ever come to seeing the end of Rome,’ he began.

They sat as still as statues to listen and Pompey saw determination in their expressions. All the petty rivalries had been forgotten in the face of the previous night’s events and he knew they would give him anything to restore peace in the city before night fell once more.

‘You have all heard that Clodius was killed in the fighting, his body burnt in the Curia, itself reduced to ashes. Much of the city has been destroyed by fire, and bodies choke every street and gutter. The city is in chaos, without food or water over great parts of it. By tonight, much of the population will be hungry and the violence could begin once more.’

He paused, but the silence was perfect.

‘My soldiers captured Senator Milo at sunrise when he tried to escape the city. I intend to use the daylight hours to search Rome for the rest in their chain of command, but trials would give their supporters time to regroup and rearm. I do not intend to give them another chance, gentlemen.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have called you here to vote me the powers of Dictatorship. If I remain bound by our laws, I cannot answer for the peace of the city tonight or any other night. I ask that you stand to confirm my appointment.’

Almost as one, the thousand members of the ruling class stood. Some rose to their feet faster than others, but in the end Pompey nodded with fierce satisfaction and waved them back to their seats.

‘I stand before you as Dictator. I now declare martial law throughout Rome. A new curfew will be enforced at sunset each evening and those caught on the streets will be executed immediately. My legion will cut out the leaders and torture will give us the names of the key men from the ranks of the street gangs. I declare this building to be the seat of government until the senate house is rebuilt. Food will be distributed from the forum and the north and south gates of the city each morning until the emergency is over.’

He looked round at the ranks of his people and smiled tightly. Now it would begin to hurt a little.

‘Each of you will deliver a tithe of one hundred thousand sesterces or a tenth of your wealth, whichever is the greater. The senate treasury was looted and we need funds to put the city back on her feet. You will be repaid when the coffers are full once again, but until then it is a necessary measure.’

The first grumblings of disquiet went around the echoing chamber, but they were a tiny minority. The rest of them had been forced to look hard at the fragility of all they thought solid and would not baulk at paying for their safety. Pompey was sorry Crassus wasn’t there. He would have stung the old man for a huge sum. Sending a begging letter would not have the force of a demand in person, but it could not be helped.

Pompey went on after a brief glance at his notes.

‘I will recall a legion from Greece, but until they reach the city, we need every man who can use a gladius. Those of you who employ guards will leave numbers with the scribes as you leave. I must know how many men we can trust to take arms in the event of further rioting. My legion took heavy losses last night and those men must be replaced as a matter of priority if we are to crush the mob before it gains strength once more. I will execute the followers of Milo and Clodius without ceremony or public announcement.

‘Tonight will be the most difficult, gentlemen. If we get through that, order will slowly be restored. Eventually, I will levy a tax on all citizens in Roman lands to rebuild the city.’

He still saw numb fear on many of the faces before him, but others showed the first glimmerings of hope at his words. He called for responses and many of them rose to query the details of the new administration. Pompey relaxed as he began to work his way through the questions. Already, the stunned look was fading from their faces as they fell into the routines of the old senate house. It gave him hope for them all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Brutus eased himself down onto the stump of the old oak he had cut down with Tubruk, laying his stick next to him. In the green woods, it was easy to remember the old gladiator’s smile as he had welcomed him home.

Wincing, Brutus stretched his leg out and scratched the purple line that ran from just above his knee almost to his groin. A similar line of stitching on his collarbone showed how close he had come to being killed in his frenzy. Both wounds had been dirty and he didn’t remember much of the first week back at the estate. Clodia said he was lucky not to have lost it, but the lips of the gash had knitted at last, though the stitches itched abominably. Vague images of being bathed with wet cloths came back to him and he grimaced with embarrassment. Julia had grown into a young woman with more than a touch of her mother’s beauty. He thought Alexandria must have taken her aside for a private word about his care. Certainly, there had been a few days when she hadn’t come near him and when he saw her, her eyes had flashed like Cornelia’s used to when she was angry. After that, only Alexandria had bathed away his sweat and grime.

Brutus smiled ruefully. Alexandria treated him as if he were a sick horse and rubbed him down with a rough detachment that left him glowing. It had been a relief to be finally strong enough to make his own way down to the bathing rooms and wash in privacy. She would have had the skin off him if he had dawdled in bed much longer.

It was peaceful in the woods. A bird sang in the trees nearby and in the meandering line of the path, his mind’s eye could see two young boys sprinting through the bushes on their way to growing into men. Friendship had been a simple thing then, something he and Julius took for granted. Brutus remembered how they had pressed their bloody hands together as if the whole of life could be reduced to simple vows and actions. It was strange to look back on those days when so much had happened. There were times when he was proud of the man he had become and others when he would have given anything to be the boy again, with all his choices still before him. There were so many things he would change if he could.

They had been immortal in those long summers. They had known Tubruk would always be there to protect them and the future was simply a chance to carry on their friendship over years and other lands. Nothing would ever come between them, even if Rome herself should crumble.

Taking a knife from his belt, Brutus levered it under the first stitch and snapped the thread. With great care, he tugged the broken end through his skin, working his way down to the final knot. He was silent with concentration, though he was sweating by the time he finished and tossed the sticky cord away into the bushes. A thin trickle of blood worked its way down through the light hairs on his thigh and he wiped it into a smear with his thumb.

He stood slowly and felt light-headed and weak. He decided to leave the stitches on his neck alone for the time being, though they too itched abominably.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Julia said.

He turned to her and smiled at the awkward way she stood. He wondered how long she had been watching. How old was she, sixteen? Long-legged and beautiful. Alexandria would not be pleased to hear they had been talking in the woods together so he resolved not to tell her.

‘I thought I’d try walking a little way. The leg is getting stronger, though it will be a while before I can trust it,’ he said.

‘When it’s healed, you will go back to my father,’ she said.

It was not a question, but he nodded. ‘In a few weeks at most. The city is calm enough now Pompey is Dictator. We’ll all be leaving you in peace then. This old place will be quiet again.’

‘I don’t mind it,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I like having people here, even the children.’

They shared a look of understanding and Brutus chuckled. Despite the best efforts of Tabbic and his sister, the young ones had been running wild around the estate after only a few days, enthralled by the woods and the river. Clodia had saved one from drowning on three occasions in the deep pool. It was strange how quickly the young had recovered from the nightmare of their trip out of the city. Brutus guessed that when they looked back on that strange year of their lives, they would not remember seeing men killed, or if they did, it would be nothing to their first ride on a horse around the yard, with Tabbic holding them in the saddle. Children were a strange breed.

Julia had inherited some of her mother’s grace, he could see. Her hair was long and bound with a strip of cloth at the nape of her neck. She seemed to focus on his face with a peculiar intensity whenever he spoke, as if every word was valuable. He wondered what her childhood had been like, growing up on that estate. He had always had Julius, but apart from her tutors and Clodia, it must have been lonely for his daughter.

‘Tell me about my father,’ she said, coming closer.

Brutus felt an ache begin in his leg and before the muscles could spasm, he took his stick and levered himself back onto the stump. He looked into the rooms of memory and smiled.

‘He and I used to climb this tree when we were young,’ he said. ‘Julius was convinced he could climb anything and he used to spend hours in the lower branches trying to work out a way of going higher. If I was with him, he could step into my cupped hands, but even then the next branch was too far to reach without jumping. He knew if he missed he’d come down on his head, perhaps bringing me with him.’ He broke off to chuckle as the memories returned.

Julia came to sit next to him on the furthest edge of the wide stump. Even from there, he could smell the flower oil she used in bathing. He didn’t know the bloom, but the scent reminded him of summer. He breathed deeply and just for a moment, he let his mind play with a picture of kissing the cool skin of her neck.

‘Did he fall?’ she said.

Brutus snorted. ‘Twice. The second time, he pulled me out of the tree and I sprained my hand. He had a great bruise on the side of his face like he’d been slapped, but we still went up one last time and he reached that branch.’ He sighed to himself. ‘I don’t think he ever climbed the old oak again. For him, there was nothing more to do.’

‘I wish I had known you then,’ she murmured and he looked at her, shaking his head.

‘No you don’t. We were a difficult pair, your father and I. The surprising thing is that we survived at all.’

‘He’s lucky to have you as a friend,’ she said, blushing slightly.

Brutus thought suddenly of how Alexandria would view the scene if she wandered into the woods. The girl was far too attractive for him to be playing the game of the dashing young soldier, back from the wars. In a moment or two, he’d be asking for her arm to steady him on the trip back to the house and stealing a kiss or two on the way. The scent of flowers filled his lungs and he took a grip on his wayward thoughts.

‘I think I’ll be getting back, Julia. You must be cold.’

Completely without his conscious control, his gaze swept over her neck and the swell of her breasts. He knew she had seen and was furious with himself. He looked away into the woods as he stood up.

‘Are you coming in?’ he said. ‘It will be dark soon.’

‘Your leg is bleeding again,’ she said. ‘It was too soon to take out the stitches.’

‘No. I’ve seen enough wounds to judge. From now on, I’ll walk or ride every day to build my strength.’

‘I’ll keep you company if you want me to,’ she said. Her eyes were wide and dark and he cleared his throat to cover his hesitation.

‘I don’t think a pretty girl should …’ Oh, wonderful. He stammered to a stop. ‘I’ll get by on my own, thank you.’ He walked stiffly back down the path through the woods towards the house, cursing himself silently with all the energy he could muster.

Under the cold stars, Brutus walked his mare across the main yard towards the stables, panting slightly after his ride. He thought of Alexandria asleep in her room and frowned to himself. Nothing was as simple as he liked it to be, especially with the women in his life. If he’d wanted arguments and tense silences, he would have taken a wife. He smiled wryly at the thought, looking up at the moon and enjoying the silence. They had both suffered over the long, empty weeks at the estate, with nothing to do but heal and forget the ugliness of the riots. There were times when he itched to gallop, or fight, or take her to bed for an afternoon. His wound made him furious then. It didn’t help that their lovemaking was limited by his inability to kneel and he hated to be weak.

He thought he loved her, in his way, but there were too many days when they would bicker over nothing until they were both sullen and hurt. He hated the long silences more than anything. Sometimes he wondered if they were only really in love when he was in another country.

The stable was warm, despite the chill of the night air and freezing stars. The light of the moon came through a high window, giving a pale gleam to the oak stalls. It was a peaceful place with only the dark shapes of the horses for company.

He was still sweating from the exertion of the ride and grimaced at how far he had fallen from peak condition during his illness. Just a couple of miles across country had brought him close to exhaustion.

The straw crackled behind him as he rubbed down the mare and he froze for a moment, wondering who else was up at that hour. He turned awkwardly to see Julia leaning against a post, her face pale in the dim light.

‘Did you go far this time?’ she murmured. She looked as if she had come from her bed, her hair loose on her shoulders. She had a soft sheet wrapped around her and he saw how it drew tightest over her breasts, wondering if she could see where his eyes lay.

‘Just a few miles tonight. It’s too cold for the old girl,’ he said. The mare snorted gently and nudged him to continue with the brush.

‘You will be leaving soon, though. I heard Tabbic talking. Pompey has beaten the gangs.’

‘He has. He is a hard man, that one,’ Brutus replied.

He could hear a tension in her voice that had not been there before. Whether it was the warm stables, or the smell of leather and straw, or simply her closeness, he found himself becoming aroused and thanked the gloom for hiding him from her sight. Without a word, he turned back to the mare and ran the brush down her flanks with long, sweeping strokes.

‘My father promised me to him; did he tell you?’ she said, suddenly, blurting out the words. Brutus stopped his brushing and looked at her.

‘He didn’t tell me.’

‘Clodia says I should be pleased. He was not even a consul when they agreed the match, but now I shall be the wife of the Dictator.’

‘It will take you away from here,’ Brutus said softly.

‘To what? To be painted by slaves each day and unable to ride? I’ve seen the women of the Senate. A pack of crows in fine dresses. And each night, I’ll have an old man to press me down. My father is cruel.’

‘He can be, yes,’ Brutus replied. He would have liked to tell her of the grind of poverty he had seen in the city. She would never know hunger or fear as Pompey’s wife. Julius had made a cold choice for his daughter, but there were worse lives to lead and it had given him Gaul. Brutus saw at once how the marriage would bind the houses and perhaps give Julius an heir. As much as he liked the girl, he saw how sheltered she must have been not to know the world as it really was.

‘When do you go to him?’ he asked.

She tossed her hair angrily.

‘I would have gone already if my father were not away from the city. It’s just a courtesy between them. The deal is already sealed and Pompey’s messenger came with such pretty words and gifts. Enough gold and silver to choke me. You should have seen the slave’s price they sent.’

‘No, girl, you won’t be a slave to him, not with your father’s blood in your veins. You’ll wrap him around your fingers in no time at all. You’ll see.’

She stepped closer and again he could smell the scent of dark flowers. As she reached out to him, he held her wrists, letting the brush fall into the straw.

‘Now what would you be thinking?’ he muttered, his voice hoarse. None of it seemed real and even in the dimness, he could see the pale lines of her neck against the shadows.

‘I’m thinking I will not go to him a virgin,’ she whispered, leaning in so that her lips brushed his throat. He could feel the panting warmth of her breath and nothing else mattered half as much.

‘No,’ he said, at last, ‘you will not.’

Releasing her wrists, he took hold of the wrap she wore and pulled it gently apart, exposing her to the waist. Her breasts were pale and perfect in the dark, the nipples hard. He heard her breathe faster as he ran his hand down her back, feeling her shiver.

He kissed her then, until her mouth opened its heat for him. Without another word, he lifted her in his arms to a pile of straw and lowered her down onto it. His wounds were a distant ache he could barely feel as he pulled off his clothing. His own breath was harsh in his throat, but he made himself move slowly as he bent down over her and her soft mouth opened once again with a cry.

The group who gathered in the courtyard to go back to Rome were transformed from the dusty, terrified refugees who had knocked at the gates almost two months before. Clodia had told the children they could come out to see her any time they wished and one or two of them had to be forcibly prised away from her on the last morning. The old nurse adored her young charges and there were tears on both sides.

Tabbic had chafed at every day spent away from the city and barely had the patience to make his goodbyes now that the day had come. Alone of the group, he had made several trips back as soon as he had seen the walls of the city manned with Pompey’s legion once more. The shop had survived the fires in the district. Though it had been looted, the vast forge that was the heart of their business had survived unscathed. Tabbic was already planning a new door and locks to replace the one that had been broken down and it was his reports of the new peace that had brought their time at the estate to an end. Pompey had been ruthless in destroying the leaders of the gangs, and by day at least, the city was beginning to look like herself again. There were rumours that Crassus had sent a huge sum to the Senate and hundreds of carpenters were busy rebuilding. It would be some time before the citizens would think of such luxuries as jewellery, but Tabbic would be ready for them. His small part of the work was his gift to the city, but it meant a great deal. Picking up his scattered tools was the first step in putting the horrors of the riots behind them.

Brutus had been tempted to rest his leg a little longer, but Alexandria had become increasingly cold with him over the previous days. He did not think she could know what had happened in the stable, but there were times when he caught her looking sideways at him, as if she wondered who he was. Without being sure how he knew, he was certain that if he stayed behind, it would be the last he saw of her.

As far south as they were, spring had come early and the trees were already beginning to bloom in the woods. No doubt Julius would be waiting impatiently for him in the north and reluctantly Brutus knew it was time to be on his way. He would return to the rough company of his legionaries, though somehow the thought of it did not fill him with enthusiasm as it used to. Brutus positioned the wooden block he needed to mount, glancing stealthily around the open yard as he gathered the reins. Julia was not there and he felt Alexandria’s eyes on him as he looked for her.

A house slave opened the heavy gate and swung it wide so that they could see the track leading down to the main road into the city.

‘There you are!’ Clodia said. ‘I thought you were going to miss them leaving.’

Julia came out of the house and went around to all of them to say goodbye and accept their thanks as mistress of the house. Brutus watched closely as she and Alexandria exchanged a few words, but both women smiled and he could see no tension between them. He relaxed slightly as Julia came to him and reacted naturally as she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. He felt her tongue dart out against his lips for an instant, making him freeze in embarrassment. Her mouth tasted of honey.

‘Come back,’ she whispered as he shoved himself into the saddle, not daring to look at Alexandria. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head and knew his cheeks were flaming as he tried to pretend nothing had happened. Not a story for Julius, he was fairly certain.

The children called and waved in a chorus as they began their journey to the city. Clodia had prepared packages of meat in boiled peppers for all of them and one or two were already dipping greasy fingers into the cloth packages. Brutus cast one last glance at the estate he had known as a child and fixed it in his memory. When everything else in his life could twist out of all recognition, some things remained solid and gave him peace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The torches flickered on the gold crown of the Arverni as the priest held it up to the warriors. In his other hand, he held a golden torc that shimmered and twisted as it wound around his fingers.

The priest had daubed his body with blood and earth in long smears that made him seem part of the shadows in the temple. His chest was bare and his beard smoothed with clay into rough white spikes that quivered as he spoke.

‘The old king is dead, Arverni. His body will be burnt, though his name and deeds continue in our mouths for all our years. He was a man, Arverni. His cattle numbered in thousands and his sword arm was strong to the end. He spread his seed wide to bring his sons into the world and his wives tear their hair and skin in grief. We shall not see him again.’

The priest eyed the tribe who had packed themselves into the temple. It was a bitter night for him. For twenty years he had been the old king’s friend and counsellor and shared his fear for the future when age and weakness had begun to steal his breath. Who amongst his sons had the strength to lead the tribe through such difficult times? The youngest, Brigh, was but a boy and the eldest was a blustering boaster, too weak where a king should be strong. Madoc would not be king.

The priest looked into the eyes of Cingeto as he stood there on the dark marble with his brothers. That one was warrior enough to lead them, but his temper was already famous amongst the Arverni. He had killed three men in duels before he reached his manhood day and the old priest would have given anything for a few more years to see who he would become.

The words had to be spoken, though the priest felt a coldness in his heart as he drew breath.

‘Which of you will take the crown from my hand? Which of you has earned the right to lead the Arverni?’

The three brothers exchanged glances and Brigh smiled and shook his head.

‘This is not for me,’ he said and took a pace back.

Cingeto and Madoc turned their eyes on each other and the silence became oppressive.

‘I am the eldest son,’ Madoc said at last, the high colour of anger starting on his cheeks.

‘Aye, but you’re not the man we need now,’ Cingeto murmured softly. ‘Whoever takes the crown must prepare for war or see our tribe scattered.’

Madoc sneered. He was taller than his brother and he used his height to intimidate, looming over Cingeto.

‘Do you see armies on our lands? You show me where they are. You point them out to me.’ He spat the words at his brother, but Cingeto had heard them all before.

‘They are coming. They have gone north, but they will come back into the heartlands soon enough. I have met their leader and he will not let us live out our lives. His taxmen have already robbed the Senones and sold thousands as slaves. They could not stop him and now their women cry in the fields. He must be fought, my brother. You are not the man to do it.’

Madoc sneered at him. ‘They were just Senones, brother. The Arverni are men. If they come to trouble us, we will ride them down.’

‘Can you see no further than that?’ Cingeto snapped. ‘You are blind, as the Senones were blind. I will make the Arverni a torch in the dark to gather in the other tribes. I will lead them against these Romans until they are swept out of Gaul. We cannot stand alone any more.’

‘You are too frightened of them to be a king, little brother,’ Madoc said, showing his teeth.

Cingeto smashed a hand across Madoc’s mouth and forced him back a step.

‘I will not see my people destroyed by you. If you will not yield to me, then I will have the crown by challenge.’

Madoc ran his tongue over his lips, tasting blood. His eyes became hard.

‘As you wish, little brother. Fire and the gods watching. It is right.’

Both men turned back to the priest and he nodded.

‘Bring the irons. It will be decided in fire.’

He prayed the gods would give courage to the right man to lead the Arverni through the dark days ahead.

Julius panted as he led his horse through the high pass. The air was thinner there and though spring had come in the valleys, on the peaks the air hurt the lungs of even the fittest of them. Julius looked at Brutus ailing far below the century of the Tenth. He had lost much of his stamina in recovering from his wounds and there were times when Julius thought they would have to leave him to come on later. Yet he stayed doggedly on their trail, riding whenever the pass levelled.

When he had first seen the dusty horseman come into Ariminum, Julius’ spirits had leapt to hear the latest news of the city. The cold formality of the report he received filled him with confusion. He had wanted to shake the man who limped into the house and spoke so distantly of his experiences. The old anger had washed over him as he listened, though he had not given way to it. Servilia had gone and the rift between them was his to mend.

Julius could recall a thousand times when he had used a few words, or a compliment, or even a nod to build the men around him. He felt only sadness when he realised his oldest friend needed the same harmless lies. It was one thing to clap a soldier on the back and see him stand a little taller. It was quite another to give up the honesty of his oldest friendship and Julius had not yet acted on his decision. After the initial report, they had hardly spoken.

Julius’ thoughts turned to Regulus, who trudged at his side through the snow. He was one of those who formed the core of a legion. Some became little better than animals in the ranks of Rome, but men like Regulus never seemed to lose that last part of their humanity. They could show kindness to a woman or a child and then go to battle and fling away their lives for something more than themselves. There were senators who saw them only as killing tools, never men as they were, who could understand what Rome meant. The legionaries always used their votes in the elections when they had the chance. They wrote home and swore and pissed in the snow like any other and Julius understood how Marius had loved them.

It was not a responsibility to be borne lightly, leading such men. They looked to him for food and shelter, for order in their lives. Their respect was hard to win and could be lost in a single moment of cowardice or indecision. He would not have had it any other way.

‘Shall we run, Regulus?’ Julius said, between tearing breaths. The centurion smiled stiffly. The habit of shaving had come back to them all in Ariminum and Julius saw the man’s face was red and raw in the wind.

‘Best not leave the horses behind, sir,’ Regulus replied.

Julius clapped him on the back and took a moment to look around at the mountains. It was a deadly beauty that they passed through. The aching white of the high peaks shone in the sun, and behind, Brutus struggled on to keep them in sight.

Regulus saw Julius glance down the twisting path.

‘Shall I go back to him, sir? The general’s limp is getting worse.’

‘Very well. Tell him I’ll race him into Gaul. He’ll understand.’

The long irons were heated in braziers until the tips were red. Madoc and Cingeto had stripped to the waist and now both men stood sweating on the floor of the temple. All the families were there to watch and neither of them showed the slightest fear as the priest checked the irons over and over until he was satisfied and the hairs on the back of his right hand shrivelled as he passed it over the basket of iron.

At last, the old priest turned to face the two brothers. Their chests were paler than their arms and faces, he saw. Madoc was heavy with muscle, the bull his father had once been. Cingeto was a more compact figure, though there was not a piece of spare flesh on him. The old priest drew himself up to address the silent families of the Arverni.

‘A king must have strength, but he must also have determination. All men feel fear, but he must conquer it when the need is great.’ He paused for a moment, savouring the words of the ritual. His old master had used a long stick to correct a faltering recital. He had hated him then, but now he used that same cane on the apprentices in the temple. The words were important.

‘By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One will take the crown and one will be banished from the lands of the Arverni. That is the law. Yet the man to lead us should have a mind as sharp as his sword. He should be cunning as well as brave. The gods grant that there is such a man before us today.’

Both brothers remained still as he spoke, preparing themselves for what was to come. The priest grasped the first of the irons and pulled it out. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen.

‘To the elder goes the first,’ he said, his eyes on the glowing tip.

Madoc reached out and took the length of iron. His eyes were bright with malice as he turned to Cingeto.

‘Shall we see which one of us is blessed?’ he whispered.

Cingeto did not reply, though sweat poured off him. Madoc brought the rod closer and closer to his brother’s chest until the blond hairs began to sizzle, giving off a powerful smell. Then he laid it against his brother’s skin and pressed it deeply into the flesh.

Cingeto’s lungs emptied in a great heave of air. Every muscle in his body went rigid with the agony, but he did not cry out. Madoc ground the iron against him until the heat had faded and then his own face tightened as he put it back into the fire.

Cingeto looked down at the brown welt that had been raised on his skin. It leaked pale fluid as he took in a deep breath and steadied himself. Without a word, he drew another iron and Madoc began to breathe faster and faster.

Madoc grunted as the metal touched him and, in a fury, he grabbed for another from the brazier. The priest touched his hand in reproof and he dropped it to his side, his mouth opening and his breath coming harshly.

The trial of fire had begun.

At the end of the second day in the mountains, the rugged path began to tilt down to Gaul. Julius paused there, leaning against a rock. When he looked up, he could see the plateau of the high pass above them and was astonished that they had put it so far behind. They were all desperate for food and sleep, and Julius felt a strange clarity of vision, as if hunger and the wind had sharpened his senses. Below him, Gaul stretched with a darker green than he could have believed existed. His lungs felt huge inside his chest and he took great breaths for the sheer pleasure of being alive in such a place.

Brutus felt he had been trudging through the mountains all his life. His weak leg throbbed every time he put his weight on it and without the horse to lean on, he was sure he would have fallen long before. As the century rested, he and Regulus weaved their way through the column to the front. Julius heard some of his men cheer, calling out encouragement. He turned back to see them and smiled as the pair responded to the voices, forcing themselves on. The strength of the brotherhood between his soldiers never failed to fill him with pride. As Julius watched, Brutus and Regulus grinned at the hoots and calls, laughing together as Regulus muttered some reply.

Julius looked back at Gaul below them. Spread out before him, it looked deceptively peaceful, almost as if he could take a step and land right in the heart of it. He hoped that one day a traveller through the passes would look down on cities as great as Rome. Beyond it lay the sea that called to him and he pictured the fleet that would carry the Tenth and Third over it. The tribes would pay their gold in taxes and he would use it to see what lay over the dim white cliffs. He would take Rome to the edge of the world, where even Alexander had not been before him.

Brutus came to his side and Julius saw dark rings around his eyes. The climb had hurt his friend, but in his exhaustion he seemed to have lost some of the coldness he had brought back from Rome. As their eyes met, Julius motioned towards the country below.

‘Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?’

Brutus took a water bottle from Regulus and tilted it back between cracked lips.

‘Are we in a race or not?’ he said. ‘I’m not waiting for you.’

He staggered down the slope and Julius watched him with affection. Regulus hesitated by Julius’ side, unsure whether he was to follow.

‘Go on, stay with him,’ Julius said. ‘I’ll follow you down.’

The smell of flesh and fire was strong in the temple. Both men were bleeding as their skin cracked open with each turn of the irons. Eleven times they had withstood the pain and Cingeto now swayed with his teeth showing whitely against his skin, ready for the twelfth. He watched his brother closely. The test was as much in the mind as in the body and each man knew it could only end when one refused to touch the other. As each burn was added, they both knew it meant they would face at least one more and the knowledge ate at them as their strength dwindled.

Madoc hesitated as he wrapped his fingers around the black iron. If he held it to his young brother, he would have to stand another on his own skin. He did not know if he could, though the desire to see Cingeto humbled was still strong in him.

The trial was a bitter test. Through the waves of pain, the only solace was the thought that in a moment their tormentor would feel the same. Determination and strength crumbled in the face of such torture and Cingeto felt hope leap in him as his brother continued to hesitate. Was it cruelty in him to be drawing out the moment, or had he lost his taste for the irons at last?

‘Gods give me the strength for another,’ he heard Madoc whisper and Cingeto almost cried out as the red-tipped metal came out from the flames once more. He saw Madoc raise it and closed his eyes in anticipation and fear. His whole body cringed from the contact and always there was the terror that he would not have the will to go on when the choice was his. The spirit chose the winner of the trial of fire, never the flesh, and now Cingeto understood as he could never have done without experiencing it.

A clang reverberated around the temple and Cingeto’s eyes snapped open in astonishment. Madoc had thrown down the iron and now stood before him, pain twisting his face into lines of weariness.

‘Enough, little brother,’ Madoc said and almost fell.

Cingeto reached out to steady him and winced as his burns throbbed with the movement.

The priest smiled in joy as the two men turned to face him. He was already planning his addition to the history of the tribe. Eleven irons withstood by the princes of the Arverni! He could remember no more than nine and even the great Ailpein had stood only seven to become king three hundred years before. It was a good omen and he felt some of the dark worry ease from him.

‘One to be king and one to be gone,’ he said aloud, repeating it to the gathered families. He stepped forward to Cingeto and placed the band of gold on his brow and the torc around the straining sinews of his neck.

‘No,’ Cingeto said, looking at his brother. ‘I will not lose you after tonight, my brother. Will you stay and fight them with me? I will need you.’

The priest gaped at them in horror. ‘The law …’ he began.

Cingeto held up a hand, struggling against pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘I need you, Madoc. Will you follow me?’

His brother straightened, wincing as fresh blood wound trails down his chest.

‘I will, my brother. I will.’

‘Then we must summon the tribes.’

Julia walked to the base of the old senate house steps and shivered at the empty space that had been cleared beyond. The smell of smoke was still subtly in the air and it was easy to imagine the rioting coming even to this place. Already, the new building was being constructed and the noise of the crowds was accompanied by hammering and shouts from the workers.

Clodia fussed at her shoulder, nervous in the great forum.

‘There, you’ve seen the damage and taken a risk you shouldn’t have. The city is hardly safe for a young woman, even now.’

Julia looked at her with scorn. ‘You can see the soldiers, can’t you? Pompey has control now; Brutus said so. He’s busy with his meetings and speeches. He’s forgotten about me, perhaps.’

‘You’re talking nonsense, girl. You can’t expect him to lurk at your window like a young man. Not in his position.’

‘Still, if he hopes to bed me, he should show a little interest, don’t you think?’

Clodia looked sharply around to see if anyone in the crowd was taking an interest in their conversation.

‘It’s not a fit subject! Your mother would be ashamed to hear you talk so brazenly,’ she said, gripping Julia by the arm.

Julia winced and pulled her arm away, enjoying the chance to make the old woman uncomfortable.

‘That’s if he’s not too old to find it. Do you think he might be?’

‘Stop it, girl, or I’ll slap that smile off your face,’ Clodia hissed at her.

Julia shrugged, thinking deliciously of Brutus’ skin against her. She knew better than to tell Clodia of the night in the stable, but her fear had been taken away with the first sharp pain. Brutus had been gentle with her and she had found a private hunger Pompey would enjoy when he finally made her his wife.

A voice broke into her thoughts, making her start with guilt.

‘Are you lost, ladies? You look quite abandoned, standing next to the old steps.’

Before Julia could answer, she saw Clodia dip and bow her head. The sudden servility from the old woman was enough to make her take a second look at the man who had addressed them. His toga marked him as one of the nobilitas, though he carried himself with a natural confidence that would have been enough on its own. His hair shone with oiled perfection, Julia noticed. He smiled at her appraisal, allowing his eyes to drop to her breasts for a brief moment.

‘We are just moving on, sir,’ Clodia said quickly. ‘We have an appointment with friends.’

Julia frowned as her arm was taken in a firm grip once again.

‘That is a pity,’ the young man said, eyeing Julia’s figure. Julia blushed then, suddenly aware that she had dressed quite simply for her visit.

‘If your friends do not mind waiting, I do have a small house nearby where you could wash and eat. Walking in this city is tiring without a place to rest.’

As he spoke, the young man made a subtle gesture at his waist and Julia heard the distinct chime of coins. Clodia tried to pull her away, but she resisted, wanting to puncture the man’s easy arrogance.

‘You have not introduced yourself,’ she said, widening her smile. He positively preened at the interest.

‘Suetonius Prandus. I am a senator, my dear, but not every afternoon is spent in work.’

‘I have … heard of the name,’ Julia said slowly, though it would not come to her. Suetonius nodded as if he had expected to be known. She did not see Clodia grow pale.

‘Your future husband will be waiting for you, Julia,’ Clodia said.

She was successful in moving her charge a few paces away, but Suetonius came with them, unwilling to let her go so easily. He put his hand over Clodia’s to bring them all to a halt.

‘We are having a conversation. There is no harm in that.’ Once again, he jingled his coins and Julia almost laughed aloud at the sound.

‘Are you offering to buy my attention, Suetonius?’ she said.

He blinked at her bluntness. Playing the game, he winked.

‘Would your husband not mind?’ he said, leaning closer. Something about his cold eyes changed the mood in an instant and Julia frowned at him.

‘Pompey is not yet my husband, Suetonius. Perhaps he would not mind if I spent the afternoon with you; what do you think?’

For a moment, Suetonius did not understand what she had said. Then a sick awareness stole over him and his face became ugly.

‘I know your father, girl,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

Julia raised her head slowly as the memory came back. ‘I thought I knew the name! Oh yes, I know you.’ Without warning, she began to laugh and Suetonius flushed with impotent anger. He dared not say a word to her.

‘My father tells wonderful stories about you, Suetonius. You should hear them, you really should.’ She turned to Clodia, ignoring her pleading eyes. ‘He put you in a hole in the ground once, didn’t he? I remember him telling Clodia. It was very amusing.’

Suetonius smiled stiffly.

‘We were both very young. Good day to you both.’

‘Are you leaving? I thought we were going to your house to eat.’

‘Perhaps another time,’ he replied. His eyes were bulging with anger as Julia stepped a little closer.

‘Be careful as you go, Senator. Thieves will hear the coins you carry. I could myself.’ She forced an earnest expression onto her face as he flushed in anger.

‘You must give my regards to your mother, when you see her next,’ he said suddenly, running his tongue over his lower lip. There was something deeply unpleasant in his gaze.

‘She died,’ Julia replied. She was beginning to wish she had never begun the conversation.

‘Oh, yes. It was a terrible thing,’ Suetonius said, but his words were made hollow by a flickering smile he could not control. With a stiff nod, he walked away across the forum, leaving them alone.

When she finally looked to Clodia, she raised her eyebrows. ‘I think we annoyed him,’ she said, her amusement returning.

‘You are a danger to yourself,’ Clodia snapped. ‘The sooner you are Pompey’s wife, the better. I only hope he knows enough to beat you when you need it.’

Julia reached over and took Clodia’s face in her hand. ‘He wouldn’t dare. My father would skin him.’

Without warning, Clodia slapped her hard. Julia pressed her fingers against her cheek in astonishment. The old woman trembled, unrepentant.

‘Life is harder than you realise, girl. It always was.’

The King of the Arverni closed the door of the hall with a heave against the wind, leaving a sudden pressure in his ears and a drift of snow on the floor at his feet.

He turned to the men who had gathered at his word, between them representing the most ancient tribes of Gaul. The Senones were there and the Cadurci, the Pictones, the Turoni, dozens of others. Some of them were vassals of Rome, others represented only a pitiful fraction of the power they had once known, their armies sold into slavery and their cattle stolen to feed the legions. Mhorbaine of the Aedui had refused his offer, but the others looked to him for leadership. Together, they could mass an army that would break the back of the Roman domination of their land and Cingeto hardly felt the winter cold as he considered their hawk-like expressions.

‘Will you take my orders, in this?’ he asked them, softly. He knew they would, or they would not have travelled in winter to come to him.

One by one, each man rose and pledged his support and his warriors. Though they may have had little love for the Arverni, the years of war had opened them to his arguments. Alone, they must fall, but under one leader, one High King, they could throw the invaders out of Gaul. Cingeto had taken that role for himself and, in their desperation, they had accepted him.

‘For now, I tell you to wait and prepare. Forge your swords and armour. Lay in stocks of grain and salt a part of each bull you slaughter for the tribe. We will not make the mistakes of previous years and spend our strength in fruitless attacks. When we move, we move as one and only when the Romans are extended and weak. Then they will know Gaul is not to be stolen from its people. Tell your warriors they will march under the High King, joined as they were once joined a thousand years ago, when nothing in the world could stand against us. Our history tells us we were one people, horsemen of the mountains. Our language shows us the brotherhood and the way.’

He was a powerful figure standing before them. Not one of the kings dropped their gaze from his fierce expression. Madoc stood at his shoulder and the fact that he had allowed his younger brother to take their father’s crown was not lost on any of them. Cingeto’s words spoke to more ancient loyalties than those of tribe and they felt their pulses race at the thought of rejoining the old peoples.

‘From this day, all tribal disputes are ended. Let no Gaul kill one of his people when we shall need every sword against the enemy. When there is dissent, use my name,’ Cingeto said softly. ‘Tell them Vercingetorix calls them to arms.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Julius stood with an arm wrapped around the high prow of the galley, filled with a restless impatience as the white coast grew before his eyes. He had learned from the disastrous experiences of the first expedition and this time, the year was young for the crossing. The fleet that churned the sea to foam around him with their long oars was a hundred times the size of his first and it had cost him every coin and favour he had accumulated in Gaul. He had stripped his defences for this blow across the water, but the white cliffs of the Britons had been his first failure and he could not allow a second.

It was hard not to remember the blood-red surf as his galleys had run ashore and been smashed. That first night when the blue-skinned tribes had attacked them in the water was burnt into his memory.

He gripped the wood more tightly as he remembered the way the Tenth had forced a landing through the roaring sea darkness. Too many had been left floating face-down, with the seabirds landing on their bodies as they bumped and rolled in the swell. No matter how he looked at it, those three weeks had been disastrous. It had rained every single day with a blinding force and cold. Those who had lived through the carnage of the landing had been closer to despair than he had ever seen them. For days, they had not known if any of the galleys had survived the storm. Though Julius had hidden his relief from the men, he had never been more thankful than when he saw his battered galleys limping in.

His legions had fought bravely against the blue-skinned tribes, though Julius had known even then that he would not stay without a fleet to supply him. He had accepted the surrender of Commius, their chief, but his thoughts had already been on the following spring.

The lessons of that harsh coast had been well learned. On every side, Julius could hear the shouts of shipmasters as they called the beat of the oars. The sea spray lashed him as the prow rose and fell and he leaned outwards, his gaze sweeping the coast for the painted warriors. This time, there would be no turning.

As far as he could see in any direction, his galleys were pulling through the waves. Hundreds of ships that he had begged and bought and hired to take five full legions back to the island. In stalls on the heaving decks were two thousand horses to sweep the painted tribes away.

With a chill that had more to do with memory than the cold, Julius saw the lines of warriors appear on the cliffs, but this time he scorned them. Let them watch as the greatest fleet the world had ever known came to their shores. Let them see.

The waves had none of the rage and power he had experienced the year before. In the height of summer, the swell was barely rocking the heavy galleys and Julius heard the cornicens signal all along the line. Boats were lowered and the Tenth led them in.

Julius leapt over the side into the surf and could hardly believe it was the same piece of coast. He saw the men drag the boats up the shingle, far beyond the reach of storms. All around him was the busy energy that he had known for years. Orders were called, packs and armour collected, as they formed a defensive perimeter and summoned in the next units with long bronze horns. Julius shivered as his wet cloak slapped against his skin. He walked up the beach and looked back to sea, showing his teeth. He hoped the painted Britons were observing the army that would cut through their land.

In moving so many men from boats to the shore, some injuries and errors were to be expected. One of the small craft overturned as its occupants tried to climb out and an optio had a foot crushed by its weight. More than a few packs and spears were dropped into the sea and had to be retrieved by their owners, urged on by swearing officers. With only one arm, Renius slipped as he climbed out of a boat, disappearing under the water despite the hands grabbing at him. He was dragged out still roaring in indignation. Despite the difficulties, landing so many without losing a life was a feat in itself and by the time the sun was dipping down towards the horizon, the Tenth had flagged the ground for the first hostile camp, barring the way down to the shore while they were still vulnerable.

They saw no further sign of the tribes who had defended their land so viciously the year before. After the initial sightings on the cliffs, the Britons had pulled back. Julius smiled at the thought of the consternation in their camps and villages and wondered what had become of Commius, the king of the southern hills. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Commius to see his legions for the first time and send his blue-skinned fighters down to the sea to throw them back. With a shudder, Julius remembered the huge dogs that fought with them and took a dozen wounds before they fell. Even they had not been enough to beat the veterans of Gaul.

Commius had surrendered when the legions had fought up the dunes and onto the fields beyond, crushing the blue warriors before them. The king had kept his dignity as he walked into the makeshift camp on the beach to offer his sword. The guards would have stopped him, but Julius had waved him in, his heart racing.

He remembered the awe he had felt at finally speaking to men who were barely myths in Rome. Yet for all their wild looks, Julius had found the tribesmen understood the simple Gaulish speech he had laboured to learn.

‘Across the water, the fishermen call you the “Pretani”, the painted ones,’ Julius had said, slowly hefting the sword in his hand. ‘What name do you have for them?’

The blue king had looked at his companions and shrugged. ‘We don’t think of them, much,’ he had replied.

Julius chuckled at the memory. He hoped Commius had survived the year he had been away. With the beach secure, Brutus brought in his Third Gallica to support the Tenth and Mark Antony added to the numbers of Romans on the high ground, each cohort protecting the next as they moved inland in measured stages. By the time the first night fell, the galleys had retreated out to deep water where they could not be surprised and the legions were busy with the task of building forts.

After years in Gaul, they undertook the familiar work with calm efficiency. The extraordinarii swarmed at the edges of the positions, ready to give the alarm and hold off an attack until the squares could form. The walls of banked earth and felled trees went up with the ease of long practice and as the stars and moon moved to midnight, they were secure and ready for the day.

Julius summoned his council as the first hot food was being passed out to those who had worked so hard for it. He accepted a plate of vegetable stew and sniffed appreciatively for the benefit of the legionaries. They smiled as he tasted it and he passed through them, pausing to speak to any man that caught his eye.

Bericus had been left in Gaul, with only his legion and the irregulars to cover that vast territory. The Ariminum general was an experienced, solid soldier who would not risk those under his command, but Brutus had been appalled at the danger of leaving so few to hold Gaul while they were away. Julius had waited through his protests and then continued with his plans. Brutus had not been part of the first landing as the storm blew his galley far out to sea. He could not understand the need Julius felt to make the second a shattering blow. He had not seen the sea run red and seen the legionaries fall back from the blue-skinned warriors and their monstrous dogs.

This year, Julius vowed, the Britons would bend the knee to him or be crushed. He had the men and the ships. He had the season and the will. As he passed into the torch-lit interior of the command tent, he laid the bowl of food on a table to go cold. He could not eat with the tension that churned in him. Rome was as distant as a dream and there were moments when Julius could only shake his head in amazement at being so far from her. If only Marius or his father could have been there to share it with him. Marius would have understood his satisfaction. He had gone deep enough into Africa to know.

His council came in pairs or threes and Julius mastered his feelings to greet them formally. He ordered food brought to them and waited while they ate, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked out of the tent to the night sky. He had rough maps made after the first landing to point them north and the scouts who had drawn them would travel out to judge the strength of those they would face. Julius could hardly wait for the first light.

The news of the fleet had travelled swiftly. When the full might of the invasion had become apparent, Commius had torn up the plans he had made to defend the coast. There was no mistaking the intention of such a vast force and no chance whatsoever that the Trinovantes could stand against them. They pulled back to a string of hill forts twelve miles inland and Commius sent out messengers to all the tribes around him. He called the Cenimagni, and the Ancalites. He called the Segontiaci and the Bibroci and they came to him out of fear. No man alive had ever seen so large a gathering of their enemy and they knew how many of the Trinovantes had been killed the year before against a smaller number.

That first night was spent in argument as Commius tried to save their lives.

‘You did not fight them last time!’ he said to the leaders. ‘Just a few thousand and they broke us. With the army they have brought now, we have no choice. We must bear them as we bear the winter. It is the only way to survive their passage.’

Commius saw the anger on the faces of the men before him. Beran of the Ancalites stood and Commius faced him with pale resignation, guessing at his words before they were spoken.

‘The Catuvellauni say they will fight. They will accept any of us as sword brothers under their king. It’s better than lying down to be taken one by one, at least.’

Commius sighed. He knew of the offer by the young king, Cassivellaunus, and it made him want to spit. None of the men there seemed to understand the level of danger from the army that had landed on their coast. There was no end to them and Commius doubted they could be hurled back into the sea even if every man in the land took arms against them. The King of the Catuvellauni was blinded by his own ambition to lead the tribes and Commius wanted no part of that foolishness. Cassivellaunus would learn in the only way possible, as Commius had before him. For the others, though, there was still hope.

‘Let Cassivellaunus gather the tribes under his banners. It will not be enough, even with us. Tell me, Beran, how many men can you take away from your crops and herds to fight?’

Beran shifted uneasily at the question, but then shrugged.

‘Twelve hundred, perhaps. Less if I keep back enough to protect the women.’

Under Commius’ stern eye, each of them added to the numbers.

‘Between us all then, we can gather perhaps eight thousand warriors. Cassivellaunus has three and the tribes around him can bring six more to war, if they all agree to follow him. Seventeen thousand, and against us my men counted as many as twenty-five, with thousands more on horseback.’

‘I’ve known worse,’ Beran said, with a smile.

Commius glared at him. ‘No you haven’t. I lost three thousand of my best against them on the beach and amongst the corn. They are hard men, my friends, but they cannot rule us from over the sea. No one has ever managed to do that. We must wait them out until the winter sends them back. They know by now what the storms can do to their ships.’

‘It will be hard to ask my people to put away their swords,’ Beran said. ‘There will be many who want to join the Catuvellauni.’

‘Then let them!’ Commius shouted, losing his temper at last. ‘Let anyone who wants to die, join up under Cassivellaunus and fight. They will be destroyed.’ He rubbed angrily at the bridge of his nose. ‘I must think of the Trinovantes first, no matter what you decide. There are few enough of us left now, but even if I had a host of men, I would wait and see how the Catuvellauni fared in the first battle. If their king is so hungry to lead us all, let him show he has the strength to do it.’

The men looked at each other, searching out agreement. The spirit of cooperation was an unusual experience, but nothing about the situation was normal since the fleet had been sighted that morning.

Beran spoke first.

‘You are no coward, Commius. That is why I have listened to you. I will wait and see how Cassivellaunus fares in the first skirmishes. If he can make these new men bleed, I will join him to the end of it. I do not want to be standing by with my head bowed while they are killing my people. It would be too hard.’

‘Harder still to see your temples smashed and ashes made of the Ancalites,’ Commius snapped. He shook his head. ‘Do whatever you think is right. The Trinovantes will not be part of it.’ Without another word, Commius stormed out of the low room and left them alone.

Beran watched him go with a frown. ‘Is he right?’ he said.

The same question was in all their minds as Beran turned to them.

‘Let the Catuvellauni meet them, with what men they can muster. I will have my scouts watching and if they say these “Romans” can be beaten, I will march.’

‘The Bibroci will be with you,’ their man said. The others added their voices and Beran smiled. He understood how the King of the Catuvellauni could want to gather the tribes under him. The men in the room could bring nearly eight thousand warriors to the field. What a sight that would be. Beran could hardly imagine so many men united together.

Julius came upon the hill forts of the Trinovantes twelve miles in from the coast. The sound and smell of the sea was far behind his marching columns and those legionaries who looked to the future murmured appreciatively as they passed through fields of corn and even cultivated vines that they stripped of the acid white grapes as they passed. Wild apples grew there and in the heat at the end of summer, Julius was pleased to see the land was worth taking. The coast had shown little of the promise of the fields beyond them, yet his eyes searched constantly for the dark scars of mines. Rome had been promised tin and gold from the Britons, and without it Julius knew the greed of the Senate would never be satisfied.

The legions stretched across miles of land, separated from each other by the heavy baggage trains. They had supplies for a month and tools and equipment to cross rivers and build bridges, even to construct a town. Julius had left nothing to chance in this second attempt at the white cliffs. He signalled the cornicens to blow the halt and watched as the vast columns responded, their formations shifting subtly at the edge of his vision as they moved from marching files to more defensive positions. Julius nodded to himself with satisfaction. This was how Rome should make war.

The hill forts stretched in a straggling line across the land, each one a solid construction of wood and stone that held the crest of sharply rising land. A river marked on his maps as the ‘Sturr’ ran below them and Julius sent out his water-carriers to begin the lengthy process of refilling the legion supplies. They were not yet in need, but Gaul had taught him never to spurn an opportunity to collect water or food. His maps ended at the river and for all he knew, it might be the last source of fresh water until they reached the Tamesis, the ‘dark river’ sixty miles from the coast. If it even existed.

Julius summoned Brutus and Octavian and detached a cohort of his veteran Tenth to approach the forts. As he gave his orders, Julius saw the powerful figure of Ciro march through the ranks to him. Julius grinned at the big man’s worried expression and answered his question before it could be asked.

‘Very well, Ciro. Join us,’ he called.

Julius watched as relief flooded the features of the giant soldier. Ciro’s loyalty could still touch him. The armour of the Tenth gleamed painfully as Julius looked them over and again he felt himself filled with a powerful excitement. At any moment, the armies of the Britons might appear to strike at them, but there was nothing out of place in the perfect ranks and files. The legions were ready and something of Julius’ own confidence showed in their faces.

In the pure, clean air, Julius heard birds call far above him as he rode slowly up the slope to the largest of the forts. He began listing the defences and planning how to break them if the occupants would not surrender. The walls were well constructed and any attacking force would have to face a barrage of missiles from above as they stormed the gate. Julius imagined the dimensions of the battering ram that would be necessary to breach such heavy timbers and the answer did not please him. He saw dark heads outlined on the high walls and sat straighter in the saddle, aware that he was being observed and judged.

Inside the fort, there were shouts and horn notes blaring. Julius stiffened as the main gates were heaved open. The lines of triarii ahead of him drew their swords without an order as each one of them expected a charge to come screaming out at them. It was what Julius would have done had he been on the hill and he clenched his fists on the reins as the dark interior of the fort was revealed.

No warriors came surging out. Instead, a small group of men stood in its shadow and one of them raised an arm in greeting. Julius ordered the cohort to sheathe their swords to defuse some of the tension. Octavian moved his horse a pace ahead of Julius and looked back at his general.

‘Let me take a fifty inside first, sir. If it’s a trap, we’ll make them show themselves.’

Julius looked at his younger relative with affection, seeing no sign of fear or hesitation in the man’s calm eyes. If it was a trap, those who entered the fort first would be killed and Julius was pleased that one of his blood should show such bravery in front of the men.

‘Very well, Octavian. Enter and hold the gate for me,’ he replied, smiling.

Octavian snapped out orders to the front five ranks and they broke into a run up the last part of the hill. Julius watched the reactions of the Britons and was disappointed to see them stand their ground without a sign of fear.

Octavian kicked his mount into a canter to pass under the gate and Julius could see his armour shining in the main yard as he wheeled and rode back. By the time Julius had brought the rest of the cohort up, Octavian had dismounted and a quick exchange of glances was enough for Julius to grin. It had been an unnecessary caution, but Julius had learned about risk in Gaul. There were times when there was nothing else to do but charge and hope, but those were rare. Julius had found that the more he thought and planned, the fewer were those occasions when he had to depend on the sheer strength and discipline of his men.

Julius dismounted under the shadow line of the gate. The men who waited for him were mostly strangers, but he saw Commius there and embraced him. It was a purely formal gesture for the benefit of the warriors who watched in the fort. Perhaps both men knew that only the size of the Roman army forced the apparent friendship on them, but it did not matter.

‘I’m glad to see you here, Commius,’ Julius said. ‘My scouts thought this was still the land of the Trinovantes, but were not sure.’ He spoke quickly and fluently, making Commius raise his eyebrows in surprise. Julius smiled as if it were nothing and continued.

‘Who are these others?’

Commius introduced the leaders of the tribes and Julius greeted them all, memorizing their names and faces and thoroughly enjoying their discomfort.

‘You are welcome in Trinovantes land,’ Commius said at last. ‘If your men will wait, I will have food and drink brought. Will you step inside?’

Julius looked closely at the man and wondered if Octavian’s suspicions could yet become reality. He sensed he was being tested and finally threw off his caution.

‘Octavian, Brutus … Ciro, with me. Show me the way, Commius, and leave the gates open, if you don’t mind. It is too hot a day to shut out the breeze.’

Commius looked coldly at him and Julius smiled. The centurion Regulus was there and Julius spoke to him last before following the Britons inside.

‘Wait a single watch for me to return. You know what must be done if I am not seen by then.’

Regulus nodded grimly and Julius saw the words were not wasted on Commius as his expression hardened.

The fort seemed larger than it had on the track up the hill. With the other Britons, Commius led the four Romans through the yard and Julius did not look up as he heard the shuffling feet of Trinovantes warriors craning to see them. He would not honour them by showing he heard, though Ciro bristled as he glanced at the upper levels.

Commius led them all into a long, low room constructed of heavy honey-coloured beams. Julius looked around him at the spears and swords that adorned the walls and knew he was in Commius’ council chamber. A table and benches showed where Commius sat with his people and at the far end was a shrine and a thread of silver smoke that lifted past a stone face set in the wall.

Commius took his seat at the head of the table and Julius moved to the far end without a thought. It was natural enough for the Romans to take one side and the Britons the other, and when they were seated Julius waited patiently for Commius to speak. The sense of danger had lifted. Commius knew as well as anyone that the legions outside would trample the forts into ash and blood if Julius did not come out and Julius was sure the threat would prevent any attempt to hold or kill him. If it did not, he thought the Britons would be surprised at the savagery that would follow. Brutus and Octavian alone were so far from common swordsmen that their speed and skill seemed almost magical, while a single blow from Ciro could snap the neck of all but the strongest men.

Commius cleared his throat.

‘The Trinovantes have not forgotten the alliance of last year. The Cenimagni, Ancalites, Bibroci and Segontiaci have agreed to respect that peace. Will you honour your word?’

‘I will,’ Julius replied. ‘If these men will declare themselves my allies, I will not trouble them past the taking of hostages and a level of tribute. The other tribes will see they have nothing to fear from me if they are civilised. You will be my example to them.’

As he spoke, Julius glanced around the table, but the Britons gave nothing away. Commius looked relieved and Julius settled back into his seat for the negotiations.

When Julius finally came out again, the Britons gathered along the high walls of the fort to see him go, the tension clear on their pale faces. Regulus watched closely as his general raised an arm in salute. The cohort turned in place and began the march down the hill to the waiting legions. From that height, the extent of the invasion force could be seen and Regulus smiled at the thought of every battle going as easily.

As the cohort was absorbed back into the main body of men, Julius sent a rider to fetch Mark Antony to him. It took an hour for the general to arrive and Julius strode through the silent, waiting lines of soldiers to greet him.

‘I am going north, but I cannot leave these forts at my back,’ Julius said as Mark Antony dismounted and saluted. ‘You will stay here with your legion and accept the hostages they send. You will not provoke them into battle, but if they arm, you will destroy them utterly. Do you understand my orders?’

Mark Antony glanced up at the forts that loomed over their position. The breeze seemed to be increasing in strength and he shivered suddenly. It was not an easy task, but he could do no more than salute.

‘I understand, sir.’

Mark Antony watched as the great legions of his homeland moved off with a tramp and thunder that shook the ground. The breeze continued to strengthen and dark clouds swept in from the west. By the time the first walls of the camp were going up, a driving rain had begun to turn the earth into heavy clay. As he saw his tent being assembled, Mark Antony wondered how long he would be left to guard the allies in their dry, warm forts.

That night, a summer storm struck the coast. Forty of the Roman galleys had their oars and masts torn out and were driven onto the cliffs and smashed. Many more lost their anchors and were driven out to sea, tossed and battered in the darkness. The sheer number of them made it a night of terror, with the desperate crews hanging out over the sides with poles to fend away the others before they were crushed.

Hundreds lost their lives in collision or drowning and as the wind softened once more just before dawn, it was a bedraggled fleet that limped its way back to the shingle beach. Those who had seen the bloody savagery of the first landings moaned in terror as they saw a dark crust of bodies and wood along the shore.

With dawn, the remaining officers began to restore order. Galleys were lashed together and the metal spars of siege machines were dropped as makeshift anchors to hold them. Scores of landing boats had been ripped overboard, but those that survived spent the morning travelling from ship to ship, sharing the supplies of fresh water and tools. The dark holds of three galleys were filled with the wounded and their cries could be heard over the wind.

When they had eaten and the Roman captains had discussed the position, some voted for an immediate return to Gaul. Those who knew Julius well refused to listen to the idea and would not put a single oar in water until they had his orders. In the face of their resistance, messengers for Julius were sent ashore and the fleet waited.

Mark Antony received them first as they came inland. The great force of the gales had been lost a few miles from the coast and he had experienced no more than a bad storm, though flickering lightning had woken him from sleep more than once. He read the damage reports in dawning horror, before he mastered his spinning thoughts. Julius had not foreseen another storm to damage the fleet, but if he had been there, he would have given the same order. The galleys could not be left exposed to be hammered into driftwood over the course of the campaign.

Mark Antony opened his mouth to order a return to Gaul, but the thought of Julius’ fury prevented the words.

‘I have five thousand men here,’ he said, an idea forming. ‘With ropes and teams, we could bring the galleys in one by one and build an inland port for them. I hardly felt the storm, but we would not need to go so far from the coast. Half a mile and a wall to protect them would keep the fleet safe and ready for when Caesar returns.’

The messengers looked blankly at him.

‘Sir, there are hundreds of ships. Even if we brought the slave crews out as labour, it would take months to move so many.’

Mark Antony smiled tightly.

‘The slave crews will be responsible for their own ships. We have ropes and men to do it. I would think two weeks would be enough and after that, the storms can blow as they will.’

The Roman general ushered the seamen out of his tent and summoned his officers. He could not help but wonder if anyone had ever attempted such a thing before. He had never heard of it, though any port had one or two hulks out of water. Surely this was just an extension of the same task? With that thought, his doubts faded away as he lost himself in calculation. By the time his officers were ready to be briefed, Mark Antony had a string of orders for them.

CHAPTER FORTY

The resemblance to the Gauls was striking as Julius ordered his legions into the attack. The British tribes of the interior did not affect the blue skin, but they shared some of the ancient names Julius had first heard in Gaul. His scouts had reported a tribe calling themselves the Belgae in the west, perhaps from the very same line he had destroyed across the sea.

A long crest of hills formed a ridge over the land that the legions climbed in the face of arrows and spears. The Roman shields were proof against them and the advance was inexorable. The legions had sweated to pull the heavy ballistae up the hills, but they had proved their worth as the Britons tried to hold the plateau and were taught respect for the great machines. They had nothing to match the sheer power of the scorpion bows and their charges were shattered in disarray as the legions moved on to the slopes beyond. Julius had known that part of their advantage lay in speed across open land and the tribes gathered under Cassivellaunus fell back as each position was taken and the Roman lines moved on.

Despite the resistance, Julius could not escape the suspicion that the tribes were drawing them in to a place of their choosing. All he could do was maintain the pace, always on the edge of routing them. He had the extraordinarii harry the retreating enemy in darting raids under Octavian and Brutus. The ground the legions walked was littered with spent spears and arrows, but few had found flesh and the advance did not falter during the long days.

Twice on the second morning, they were attacked in the flank by men left behind by the main British force. The maniples had not panicked as they held them back and the extraordinarii had charged them down as they had been trained, smashing through the desperate tribesmen at full speed.

At night, Julius had the cornicens sound for camps to be built and the baggage trains brought up food and water for the men. The nights were harder as the tribes kept up a din of shouting that made sleep almost impossible. The extraordinarii rode shifts around the camps to repel attacks and more of them fell in darkness from unseen arrows than at any other time. Yet even in that hostile land, the routines continued. The metalworkers repaired weapons and shields and the doctors did their best with those who had taken wounds. Julius was thankful for those Cabera had trained, though he missed the presence of his old friend. The illness that had struck him after healing Domitius was a terrible thing, a thief that stole away his mind in subtle stages. Cabera had not been well enough to make the second crossing and Julius only hoped he would live long enough to see them all return.

Julius had thought at first that he would crush the tribes against the river as he had done years before with the Suebi, against the Rhine. But the King of the Catuvellauni had fired the bridges before the legions could reach them and then spent the days reinforcing his army with warriors from all the surrounding regions.

Under heavy arrow fire from the opposite bank, Julius had sent scouts to find a place for fording, but only one looked suitable for the legions and even then, he was forced to leave behind the heavy weapons that had crushed the first attacks of the Britons and begun their long retreat.

Reluctantly, Julius arranged his ballistae, onagers and scorpion bows all along the bank to cover the attack. It occurred to him then that the best of tactics could be defeated by difficult terrain. His legions formed a column as wide as the flags his scouts had jammed in the soft mud of the Tamesis, marking the drop into deeper water. There could be no subterfuge in such a place. A barrage from the ballistae set the range across the river and gave the legions a clear landing ground of almost a hundred feet. After that, the head of the column would be engulfed by the Britons. The tribesmen had all the advantages and Julius knew that would be the turning point in the battle. If his men stalled on the opposite bank, the rest of the legions would not be able to cross. Everything they had gained from the coast could be wasted.

There was something eerie in preparing for war with the enemy so close yet unable to do more than watch. Julius could hear his officers bark out orders as the lines and files formed and in the distance he could hear echoes of similar shouts. He looked over the dark Tamesis and sent runners to his generals as he noted different aspects of the ground and the formations of the Britons. They looked confident enough as they hooted at the Romans and Julius saw a group of them bare their buttocks and slap them in his direction, to the general merriment of their friends.

He understood their confidence and felt nervous sweat drip into his eyes as he gave orders. The legions would be vulnerable to bow fire and spears as they crossed the river and the death toll would be high. Julius had sent scouts up and down the Tamesis to look for other fords he could use to land flanking forces, but if they existed, they were too far away to make it worthwhile. Even the best generals were forced on occasion to rely on the skill and sheer ferocity of the men they led.

Julius would not be amongst the first to cross. Octavian had volunteered to lead the extraordinarii over, with the Tenth close behind. The young Roman would be lucky to survive the charge, but Julius had given way to him, knowing it had to be his choice. The Tenth would smash their way in behind the cavalry and establish a clear area for the others to follow on their heels. Julius would come in with the Third Gallica and Brutus, with Domitius following them over.

The sun was clear in the sky as Julius pulled on his full-face helmet, turning the cold iron features towards the Catuvellauni. He raised his sword and some of them saw the gesture, beckoning him on.

Julius looked at Octavian, who watched him, waiting for the signal. The extraordinarii were grim and their spatha blades glittered as they held their position. By the time they reached the opposite bank they would be at full gallop and Julius felt a moment of breathless anticipation as they waited to bring death to the Britons.

In silence, Julius dropped his arm and the cornicens blared out all over the vast column. Julius heard Octavian roar and the extraordinarii surged forward into the shallow water in a mass, faster and faster. The horses churned the water into froth as the Roman cavalry lowered their swords over their mount’s heads and leaned forward, ready for the first kills. Arrows and spears punched into them and horses and men screamed, staining the water red as their bodies slipped into the current. The Britons roared and came on.

It called for precision, but every man on the heavy ballistae was ready. As the Britons surged forward to meet the extraordinarii, Julius signalled the teams and a last load of iron and stone flew over the heads of the galloping Romans, smashing the first impetuous ranks into rags.

Great holes appeared in the mass of the enemy and Octavian aimed his horse for one, the gelding staggering slightly as he reached dry ground. His mount was blowing heavily and he was drenched in freezing water. He heard the bellow of the Tenth as they charged across the ford behind him and he knew the Roman gods were watching the sons of their city, even so far away.

There was no room for thought in that first charge. Octavian and Brutus had chosen the extraordinarii for their skills with horse and sword and they formed an arrowhead without a single order being called, striking against the Britons and carving a path deep into their ranks.

The Tenth could not use their spears with their own cavalry so close ahead, but they were the veterans of Gaul and Germany and whoever stood to face them was cut down. The Britons fell back in disarray before the combined attack and their main advantage was lost with incredible speed as the Tenth widened their line with the perfection of a dance and the spaces they created filled with legions coming over. The squares formed on the flanks and the extraordinarii moved amongst them, their speed and agility protecting them from the spears and swords of the Catuvellauni.

Julius heard horns wail out over the enemy’s heads and they fell back and to the flanks, opening a wide avenue in their midst. Through it, Julius could see a cloud of dust and then a wall of horses and chariots galloping at suicidal speed. The Roman cornicens sounded the order to close up and the squares halted, the men within locking shields and setting themselves in the alien soil to hold the position.

The chariots were manned by two warriors and Julius marvelled at the skill of the spearmen who balanced so precariously at high speed while their companions held the reins of the charging horses. At the last moment, the spears were launched and Julius saw legionaries killed by a wave of the shafts, thrown with enough power to punch through even the Roman shields.

Octavian saw the carnage that resulted and shouted new orders. They disengaged from the flanks and cut across the line of the chariots before they could throw again or turn. The Britons rushed in amongst them and Julius saw horses and men gutted and cut down, blood spraying amongst them. The Tenth and Third pushed forward and closed the centre, overwhelming the chariot men as they fought with roaring desperation. Some of the Britons’ horses panicked and Julius saw more than one knock legionaries to the ground as empty chariots were dragged through the field behind their wide-eyed mounts.

‘The extraordinarii are clear!’ Julius heard Brutus shout to him and he nodded, ordering spears. It was not the most disciplined of attacks. Many of the Romans had lost their weapons in the fighting, but still a few thousand of the dark shafts went up and added to the chaos of the Catuvellauni as they tried to re-form.

Julius looked back and saw that two of his legions were still in the river, simply unable to go further against the press of their own men. He signalled an advance and the Tenth responded with the discipline he had come to expect, locking shields and forcing a way through and over the enemy.

The Roman line widened as the extraordinarii fell back to protect the flanks. Their insane first charge had thinned their numbers, but Julius cheered as he saw Octavian was still there. His young relative was covered in gore and his face looked swollen and black with a spreading bruise, but he was snapping out orders and his men took up the new formation with something of their old polish.

On the open land, the Roman legions were unstoppable. Time and again, the Catuvellauni charged their lines and were thrown back. Julius marched over clumps of bodies that marked each failed attempt. Twice more, the Tenth and Third held charges by the vicious chariots and then a different note sounded amongst the enemy horns and the Catuvellauni began to retreat, a gap opening between the armies for the first time since the river.

The Roman cornicens blew for double time and the legions broke into a jog, their officers haranguing the men to keep formation. The wounded Britons were run down almost immediately and the exhausted stragglers fell to Roman swords even as they screamed. Julius saw two men supporting a third until they were forced to drop him almost at the feet of the pursuing Tenth. All three were trampled and stabbed for their courage.

As the sun moved, Julius jogged with the others, panting. If the King of the Catuvellauni thought they could outrun his legions, he would learn. Julius saw nothing but determination in the ranks about him and he felt the same pride. The legions would run them into the ground.

Even then, Julius checked the land for ambush, though he doubted the possibility. Cassivellaunus had seen his best hope was to hold the Romans at the river and would have thrown everything he had into those first assaults. However, Julius had fought too many battles to allow a surprise and his extraordinarii harried the enemy up ahead, while smaller groups peeled away to scout.

It was almost with disappointment that Julius heard a falling, mournful note from the enemy horns. Julius guessed at its meaning even before he saw the first Britons throw down their weapons in disgust. The rest followed.

Julius had no need to give the orders to accept the surrender. His men were experienced enough and he barely took notice as the Tenth moved amongst them, forcing them to sit and collecting weapons to enforce the peace. Not a single warrior was killed after the initial surrender and Julius was satisfied.

He looked around him and saw houses clustered together less than a mile ahead. The legions were on the very edge of the towns around the Tamesis river and Cassivellauni had surrendered in sight of his people before the running battle brought them into the streets. It was an honourable decision and Julius greeted the man without rancour as he was brought to him.

Cassivellaunus was a black-haired, fleshy-faced young man who wore a pale robe belted around his waist and a long cloak over heavy shoulders. His eyes were bitter as Julius met them, but he sank down onto one knee and bowed his head before rising, the fresh mud spattering his woollen clothes.

Julius removed his helmet, enjoying the freshness of the breeze on his skin. ‘As commander of the forces of Rome, I accept your surrender,’ he said formally. ‘There will be no more killing. Your men will be held prisoner until we have negotiated hostages and tribute. As of this moment, you may consider yourself a vassal of Rome.’

Cassivellaunus looked quizzically at him as he heard the words. The king looked over the Roman lines and saw their organisation. Despite a running fight of almost two miles, the formations were sharp and he knew he had made the right decision. It had cost him a great deal. As he looked at the Roman in his dirty armour, with blood-smeared sandals and three days’ growth of beard on his chin, Cassivellaunus could only shake his head in disbelief. He had lost the land his father gave him.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Vercingetorix planted his spear in the ground before the gates of Avaricum and rammed a Roman head on the point. Leaving his grisly trophy behind him, he rode in through the gates to where the tribal leaders had gathered in his name.

The walled town in the centre of Gaul had a population of forty thousand and most of those had come out onto the streets to point and stare at the High King. Vercingetorix rode through them without looking left or right, his thoughts on the campaign ahead.

He dismounted in the central courtyard and strode through shadowed cloisters into the main hall of government. As he entered, they rose to cheer him and Vercingetorix looked around at the faces of the Gallic leaders, his expression cold. With a stiff nod of acknowledgement, he walked to the centre and waited for silence.

‘A bare five thousand men stand between us and our land. Caesar has left to attack the painted people as once he came to Gaul. This is the time for which we have planned so patiently.’ He waited through the storm of talk and cheers that echoed round the chamber. ‘We will give them a warm homecoming by the winter, I promise you that. We will take them by stealth and by the dozen or the hundred at a time. Our cavalry will attack their foraging parties and we will starve them from Gaul.’

They roared at the idea, as he had expected, but still his eyes were cold as he readied himself to tell them the price they must pay.

‘The legions have only one weakness, my friends, and that is in their lines of supply. Who in this room hasn’t lost friends and brothers against them? On an open plain, we would fare no better than the Helvetii did years ago. All our armies together could not break them in the open.’

The silence was oppressive as the leaders waited for their High King to continue.

‘But they cannot fight without food, and to deny them forage we must burn every crop and village in Gaul. We must uproot our people from Caesar’s path and leave him nothing but a smoking wasteland to feed his Roman mouths. When they are weak with hunger, I will bring my men into fortresses like the one at Gergovia and they can see how many lives they lose against those walls.’

He glared round at the men of Gaul, hoping that they would have the strength to follow this most terrible path.

‘We can win. We can break them in this way, but it will be hard. Our people will be frightened at being forced off their land. When they cry out, you will tell them they once rode three thousand miles to reach here. We are still one people, for those who can see it. The land of Gaul must rise. The Celts must rise and remember the old blood that calls them.’

They stood in silence for him and beat their swords and knives together in a clashing noise that filled the space and shook the foundations. Vercingetorix held his arms up for quiet and it was a long time coming. His people stood with eager expressions and they believed in him.

‘Tomorrow, you will begin to move your tribes to the far south, leaving only those who are thirsty for war. Take your grain stores with you, for my riders will burn anything they find. Gaul will be ours again. I speak not as one of the Arverni, but from the line of the old kings. They watch over us now and they will bring us victory.’

The clash of metal began again and became deafening as Vercingetorix walked out in the shadowed cloisters to rejoin his army. He trotted his horse back through the streets and ducked his head unconsciously as he passed under the Avaricum gates.

When he reached his horsemen, he sat high in the saddle and gazed fondly at the flags of Gaul. Dozens of tribes were represented in ten thousand riders and truly, he felt one with the old blood.

‘It is a good day to ride,’ he told his brother Madoc.

‘It is, my King,’ Madoc replied. Together they heeled their horses into a gallop, streaming across the plain.

Julius sat on a hill with his cloak on the damp ground under him. A light rain was falling and through it they could see the galleys he had ordered sent round the coast to find where the dark river poured into the sea. With their shallow draught, they had been able to come all the way in to the ford and anchored just before it. Brutus and Renius sat with him, watching supplies being unloaded by teams of the Tenth and Third.

‘Did you know the captains found a bay further down the coast?’ Julius said aloud. He sighed. ‘If I had known of it, the storms that took so many of my ships would have battered in vain. Protected by cliffs and deep water with a sloping shore for the boats. We will know for the future, now that we have found it, at least.’ He ran a hand through his wet hair and shook droplets from the end of his nose.

‘They call this summer? I swear I haven’t seen the sun in a month.’

‘It makes me homesick for Rome,’ Brutus answered slowly. ‘Just to imagine olive trees in the sun and the temples of the forum. I cannot believe how far away from all that we’ve come.’

‘Pompey will be there, rebuilding,’ Julius said, his eyes hardening. ‘The senate house where I stood with Marius is no more than memory. When we see Rome, Brutus, it will not be the same.’

They sat in silence while each of them considered the truth of the words. It had been years since Julius had seen his city, but somehow he had always expected it to be there unchanged for when he returned, as if everything else in life was held in glass until he was ready to make it move once more. It was a child’s dream.

‘You will go back, then?’ Brutus said. ‘I had begun to think you would have us all grow old out here.’

Renius smiled without speaking.

‘I will, Brutus,’ Julius said. ‘I have done what I came for and a single legion will be enough to hold the Britons. Perhaps when I am an old man and Gaul is as peaceful as Spain, I will return here to carry the war to the north.’

He shivered suddenly and told himself it was the cold. It was strangely peaceful watching the efforts of the galley crews below while they were far above them. The hills around the Tamesis were gentle slopes and if it hadn’t been for the constant drizzle, it might have felt like a distant world of strife that could not come close to the men on the hill. It was easy to dream.

‘There are times when I want it all to end, Brutus,’ Julius said. ‘I miss your mother. I miss my daughter as well. I have been at war as long as I can remember and the thought of returning to my estate to tend the hives and sit in the sun is a terrible temptation.’

Renius chuckled. ‘One you successfully resist each year,’ he said.

Julius glanced sharply at the one-armed gladiator. ‘I am in the flower of my youth, Renius. If I accomplish nothing else in life, then Gaul will be my mark on the world.’

As he spoke, he touched a hand unconsciously to his head, feeling the receding hairline. War aged a man more than just the passing of years, he thought. Where once he had felt as if he could never grow old, now his joints ached in the damp and morning brought a stiffness that took longer and longer to pass each year. He saw Brutus had noticed the gesture and frowned.

‘It has been a privilege to serve with you both, you know,’ Renius said suddenly. ‘Have I ever told you? I would not have been anywhere else but with you.’

Both of the younger men looked at the scarred figure who sat hunched forward on his cloak.

‘You are growing maudlin in your old age,’ Brutus said with a smile. ‘You need to feel the sun on your face again.’

‘Perhaps,’ Renius said, pulling a piece of grass between his fingers. ‘I have fought for Rome all of my life and she still stands. I’ve done my part.’

‘Do you want to go home?’ Julius asked him. ‘You can walk down this hill to the galleys and have them take you back, my friend. I will not refuse you.’

Renius looked down to the bustling crowd on the river and his eyes were filled with yearning. He shrugged then and forced a smile.

‘One more year, perhaps,’ he said.

‘There’s a messenger coming,’ Brutus said suddenly, breaking in on their thoughts. All three turned to look at the tiny figure on horseback who lunged up the hill towards them.

‘It must be bad news for him to seek me here,’ Julius said, rising to his feet. In that moment, his contemplative mood was broken and the other two sensed the change in him like a sudden shift in the wind.

Their damp cloaks were crumpled and all three men felt the weariness of constant war and problems, watching the lone rider with a sort of dread.

‘What is it?’ Julius demanded as soon as the man was close enough to hear.

The messenger became clumsy under their scrutiny, dismounting and saluting in a tangle.

‘I have come from Gaul, General,’ he said.

Julius’ heart sank. ‘From Bericus? What is your message?’

‘Sir, the tribes are rebelling.’

Julius swore. ‘The tribes rebel every year. How many this time?’

The messenger looked nervously at the officers.

‘I think … General Bericus said all of them, sir.’

Julius looked blankly at the man before nodding in resignation.

‘Then I must return. Ride to the galleys below and tell them not to leave until I am with them. Have General Domitius send riders to the coast to Mark Antony. The fleet must be put to sea to cross to Gaul before the winter storms begin.’

Julius stood in the rain and watched the rider make his way down to the river and the galley crews.

‘So it is to be war once more,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Gaul will ever see the peace of Rome in my lifetime.’ He looked tired at the burden and Brutus’ heart went out to his old friend.

‘You’ll beat them. You always do.’

‘With winter coming?’ Julius said bitterly. ‘There are hard months ahead, my friend. Perhaps harder than any we have known.’ With appalling effort, he controlled himself until the face he turned to them was a mask.

‘Cassivellaunus must not know. His hostages are already on board the galleys, his son amongst them. Take the legions back to the coast, Brutus. I will go by sea and have the fleet waiting for you there.’ He paused and his mouth tightened in anger.

‘I will do more than beat them, Brutus. I will raze them from the face of the earth.’

Renius looked at the man he had trained and was filled with sorrow. He had no chance to rest and each year of war stole a little more of his kindness away from him. Renius gazed south, imagining the shores of Gaul. They would regret having unleashed Caesar amongst them.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Gaul irregulars counted almost all the tribes amongst their ranks. Many of them had fought for the legions for five years or more and they acted and thought as Romans. Their pay was in the same silver and their armour and swords came from the forges of the regular legions.

When Bericus sent three thousand of them out to protect a shipment of grain, there were few that could have seen the subtle differences between their ranks and that of any other Roman force. Even the officers were from the tribes, after so long in the field. Though Julius had salted them with his best men in the beginning, war and promotion had altered the structure. They hardly noticed.

The convoy of wheat had come from Spain at Bericus’ order and had to be protected as it wound its way down from the northern ports. It was enough to feed the towns and villages that had stayed loyal. Enough to keep them alive through the winter while Vercingetorix burned anything he could find.

The irregulars marched south in perfect order at the pace of the slowest cart. Their scouts were out for miles around them to warn of an attack. Every man there knew that the grain would be a threat to the rebellion as it gathered force in the heartlands and hands rarely strayed from their swords. They ate cold meat on the move from their own dwindling rations and stopped only barely in time to build a hostile camp each night.

When it came, the attack was like nothing they could have expected. On a wide plain, a dark line of horsemen came thundering towards them. The scouts galloped in even as the column was reacting, shifting the heavy carts into a defensive circle and preparing their spears and bows. Every eye was fixed in fear on the enemy as the sheer size of their cavalry became apparent. There were thousands of them riding through the mud and grass towards the carts. The weak sun reflected on their weapons and many of the Gauls began to pray to old gods, forgotten for years.

Marwen had been a soldier for Rome ever since he had exchanged hunger for the silver coins four years before. As he saw the size of the force against them, he knew he would not survive it and experienced the bitter irony of being killed by his own people. He cared nothing for politics. When the Romans had come to his village and offered him a place with them, he had taken their bounty and given it to his wife and children before walking out to fight for Rome. It had been better than watching them starve.

Promotion had been a wonder, when it came. He had been part of the battles against the Senones and had ridden out with Brutus to steal their king from the very heart of them. That had been a day.

Lost in bitter memory, he did not at first notice the faces of the men as they turned to him, looking for orders. When he saw them, he shrugged.

‘This is where we earn our pay, lads,’ he said softly.

He could feel the ground shake under his feet as the riders stormed towards them. The defensive ranks were solid around the carts. The spears had been jammed into the mud to repel the charge and there was nothing else to do but wait for the first acceleration of blood. Marwen hated the waiting and almost welcomed it to crush the fear that wormed in his stomach.

Horns sounded and the line of charging horses heaved to a halt just out of range. Marwen frowned as he saw one man dismount and walk over the soft ground towards them. He knew who it was even before he could be sure of the yellow hair and the fine gold torc the man wore to battle. Vercingetorix.

Marwen watched in disbelief as the king walked closer.

‘Be still,’ he ordered his men, suddenly worried that one of his archers would loose a shaft. His blood coursed through him and Marwen breathed faster as the king approached. It was an act of suicidal bravery and many of the men muttered in admiration as they readied their blades to cut him to pieces.

Vercingetorix came right up to them, meeting Marwen’s eyes as he noted the cloak and helmet of his rank. It may have been imagination, but seeing him there, so close, with his great sword sheathed on his hip, was something glorious.

‘Speak your piece,’ Marwen said.

The king’s eyes flashed and the yellow beard split as he grinned. He saw Marwen’s hand tighten on his gladius.

‘Would you kill your king?’ Vercingetorix said.

Marwen let his hand drop in confusion. He looked into the calm eyes of the man who faced him with such courage and shivered.

‘No. I would not,’ he said.

‘Then follow me,’ Vercingetorix said.

Marwen glanced right and left at the men he commanded and saw them nod. He looked back at Vercingetorix and without breaking his gaze, went slowly down to kneel in the mud. As if in a dream, he felt the king’s hand on his shoulder.

‘What is your name?’

Marwen hesitated. The words of his rank and unit caught in his throat.

‘I am Marwen Ridderin, of the Nervii,’ he said, at last.

‘The Nervii are with me. Gaul is with me. On your feet.’

Marwen rose and found his hands were shaking. He heard Vercingetorix speak again through the tumult of his thoughts.

‘Now burn the grain in those carts,’ the king said.

‘There are some Romans amongst us. We are not all from Gaul,’ Marwen said suddenly.

The king’s pale eyes turned to him. ‘Do you want to let them live?’

Marwen’s face hardened. ‘It would be right,’ he said, raising his head in defiance.

Vercingetorix smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then let them go, Nervii. Take their swords and shields and let them go.’

As the Gaul irregulars marched behind their king, the horsemen raised their swords in salute and cheered them. Behind, the wagons of precious grain were hidden in crackling flames.

As Julius landed in the sheltered bay of Portus Itius on the coast of Gaul, he could see vast brown spires of smoke in the distance. Even the air tasted of battle and he felt a great anger at the thought of another rebellion against him.

He had not wasted a moment of the crossing and was already busy with orders and plans that had to be implemented before the winter closed the mountains. Getting news back to Rome of his second assault against the Britons would be a race against time, but he needed the goodwill it would bring on the streets of the city. There would be no senate tithe that year, when he needed every coin to smash the tribes under Vercingetorix. The name was on the mouths of the lowest workers and Julius could barely remember the angry young man who had stormed out of his first meeting with the chieftains, eight years before. Not so young any more, either of them. Cingeto had grown into a king and Julius knew he could not allow him to live. They had both walked a long path since the beginning and the years had been filled with blood and war.

As Julius climbed up onto the quayside, he was already deep in conversation with Brutus, breaking off to dictate to Adàn at his shoulder. Fast-riding extraordinarii had been sent to summon Bericus and as soon as he arrived, Julius would gather his council and plan the campaign. A glance at the brown smoke on the horizon was enough to firm his resolve. This was his land and he would not falter if every man in Gaul took arms against him.

The returning legions occupied the port and built their camps out of routine, though there was a tangible tension and weariness in the ranks. They too had fought for years with Julius and more than a few were sickened at the thought of another year of war, or even longer. Even the hardest of them wondered when it would all end and they would be allowed to reap the rewards they had been promised.

On the third day, Julius gathered his council at the coastal fortress they had built, part of a chain that one day would dominate the coast of Gaul.

Domitius came in first, wearing the silver armour he had won. Dark bristle covered his cheeks and his armour had lost much of its shine. The breastplate especially was a battered testament to the wars he had fought for Julius. Without a word, he grasped Julius’ hand and forearm in the legionary grip before taking his place.

Mark Antony embraced his general as they met. Julius had reason to be pleased with him when he saw the tallies of their treasury. The sums of gold and silver in the reserve were vast, though they were dropping day by day as the cities and towns of Gaul waited to see if the rebellion would succeed. Already, the food supply was critical and Julius was grateful to Mark Antony for taking that part of his burden. The thousands of legionaries had to be fed and watered before they could fight and already it was clear that Vercingetorix was trying to cut their supplies. The burning plumes of smoke had all been farms and when the extraordinarii galloped out to them, they found them empty and deserted. Julius felt a grudging admiration for the ruthlessness of the new king. Vercingetorix had made a choice that would also kill the villages and towns that remained loyal to the legions. Thousands of his own people would die for their allegiance and more if the legions could not end it quickly. It was a high cost, but starvation would wither the Roman legions as surely as swords.

Julius had chosen a room that looked over the sea for their gathering and birds wheeled and screeched outside on the grey rocks. He greeted each man with real pleasure as they came in. Bericus had taken a wound in the first engagement with Vercingetorix and had his shoulder and chest bandaged. Though the Ariminum general looked tired, he could not help but respond to Julius’ smile as he showed him a seat and brought a cup of wine for his good hand. Octavian came in with Brutus and Renius, in the middle of a discussion of tactics for the cavalry. All three greeted Julius and made him smile at their confidence. They seemed not to share his own doubts and worries, but then they were used to having him there to solve them. He had no one.

As they gathered, Julius felt himself lifted by their mood. The years of war had not broken his friends. When they spoke of the latest rebellion it was with anger and resilience rather than defeat. They had all invested years in the hostile land and every man there was angry to see their future threatened. Though they talked amongst themselves, each man watched Julius for some sign he was about to begin. He was the core of them. When he was absent, it was as if the purest part of their drive and energy had been taken. He bound men together who would not have suffered each other’s company in any other circumstances. Such a bond, in fact, that they did not even think of it as they settled and he faced them. He was simply there and they were slightly more alive than before.

Cabera was brought in last by two men of the Tenth who acted as his attendants. Julius strode over to him as soon as the old healer was settled and took his frail hands in his own. He spoke too quietly for the others to hear above the noise of the gulls and wind.

‘Further than any other man in Rome, Cabera. I have been off the edge of the world. Did you see me here, so long ago?’

Cabera didn’t seem to hear him at first and Julius was sad at the changes age had wrought in him. Guilt too tugged at his conscience. It was at Julius’ request that Cabera had healed Domitius’ shattered knee and that act of will had been too much for his ageing frame. He had not been strong since that day. At last the eyes lifted and the dry, cracked mouth twitched upwards at the edges.

‘You are here because you choose to be, Gaius,’ the old man said. His voice was little louder than an escaping breath and Julius leaned closer to his lips. ‘I have never seen you in this terribly cold room.’ Cabera paused then, and the muscles of his neck jumped in spasm as he took a deeper breath.

‘Did I tell you I saw you killed by Sulla?’ he whispered.

‘Sulla is long dead, Cabera,’ Julius said.

Cabera nodded. ‘I know it, but I saw you murdered in his house and again in the cells of a pirate ship. I have seen you fall so often I am sometimes surprised to see you so strong and alive. I do not understand the visions, Julius. They have caused me more pain than I have ever imagined.’

Julius saw with swelling grief that there were tears in the old man’s eyes. Cabera noticed his expression and chuckled dryly, a clicking sound that went on and on. Though Cabera’s left arm lay useless in his lap, he reached up with the other and brought Julius even closer.

‘I would not change a day of it, the things I have seen. You understand? I haven’t long and it will be a relief. But I regret nothing of what has happened since I stepped into your home so long ago.’

‘I would not have survived without you, old man. You can’t leave me now,’ Julius murmured, his own eyes filling with tears and memory.

Cabera snorted and rubbed his face with his fingers.

‘Some choices are denied us, Gaius Julius. Some paths cannot be avoided. You too will pass the river in the end. I have seen it in more ways than I can tell you.’

‘What did you see?’ Julius said, aching to know, yet gripped by a numbing fear. For an instant, he thought Cabera had not heard him, the old man was so still.

‘Who is to know where your choices will take you?’ The voice continued its sibilance. ‘Yet I have not seen you old, my friend, and once I saw you fall to knives in darkness in the first days of spring. On the Ides of March, I saw you fall, in Rome.’

‘Then I will never be in my city on that day,’ Julius replied. ‘I swear it to you, if it will give you peace.’

Cabera raised his head and looked past Julius to where the shrieking gulls fought and struggled over some scrap of food.

‘Some things are better not to know, Julius, I think. Nothing is clear to me any more. Did I tell you of the knives?’

Gently, Julius laid the old man’s hands together on his lap and arranged the cushions so he could sit upright.

‘You did, Cabera. You saved me again,’ he said. With infinite tenderness, Julius lifted the old man up on the cushions to make him comfortable.

‘I am glad of that,’ Cabera said, closing his eyes.

Julius heard a long breath coming from him and the frail figure became utterly still. Julius gave a muffled cry as he saw the life go out of him and reached out to touch his cheek. The silence seemed to go on a long time, but the chest was still and would not move again.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ Julius said.

He heard a scrape of wood as Renius and Brutus came to stand with him and the years fell away so that it was two boys and their tutor standing there, seeing a man hold a bow without a tremor in his arms.

Julius heard the other members of his council stand as they realised what had happened. He turned red-rimmed eyes to them and they could not bear to meet the pain they saw in his face.

‘Will you join me in the prayers for the dead, gentlemen? Our war will wait another day.’

As the gulls shrieked in the wind outside, the low murmur of their voices filled the cold room. At the end, there was silence and Julius breathed a last few words as he looked at the shrunken body of the old man.

‘And now I am adrift,’ he said, so quietly that only Brutus at his side could hear.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

It was dark in the tent and Adàn had only a single tallow candle to give him enough light to write. He sat in perfect silence and watched as Caesar sprawled on a bench with his arm outstretched to be bandaged. There was blood on the first layers and the strip of cloth itself was dirty, having been taken from a corpse. Julius grunted as the doctor made a knot and pulled it tight. For a moment, his eyes opened with the pain and Adàn saw they were dim with exhaustion.

The doctor gathered his sack of equipment and left, letting a blast of air into the stuffy interior that made the candle flicker. Adàn looked over the words he had recorded and wished Julius would sleep. They were all hungry, but the winter had burnt flesh from the commander as much as any of the men. His skin was tinged with yellow and tight across his skull and Adàn saw dark hollows underneath his eyes that gave him a look of death.

Adàn thought Julius had slid into sleep and began to gather his scrolls to steal away without waking him. He froze as Julius scratched at the sweat stains of his tunic and then rubbed his face. Adàn shook his head slowly at the changes in the man since he had first known him. Gaul had taken more than it had given.

‘Where did I finish?’ Julius said, without opening his eyes. His voice was a croak that made Adàn shiver in the gloom.

‘Avaricum. The doctor came in as I was writing about the final day.’

‘Ah yes. Are you ready to go on?’

‘If you wish it, sir. It might be better if I left you to get some rest,’ Adàn said.

Julius did not respond past scratching his unshaven chin.

‘Avaricum came soon after the murder of three cohorts under Bericus. Are you writing this?’

‘I am,’ Adàn whispered. To his surprise, he felt the sting of tears begin as Julius forced himself on and the Spaniard could not explain them.

‘We built a ramp up to the walls and stormed the town. I could not hold the men back after what they had seen. I didn’t try to hold them.’ Julius paused and Adàn could hear his breath as a harsh susurration above the noise of the legions outside.

‘Eight hundred survived us, Adàn. Record the truth for me. Out of forty thousand men, women and children, only eight hundred lived when we were finished. We burned the town around them and stripped what grain they had left in their stores. Even then, you could count the ribs on the soldiers with me. Vercingetorix had moved on, of course, and every town we came to was destroyed. He drove the cattle before him and left us nothing but birds and wild hares to trap. To feed forty thousand men, Adàn. Without the stores of Avaricum, we would have been finished.

‘We routed them over and over whenever we caught them in the open, but all the tribes of Gaul had joined him and he outnumbered us every time. Bericus was killed in the third month, or the fourth, I cannot remember. His own irregulars caught him in an ambush. We did not find his body.’

Julius lapsed into silence as he remembered how Bericus had refused to believe that the men he had trained would kill him. He had been a decent man and he paid with his life for that belief.

‘Vercingetorix moved on south to Gergovia and the hill forts there and I could not break those walls.’

Adàn looked up at the silence and saw Julius’ mouth twist in anger. Still, he lay back with his eyes closed and the croaking voice seemed to come from deep within.

‘We lost eight hundred men at Gergovia and as spring came I saw my soldiers eat green corn until they vomited. Still, we destroyed the armies who dared to take the field against us. Brutus and Octavian did well against the banners there, but the numbers, Adàn … Every tribe we have called friends has risen against us and there are times … no. Strike that out, my doubts are not to be written.

‘We could not starve him out in Gergovia and our own men were weakening. I was forced to move west to gather supplies and still we could barely find enough to stave off death. Vercingetorix sent his generals against us and we fought all the way while he raced ahead by night. I have marched a thousand miles this last year, Adàn. I have seen death walking with me.’

‘But now you have trapped him in Alesia,’ Adàn said softly.

Julius struggled to sit up and leaned over his knees, his head sagging.

‘The greatest hill fort I have ever seen in Gaul. A city on four hills, Adàn. Yes, I have him trapped. We starve on the outside while he waits for us all to die.’

‘Grain and meat are coming in from the south now. The worst is over,’ Adàn said.

Julius shrugged so lightly it could have been a breath.

‘Perhaps. Write this for me. We have built trenches and fortifications for eighteen miles around Alesia. We have thrown up three great hills from the earthworks, so massive as to allow us to build watchtowers on them. Vercingetorix cannot leave as long as we remain here – and we will remain. Our prisoners talk of him as king of all the Gauls and until he is dead or captured, they will continue to rebel. We have cut them down in thousands and they will still come each spring until their king is dead. Let them know in Rome, Adàn. Let them understand what we are doing here.’

The tent flap opened and Brutus was there in the darkness, glancing over at Adàn as he saw the light of the tiny flame.

‘Julius?’ he said.

‘I am here,’ came the voice, barely a whisper.

‘You must come out once more. The scouts are back and they say an army of Gauls is coming to relieve the forts.’

Julius looked at him with red-rimmed eyes that seemed more dead than alive. He stood and swayed from exhaustion and Brutus stepped in to help him pull on the armour and scarlet cloak that the men needed to see.

‘So those men who escaped the fort were to bring an army back,’ Julius murmured as Brutus began to lace the chestplate to the strips of iron around his neck. Both men were dirty and stank with sweat and Adàn was struck by the tenderness as Brutus took a rag and wiped the armour down with it, handing Julius his sword from where it lay propped and forgotten against a pole. Without a word, Adàn took the red cloak from its peg and helped Brutus drape it around the shoulders. It could have been his imagination, but in the armour he thought Julius stood a little straighter, sheer will forcing some of the weariness from his face.

‘Summon the council, Brutus, and bring the scouts to me. We shall fight on both sides if need be, to put an end to this king.’

‘And then we shall go home?’ Brutus said.

‘If we live, my friend. Then we shall go home at last.’

The Roman generals who came to the central camp at the foot of Alesia showed the marks of the wars they had fought. Drinking water had been rationed as well as food and not one of them had enough to shave or wash the grime of months in the field from their faces. They sank onto the benches and sat listlessly, too tired to talk. The scorched earth and months of war since returning from Britain had hurt them all and now this last blow had brought them to the edge of despair.

‘Generals, you have heard from the scouts and there is little more for me to tell you,’ Julius said. He had taken a pouch of precious water from a guard and upended it into his mouth to take away the dust from his throat.

‘The men are eating at last, though supplies are thin and of poor quality. Without the sacrifices of our settlers, we would have even less. Now the Gauls have gathered all the tribes against us and even the Aedui cavalry have vanished to join them. Mhorbaine has betrayed me at the last.’

Julius paused and rubbed a hand over his features.

‘If the scouts are right, we have little chance of surviving the battle. If you ask it of me, I will try for an honourable surrender and save the lives of our legions. Vercingetorix has shown he is no fool. We would be allowed to travel back to the Alps with our settlers. Such a victory would establish him in his role of High King and I think he would accept. Is this what you want?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Domitius said. ‘The men would not accept it from us, and not from you. Let them come, Caesar. We will destroy them again.’

‘He speaks for me,’ Renius added and the others nodded. Brutus and Mark Antony joined the voices and Octavian rose to his feet. Despite their tired faces, there was determination there still. Julius smiled at their loyalty.

‘Then we will stand or fall at Alesia, gentlemen. I am proud to have known you all. If this is where the gods say it ends, then let it be so. We will fight to the last.’

Julius scratched the bristles on his face and smiled ruefully.

‘Perhaps we should use a little of the drinking water to look like Romans for tomorrow. Bring me my maps. We will make plans to humble the tribes one more time.’

Vercingetorix stood at the high walls of Alesia, looking out over the plain. He had rushed up to the windswept heights at the first reports from his watchmen and he gripped the crumbling stone fiercely as he saw a mass of torches moving towards them.

‘Is it Madoc?’ Brigh asked eagerly.

The king looked at his youngest brother and held his shoulder in a sudden burst of affection.

‘Who else would it be? He has brought the armies of Gaul to sweep them away.’ With a glance around him, he leaned his head close. ‘The princes of the Arverni are hard men to defeat, are we not?’

Brigh grinned at him.

‘I had begun to lose hope. There’s not more than a month of food left …’

‘Tell the men to eat well tonight then. Tomorrow we will see the Romans broken and then we will cut our way out past their forts and walls and reclaim Gaul from them. We will see no more of these legions for a generation.’

‘And you will be king?’ Brigh asked.

Vercingetorix laughed.

‘I am king, little brother. King of a greater nation. Now the tribes remember the call of blood, there is nothing in the world to hold us down. Dawn will end it and then we will be free.’

The first grey light revealed a camp of Gaulish horsemen that stretched for three miles across the land. As the legions awoke, they heard a dim and tinny cheering from the great linked forts of Alesia as the inhabitants saw those who had come to relieve them.

The morning was cold, despite the promise of summer. The food that had been brought in from the Roman province at the foot of the Alps was prepared and handed out on tin plates, the first hot meal in days for many of the men. With the Gauls arrayed before them, they ate without joy and the plates emptied too quickly. Many of the men licked them clean for the last scrap of sustenance.

The Roman fortifications around Alesia were high enough to give the Gauls pause as they considered the best manner of attack. The walls reached twenty feet and were manned by forty thousand of the best foot soldiers in the world. It was no easy task, even with the colossal numbers Madoc had assembled.

Madoc did not know himself how many were with him, just that he had never seen such an army gathered in one place. Even then, he was cautious, as Vercingetorix had told him to be when he escaped from Alesia to summon the tribes.

‘Remember the Helvetii,’ Vercingetorix had said.

Even when vastly outnumbered, the Romans had beaten every army sent against them and those who still lived were veterans and survivors, the ones hardest to kill. Madoc wished his brother were out there to direct the horsemen. He could feel the scrutiny and hope of the defenders in the Alesia forts and it intimidated him. He knew by then that his brother was a better king than he would have been. Madoc alone could not have bound the tribes together, more closely than they had known for a thousand years. Old disputes had been forgotten and in the end they had all sent their best men to aid the High King and break the back of the Roman occupation.

Now it all depended on his word and tens of thousands waited on him as the sun rose.

Julius climbed a hill to address the men he had fought with for nine years in Gaul. He knew hundreds by name and as he reached the crest and steadied himself against the base of the watchtower, he saw familiar faces waiting for him to speak. Did they know how weary he was? He had shared the privations of the march and the battles across Gaul. They had seen him push himself further than any of them, going without sleep for days at a time until there was nothing left in him but an iron will that kept him on his feet.

‘I will not ask you to fight for Rome!’ he roared out to them. ‘What does Rome know of us here? What does the Senate understand of what we are? The merchants in their houses, the slaves, the builders and the whores have not been with us in our battles. When I think of Rome, I cannot think of them, so far away. My brothers are those I see before me.’

The words came easily in front of the legions. He knew them all and a thin cheer began as they gazed up at the scarlet-cloaked figure. He could not have explained the bond to a stranger, but that had never been necessary. They knew him for what he was. They had seen him injured with them and exhausted after a march. Each man there had a memory of when he had spoken to them that they treasured more than the silver coins they were paid.

‘I will not ask you to fight this last time for Rome. I will ask it for me,’ he said and they lifted their heads higher to hear him, the cheering swelling in the ranks.

‘Who dares to call themselves Rome while we live? The city is just stone and marble without us. We are its blood and its life. We are its purpose.’ Julius swept a hand out to the massed hordes of the Gaulish army.

‘What an honour it is to have so many come against us! They know our strength, my legions. They know we are unbreakable in spirit. I tell you, if I could change places and be out there, I would be afraid of what I see before me. I would be terrified. For they are not us. Alexander would be proud to walk with you as I do. He would be proud to see your swords raised in his name.’ He looked down at the crowd and saw Renius there, staring at him.

‘When our hearts and arms are tired, we go on,’ Julius roared at them. ‘When our stomachs are empty and our mouths dry, we go on.’

He paused again and smiled down at them.

‘Now, gentlemen, we are professionals. Shall we cut these bastard amateurs to pieces?’

They clashed their swords and shields together and every throat bellowed their approval.

‘Man the walls! They are coming!’ Brutus shouted and the legions ran to their positions. They stood straight as Julius climbed down and walked amongst them, proud of them all.

Madoc felt a touch of fear as he saw the full extent of the Roman lines around Alesia. When he had escaped only a month before, the first trenches were being dug into the clay and now the walls were solid and manned with soldiers.

‘Light torches to burn their gates and towers!’ he ordered, seeing the lines of light spring up amongst the tribes. The crackle of flames was the sound of war and he felt his heart race faster in response. Still he worried as he looked over the vast fortifications that crouched on the land and waited for them. The speed of the Gaulish horses would be wasted against such a barrier. If the Romans could not be tempted out, Madoc knew each step would be bloody.

‘Spears ready!’ he called down the line. He felt thousands of eyes on him as he drew his long sword and pointed it at the Roman forces. His beloved Arverni were ready on the right flank and he knew they would follow his orders. He wished he could be as sure of the others in the heat of battle. As soon as they began to die, Madoc feared they would lose what little discipline he had been able to impose.

He raised his fist and brought it down in a sharp movement, kicking his horse into a gallop to lead them in. Behind him came a thunder that drowned out all other sound and then the Gauls roared. The horses flew towards the walls and every hand held a spear ready to throw.

‘Ballistae ready! Onagers, scorpions ready! Wait for the horns!’ Brutus shouted left and right. They had not been idle in the dark hours and now every war machine they possessed was facing outwards to smash the greater enemy. Every eye on the walls watched as the horde galloped towards them and their faces were bright with anticipation.

Huge logs soaked in oil were lit and gave off a choking smoke that did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of those who were ready to smash them down onto the heads of the Gauls.

Brutus nodded as he gauged the range and tapped the nearest cornicen on the shoulder. The man took a deep breath and the long note sounded, almost swallowed in the release of hundreds of massive oak arms slamming into their rests. Stone and iron flew through the air with a whining sound and the Romans showed their teeth as they waited for the first touch of death.

Madoc saw the launch and for a moment he shut his eyes and prayed. He heard the cracks and thumps of missiles all around him and dwindling screams that he left behind. When he opened his eyes, he was amazed to find himself alive and whooped aloud for the sheer pleasure of it. Gaps had been broken open amongst the tribes, but they closed as the distance to the legions shortened and now their blood was up.

The Gauls released their spears with all the fury of men who had survived the Roman machines. They arched up and over the walls and before they could land, Madoc had reached the wide pits that ran along the edge of the Roman walls. Thirty thousand of his best men vaulted from their saddles and began to scramble up, digging their swords into the earth to climb over the spikes meant to hinder them.

Madoc saw the legionaries above in a glimpse as he climbed and without warning the earth gave way and he dropped down at the base. He shouted in anger and began the climb again, but he heard the crackle of flames and saw a group of Romans lever something massive over the edge and drop it towards him. He tried to leap away, but it hammered him down in a splinter of bone and blackness.

From the walls, Julius watched as the first attack was sent reeling. He ordered the war machines to fire again and again, using logs and stones that broke the legs of horses as they rolled amongst them. The gates in the walls were burning, but it did not matter. He did not intend to wait for them to fall.

All along the miles of fortifications, the Roman legionaries were battering those who reached them, using shields and swords in a frenzy. The bodies began to pile at the foot of the wall and Julius hesitated. He knew his soldiers could not fight at such a pace for long, weak as they were. Yet the Gauls seemed intent on a direct assault, throwing their lives away on Roman iron.

The vast bulk of the horsemen had not even been able to reach the Roman lines through their own people and Julius feared that if he sent the legions out, they would be engulfed. His face hardened as he made the decision.

‘Octavian. Take the extraordinarii against them. My Tenth and Third will be behind you, just as we were against the Britons.’

Their eyes met for an instant and Octavian saluted.

Ropes were attached to the gates to pull them inwards, once the great iron bars had been removed. The wood was burning well by then and when the gates fell the rush of air made the flames leap. The extraordinarii galloped through the fire to smash the enemy, their hooves clattering on the gates as they passed over. They vanished into the smoke and the Tenth and Third poured out after them.

Julius saw teams beat out the flames and heave the gates back into position before the Gauls could take advantage of the breach. It was a dangerous time. If the extraordinarii could not force the Gauls back, those legions ready to charge out and support them would not be able to move. Julius squinted through the smoke, following a legion eagle as it pounded through the boiling mass of tribesmen. He saw it fall and be dragged up by an unknown soldier. The Twelfth Ariminum were ready to go out, and Julius did not know what they would find.

He glanced up at the forts of Alesia and the men he had permanently watching for them to attempt an attack. How many could he leave as the reserve? If Vercingetorix broke out, Julius was sure his legions would falter at last, hammered on two sides. It must not be allowed to happen.

Renius caught his eye as the distinctive figure hovered near him with a shield ready to hold over Julius’ head. Julius smiled briefly, allowing him to stay. The gladiator looked pale and old, but his eyes scanned the field ceaselessly to protect his general.

Julius saw a clear space appear on the bloody ground, covered in feebly moving bodies and the dead. Some of them were Roman, but the vast majority were the speared and crushed enemy. A huge arc was opening in the press as the Tenth heaved them back and walked over flesh with a barrier of their shields. Julius saw the last spear throws disappear into the Gauls and he judged it was time.

‘Twelfth and Eighth in support!’ he called. ‘Bring down the gates!’ Once more the ropes were yanked taut and ten thousand more rushed out to replenish those who had gone before.

The war engines were silent then, as the legions carved their way through the Gauls. The tight squares were engulfed and lost to view, then appeared like stones in a flood, still surviving, still solid as they disappeared again.

With four legions in the field, Julius sent one more to follow them, keeping barely enough men to hold the walls and watch the forts at their backs. The cornicens stood waiting at Julius’ shoulder and he glanced at them, his eyes hard.

‘On my word, sound the recall.’

He gripped the edge of his cloak with his free hand and twisted it. It was hard to see what was going on, but he heard Roman voices shout orders and all along the walls the Gauls were falling back to meet the threat that had come out to take them on. Julius made himself wait.

‘Now blow the horns. Quickly!’ he snapped at last, looking out onto the battlefield as the long notes wailed over it. The legions had gone far and fought on all sides, but they would not allow a rout, he knew. The squares would retreat step by ordered step against the horsemen, killing all the time.

The Gauls moved like bitter liquid in swirls of screaming, dying men as the legions fought their way back. Julius shouted wildly as he saw the eagles appear once more. He raised his arm and it trembled. The gates came down and he saw the legions stream in and rush back to the walls to shout defiance at the enemy.

The Gauls surged forward and Julius looked to the teams of ballistae men, waiting with desperate impatience. The whole of the Gaulish army was rushing in then and the moment was perfect, but he dared not order them to fire without knowing his legions were safely back.

He barely saw the launch of spears, but Renius did. As Julius turned away, Renius threw up the shield and held it against the numbing impact of the whining heads. He grunted and Julius turned to acknowledge the act, his face going slack as he saw the bloody ruin of Renius’ neck.

‘Clear! All clear, sir!’ his cornicen shouted.

Julius could only stare as Renius fell.

‘Sir, we must fire now!’ the cornicen said.

Barely hearing him, Julius dropped his arm and the great ballistae crashed their response. Tons of stone and iron sliced through the horsemen of Gaul once more, cutting great swathes of empty space on the field. The tribes were too closely packed to avoid the barrage and thousands were mown down, never to rise again.

A powerful silence swelled as the tribes pulled back out of range. Dimly Julius heard his men cheering as they saw the numbers of dead left behind on the field. He went to Renius’ side and closed the staring eyes with his fingers. He had no more grief left in him. To his horror, his hands began to shake and he tasted metal in his mouth.

Octavian trotted through the legionaries to look up to where Julius knelt, chilled in sweat.

‘One more, sir? We’re ready.’

Julius looked dazed. He could not have a fit in front of them all, he could not. He struggled to deny what was happening. The fits had been quiet in him for years. He would not allow it. With a wrench of will, he stood swaying, forcing himself to focus. He pulled off his helmet and tried to breathe deeply, but the ache in his skull built and bright lights flashed. Octavian winced as he saw the glazed eyes.

‘The legions still stand, General. They are ready to take the battle to them once more, if you wish it.’

Julius opened his mouth to speak, but could not. He crumpled to the ground and Octavian leapt from his saddle, scrambling up to hold him. He barely noticed the body of Renius at his side and shouted to the cornicen to fetch Brutus.

Brutus came at a scrambling run, paling as he understood.

‘Get him out of sight, quickly,’ he snapped to Octavian. ‘The command tent is empty. Take his legs before the men see.’ They lifted the twitching figure that had been lightened by the months of starvation and war, dragging him into the shadowed interior of the command post.

‘What are we going to do?’ Octavian said.

Brutus pulled the metal helmet from Julius’ rigid fingers and lifted it.

‘Strip him. Too many men saw us take him in. They must see him come out.’

The men cheered as Brutus strode into the weak sun, wearing the full helmet and armour of his friend. Behind him, Julius lay naked on a bench, with Octavian holding a rope of twisted tunic between his teeth as he writhed and shuddered.

Brutus ran to the wall to assess the state of the enemy and saw they were still reeling from the second smashing attack of the ballistae. In the darkness of the tent, it had seemed longer. He saw the legions look to him, waiting for orders and knew a moment of the purest panic. He had not been alone in command since setting foot in Gaul. Julius had always been there.

Behind the mask, Brutus looked out desperately. He could think of no stratagem but the simplest of all. Open the gates and kill everything that moved. Julius would not have done it, but Brutus could not watch from the wall as his men went out.

‘Fetch me a horse!’ he bellowed. ‘Leave no reserve. We are going out to them.’

As the gates reopened, Brutus rode through, leading the legions. It was the only way he knew.

As the Gauls saw the full force of legions coming onto the field, they milled in chaotic fear, wary of being drawn in again to be crushed by the war engines. Their lines were in disarray without the leaders who had been killed in the first attacks.

Brutus saw many of the lesser tribes simply dig in their heels and ride from the battlefield.

‘Better that you run!’ he shouted wildly.

Around him, the extraordinarii forced their mounts into a gallop, their bloody weapons ready. The legions roared as they accelerated across the plain and when they crashed into the first lines, there was nothing to hold them.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

By nightfall, those Gauls who survived had left the field of battle, streaming back to their homes and tribal lands to carry news of the defeat. The Roman legions spent most of the night on the plain, stripping corpses and rounding up the best of the horses for their own use. In the darkness, the Romans separated into cohorts that roamed for miles around Alesia, killing wounded and collecting armour and swords from the dead. As another dawn approached, they returned to the main fortifications and turned their baleful gazes on the silent forts.

Julius had not surfaced from tortured dreams before sunset. The violence of the fit had racked his wasted body and when it left him, he sank into a sleep that was close to death. Octavian waited with him in the tent, washing his flesh with a cloth and water.

When Brutus came back, spattered with blood and filth, he stood looking down on the pale figure for a long time. There were many scars on the skin and without the trappings of rank, there was something vulnerable about the wasted figure that lay there.

Brutus knelt at his side and removed the helmet.

‘I have been your sword, my friend,’ he whispered.

With infinite tenderness, he and Octavian exchanged the battered armour and clothing until, once again, Julius was covered. He did not wake, though when they lifted him, his eyes opened glassily for a moment.

When they stood back, the figure on the bench was the Roman general they knew. The skin was bruised and the hair was ragged until Octavian oiled it and tied it.

‘Will he come back?’ Octavian murmured.

‘In his own time, he will,’ Brutus replied. ‘Let’s leave him alone now.’ He watched the faint rise and fall of Julius’ chest and was satisfied.

‘I’ll stand guard. There will be some who want to see him,’ Octavian said.

Brutus looked at him and shook his head.

‘No, lad. You go and see to your men. That honour is mine.’

Octavian left him as he took position outside the tent, a still figure in the darkness.

Brutus had not sent the demand for surrender to Vercingetorix. Even in the armour and helmet, he knew Adàn would not be fooled for a moment and that honour belonged to Julius. As the moon rose, Brutus remained on guard at the tent, sending away those who came to congratulate. After the first few, the word spread and he was left alone.

In the privacy of the silent dark, Brutus wept for Renius. He had seen the body and ignored it while he and Octavian were heaving Julius’ body into the tent. It was almost as if some part of him had recorded every detail of the scene to be recalled when the battle was over. Though he had only glanced at the old gladiator, he could see his cold corpse as if it was daylight when he shut his eyes.

It did not seem possible that Renius could not be alive. The man had been the closest thing Brutus had had to a father in his life and not to have him there brought a pain that forced tears out of him.

‘You rest now, you old bastard,’ he muttered, smiling and weeping at the same time. To live for so long only to die from a spear was obscene, though Brutus knew Renius would have accepted that as he accepted every other trial in his life. Octavian had told him how he had held the shield for Julius and Brutus knew the old gladiator would consider it a fair price.

A noise from the tent told him Julius had woken at last before the tent flap was thrown back.

‘Brutus?’ Julius asked, squinting into the darkness.

‘I am here,’ Brutus replied. ‘I took your helmet and led them out. They thought I was you.’

He felt Julius’ hand on his shoulder and fresh tears wound down the dirt of his face.

‘Did we beat them?’ Julius asked.

‘We broke their back. The men are waiting for you to demand a surrender from their king. It’s the last thing to do and then we’re finished.’

‘Renius fell at the last. He held a shield over me,’ Julius said.

‘I know, I saw him.’ Neither man needed to say more. They had both known him when they were little more than boys and some griefs are cheapened by words.

‘You led them?’ Julius said. Though his voice was strengthening, he still seemed confused.

‘No, Julius. They followed you.’

At dawn, Julius sent a messenger up to Vercingetorix and waited for the response he knew must come. Every man and woman in Alesia would have heard of the slaughter of Avaricum. They would be terrified of the grim soldiers who stared up at the fortress. Julius had offered to spare them all if Vercingetorix surrendered by noon, but as the sun rose, there was no response.

Mark Antony and Octavian were with him. There was nothing to do but wait and, one by one, those who had been there from the beginning came to stand at his side. The missing faces hardly seemed worth the price, at times. Bericus, Cabera, Renius, too many more. Julius drank the wine he was offered without tasting it and wondered if Vercingetorix would fight to the bitter end.

The legions were never silent when the killing was done. Each man had his particular friends to boast with and, in truth, there were many stories of bravery. Many more could not answer their names at the dawn muster and the pale bodies that were brought in were testimony to the struggle they had fought together. Julius heard a cry of agony as a soldier recognised one of the corpses and knelt, weeping until others in his century took him away to get him drunk.

Renius’ death had hurt them all. The men who had fought with the old gladiator had bound his neck in cloth torn from a tunic and laid him out with his sword. From Julius to the lowest-ranking legionary, they had suffered through bouts of his temper and training, but now that he had gone, the men came in silent grief to touch his hand and pray for his soul.

With his dead laid out in the cold sun, Julius looked up at the walls of Alesia and thought through ways of burning them out of their stronghold. He could not just sit idle with Gaul in his hands at last.

There could be no more rebellions. Over the days to come, the word of the defeat would be taken to every tiny village and town across the vast country.

‘Here he comes,’ Mark Antony said, interrupting Julius’ thoughts.

They all stood as one, straining to see the king as he descended the steep path to where the legions waited. He was a lonely figure.

Vercingetorix had changed from the angry young warrior Julius remembered so long before. He rode a grey horse and wore full armour that gleamed in the first light. Julius was suddenly aware of his own grime and reached to detach his cloak, then let his hand fall. He owed the king no special honour.

Cingeto’s blond hair was bound and plaited in heavy cords to his shoulders. His beard was full and shone with oil, covering the gold links he wore at his throat. He rode easily, carrying an ornate shield and a great sword that rested on his thigh. The legions waited in silence for this man who had caused them so much grief and pain. Something about his stately descent kept them quiet, allowing him this last moment of dignity.

Julius walked to meet the king with Brutus and Mark Antony at his sides. As he strode to the foot of the road, the rest of his generals fell in behind and still no one spoke.

Vercingetorix looked down at the Roman and was staggered at the differences since their first meeting, almost a decade before. His youth had been left on the fields of Gaul and only the cold, dark eyes looked the same. With a last glance up at the forts of Alesia, Vercingetorix dismounted and lifted his shield and sword in his arms. He dropped them at Julius’ feet and stood back, holding the Roman’s eyes for a long moment.

‘You will spare the rest?’ he asked.

‘I gave you my word,’ Julius replied.

Vercingetorix nodded, his last worry vanishing. Then he knelt in the mud and bowed his head.

‘Bring chains,’ Julius said and the silence was shattered as the legions banged their swords and shields together in a cacophony that drowned out all other sound.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

As winter came again, Julius took four of his legions across the Alps to base themselves around Ariminum. He brought five hundred chests of gold with him on carts, enough to pay the tithe to the Senate a hundred times over. His men marched with coins in their pouches, and good food and rest had restored much of their polish and strength. Gaul was quiet at last and new roads stretched across the fertile land from one coast to another. Though Vercingetorix had burnt a thousand Roman farms, the land was taken up by new families before the end of summer and still they came, lured by the promise of crops and peace.

A bare three thousand of the Tenth had survived the battles in Gaul and Julius had awarded land and slaves to each man under his command. He had given them gold and roots and he knew they were his, as Marius had once explained to him. They did not fight for Rome, or the Senate. They fought for their general.

He would not hear of a single one of them spending a night out in the open and every house in Ariminum was suddenly home to two or three of the soldiers, packing the town with life and coins. Prices went up almost overnight and by the end of the first month there, the last of the wine ran dry, right across the port city.

Brutus had come with the Third Gallica and set about drinking himself to oblivion as soon as he was free and alone in the city. Losing Renius had hit him hard and Julius heard continual reports of his friend involved in a different brawl each night. Julius listened to the innkeepers who brought their complaints and paid their bills without a murmur of protest. In the end, he sent Regulus to prevent Brutus killing someone in a drunken rage and then heard reports of the two of them roaring around the town together, causing even more damage than Brutus alone.

For the first time since Spain, Julius did not know what the next year would hold for him. A million men had died in Gaul to serve his ambition and another million had been sold to Roman quarries and farms, from Africa to Greece. He had more gold than he had ever seen and he had crossed the sea to beat the Britons. He had expected to feel joy in his triumph. He had equalled Alexander and found a new world beyond the maps. He had taken more land in a decade than Rome had managed in a century. When he was a boy, if he could have seen Vercingetorix kneel, he would have gloried in it, seeing only the achievement. But he would not have known how much he would miss the dead. He had dreamed of statues and his name being spoken in the Senate. Now that those things were real, he scorned them. Even victory was empty because it meant the struggle was at an end. There were too many regrets.

Julius had taken Crassus’ house in the centre of the city and at night he thought he could still smell the perfume Servilia wore. He did not send for her to come to him, though he was lonely. Somehow the thought that she would break him out of his depression was too much to bear. He cherished the dark days of winter as reflections of himself and embraced the black moods as old friends. He did not want to pick up the reins of his life and go on. In the privacy of Crassus’ home, he could waste the days in idleness, spending afternoons watching the dark skies and writing his books.

The reports he had written for the city of his birth had become something more for him. Each memory was somehow constrained as he wrote it down. The ink could not express the fear and pain and despair and that was right. It eased his mind to write each part of the years in Gaul and then put it aside for Adàn to copy out.

Mark Antony joined him at the house at the end of the first week. He set to work removing dustsheets from the furniture and making sure Julius ate at least one good meal a day. Julius tolerated the attention with reasonably good grace. Ciro and Octavian came to the house a few days later and the Romans set to work making it as clean as a legion galley. They cleaned out the clutter of papers in the main rooms and brought a bustle to the house that Julius found harder and harder to dislike. Though he had enjoyed the isolation at first, he was used to having his officers around him and only raised his eyes in mock indignation when Domitius turned up to take a room and the following night Regulus brought Brutus in over his shoulder. Lamps were lit all around the house and when Julius went down to the kitchens, he found three local women hard at work there making bread. Julius accepted their presence without a word.

The wine shipments from Gaul arrived by ship and were seized upon thirstily by the citizens. Mark Antony secured a private barrel and in a night where they managed to forget the barriers of rank, they drank themselves unconscious to finish it in one session, lying where they fell. In the morning, Julius laughed aloud for the first time in weeks as his friends staggered about and crashed, swearing, into the furniture.

With the passes closed, Gaul was as distant as the moon and ceased to trouble his dreams. Julius’ thoughts turned to Rome and he wrote letters to everyone he knew in the city. It was strange to think of those he had not seen for years. Servilia would be there and the new senate house must have been completed. Rome would have a fresh face to cover her scars.

In the mornings, with his study door closed to the rest, Julius wrote to his daughter at length, trying to make a bridge to a woman he did not know. He had given permission for her to marry in his absence two years before, but he had heard nothing since. Whether she read them or not, it was balm to his conscience to do it and Brutus had urged him to try.

It was tempting to gather a few horses and go back to the city, but Julius was wary of the changes that could have occurred in his absence. Without consular immunity, he would be vulnerable to his enemies there. Even if the Senate had left him the rank of tribune, it would not save him from the charges of killing Ariovistus or exceeding his orders over the Rhine. Julius was owed more than one Triumph by the Senate, but he doubted Pompey would be pleased to see him lauded by the citizens. Marrying Julius’ daughter should have been a rein on his temper, but Julius knew him too well to trust his goodwill, or his ambition.

The winter passed in slow comfort. They rarely talked of the battles they had fought, though when Brutus was drunk, he would arrange bread rolls on the table and demonstrate to Ciro what the Helvetii should have done.

When the winter solstice came, the legions celebrated with the city, lighting lamps on every house so that the promise of spring could be seen in the streets. Ariminum shone like a jewel in the darkness and the whorehouses ran double shifts all night. From that point on, the atmosphere changed subtly. With the longest night over, the reports of damage and brawls came with greater frequency to Julius’ desk, until he was half tempted to send the lot of them out to the plains to camp in the barren fields. Slowly, he began to spend more and more of each day on the business of supply and pay, falling back into the routines that had sustained him all his adult life.

He missed Renius and Cabera more than he could believe. It had come as a surprise for Julius to realise that he was the oldest of the men who shared Crassus’ house with him. Where the others seemed to expect him to provide order in their lives, he had no one, and the habits of war were too strong to lightly lay aside. Though he had known some of the men in the house for years, he was the commanding officer and there was always a slight reserve in their manner around him. At times, Julius found the busy house strangely lonely, but the coming of spring went some way to complete the restoration of his goodwill. He took to riding around the outskirts of the city with Brutus and Octavian, building up their fitness. Ciro watched him closely whenever they were together, smiling as touches of the old Julius were visible, however briefly. Time healed what did not show and though there were dark days still, all the men felt the rise of spring in their blood.

The bundle of letters that came on a bright dawn looked like any other. Julius paid the carrier and shuffled them into piles. He recognised Servilia’s handwriting on one for her son and was pleased to find another for himself towards the bottom. His mood was one of pleasant anticipation as he took his letter into the front room of the house and lit a fire, shivering as he broke the seal and opened it.

As Julius read, he rose from his seat and stood in the full glare of the rising sun. He read the letter from Servilia three times before he began to believe it and then he sank back, letting the letter fall.

The merchant prince had fallen.

Crassus and his son had not survived the attacks of the Parthians in Syria. Most of the legion Julius had trained had fought clear, but Crassus had led a wild charge when he saw his son unhorsed and the enemy had cut him off from the rest of his men. The legionaries recovered their bodies and Pompey had declared a day of mourning for the old man.

Julius sat and stared out at the sun until the glare was too much for him and his eyes stung. All the old names were gone now and, for all his faults, Crassus had been a friend to him through the darkest days. Julius could read Servilia’s own grief in the neat lines as she described the tragedy, but Julius could not think of her. He rose and began to pace the room.

As well as the personal feelings of loss, Julius was forced to consider how Crassus’ dying would change the balance of power in Rome. He did not like the conclusions he drew. Pompey would suffer least. As Dictator, he was above the law and the triumvirate and would miss only Crassus’ wealth. Julius wondered who would inherit the old man’s fortune now that Publius was dead with him, but it hardly mattered. Far more important was the fact that Pompey no longer needed to have a successful general in the field. He might well view such a man as a threat.

As Julius thought through the implications, his expression became bleak. If Crassus had lived, some new compromise could have been hammered out between them, but that hope had died in Parthia. After all, Julius knew if he had found himself in Pompey’s position, he would have been quick to clear the field of anyone who could be a danger. As Crassus had once told him, politics was a bloody business.

With a sudden dart, he stepped over to the table and opened the rest of the letters, looking only at the first lines of each until he froze, and took a deep breath. Pompey had written to him and Julius felt fury surge as he read the pompous orders. There was not even a mention of Crassus in the lines and Julius threw the letter down in disgust as he began to pace once again. Though he knew he should have expected no more from the Dictator, it was still a shock to read his future in the lines.

The door to the room slammed open and Brutus entered, holding his own sheaf of letters.

‘Have you heard?’ Brutus said.

Julius nodded, plans forming in his mind.

‘Send men out to collect the legions, Brutus. They’ve grown fat and slow over the winter and I want them out of the city by noon tomorrow to begin manoeuvres.’

Brutus gaped at him.

‘Are we heading back to Gaul, then? What about Crassus? I don’t think …’

‘Did you hear me?’ Julius roared at him. ‘Half our men are near useless with their whores and wine. Tell Mark Antony we are leaving. Have him start at the docks and round them up.’

Brutus stood very still. Questions came to his lips and he throttled them, his discipline forcing a salute. He left and Julius could hear his voice rousing the others in the house.

Julius thought again of the letter from Pompey and the betrayal. No sign of the years they had known each other had been present in the words. It was a formal order to return to Rome – alone. To return to the one man in the world who might fear him enough to kill him.

Julius felt light-headed and weak as he considered the implications. Pompey had no rivals except one and Julius didn’t trust his promise of safe passage for a moment. Yet to disobey would launch a fight to the death that could very well destroy the city and everything Rome had won over centuries.

He shook his head to clear it. The city was stifling him and he longed for the breezes of the plains. There he could think and plan his answer. He would gather the men on the banks of the Rubicon river and pray for the wisdom to make the right choice.

Regulus stood alone in the little courtyard of Crassus’ home, looking at the letter in his hands. An unknown hand had written the words on the parchment, but there could only have been one author. Just two words sat like spiders in the centre of the blank page and yet he read them over and over, his face tight and hard.

Take him, it said.

Regulus remembered how he and Pompey had spoken the last time they had been in Ariminum. He had not wavered then, but that was before he had been to Britain with Julius and seen him fight at Avaricum, Gergovia, Alesia. The last most of all. Regulus had seen Julius lead legions past the point when any other would have fallen and been destroyed. He had known then that he followed a greater man than Pompey and now he held an order to kill the general.

It would be easy, he knew. Julius trusted him completely after so many years together and Regulus thought there was friendship there between them. Julius would let him come close and then it would be just another life to add to those Regulus had taken for Rome. Just one more order to obey as he had obeyed so many thousands before.

The dawn breeze chilled the skin of the centurion as he tore the letter into halves, then quarters, not stopping until the shreds lifted in the wind and flew. It was the first order he had ever disobeyed and it brought him peace.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Pompey leaned against the columns of the temple to Jupiter and looked over the moonlit city below the Capitol. Dictator. He shook his head and smiled in the darkness at the thought.

The city was quiet and already it was hard to imagine the gangs and rioting that had once seemed like the end of the world. Pompey looked over to the new senate house and remembered the flames and screams in the night. In a few years, Clodius and Milo would be all but forgotten in the city, but Rome went on and she was his alone.

The Senate had extended his Dictatorship without the slightest pressure from him. They would do it again, he was sure, for as long as he wanted. They had seen the need for a strong hand to cut through all the laws with which they had bound themselves. Sometimes it was necessary, just to make the city work.

Part of Pompey wished Crassus had lived to see what he had made out of the chaos. The strength of grief Pompey had felt when he heard of his death had surprised him. They had known each other for the best part of thirty years, through war and peace, and Pompey missed the old man’s company. He supposed it was possible to grow used to anything.

He had seen so many fall in his life. There were times when he could not believe that he was the one to have survived the turbulent years, where men like Marius and Sulla, Cato and Crassus had all gone over the river. Yet he was still there and there was more than one race in life. Sometimes, the only way to triumph was to survive while others died. That too could be a skill.

A feather of breeze made Pompey shiver and consider going back to his home to rest. His thoughts turned to Julius then and the letters he had sent north. Would Regulus take the decision out of his hands? Pompey wished it could be so. The part of him that held his honour felt ashamed at what he had ordered and still contemplated. He thought of Julius’ daughter, heavy with new life inside her. She had a hard edge that had brought her through the pressure of being wife to the most powerful man in Rome. Still, he could not share his plans with one of Caesar’s blood. She had done her duty well and fulfilled an old agreement he had made with her father. There was nothing more he needed from her.

There could be no sharing of power, now that he understood it. Julius would either be killed in the north, or he would obey his orders and the result would be the same.

Pompey sighed at the thought and shook his head with genuine regret. Caesar could not be allowed to live, or one day he would come into the Senate and the years of blood would begin again.

‘I will not allow it,’ Pompey whispered into the breeze and there was no one to hear him.

Julius sat on the banks of the Rubicon and looked south. He wished Cabera or Renius were there to advise him, but the decision was his alone in the end, as so many others before it. His legions stretched away into the night around him and he could hear the sentries walk their routes in the darkness, calling out the passwords that meant routine and safety.

The moon was bright under a clear spring sky and Julius smiled as he looked over the men who sat with him. Ciro was there at his shoulder and Brutus and Mark Antony sat on the other side, looking over the bright thread of the river. Octavian stood nearby with Regulus, and Domitius lay on his back and looked up at the stars. It was easy to imagine Renius there and Cabera with him. Somehow, in imagination, they were the men he remembered, before illness and injury had taken them. Publius Crassus and his father had gone, and Bericus, too. His own father and Tubruk; Cornelia. Death had followed them all and brought them down one by one.

‘If I take the legions south, it will be civil war,’ Julius said softly. ‘My poor battered city will see more blood. How many would die this year, for me?’

They were silent for a long time and Julius knew they could barely imagine the crime of attacking their own city. He hardly dared to give voice to it himself. Sulla had done it and was despised in memory. There was no way back for any of them after such an act.

‘You said Pompey promised safe passage,’ Mark Antony said at last.

Brutus snorted. ‘Our Dictator has no honour, Julius. Remember that. He had Salomin beaten half to death in the tournament and where was honour then? He isn’t fit to walk where Marius walked. If you go alone, he will never let you leave. He’ll have you under the knife as soon as you step through the gates. You know it as well as any of us.’

‘What choice do you have, though?’ Mark Antony said. ‘A civil war against our own people? Would the men even follow us?’

‘Yes,’ Ciro’s bass growl sounded out of the darkness. ‘We would.’

None of them knew how to respond to the big man and a strained silence fell. They could all hear the river whisper over the stones and the voices of their men around them. Dawn was near and Julius was no closer to knowing what he would do.

‘I have been at war for as long as I can remember,’ Julius said softly. ‘Sometimes I ask myself what it has been for if I stop here. What did I waste the lives of my friends for if I go meekly to my death?’

‘It may not be death!’ Mark Antony said. ‘You say you know the man, but he promised …’

‘No,’ Regulus interrupted. He took a step closer to Julius as Mark Antony looked up at him. ‘No, Pompey will not let you live. I know.’

Julius saw the strained features of the centurion in the moonlight and he rose to his feet.

‘How?’ he asked.

‘Because I was his man and you were not meant to leave Ariminum. I had his order to kill you.’

All of them came to their feet and Brutus put himself solidly between Regulus and Julius.

‘You bastard. What are you talking about?’ Brutus demanded, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Regulus didn’t look at him, instead holding Julius’ gaze.

‘I could not obey the order,’ he said.

Julius nodded. ‘There are some that should not be obeyed, my friend. I’m glad you realised that. Sit down, Brutus. If he was going to kill me, do you think he would have told us all first? Sit down!’

Reluctantly, they settled back onto the grass, though Brutus glared at Regulus, still unsure of him.

‘Pompey has only one legion guarding Rome,’ Domitius said speculatively. Julius glanced at him and Domitius shrugged. ‘I mean, it could be done if we moved too quickly for him to reinforce. We could be at the walls in a week if we pushed the pace. With four veteran legions against him, he couldn’t hold the city for even a day.’

Mark Antony looked appalled at this and Domitius chuckled as he saw his expression. There was already more light as dawn approached and they looked at each other guardedly as Domitius continued, raising his hands.

‘It could be done, that’s all. One gamble for the whole pot. One throw for Rome.’

‘You think you could kill legionaries?’ Julius asked him.

Domitius rubbed his face and looked away.

‘I’m saying it might not come to that. Our soldiers have been hardened in Gaul and we know what they can do. I don’t think Pompey has anything to match us.’

Brutus looked at the man he had followed from childhood. He had swallowed more bitterness in their years than he would ever have believed and as they sat together, he did not know if Julius even understood what he had been given. His pride, his honour, his youth. Everything. He knew Julius better than any of them and he saw the glitter in his friend’s eyes as he contemplated another war. How many of them would survive his ambition, he wondered. The others looked so trusting, it made Brutus want to close his eyes rather than be sickened. Yet despite it all, he knew Julius could bring him with a word.

Domitius cleared his throat.

‘It’s your choice, Julius. If you want us to go back to Gaul and lose ourselves, I’m with you. The gods know we’d never be found in some of the places we’ve seen. But if you want to go to Rome and risk it all one last time, I’m still with you.’

‘One last throw?’ Julius said and he made it a question for all of them.

One by one, they nodded, until only Brutus remained. Julius raised his eyebrows and smiled gently.

‘I can’t do it without you, Brutus. You know that.’

‘One last throw, then,’ Brutus whispered, before looking away.

As the sun rose, the veteran legions of Gaul crossed the Rubicon and marched on Rome.

HISTORICAL NOTE

As with the previous two books, I think an explanatory note can be useful, especially when the history is sometimes more surprising than the fiction.

I have mentioned Alexander the Great throughout the book as a hero for Julius. Certainly the Greek king’s life would have been well known to all educated Romans, complementing their interest in that culture. Though the setting was Cadiz rather than a deserted Spanish village, the first century biographer Suetonius provides the detail of Caesar sighing in frustration at the foot of Alexander’s statue. At the age of thirty-one, Julius had achieved nothing in comparison. He could not have known that his greatest victories would come after that point.

Apart from his wives, Julius is reported as having had a number of prominent mistresses, though Suetonius said Servilia was the one he loved most of all. Julius did buy her a pearl valued at one and a half million denarii. Perhaps one of the reasons he invaded Britain may have been to find more of them.

He was quaestor in Spain before he returned as praetor, which I have not gone into for reasons of pace. He was a busier man than any writer can hope to cover and even a condensed version fills these books to bursting point.

He did stage a gladiatorial combat in solid silver armour and ran huge debts pursuing public fame. It is true that at one point he had to physically leave the city to avoid his creditors. He became consul with Bibilus and chased his colleague out of the forum after a disagreement. In Bibilus’ absence, it became something of a joke in Rome to say a document was signed by Julius and Caesar.

As a minor point, the Falernian wine Julius poured into his family tomb was so expensive that a cup of it cost a week’s salary for a legionary. Unfortunately, the grapes grew on Mount Vesuvius, by Pompeii and in AD 79, the taste was lost forever.

The Catiline conspiracy was as important in its day as the Gunpowder Plot in England. The conspiracy was betrayed when one of them confided in a mistress who reported what she had heard. Julius was named, probably falsely, as one of the conspirators, as was Crassus. Both men survived the upheaval without stains on their characters. Catiline left the city to take command of the rebel army while his friends were to help create chaos and rioting in the city. Part of the evidence against them showed that a Gallic tribe had been approached for warriors. After a heated debate as to their fate, the lesser conspirators were ritually strangled. Catiline was killed in the field.

The conquests of Gaul and Britain comprise most of the second part of this book. I have followed the main events that began with the migration of the Helvetii and the defeat of Ariovistus. It is worth mentioning that Julius Caesar himself is sometimes the only extant source for the details of this campaign, but he records mistakes and disasters as faithfully as his victories. For example, he tells quite candidly how a mistaken report made him retreat from his own men, believing them to be the enemy. In his commentaries, he puts the number of the Helvetii and allied tribes as 386,000. Only 110,000 were sent home. Against them, he had six legions and auxiliaries – 35,000 at most.

His battles were rarely a simple test of strength. He formed alliances with lesser tribes and then came to their aid. He fought by night if necessary, on all terrains, flanking, bribing and outmanoeuvring his enemies. When Ariovistus demanded only cavalry at their meeting, Julius ordered the foot soldiers of the Tenth to mount, which must have been a sight to see.

I did worry that the sheer distances he covered must have been exaggerated until my cousin took part in a sixty-mile trek. She and her husband completed it in twenty-four hours, but soldiers from a Gurkha regiment completed it in nine hours, fifty-seven minutes. Two and a third marathons, non-stop. One must be careful in this modern age where pensioners seem able to ski down Everest, but I think the legions of Gaul could have matched that pace, and like the Gurkhas, have been able to fight at the end.

It was not such a great stretch to suppose that Adàn might have understood the language of the Gauls, or even the dialect of the Britons, to some extent. The original Celts came across Europe from an unknown place of origin – possibly the Caucasus mountains. They settled in Spain, France, Britain and Germany. England only became predominantly Romano-Saxon much later and of course maintains much of that difference into modern times.

It is difficult to imagine Julius’ view of the world. He was a prolific reader and would have known Strabo’s works. He knew Alexander had travelled east and Gaul was a great deal closer. He would have heard of Britain from the Greeks, after Pytheas travelled there three centuries before: perhaps the world’s first genuine tourist. While we have lost Pytheas’ books, there is no reason why they should not have been available then. Julius would have heard of pearls, tin and gold to lure him over from Gaul. Geographically, he thought that Britain was due east of Spain rather than to the north, with Ireland in between. It could even have been a continent as big as Africa, for all he could be sure on that first landing.

His first invasion of Britain in 55 BC was disastrous. Storms smashed his ships and ferocious resistance from blue-skinned tribes and vicious dogs was almost his undoing. The Tenth literally had to fight their way through the surf. He stayed only three weeks and the following year brought eight hundred ships back, this time forcing his way through to the Thames. Despite this vast fleet, he had stretched himself too far and would not return a third time. As far as we know, they never paid the tribute they promised.

Vercingetorix would hold a similar place in history and legend as King Arthur if he had managed to win his great battle against Julius. Napoleon III did erect a statue to him in later times, recognising his achievement and place in history. He united the tribes and saw that scorching the earth and starving the legions was the only way to defeat them. Even his great host was eventually broken by the legions. The High King of Gaul was taken in chains to Rome and executed.

The exact details of the triumvirate with Crassus and Pompey are not known. Certainly the arrangement benefited all three men and Julius’ term in Gaul went on for many years after his consular year had ended. Interestingly, when Pompey sent the order for him to return alone after Gaul, Julius had very nearly completed the ten-year hiatus the law demanded between seeking a consul’s post. If Julius had secured a second term at that point, he would have been untouchable, which Pompey must have feared.

Clodius and Milo are not fictional characters. Both men were part of the chaos that almost destroyed Rome while Julius was in Gaul. Street gangs, riots and murder became all too common and when Clodius was finally killed, his supporters did indeed cremate him in the senate house, burning it to the ground in the process. Pompey was elected sole consul with a mandate to establish order in the city. Even then, the triumvirate agreement might have held if Crassus had not been killed fighting the Parthians with his son. With the news of that death, there was only one man in the world who could have challenged Pompey for power.

Finally, I have made one or two claims in the book that may annoy historians. It is debatable whether the Romans had steel or not, though it is possible to give a harder sheath to soft iron by beating it in charcoal. Steel, after all, is only iron with a fractionally higher carbon content. I do not think this was beyond them.

I did worry that having Artorath, a Gaul, described as close to seven feet tall would be too much for some, but Sir Bevil Grenville (1596–1643) had a bodyguard named Anthony Payne who was seven feet, four inches tall. I dare say he could have put Artorath over his shoulder.

There are hundreds more little facts that I could put in here, if there were space. If I have changed history in the book, I hope it has been deliberate rather than simple error. I have certainly tried to be as accurate as I could be. For those who would like to go further than these few pages, I can recommend Caesar’s Legion by Stephen Dando-Collins, which was fascinating, and also The Complete Roman Army by Adrian Goldsworthy, or anything else by that author. The Twelve Caesars by Suetonius should be required reading in every school. My version is the translation by Robert Graves and apparently which one of the Emperors you like the most is quite revealing about your own character. Lastly, for those who want more of Julius, you could not do better than to read Christian Meier’s book Caesar.

Conn Iggulden

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Part of the pleasure of writing a series of four books is being able to thank all those who need thanking before the story ends. Susan Watt is one of those – a great lady whose expertise and energy made the rough run smooth.

In addition, I would like to thank Toni and Italo D’Urso, who let me use the old Amstrad computer in their corridor for years and years without a word of complaint. Eventually, out of good manners, I married their daughter. I owe them.

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2005

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437146

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321773

Version: 2013-12-05

EMPEROR

THE GODS OF WAR

CONN IGGULDEN

To my wife

‘Great men are necessary for our life, in order that the movement of world history can free itself sporadically, by fits and starts, from obsolete ways of living and inconsequential talk.’

Jacob Burckhardt

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Part Three

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Pompey pronounced each word as a hammer blow. ‘Therefore, by his actions, Caesar is today declared Enemy of Rome. His titles and honours are revoked. His right to command legions is struck from the records. His life is forfeit. It will be war.’

The senate chamber was finally still after the storms of debate, the tension showing in every face. The messengers who had killed horses to reach them had no way of knowing the pace of those who followed. The Rubicon line had been crossed and the legions of Gaul were racing south.

Pompey had aged visibly over two days of strain, yet he stood before them with a straight back, his experience giving him the strength to dominate the room. He watched as the senators slowly lost their frozen expressions and saw dozens of them meet each other’s eyes in private communication. There were many there who still blamed Pompey for the chaos in the city three years before. It had been his legion that failed to maintain order then and his dictatorship that had arisen from that conflict. He knew there were more than a few voices muttering for him to put aside the position and elect consuls once again. The very building in which they sat was a constant reminder, with its smell of fresh lime and wood. The ashes of the old site had been cleared, but the foundations remained as a mute testament to the destruction and rioting in the city.

In the silence, Pompey wondered whom he could trust in the struggle. Who amongst them had the strength he needed? He had no illusions. Julius was coming south with four veteran legions and there was nothing in Rome to stand against them. In just a few days, the commander of Gaul would be hammering at the gates of the city and some of the men before Pompey would clamour to let him in.

‘There are hard choices to be made, gentlemen,’ he said.

They watched him closely, judging his strength, his weaknesses. One slip, he knew, and they would tear him apart. He would not give them the chance.

‘I have legions in Greece who have not been infected by the enthusiasms of the mob in Rome. Though there may be traitors in this city, the rule of law has not lost its voice in our dominions.’

How closely he watched them then to see who looked away, but every eye was on him.

‘Gentlemen, there is no other option but to leave Rome for Greece and gather our armies there. At present, the bulk of Caesar’s forces remain in Gaul. Once they join him, the whole country could fall before we have a sufficient presence in the field. I do not wish to lose a race to reinforce. Better to be certain and go to our armies. There are ten legions in Greece waiting for the call to defend against this traitor. We must not disappoint them.

‘If he remains in our city, we will return to tear him out, exactly as Cornelius Sulla did to his uncle. The battle must be joined with him. He has made that clear by ignoring the lawful orders of this Senate. There can be no agreements, no peace while he lives. Rome cannot have two masters and I will not allow a rogue general to destroy what we have all built here.’

Pompey’s voice softened slightly and he leaned forward on the rostrum, the smell of wax and oil strong in his nostrils.

‘If, through our weakness, he is allowed to live, to triumph, then every general we send out from Rome will wonder if he cannot do the same. If Caesar is not crushed, this city will never know peace again. What we have built will be worn down by constant war over generations until there is nothing left to show that we were once here under the eyes of the gods, and that we stood for order. I defy the man who would steal it from us. I defy him and I will see him dead.’

Many of them were on their feet, their eyes bright. Pompey barely looked at those he despised, men filled more with air than courage. The Senate had never been short of speakers, but the rostrum was his.

‘My legion is not up to strength and only a fool would deny the value of the battles in Gaul to his men. Even with the guards from the road forts, we do not have sufficient force to guarantee a victory. Do not think I enter into this lightly. I greet the news with pain and anger, but I will not scorn him from our gates and then lose my city under me.’

He paused and waved his hand lightly at those who had risen. Confused, they sat down, frowning.

‘When he comes, he will find this senate house empty, with the doors broken from their hinges.’

He waited through the uproar as they understood at last that he did not intend to leave alone.

‘With his legions raping your wives and daughters, how many of you will stand against him if you are left behind? He will come in looking for blood and will find nothing! We are the government, the heart of the city. Where we are, is Rome. He will be nothing more than a ruthless invader without you to put the seal of law on his words and actions. We must deny him our legitimacy.’

‘The people will think …’ someone began from the back.

Pompey shouted over the voice, ‘The people will endure him as they have endured all their history! Do you think it would be better to leave you here while I gather an army on my own? How long would you last under torture, Marcellus? Or any of you? This Senate would be his and the final barrier would be overcome.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Pompey saw the orator Cicero rise and suppressed his irritation. The senators looked at the small figure and then at Pompey, seeing him hesitate. Cicero spoke before he too could be waved down.

‘You have said little of the communications we sent to Caesar. Why have we not discussed his offer to halt?’

Pompey frowned at the nodding heads around him. He sensed they would not stand for a blustering answer.

‘His terms were unacceptable, Cicero, as he knew they would be. He seeks to drive a wedge between us with his promises. Do you really believe he will end his drive south simply because I have left the city? You do not know him.’

Cicero folded his arms across his narrow chest, raising one hand until he could stroke the skin of his throat.

‘Perhaps, though this is the place to debate the issue. Better to have it out in the open than leave it to be discussed in private. Have you responded to his offer, Pompey? I recall you said you would answer him.’

The two men locked gazes and Pompey gripped the rostrum more tightly as he struggled not to lose patience. Cicero was a subtle man, but Pompey had hoped he could depend on him.

‘I have done everything I said I would. I wrote under senate seal to demand he return to Gaul. I will not negotiate while his legions are within striking distance of my city and he knows it. His words are simply to confuse us and cause delay. They mean nothing.’

Cicero raised his head. ‘I agree, Pompey, though I believe all information should be made available to us here.’ Choosing not to see Pompey’s surprise, Cicero turned his head to address the senators on the benches around him. ‘I do wonder if we are discussing a Roman general or another Hannibal who will be satisfied with nothing less than power torn from our hands. What right does Caesar have to demand that Pompey leave the city? Do we now negotiate with invaders? We are the government of Rome and we are threatened by a mad dog, leading armies we trained and created. Do not underestimate the danger in this. I concur with Pompey. Though it will hurt worse than anything we have suffered before, we must retreat to gather loyal forces in Greece. The rule of law must not bend for the whims of our generals, or we are no more than another tribe of savages.’

Cicero sat down, after meeting Pompey’s eyes with a brief flicker of amusement. His support would sway a number of the weaker ones in the chamber and Pompey inclined his head in silent thanks.

‘There is no time for lengthy debate, gentlemen,’ Pompey said. ‘Another day will change nothing except to bring Caesar closer. I move we vote now and plan accordingly.’

Under Pompey’s stern eye, there was little chance of rebellion, as he had intended. One by one, the senators rose to show their support, and no one dared abstain. At last, Pompey nodded, satisfied.

‘Alert your households and plan for a journey. I have recalled all the soldiers in Caesar’s path to the city. They will be here to help man the fleet and arrange our departure.’

The sun shone on the back of Julius’ neck as he sat on a fallen tree in the middle of a wheatfield. Wherever he looked, he could see dark patches of his men as they rested amongst the golden crops and ate cold meat and vegetables. Cooking fires had been forbidden as they crossed into the lowlands of Etruria. The wheat was dry and rough to the touch and a single spark could send sheets of flame racing across the fields. Julius almost smiled at the peaceful scene. Fifteen thousand of the most experienced soldiers in the world and he could hear them laughing and singing like children. It was a strange thing to be there, out in the open. He could hear the calls of birds he had known as a boy and when he reached down and took a little of the leaf mulch in his hand, he was home.

‘It is a fine thing to be here,’ he said to Octavian. ‘Can you feel it? I’d almost forgotten what it is like to be on my own land, surrounded by my people. Can you hear them sing? You should learn the words, lad. They’d be honoured to teach them to you.’

Slowly, Julius rubbed the damp leaves together in his hand and let them fall. The soldiers of the Tenth reached a chorus, their voices soaring over the fields.

‘I heard that song from the men who followed Marius, years ago,’ he said. ‘These things seem to survive somehow.’

Octavian looked at his general, tilting his head as he assessed his mood. ‘I feel it. This is home,’ he said.

Julius smiled. ‘I haven’t been this close to the city in ten years. But I can sense her on the horizon. I swear I can.’ He raised his hand and pointed over the low hills, heavy with wheat. ‘Over there, waiting for us. Fearing us perhaps, while Pompey threatens and blusters.’

His eyes grew cold as the last words were spoken. He would have continued, but Brutus rode up through the crops, leaving a snaking path behind him. Julius rose to his feet and they clasped hands.

‘The scouts report eleven cohorts, maybe twelve,’ Brutus said.

Julius’ mouth twisted irritably. Every legion post and road fort had been cleared before them as they moved south. His march had shaken them free like ripe fruit and now they were within reach. Whatever their quality, six thousand men were too many to leave at his back.

‘They’ve gathered in Corfinium,’ Brutus continued. ‘The town looks like someone kicked a wasp nest. Either they know we’re close, or they’re getting ready to move back to Rome.’

Julius glanced around him, noticing how many in earshot were sitting up and listening, anticipating his order. The thought of unleashing them on Roman soldiers was almost a blasphemy.

Pompey had done well to recall the guards. They would do more good on the walls of Rome than wasted against the Gaul veterans. Julius knew he should strike fast to blood the campaign and seal the decision made on the banks of the Rubicon. Brutus shifted at the delay, but Julius still did not speak, staring into nothing. The men in Corfinium were inexperienced. It would be a slaughter.

‘The numbers are accurate?’ Julius said, softly.

Brutus shrugged. ‘As far as they can be. I didn’t let the scouts risk being seen, but it’s clear ground. There’s no ambush. I’d say these are the only soldiers between us and Rome. And we can take these. The gods know we have enough experience breaking into towns.’

Julius looked up as Domitius and Ciro came out of the wheat with Regulus. Mark Antony was only a short way behind them and he felt the pressure to give the orders to spill Roman blood on Roman land. Once those first lives were taken, every loyal hand would be raised against him. Every legion would swear vengeance unto death against his name. The civil war would be a test of strength and numbers that he could very well lose. His mind searched feverishly and he wiped sweat from his forehead.

‘If we kill them, we will destroy any hope of peace in the future,’ he said, slowly. Domitius and Brutus exchanged a quick glance as Julius went on, testing the thoughts aloud. ‘We need … guile, as well as a strong arm, against our people. We need to win their loyalty, and that cannot be accomplished by killing men who love Rome as I do.’

‘They won’t let us through, Julius,’ Brutus said, colouring with irritation. ‘Would you, if an army wanted a path to your city? They’ll fight just to slow us down; you know they will.’

Julius frowned with the anger that was always close to the surface. ‘These are our own, Brutus. It is no small thing to be talking of killing them. Not for me.’

‘That decision was made when we crossed the river and came south,’ Brutus replied, refusing to back down. ‘You knew the price then. Or will you go alone and give yourself up to Pompey?’

Some of those who listened winced at his tone. Ciro shifted his massive shoulders, his anger showing. Brutus ignored them all, his gaze fixed on his general.

‘If you stop now, Julius, we are all dead men. Pompey won’t forget we threatened the city. You know it. He’d follow us back to Britain if he had to.’ He looked into Julius’ eyes and, for a moment, his voice shook. ‘Now don’t you let me down. I’ve come this far with you. We have to see it through.’

Julius returned the pleading gaze in silence before placing his hand on Brutus’ shoulder. ‘I am home, Brutus. If it sticks in my throat to kill men of my own city, would you begrudge me my doubts?’

‘What choice do you have?’ Brutus replied.

Julius began to pace up and down amongst the crushed wheat. ‘If I take power …’ He froze for a moment as the idea formed, and spoke faster. ‘What if I declare Pompey’s dictatorship to be illegal? I could enter Rome to restore the Republic then. That is how they must see me. Adàn! Where are you?’ he called across the field. His Spanish scribe came at the run. ‘Here is your answer, Brutus,’ Julius said, his eyes gleaming. ‘Adàn? I want a letter sent to every Roman commander. It is ten years since I was consul; there is no bar against me standing once more. Tell them … I reject the dictatorship that Pompey will not end.’

Julius watched impatiently as Adàn fussed with his writing tablets.

‘Let them know I will respect the courts and the senate building, that Pompey alone is my enemy. Tell them that I will welcome any man who wishes to join me as we bring back the Republic of Marius and the security of the past. I carry the gold of Gaul with me and Rome will be reborn with what I have won for her.

‘Tell them all that, Adàn. Let them know that I will not take Roman lives unless I am forced, that I will honour the traditions as Pompey has not. He is the one who had the senate house burnt on his watch. The gods have already shown their dislike of him.’

The men around him watched bemused as Julius laughed aloud. He shook his head at their expressions.

‘They will want to believe in me, gentlemen. They will hesitate and wonder if I am a champion of the old liberties.’

‘And will it be true?’ Adàn asked softly.

Julius glanced sharply at him. ‘If I make it so. My first act will be in Corfinium. If they will surrender to me, I will spare them all, if only to have them spread the word.’

His humour was infectious and Adàn smiled as he scribbled in the soft wax, ignoring the inner voice that mocked how easily he fell under the man’s charm.

‘They won’t surrender,’ Domitius said. ‘Pompey would have them killed as traitors. You saw what he did to the Tenth for turning.’

Julius frowned. ‘He may, though if he does, he will be helping me. Who would you follow, Domi? A man who stands for law and consul, who frees good Romans, or one who has them killed? Who is the better man to lead Rome?’

Domitius nodded slowly and Julius smiled.

‘You see? It will be hard for them to condemn me if I am merciful. It will confound them, Domi. Pompey will not know how to react.’

Julius turned to Brutus, his face alight with the old energy.

‘But first we must take the road guards and do it without bloodshed. They must be reduced to a level of panic so total that they will not have the chance to fight. Who leads them?’

Brutus frowned, still reeling from the sudden change in Julius’ mood. The march south had been overshadowed by doubt and gloom, but in a moment Julius was as he had been in Gaul. It was frightening.

‘The scouts saw no legion flags,’ he said stiffly. ‘Whoever it is will be a ranking officer.’

‘Let us hope he is still ambitious,’ Julius replied. ‘It will be easier if we can tempt his guards from the town. I’ll draw him out with the Tenth and see if he comes. If we can catch them in the fields, they’re ours.’

All around them, those who could hear were getting to their feet, gathering their kit and readying themselves to move. An air of long-familiar tension stole over them all as they prepared themselves to go back to danger and hardship.

‘I will take the Tenth closer to the town, Brutus. You have overall command of the others. We will spin these lads until they’re blind and useless. Send your scouts out and this time let them be seen.’

‘I’d rather be the bait,’ Brutus said.

Julius blinked for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Not this time. The extraordinarii will be the links between us. I’ll need you back here fast enough if we are attacked.’

‘What if they sit tight?’ Domitius asked, glancing at Brutus’ strained expression.

Julius shrugged. ‘Then we surround them and offer terms. One way or another, I am beginning my run for consul and Rome. Spread the word amongst the men. These are our people, gentlemen. They will be treated with respect.’

CHAPTER TWO

Ahenobarbus read his orders again. No matter how often he went over the few words from Pompey, nothing appeared that might allow him to attack the rogue legions from Gaul. Yet the reports from his scouts gave him a chance to finally make his name and he was cruelly caught between obedience and a rush of excitement he hadn’t felt for years. Pompey would surely forgive him anything if he was able to bring the traitor back to the city in chains.

The men who had been taken from every road post, toll-house and fort were gathered under the shadow of Corfinium’s walls, waiting for the order to march home. There was no tension amongst their ranks. The scouts had not yet managed to leak their news to the rest of them, though it could not be much longer before they all knew the enemy was closer than anyone had guessed.

Ahenobarbus rubbed his fingers along his bony jaw, easing his thumbs into the creases at the corners of his eyes to relieve the pressure. His guards outnumbered those his scouts had spotted, but the reports had mentioned four legions coming south and the others must surely be close by. At the very worst, it could be an ambush for his men.

Watching them as they formed up did not give him confidence. Many had never seen a more challenging contest than a few drunken farmers. Years of peace while Caesar conquered Gaul had not created the sort of force Ahenobarbus would have chosen for his chance at glory, but sometimes you had to work with what the gods gave you.

For a moment, he was tempted to forget what he had been told and tread the safe path as he had for most of his twenty years as a soldier. He could march out and be in Rome in only three days, leaving his last chance behind him. It was hard to imagine the sneers of younger officers when they heard he had walked away from a force half his size. The other Gaul legions could be miles away and he had sworn an oath to protect his city. Running back to the gates at the first sign of an enemy was not what he had imagined when he joined the army.

‘Six thousand men,’ he whispered to himself, looking back at the lines of soldiers waiting to march. ‘My legion, at last.’

He had not mentioned the thought to anyone else, but as the arrivals came in he had counted them and now walked a little taller with his private pride. In his entire career, he had never had more than a century under his orders, but for a few wonderful days he would be the equal of any one of the generals of Rome.

Ahenobarbus recognised real fear undermining his pride. If he marched into a trap, he would lose everything. Yet if he gave up a perfect opportunity to destroy the man Pompey feared, word would leak out and he’d be followed by whispers for the rest of his life. He couldn’t bear the indecision and now, many of the men were watching him, puzzled by the lack of orders.

‘Sir? Shall I have the gates opened?’ his second in command said at his shoulder.

Ahenobarbus looked into the man’s face and felt fresh irritation at the youth and confidence he saw there. The rumours were that Seneca was connected in Rome and Ahenobarbus could not help but notice the richness of his clothes. He felt old when he looked at Seneca and the comparison seemed to make his joints ache. It was really too much to be faced with his amused condescension at that moment. No doubt the younger man thought he hid his arrogance, but Ahenobarbus had seen a dozen like him over the years. There was always a glint in the eyes when they were at their most fawning and you knew you couldn’t trust them if their self-interest crossed your own.

Ahenobarbus took a deep breath. He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying himself, but making the decision was a real pleasure.

‘Have you ever fought, Seneca?’ He watched as the young man’s face went carefully blank, before the smooth smile returned.

‘Not yet, sir, though of course I hope to serve.’

Ahenobarbus showed his teeth then. ‘I thought you would say that, I really did. Today, you get your chance.’

Pompey stood alone in the senate building, listening to nothing but his own memories. At his order, blacksmiths had broken the doors from their hinges to hang awry across the opening. The old light of Rome spilled across motes of fresh-raised dust and he grunted softly as he lowered himself onto a bench.

‘Fifty-six years old,’ he murmured to the empty chamber. ‘Too old to be going to war again.’

There had been moments of weakness and despair, moments when the years sat heavily and his private self ached to be allowed to rest. Perhaps it was time to leave Rome to young wolves like Caesar. After all, the bastard had shown he possessed the most important quality of a Roman leader – the ability to survive. When his thoughts were not coloured by anger, Pompey could admire the younger man’s career. There had been times when he would not have bet a bronze coin on Julius coming through unscathed.

The crowds loved to hear of his exploits and Pompey hated him for that. It seemed that Julius could not buy a new horse without sending a triumphant letter to be read across the city. The common citizens gathered to hear fresh news, no matter how trivial. They were insatiable and only men like Pompey shook their heads at the lack of dignity. Even the subtlety of Cicero was lost against the excitement of Gaul’s battles. What appeal could the Senate offer, when Caesar wrote of storming forts and visiting white cliffs at the edge of the world?

Pompey blew air through his lips in irritation, wishing Crassus was there to share this final indignation. Between them, they had done more to nurture Caesar’s ambition than anyone and the irony was bitter. Had Pompey not accepted the triumvirate? At the time, it seemed that they all benefited, but with the Gaul legions on their way to Rome, Pompey could only wish he had been wiser when it mattered.

He had sent Julius to Spain and the man had returned to be consul. He had sent him to subdue the savages of Gaul, but could they do the decent thing and send him back in pieces? No, they could not. Instead, he came home as a lion, and the citizens respected nothing so much as success.

Black anger darkened his face as Pompey thought of the members of the Senate who had betrayed him. Only two-thirds of them had answered his call to leave for Greece, for all their public vows and promises. The rest had vanished from sight, preferring to wait for an invading army rather than follow their government into exile. It had been a cruel blow on top of everything else. They knew he would not have the luxury of time to root them out of their hiding places and it grated that they were right. He had already left it dangerously late and only the need for the road guards held him in the city. If Ahenobarbus did not bring them in quickly, Pompey knew he would have to leave without them. All his planning would come to nothing if he were still in the city when Caesar came up to the gates.

Pompey hawked and would have swallowed the bitter phlegm back into his throat if he had not been leaving. Instead, he spat a dark mass onto the marble tiles at his feet and felt a little better for the symbolic act. No doubt the citizens would cheer in their mindless way as the Gaul legions marched into the forum. It never failed to astonish him what little gratitude they showed. For almost four years, he had ensured they could feed their families and earn their livings without fear of murder, rape or robbery. The riots of Clodius and Milo were memories and the city had thrived in the aftermath, perhaps in part because they had seen what true chaos was like. But they would still cheer Caesar as he won his battles and brought them excitement. Bread and safety were easily forgotten in comparison.

Pompey reached out to the wooden armrest and pulled himself to his feet. His stomach ached, and he thought he might be developing an ulcer. He felt tired, without a reason. It was hard to tell himself that he had made the right decision when he would be leaving his city behind. Every general knew there were times when the only option was to retreat, regroup and attack on your own terms. It was still hard.

He hoped Julius would follow to Greece. They had not forgotten who ruled Rome, at least. There, he would have the armies he needed and the most able and experienced commanders in the world. Julius would learn the difference between filthy tribesmen and soldiers of Rome and he would learn it in the only way that mattered.

It was strange to think Julius was no longer the young man he remembered. Pompey wondered if he too felt the cold of winter more keenly, or the doubts that came with age. Stranger still to think that he knew his enemy better than almost anyone in Rome. He had broken bread with him, schemed and fought on the same side against enemies, for the same ideals. It was a vicious betrayal to have the man turn on him, the husband of Julius’ daughter. Pompey chuckled aloud at that thought. He suspected Julia did not love him, exactly, but she knew her duty far better than her errant father. She had produced a son who might one day inherit the world.

Pompey wondered if some part of her would welcome her father’s return to the city. It had not occurred to him to ask when he sent her to the ships. Though she may have come from Caesar, she was his no longer. Her young flesh could still rouse Pompey and though she bore his touches in silence, he thought she was not unsatisfied with her life. If he brought her father’s head to her, would she be appalled? It lifted his spirits to imagine it.

He walked out of the empty senate house to where his soldiers waited, noting the perfection of their lines, and taking comfort from it. Caesar made him feel as if there were no rules left, that anything could occur, any tradition be overturned just by willing it. It was comforting to see the forum crowds give his men a respectful berth.

‘Is there news of Ahenobarbus?’ Pompey asked his scribe.

‘Not yet, master,’ the man replied.

Pompey frowned. He hoped the fool had not been tempted to engage the Gaul legions. His orders had been clear.

The road was wide and open for the marching column. With a grunt of approval, Ahenobarbus noted how Seneca had laid out the men. For all his lack of actual experience, the young member of the nobilitas had been trained for a life in the legions. He had approached the problem with all the easy confidence of his birth. Centuries had been doubled into maniples and the most experienced officers set in a chain of command. Old signal horns had been procured and three simple sequences repeated until the least of them could be expected to halt, withdraw or attack. Anything more complex would give them difficulty, Seneca acknowledged, but he looked satisfied as he marched. They were well-armed, well-fed and from the greatest fighting nation the world had ever known. Every legion began with nothing more than the culture and a few good officers. For road guards who had felt forgotten by the city they served, this was their chance. It helped that they stood against traitors with the city behind them. Most had family in Rome and would fight far better for them than for some lofty ideal of the Senate.

Ahenobarbus felt the eyes of the men around him and his spirits soared at the responsibility he had prayed for all his life. Just marching with them was a joy that was difficult to mask. He could not have asked for more from the gods and swore he would make an offering of a sixth of his wealth if they gave Caesar into his hands.

The scouts had marked the enemy forces ten miles north of Corfinium and that was a distance they could cover in less than three hours. Ahenobarbus had been tempted to ride, but sense had overruled his vanity. The men would see he walked with them, and when the time came he would draw his sword and hurl his spears with the rest.

Seneca had drawn up a plan of attack and, despite himself, Ahenobarbus had been impressed at his knowledge. It was one thing to give the order, quite another to create the formations and the tactics. It helped that they were facing Roman-trained soldiers, Seneca said. Only the lie of the land was unknown. Everything else would be by the military manuals and Seneca had read all of them.

Even Ahenobarbus’ initial impression of the recruits had altered as the ranks took shape. It took hard men to run isolated road posts and more than a few had fought in Greece and Spain before ending their careers on the forts. They marched in a perfect column and Ahenobarbus was only sorry they did not have drummers to sound the beat for them.

It was difficult not to imagine the honours Pompey would bestow for capturing a man who threatened the city. At the very least, it would mean a tribune’s rank, or a position as a magistrate. At his age, Ahenobarbus knew he would not be allowed another command, but it did not matter. He would have this day as a memory no matter what came after. In truth, leading a legion in some lonely mountains far from home did not appeal. It was far better to picture the soft life of attending court and accepting bribes from the sons of senators.

The countryside was filled with small farms, with every piece of flat ground taken up with waving wheat and barley to feed the maw of the city to the south. Only the road remained clear and Ahenobarbus did not look at those merchants who had dragged their carts off the stones to let his legion pass. His legion.

As soon as his scouts reported that Ahenobarbus had left Corfinium, Julius gave the order to march. If the commander of the guards declined the chance to attack, Julius trusted his veterans to catch them on the road before they could reach the safety of Rome. He had no fear of the untested troops. His Tenth had faced overwhelming numbers, ambush, night attacks, even the chariots of the Britons. He would trust them against any force in the world, if it were a matter of killing. Taking the guards alive would be a harder challenge and the extraordinarii riders had been racing back and forth between Brutus and the Tenth all morning with orders. The idea of forcing a surrender was a new one in Julius’ experience, especially against Roman legionaries. Without an absolutely overwhelming advantage, he knew his people would fight to the last man rather than leave Rome open. From the first contact, he had to terrify them into obedience.

The veteran Tenth breasted through the wheat, trampling it in a great swathe. Even in a wide formation, Julius could see the lines in the fields behind them stretching for miles, as if metal tines had been drawn across the earth. It was a straight path, despite the rise and fall of the landscape. The extraordinarii rode ahead, searching for the first sight of the Roman enemy. The Tenth loosened their swords in their scabbards as they marched, waiting for the horns that would send them into a battle line.

Ahenobarbus saw the dark stain of the enemy across the land and his heart began to race in anticipation. Seneca had the horns sound a warning note and the blare stiffened the backs of his soldiers, tightening their nerves. Almost unconsciously, the pace of the march increased.

‘Form square!’ Seneca roared along the ranks and the column dissolved as the centuries moved apart.

It was not a parade manoeuvre, but the formation appeared out of the lines like the head of a hammer, with the handle trailing behind along the wide road. Gradually, the tail dwindled in length until they were going forward in one solid mass. Their spears were gripped in sweating palms as they readied themselves for battle and Ahenobarbus could hear the muttered prayers of the men around him as they gave up their souls and pressed on. He thanked his gods to have been given such a moment as they crossed into the wheat and trampled it before them. He could not turn his head away from the shining metal of the Gaul legion. These men threatened his city and he watched them approach in fascination and swelling fear. He heard their own horns whine across the fields and saw the swift response as the lines blurred into smaller units, sliding inexorably towards him.

‘Be ready,’ he called across the heads of his countrymen, blinking sweat from his eyes. Then the stillness of the day snapped as the Tenth legion roared and broke into a run.

Julius advanced with the others, keeping a tight rein so as not to go beyond his loping men. He watched the distance shrink as both sides accelerated and tasted the dust of the fields in his mouth. The Tenth had not unwrapped their spears and he hoped they understood the plans he had made. They raced across the open ground towards the road guards in their formations and after their first shout they were grim and terrifyingly silent.

Julius counted the paces between the two armies, gauging the range. He doubted Ahenobarbus could launch spears in full waves from such a motley gang, but he would have to risk the lives of his Tenth to get close enough.

At the last moment, he called the halt and the Tenth crashed to a stop. Julius ignored the enemy as they lumbered towards him. There were fifty paces to go before they were in range for spears, but he searched beyond them in the distance, looking for the rising dust that would show him his veteran legions marching around. With the tramp of the road guards in his ears, Julius rose up in the saddle, balancing on one knee.

‘There they are!’ he called, exulting.

Hidden by the hills, Brutus, Domitius and Mark Antony had circled and Ahenobarbus was caught between two forces. Julius knew he could have destroyed them, but his aim was more subtle and more difficult. As Ahenobarbus came into spear range, Julius raised his hand and wound it in a circle above his head. The Tenth wheeled right and marched, keeping their distance all the time. It was as if they were attached by a long rope to the enemy, and the move forced the road guards to turn with them or leave their flanks open.

Julius grinned to himself as he saw the chaos that ensued. It took more than a few simple horn signals to turn a square on the spot. He saw the lines compress and widen as those in front tried to match the Tenth and those behind became confused and angry.

The Tenth moved around the rim of the wheel and when they had made a full quarter turn, Brutus had the Third bellow out a challenge and approach. Julius nodded in fierce excitement as he saw the veterans move apart into an arc as if they were on parade. They closed off the retreat and added to the confusion and terror in those they surrounded.

The men with Ahenobarbus were caught. Some of them tried to face the new threats, but all four legions turned about them, causing chaos in the milling centre. No spears could be launched from within that confused mass.

The revolving armies raised a plume of dust from the wheatfields, thickening the air and making men cough and sneeze. Ahenobarbus did not see the extraordinarii until they had ridden up to close the gaps in the circle. Through his panic he could not frame orders to meet the threat. There were too many of the enemy and he knew he was going to die. The Gaul legions halted with spears resting on their shoulders and the thought of the killing to come made the road guards shrink back into the centre.

Ahenobarbus bellowed at his recruits to stand still. The ranks and files had twisted beyond recognition until they were just a crowd of angry, bewildered men. Seneca had given up shouting and looked as lost as any of them. There was nothing in the manuals to answer this. Panting, Ahenobarbus grimaced, waiting for the attack. Though it was hopeless, many of those around him raised their swords in defiance and he was proud of their courage in the face of defeat.

Ahenobarbus watched as riders approached. Part of him raged at the thought of having to meet such men. He did not want to look them in the eye and be humiliated, but anything that delayed the killing was welcome. Every moment had become precious.

He saw that two of them held shields ready for the Third and knew he was looking at the man who had beaten Gaul and now threatened their own city. The rider wore no helmet and simple armour with a dark red cloak that was crumpled under him, spilling down his mount’s flank. In a crowd, Ahenobarbus might not have noticed him, but after the manoeuvres that had broken his guards without a single spear or sword thrust, the man seemed like some creature from the dark river, come to taunt him. It was easy enough to imagine the Roman blood that would stain his cloak.

Ahenobarbus stood straighter. ‘When he comes close, lads, we rush him on my order. Pass the word. We might not be able to beat these bastards, but if we can kill the general, we haven’t been wasted.’

Seneca stared at him and Ahenobarbus held his eyes long enough to force him to look away. The young man still thought this was some elaborate tactical game, with Rome open behind them. Some of them knew better and Ahenobarbus saw nods of assent spread out from him. Sometimes, a man could forget that his life was not the most important thing in the world, that there really were things worth dying for. In the chaos and fear, Ahenobarbus had been almost resigned to surrender, before the truth came back to him. This was an enemy, Roman or not.

Seneca came close, so as not to be overheard by the men. ‘Sir, we cannot attack now. We must surrender,’ the young man said into his ear.

Ahenobarbus glanced at him and noted the fear. ‘Go back, lad, and let them see you stand. When he comes close enough, we’ll cut him down.’

Seneca opened his mouth, unable to understand the dark ferocity he saw in his commander. It had never been there before and it shocked him into silence as he moved away.

Ahenobarbus chuckled to himself. He looked at the grim legions facing him. They too had halted after their display and, grudgingly, he admitted their superiority. It had been impressive enough to see the way they dismantled his rough formations. The horsemen looked eager to be sent in and the sight of those cold killers sent a shiver through his frame. On the backs of their mounts, the riders seemed enormous and Ahenobarbus knew their reputation as well as anyone else who had read the reports from Gaul. It gave the enemy a glamour he could not deny and it was hard to think of those veterans charging in amongst his inexperienced soldiers.

‘Who has led you here? Let that man step forward!’ a voice carried over the field.

Faces turned to Ahenobarbus and he smiled mirthlessly as he made his way through the ranks to the front. The sun shone and his vision seemed unnaturally clear, as if the edges of things had sharpened.

Ahenobarbus stepped out from his men, alone. He felt the eyes of thousands on him as the three horsemen rode closer. Gently, he drew his sword and took a deep breath. Let them come in and get his answer, he thought to himself. His heart hammered, but he felt calm and strangely detached as Julius Caesar glared down at him.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Julius roared, red-faced in anger. ‘What is your name?’

Ahenobarbus almost took a step back in surprise. ‘Ahenobarbus,’ he replied, stifling the urge to add ‘sir’. He felt the men behind jostle and readied himself to give the order to attack.

‘How dare you bare your sword to me, Ahenobarbus? How dare you! You have abused the trust placed in you. Be thankful none of your men or mine have been killed or I would see you hanged before sunset.’

Ahenobarbus blinked in confusion. ‘I have orders to …’

‘Orders from whom? Pompey? By what right is he still Dictator in my city? I stand before you as a loyal Roman and you mutter about your orders. Do you want to be killed? Who do you think you are to be throwing away so many lives, Ahenobarbus? Are you a lawmaker, a senator? No, you’ve been let down, General. You should not be here.’ Julius removed his gaze from Ahenobarbus in disgust, raising his head to address the guards who watched him. ‘I am returning to my city to stand as consul once more. I break no laws in doing so. I have no quarrel with you and I will not shed the blood of my people unless I am forced to.’

Ignoring Ahenobarbus, Julius walked his mount along the line, his accompanying riders moving in formation with him. For a split second, Ahenobarbus considered shouting for an attack, but then he caught the eye of one of the riders and saw him grin and shake his head as if he had heard the thought. Ahenobarbus remembered that Caesar had called him ‘general’ and the words died in his throat.

Julius’ voice echoed across them. ‘I am within my rights to have you disarmed and sold into slavery for what you have done today. I see bared swords and spears in your ranks even now! Do not force my hand, gentlemen. I am a loyal general of Rome. I am the commander of Gaul and in my person I am the Senate and the law. Do not think to raise your weapons against me.’

Every man in the guards stood appalled as his words washed over them. Ahenobarbus saw them lower swords and spears as Julius wheeled his mount and came back along the line.

‘I have not come back from ten years of war to struggle against my own people here. I tell you that you have been misled. I give you my word that not one of you will be killed if you put away your weapons now.’ He swept his gaze over the men. ‘You have a choice, gentlemen. I will treat you with honour if you make good your mistake. Look around you. I do not need to be merciful. After this, I will consider you traitors to Rome.’

He had reached Ahenobarbus once more and the guard was forced to look up into the sun to meet his eyes. Julius was dark against the light as he waited for a response.

‘Well? Your idiocy has brought them here,’ Julius said softly. ‘Will you see them all killed for nothing?’ Mutely, Ahenobarbus shook his head. ‘Then stand them down and bring the officers to me, Ahenobarbus. We must discuss the terms of the surrender.’

‘You did break a law when you crossed the Rubicon, sir,’ Ahenobarbus said stubbornly.

Julius’ eyes flashed. ‘And Dictatorships are meant to be temporary. Sometimes, a man must act according to his conscience, General,’ he replied.

Ahenobarbus looked away at his men for a moment. ‘I have your word that there will be no punishment?’ he said.

Julius did not hesitate. ‘I will not shed Roman blood, General. Not unless I must. You have my word.’

Being addressed as an equal was such a small thing, but the urge to throw away his life had faded like a memory. Ahenobarbus nodded. ‘Very well, sir. I will stand down.’

‘Give me your sword,’ Julius said.

The two men locked eyes for a moment before Ahenobarbus held it up and Julius’ hand closed over the scabbard. The symbolic gesture was seen by all the guards.

‘The right choice, at last,’ Julius said, quietly, before cantering back to his own lines.

CHAPTER THREE

Pompey stood on the docks at Ostia and looked back in the direction of Rome. The port town was quiet and he wondered if the inhabitants understood what they were seeing. It was possible, but over his time in the Senate he had come to realise that there were thousands of citizens who barely noticed the work of their masters. Their lives went on just the same. After all, no matter who was consul, the bread had to be baked and the fish brought in.

The last of the merchant ships crackled into flame behind him, making him turn and look out to sea. There were lives who would be affected, he thought. The owners would be beggared at a stroke, to make sure that Caesar would not have a fleet to follow before Pompey was ready. Even at a distance, the roar of flames was impressive and Pompey watched as they reached the sail and engulfed the tarry cloth in an instant. The small ship began to settle and he hoped his men had the sense to get well clear on the boats before she sank.

Three sturdy triremes waited for the final members of the Senate and Pompey himself. They rocked in the swell as the great oars were greased in their locks and checked for fouling. The wind was running out to sea. It was fitting that Pompey should be the last to leave and he knew it was time, but he couldn’t break the mood that held him on shore.

Had there ever been a choice? He had thought himself clever when he sent the order for Julius to return. Any other general would have come with just a few guards and Pompey would have made a quick, neat end to it. Even now, he could not be sure why Julius had gambled everything on his rush south. Regulus had obviously failed and Pompey assumed he had died trying to fulfil his last orders. Perhaps the man’s clumsy attempt had given Julius the truth of his master. He could not imagine Regulus breaking under torture, but perhaps that was foolishness. Experience had taught him that any man could be broken in enough time. It was just necessary to find the levers into his soul. Even so, he would not have thought there was a lever made to open Regulus.

Pompey saw the last boat from his ship bump against the quayside and Suetonius jump onto the docks. He watched as the younger man marched up the hill, stiff with self-importance. Pompey turned back towards the city he could feel in the distance. Ahenobarbus had not come and Pompey doubted he still lived. It had been a blow to lose the men he had with him, but if he had slowed Julius at all, it would have been worth it. Pompey could not believe how difficult it had been to uproot the senators from their homes. He had been tempted to abandon the endless crates of their possessions on the quayside for the merchant sailors to pick through. Their wives and children had been bad enough, but he had drawn a line at more than three slaves to each family and hundreds had been sent back to the city. Every ship and trireme for a hundred miles up and down the coast had been called in and only a few were left empty and burnt.

Pompey smiled tightly to himself. Even Julius could not conjure a fleet out of nothing. Pompey’s army would have nearly a year to prepare for the invasion and then, well, let them come after that.

As Suetonius approached, Pompey noted the high polish on his armour and approved. The senator had made himself indispensable over the previous weeks. In addition, Pompey knew his hatred of Caesar was absolute. It was good to have a man who could be trusted and Pompey knew that Suetonius would never be one of those who questioned his orders.

‘Your boat is ready, sir,’ Suetonius said.

Pompey nodded stiffly. ‘I was having a last look at my country,’ he replied. ‘It will be a while until I stand here again.’

‘It will come though, sir. Greece is like a second home to many of the men. We’ll end Caesar’s betrayal there.’

‘We will indeed,’ Pompey said.

A waft of smoke from the burning merchant ship passed over both of them and he shivered slightly. There had been times when he thought he would never get out of the city before Caesar’s legions appeared on the horizon. He had not even made the offerings in the temples that he should have, convinced that every minute counted. Now though, even if he saw his enemy riding towards him, he could stroll down into the boat and go to the ships, leaving them all behind. It was his first unhurried moment in the best part of two weeks and he felt himself relax.

‘I wonder if he is already in the city, Suetonius,’ Pompey said softly.

‘Perhaps, sir. He will not be there for long if he is.’

Both men stood staring east, as if they could see the place that had birthed them. Pompey grimaced as he remembered the silent crowds that had lined the streets as his legion marched to the coast. Thousands and thousands of his people had come to watch the exodus. They had not dared to call out, even from the deepest sections of the crowd. They knew him too well for that. He had seen their expressions though and resented them. What right did they have to stare so, as Pompey passed by? He had given them his best years. He had been senator, consul and Dictator. He had destroyed the rebellion of Spartacus and more small kings and rebels than he could remember. Even Romans like Titus Milo had fallen to him when they threatened his people. He had been father to the city all his life and like the children they were, they stood in sullen silence, as if they owed him nothing.

Black cinders floated in the air around the two men, borne aloft by unseen currents. Pompey shivered in the breeze, feeling old. He was not ready to retire from public life, if Caesar would even have let him. He had been forced to this place by a man who cared nothing for the city. Caesar would find out there was a price to pay for ruling Rome. She had claws, and the people who cheered you and threw flowers at your feet could forget it all in just a season.

‘I would not change a single year of my life, Suetonius. If I had them again, I would spend them as fast, even if they left me here, with a ship waiting to take me away.’

He saw Suetonius’ confusion and chuckled.

‘But it is not over yet. Come, we must be at sea before the tide changes.’

Servilia looked at her reflection in a mirror of polished bronze. Three slaves fussed around her, working on her hair and eyes as they had been for three hours before dawn. Today would be special, she knew. Everyone who entered the city said Caesar was coming and she wanted him to see her at her best.

She rose to stand naked before the mirror, raising her arms for the slave girl to add a subtle dust of rouge to her nipples. The light tickle of the brush made them stiffen and she smiled, before sighing. The mirror could not be fooled. Lightly, she touched her stomach with the palm of a hand. She had escaped the sagging belly of the Roman matron with a host of births, but age had loosened the skin, so that she could press it and see it wrinkle like thin cloth, as if nothing held it to her. Soft dresses that had once been used to reveal, now covered what she did not want seen. She knew she was still elegant and riding kept her fit, but there was only one youth to be had and hers was a memory. Without dye, her hair was an iron grey and each year she tortured herself with the thought that it was time to let her age show before her paints and oils were nothing but a tawdry covering, a humiliation.

She had seen women who would not admit they had grown old and hated the thought of joining those pathetic, wigged creatures. Better to have dignity than to be ridiculed, but today Caesar was coming, and she would use all her art.

When she stood still, her skin shone with oil from the massage table and she could believe she retained a trace of her old beauty. Then she would move and the fine web would appear in her reflection, mocking her efforts. It was a tragedy that there were so few years when the skin glowed, before pigments and oils had to do the job in their place.

‘Will he ride into the city, mistress?’ one of the slaves asked.

Servilia glanced at her, understanding the flush she saw on the girl’s skin. ‘He will, I’m sure, Talia. He will come at the head of an army and ride into the forum to address the citizens. It will be like a Triumph.’

‘I have never seen one,’ Talia responded, her eyes downcast.

Servilia smiled coldly, hating her for her youth. ‘And you will not today, my dear. You will stay here and prepare my house for him.’

The girl’s disappointment was palpable, but Servilia ignored it. With Pompey’s legion away, the city was holding its breath as they waited for Caesar. Those who had supported the Dictator were simply terrified that they would be singled out and punished. The streets, never safe at the best of times, were far too restless to allow a pretty young slave to go and watch the entry of the Gaul veterans into Rome. Whether age brought wisdom, Servilia was never sure, but it did bring experience and that was usually enough.

Servilia tilted her head back and held still as another of her slaves dipped a slender ivory needle into a pot and held it over her eyes. She could see the drop of dark liquid forming there, before it shivered and fell. She closed her eye against the sting and the slave waited patiently until it had faded and she could administer the drop of belladonna to the other. The poison could be fatal in any serious dose, but the diluted fluid made her pupils as large and dark as any young woman’s at dusk. The discomfort in bright sunshine was a small price to pay. She sighed as she blinked away tears along her eyelashes. Even those were quickly removed with pads of soft cloth before they could touch her cheeks and ruin the work of the morning.

The youngest of the slave girls waited patiently with her pot of dark kohl, watching as Servilia checked the results in the mirror. The whole room seemed brighter as a result of the belladonna and Servilia felt her spirits rise. Caesar was coming home.

As Caesar had ordered, Ahenobarbus marched into the old barracks of Primigenia, outside the walls of Rome. They had fallen into disuse over the previous decade and he had Seneca set up work details to restore them to cleanliness and order while he was still shaking the dust of the road from his sandals.

Alone for a few precious moments, he entered the main building and sat at the table in the officers’ hall, resting a wineskin in the dust. He could hear his men chatter and argue outside, still discussing what had happened to them. He shook his head, hardly able to believe it himself. With a sigh, he opened the bronze mouth on the wine and tipped it back, sending a line of harsh liquid into his throat.

It would not be long, he thought, before someone came to ask questions. The city had scouts out for miles and he knew his movements had been seen and reported. He wondered to whom they would report, now that Pompey had gone. Rome was without a government for the first time in centuries and memories of the chaos under Clodius and Milo would still be fresh in many minds. Fear would keep them in their houses, he suspected, while they waited for the new master to come in.

A clatter of iron-shod sandals made him look up and grunt at Seneca as the young man put his head around the doorway.

‘Come in and have a drink, lad. It’s been a strange day.’

‘I have to find …’ Seneca began.

‘Sit down and have a drink, Sen. They’ll get by without you for a little while.’

‘Yes, sir, of course.’

Ahenobarbus sighed. He’d thought some of the reserve between them had been broken down, but with the city walls in sight Seneca had once again begun to think of his future, like every other young Roman of the times. It was the disease of the age.

‘Have you sent runners out? We’d better be sure Pompey isn’t still waiting at the coast for us.’

‘No! I didn’t think of it,’ Seneca replied, beginning to rise.

Ahenobarbus waved him back to his seat. ‘That will wait as well. I’m not even sure we could join him now.’

Seneca suddenly looked wary and Ahenobarbus watched as the young man pretended to be confused.

‘You gave the oath to Caesar, just as I did, lad. You won’t be telling me you didn’t understand what it meant.’

He thought the young man might lie, but Seneca raised his head and returned his gaze.

‘No. I understood it. But I swore another oath to fight for Rome. If Pompey has taken the Senate to Greece, I must follow him.’

Ahenobarbus gulped at the wine before passing it over.

‘Your life belongs to Caesar, lad. He told you enough times. If you take the field against him after what happened, there’ll be no mercy from him, not again.’

‘My duty is with Pompey,’ Seneca replied.

Ahenobarbus looked at him and blew air out in a long sigh. ‘Your honour is your own, though. Will you break the oath to Caesar?’

‘An oath to an enemy does not bind me, sir.’

‘Well it binds me, lad, because I say it does. You want to think whose side you would rather be on. If you go to Pompey, Caesar will cut your balls off.’

Seneca stood, flushed with anger. ‘As he did yours?’ he said.

Ahenobarbus slammed his fist onto the table, making the dust rise in a cloud. ‘Would you rather he had killed all of us? That’s what Pompey would have done! He said he was coming to restore order and law and then he proved it, Seneca, by letting us go and trusting our oath. He impressed me, lad, and if you weren’t so busy looking for your next promotion, you’d see why.’

‘I can see he did impress you. Enough to forget the loyalty you owe the Senate and the Dictator.’

‘Don’t lecture me, boy!’ Ahenobarbus snapped. ‘Look up from your precious books and see what’s happening. The wolves are out, do you understand? Ever since Caesar came south. Do you think Pompey’s interested in your loyalty? Your noble Senate would crush you for a jug of wine, if they were thirsty.’

For a moment of strained silence, both men faced each other, breathing heavily.

‘I used to wonder why a man of your years was given no more than a road fort to command,’ Seneca said stiffly. ‘I understand it now. I will lecture any Roman soldier who does not give his life into the hands of his superiors. I would expect no less from those who follow me. I won’t sit this out, Ahenobarbus. I would call that cowardice.’

His contempt was written in every line of his young face and Ahenobarbus suddenly felt too tired to go on.

‘Then I will pour a little wine into your grave when I find it. That’s the best I can offer you.’

Seneca turned his back without saluting and left the room, his footprints visible in the dust behind him. Ahenobarbus snorted in anger and lifted the wineskin, pressing his fingers in deeply.

A stranger entered only a few minutes later, finding him drawing idly in the dust on the table, lost in thought.

‘Sir? I have been sent by my master to hear if you have any news,’ the man said without preamble.

Ahenobarbus looked up at him. ‘Who is left to be sending anyone anywhere? I thought the Senate had all gone with Pompey.’

The man looked uncomfortable and Ahenobarbus realised he had not given his master’s name.

‘Some of the Senate did not see the need to travel, sir. My master was one of those.’

Ahenobarbus grinned. ‘Then you’d better run back and tell him Caesar is coming. He’s two, maybe three hours behind me. He’s bringing back the Republic, lad, and I wouldn’t stand in his way.’

CHAPTER FOUR

The extraordinarii stood by their mounts, heaving at the great doors of the Quirinal gate in the north of the city. It had been left unbarred and the walls were empty of soldiers to challenge them. Now that the moment had come, there was a hush over the city and the streets by the gate were deserted. The Gaul riders exchanged glances, sensing eyes on them.

The tramp of the four legions was a muted thunder. The extraordinarii could feel the vibration under their feet and dust shimmered in the cracks between the stones. Fifteen thousand men marched towards the city that had declared them traitor. They came in ranks of six abreast and the tail of the column stretched back further than the eye could see.

At the head came Julius on a prancing dark gelding of the best bloodlines in Spain. Mark Antony and Brutus rode a pace to the rear, with shields ready in their hands. Domitius, Ciro and Octavian made up the spearhead and all of them felt the tension of the moment with something like awe. They had known the city as a home and a distant mother and as a dream. To see the gates open and the walls unguarded was a strange and frightening thing. They did not talk or joke as they rode in and the marching men of the column kept the same silence. The city waited for them.

Julius rode under the arch of the gate and smiled as its shadow crossed his face in a dark bar. He had seen cities in Greece and Spain and Gaul, but they could only ever be reflections of this place. The simple order of the houses and the neat lines of paving spoke to something in him and made him sit straighter in the saddle. He used the reins to turn his Spanish mount to the right, where the forum waited for him. Despite the solemnity of the moment, he was hard-pressed to keep his dignity. He wanted to grin, to shout a greeting to his people and his home, lost to him for so many years.

The streets were no longer empty, he saw. Curiosity had opened the doors of homes and businesses to reveal dark interiors. The people of Rome peered out at the Gaul legions, drawn by the glamour of the stories they had heard. There was not a man or woman in Rome who had not listened to the reports from Gaul. To see those soldiers in the flesh was irresistible.

‘Throw the coins, Ciro. Bring them out,’ Julius called over his shoulder and he did grin then at the big man’s tension.

Like Octavian beside him, Ciro carried a deep bag tied to his saddle and he reached into it to grasp a handful of silver coins, each bearing the face of the man they followed. The coins rang on the stones of the city and Julius saw children run from their hiding places to snatch them before they could come to rest. He remembered standing at Marius’ side in a Triumph long ago and seeing the crowd dip in waves to receive the offerings. It was more than the silver that they wanted and only the poorest would spend the coins. Many more would be kept for a blessing, or made into a pendant for a wife or lover. They carried the face of a man who had become famous through his battles in Gaul and yet was still a stranger to all but a very few.

The shrill excitement of the children brought out their parents. More and more of them came to reach for the coins and laugh with relief. The column had not come to destroy or loot the city, not after such a start.

Ciro and Octavian emptied the bags quickly and two more were passed forward to them. The crowd had begun to thicken, as if half of Rome had been waiting for some unseen signal. They did not all smile at the sight of so many armed men on the streets. Many of the faces were angry and dark, but as the column wound its way through the city, they grew fewer, lost amongst the rest.

Julius passed the old house of Marius, glancing through the gates to the courtyard he had seen first as a boy. He looked behind him for Brutus and knew that he shared the same memories. The old place was shuttered and bare, but it would be opened again and given life. Julius enjoyed the metaphor and tried to frame it into something appropriate for the speech he would make, choosing and discarding words as he rode. He preferred to be seen as a spontaneous speaker, but every phrase had been written in the wheatfields, with Adàn.

It was eerie to retrace the steps he had marched with the old Primigenia, before they had been scattered by the enemies of his family. His uncle had walked right up to the steps of the senate house and demanded the Triumph they owed him. Julius shook his head in amused memory as he recalled the bull of a man Marius had been. The laws had meant nothing to him and the city had worshipped his irreverence, electing him consul more times than any man in the city’s history. They were different, wilder days then and the world had been smaller.

A child scrambled onto the street after a rolling coin and Julius pulled on the reins to avoid knocking him down. He saw the boy hold his treasure aloft in a moment of pure happiness before his mother yanked him out of harm’s way. Julius dug in his heels before the lines behind could close up and wondered how it would be interpreted by the readers of omens. No doubt the priests were up to their elbows in entrails in every temple, looking for guidance. Julius thought of Cabera and wished he had lived to come back with them. He had buried the old man in Gaul, in sight of the sea.

The crowd was swelling and somehow those that came later added to the mood of celebration, as if the word had already gone round the streets. The Gaul legions were not to be feared. They came in dignity, with offerings of silver and their weapons sheathed. The noise was growing in proportion to the numbers. Julius could already hear the cries of vendors selling their wares. He wondered how many of his coins would be exchanged for a cool drink in the sun or a slice of cold meat pie.

When he glanced behind him, Julius was pleased to see his men respond to the people lining the road. Those who had relatives looked for them, their faces holding that peculiarly intent expression of one who waits to smile.

The road eased downhill towards the forum and Julius could see the light of the open space long before he entered it. At the centre of the city, it was the single image he had remembered most clearly in all his years away. It was hard to hold his mount back. The road ended in wealthy houses and temples, but Julius did not see them, his gaze fixed ahead. The sun seemed to increase its heat as he rode through to the heart of Rome and he felt a rush of excitement that he could hardly believe.

There were people there, already in their thousands. Some of them were cheering, but though their mood was light, Julius knew they would demand to be entertained, to be given precious memories with which to impress their children.

They had left him a path through their midst to the new senate house and Julius glanced at the site of the old one before forgetting it. Rome was more than buildings, more than her history. She was made clean with the innocence of each new generation and he was part of this rebirth.

He looked straight ahead and smiled as the citizens raised their voices around him. He knew the legions marched at his back, but for a few moments in the sunlight it was almost as if he were coming in alone.

He could not resist the excitement any longer then, and kicked his heels in, his horse’s hooves clattering over the stones. The steps of the senate house rose before him and he sent his mount lunging up them in three great strides, turning to look back over the sea of faces. It had been more than ten years and he had known fear and pain and loss. But Rome was his, and he was home.

The legions continued to flow into the forum, forming great glittering squares like islands in the colours of the crowd. Slaves and citizens mingled and pressed closer to the senate house, eager to hear, to be part of it. The poorest of Rome were there in numbers and they were raucous, pushing and shoving to reach the senate house steps. Julius saw the column halt at last, as his officers decided against bringing them all into one space. It was chaotic and dangerous and Julius laughed with pleasure.

‘I have come home!’ he roared over their heads.

They cheered him and he sat back in his saddle, raising his hands for quiet. He looked down at Brutus and Mark Antony as they brought their horses to the bottom of the steps. Both were smiling and relaxed. Brutus leaned over to murmur a few words to Mark Antony and they chuckled together.

Gradually, the noisy crowd quieted and stood waiting.

‘My people, in this place,’ Julius said wonderingly. ‘I have waited ten years to stand here before you.’ His voice echoed from the temples. ‘I have shown the strength we have in Gaul, have I not? I have toppled kings and brought their gold back to be spent here.’

They bayed their enthusiasm for that idea and he knew he had judged the tone to please them. The more complex arguments would come later, when he had finished with this day.

‘I have built our roads on new lands and marked out farms for our citizens. If you have ever dreamed of owning land, I have it ready for you and for your children. I have crossed seas for you and made new maps.’ He paused, letting the noise swell. ‘I carried Rome with me through the years and I did not forget my city.’

Their voices crashed against him and he held up his hands again.

‘Yet even this moment is tainted. As I stand before you and breathe the air I love, I know there are some calling against me.’ His expression became stern and the silence was perfect.

‘I am here to answer any charges against my name. But where are those who accuse Caesar? Will they not stand forward when I call for them? Let them come; I have nothing to hide.’

Someone shouted a reply that Julius did not hear, though those around the speaker laughed and chattered.

‘Can it be true that Pompey has left my city? That the Senate you trusted to protect you has abandoned Rome? I tell you to judge them by their deeds. Rome deserves better men than they. You deserve better than men who slip away in the night when their lies are challenged! I am here to stand for consul, not to threaten or bluster. Who denies me my right? Which one of you will argue the law with me?’

He swept his gaze over the crowd as they shifted and swirled like water in the forum. He loved them in all their vulgar, corrupt, violent glory. He loved them for their refusal to bow their heads and be docile, and he loved the exhilaration that came from riding their emotions. It had broken men before him, but there was no other risk worth taking.

‘For those of you who fear the future, I will say this. I have seen enough of war. I will try for peace with Pompey and the Senate and if I am refused, I will try harder. I will not take a Roman life unless I am forced. That is my vow.’

A scream sounded from somewhere in the crowd and Julius saw a dozen of the Tenth detach with Regulus to see to the disturbance. The forum was packed so fully as to make any movement difficult, and Julius wondered at those who would take even this day as an opportunity for theft or rape. He hoped Regulus would break the heads of those responsible.

‘If I must end Pompey’s Dictatorship on the field of battle, then I will do it far from here. While there is life in me, I will protect Rome. That is my oath and I swear it before all the gods in this place. I will stand for lawful election and if you make me consul, I will follow Pompey to the end of the earth to bring him down. He will not come here while I live.’

In one swift movement, Julius swung his leg over the saddle and knelt on the white marble, letting the reins fall from his hand. The crowd craned and shuffled to see him bow and kiss the stone. His armour shone in the sunlight as he rose to his feet.

‘I am loyal. My life is yours.’

Perhaps his legions began the roar of appreciation, but he could not be sure. For all the joys he had known, there was nothing to approach the unalloyed pleasure of his own people calling his name.

He took up the reins once more, quieting the horse with a gentle hand.

‘I have given you Gaul. The earth is black and rich there for your farms. Its gold will build a new Rome, greater than anything we have seen before. A new forum, courts, amphitheatres, racetracks, theatres and baths. All this is my gift to you. In return, I ask that you raise your heads and know you walk the streets of the centre of the world. All roads lead here, to us. All courts have their authority from us. Weigh every act with that in mind and be sure you act nobly, for we are the nobility of all cities. We hold the torch for Greece, Spain, Gaul and Britain to follow. To the least of you, to the poorest, I tell you to work and there will be food for your table. Struggle for justice and it will be there for you.’

He was aware that the soldiers under Regulus had caught whoever was responsible for the unseen crime. Three men were swiftly trussed and Julius swore privately that they would regret interrupting his speech. He glanced to where the heavy bronze doors of the senate house hung at angles. Despite himself, his mood was souring and he took a deep breath before speaking again.

‘You will elect a new Senate with the courage to stand and face the results of their actions. Those who have run are worthless men and I will tell them so, when I catch them.’ He nodded as laughter spread over the forum.

‘If Pompey refuses to accept the peace I offer, I will not desert you, or leave you without protection. I will leaven you with the best of my soldiers, so that there will be order and law behind me. My city is not to be abandoned. It is not to be risked.’

They hung on the words that came from him and he felt his spirits lift again.

‘That is far in the future. Tonight, and tomorrow, my men will want good wine and the company of beautiful women. I will buy every amphora in Rome and we will celebrate. Gaul is ours and I am home.’

Ciro and Octavian threw silver coins over the people as they cheered themselves hoarse as Julius turned away, gesturing to his officers to follow him inside the empty senate chamber.

Brutus turned at the doorway and looked back at the crowd. ‘What if Pompey had stayed?’ he said.

Julius shrugged, his smile vanishing. ‘I would have killed him. Rome is mine and always has been.’ He walked into the cool interior, leaving Brutus alone on the steps.

The echoing senate house was subtly different to the one Julius remembered. The sheath of creamy marble on the walls showed the attempt to recreate the old Curia, but it was not the chamber where he had seen Marius and Sulla argue, or heard Cato’s voice dominate the discussion. Though he had not thought the loss could touch him, there was a dull pain somewhere deep. All the foundations of his life were being removed and part of him would always want to go back.

He tried to stifle his thoughts as the men with him took seats on the benches. Marius would have berated him for that sort of weakness. The past was comforting because it was safe. It was also dead and gone; there were no mysteries to be found there. Facing the future, with all its uncertainty, took courage and strength. He inhaled deeply of the air in the chamber, smelling the oiled wood and clean plaster.

‘Fetch Adàn for me, Ciro. I will need a record of my orders,’ he said.

Ciro rose quickly and disappeared out into the sun. Julius looked at the others, and smiled. Octavian, Mark Antony, Brutus and Domitius. They were men he could trust. Men with whom he could begin an empire. Though the future had its fears, it was the place for dreams. He hardly dared think where his path could take him by the end.

‘So, gentlemen, it was worth crossing the Rubicon, at least so far. It is a good place to start.’

Adàn came in and took a seat as he gathered his writing materials. He could not resist glancing around the chamber. For him, it was a place of legend, having never known the other. His eyes shone.

‘We must find barracks and homes for our men inside the city before tonight,’ Julius continued, once Adàn was settled. ‘Ciro, that is your task. Domitius, I want every drop of wine the city has to offer to be distributed freely. Get the best price you can, but I want the whole of Rome drunk by midnight. Spread the first taste of our gold into their pouches and tell them I want parties in every street and great house, open to all. Torches on the walls and crossroads. We’ll light the city from one end to the other – buy oil and use the Tenth to keep order for tonight, the Third for tomorrow. We must have some sober soldiers to keep the peace.

‘Octavian, you will send a century of the extraordinarii to Ostia, to make certain Pompey has left. We’ve no reason to doubt our informants, but the old fox has been cunning before.’

He paused to think and Mark Antony cleared his throat. ‘What about the senators who did not go to Greece?’

Julius nodded. ‘They must be courted. They will be the core that gives stability after the elections. Spread the word that they are brave men to have resisted Pompey. Make them all heroes. We will ask for their help in the new administration and give my word they will be safe. We need them.’

‘And the elections?’ Mark Antony continued. ‘I would want to hold them as soon as possible.’

‘Then you have the task. Consuls, magistrates, senators, quaestors and praetors for the new regions of Gaul – we must have them all. Begin the notices the day after tomorrow, when the hangovers start wearing off. I will leave the details to you, but I want the posts filled quickly. We will have two consuls to head the Senate, once I have seen who is left among the nobilitas. If they are the men I think they are, they should already be considering the benefits of staying behind.’

A frown crossed his face for an instant. ‘Not Bibilus, though. If he is still in the city, I do not want him. The man is not fit for authority of any kind.’

Mark Antony nodded and Adàn scratched on his tablets until Julius noticed.

‘Wipe that part clear, Adàn. I do not want every private opinion recorded. It is enough to have it said between us.’

He watched as the young Spaniard ran a callused thumb over the wax square and was satisfied.

‘This is a new start, gentlemen. It will take months to build a fleet and I intend to use that time to revise the laws of Rome from the very beginning. When we leave, the city will be peaceful and more secure than we found her – and the laws will apply to all. They will see that I have kept my word to them. I will begin with a reform of the courts. There will be no more bribery and favours. This is a chance to make the city work as it was meant to. As it did for our fathers.’

He stopped, looking around the echoing chamber and imagining it full once again of the lawmakers and rulers of Rome.

‘We have the whole of Gaul to administer. The roads and enclosures there must continue. Taxes must be paid and revenues collected for the public buildings. It will be hard work. I should think our legions in Gaul will be pleased to get the call home when we are ready.’ He grinned as he considered the enormity of the task before them.

‘When I have a fleet, I will call all but one legion south. Gaul will not rise again this generation, not after us.’

‘Will we have enough men to beat Pompey?’ Mark Antony said quietly.

Julius glanced at him. ‘If every legion in Greece goes over to him, we could be overwhelmed, but we pardoned the men of Corfinium, did we not? The word will spread, even to Greece. Pompey’s own men will take that piece of gossip to the legions there. Our people will wonder if they are on the right side in this. I expect many to come to me before the end.’ He paused to look around at the men who had come so far with him.

‘There can be only one ending between us after we meet in the field. Pompey will never be second to me. I will let it be known that any man who surrenders to my forces will be pardoned and honoured for his loyalty. I will be the symbol of the old Rome against the new and I will have my private letters copied and distributed, begging Pompey to choose exile over the death of Roman citizens.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It will drive him mad.’

‘Who will rule Rome while you are away?’ Mark Antony asked.

Brutus glanced up and his hand gripped the wooden rest tightly. Julius did not look his way.

‘You have proved yourself, Mark Antony. I can think of none better to administer Italy while I fight the war in Greece. Stand for the second consul’s seat with me. I can trust you to remain loyal for my return.’

Mark Antony stood on shaking legs and embraced his general.

‘The gates will be open to you,’ he said.

Brutus too rose, his face pale with strong emotion. For a moment, it seemed as if he would speak and Julius turned to him, questioningly. Brutus shook his head and his mouth tightened.

‘I must check the men,’ he said at last, his voice choked. He walked into the sun and was gone.

Mark Antony looked troubled, decency forcing him to voice his thoughts. ‘Did you consider Brutus, sir? He deserves it as much, if not more.’

Julius smiled wryly. ‘You will keep Rome in order, Mark Antony. You will respect the law and take satisfaction from the thousand problems each day will bring. However, do not be offended when I say you are not the general I need to beat Pompey in the field. You have different strengths and I’ll need Brutus in the battles to come. He has a talent for death.’

Mark Antony flushed, unsure if he was receiving a compliment. ‘I think you should tell him that, sir.’

‘I will, of course,’ Julius replied. ‘Now, to business, gentlemen. I want the city to sing tonight. By all the gods, we are home at last.’

Outside, the light of day seemed to claw at Brutus as he came onto the steps. He found himself breathing heavily as he looked over the drifting crowd. If they saw him, they did not respond and he was struck by the image of being invisible to them all, like a ghost. He was almost tempted to call out, just to hear his own voice and break the spell. He felt strangely cold, as if he stood beneath a shadowed arch on stones always hidden from the sun.

‘I am owed a little more than this,’ he said, his voice a breath. He opened his right hand to find it cramped and yellow with tension. He had not felt the grip tighten as Julius gave Mark Antony everything that mattered in the world. If Brutus had known how the man would become a rival, he would have taken him aside one dark night in Gaul and cut his throat. The picture was a sweet thing in his mind and it brought a righteous anger to the fore. On the Rubicon, he had believed he was needed, that the generals would risk it all together. Julius had spoken to the crowd as if he had come south on his own.

Brutus watched the people of Rome and found their ignorance of his presence was a sort of freedom. He felt bonds fall away and almost staggered in relief and pain. He looked for the boy holding his horse and walked down the white steps, dazed. The crowd melted around him like smoke and in a few moments, he was lost amongst them.

CHAPTER FIVE

Regulus frowned as he saw Brutus appear once more. The silver-armoured figure stood like a statue by the white columns and Regulus shivered, surprising himself. There was something eerie in the general’s stillness as he looked over the milling crowd. Even from a distance, Brutus looked pale and Regulus broke suddenly into a fast walk towards him, convinced something was wrong. The path was dense with citizens, but Regulus ignored the shouts of those he sent sprawling, his eyes never leaving Brutus. He saw the general take his horse and swing himself into the saddle without a glance or word for those around him. Fear touched Regulus then. He called out as Brutus dug in his heels, knocking down a young boy who had clustered too close to his hooves.

Brutus did not stop or even turn at the cry. He rode stiffly and his face was bloodless and grim. They passed within feet of each other and Brutus didn’t feel the hand grasp desperately for his reins, nor hear his name.

Regulus swore under his breath as the horse clattered by out of reach. He looked up at the senate building and was caught between ordering his men to stop Brutus and finding out what had happened. He had nothing solid to support the feeling of dread that had stolen his peaceful mood. The moment of indecision passed with torturous slowness and Regulus found himself marching up the steps.

He heard their calm voices before he saw the generals of Gaul and Regulus shook his head in confusion. His mind had filled with violent images, but there was Adàn with his tablets and Ciro rising slowly with a questioning gaze.

‘What is it?’ Julius said.

Regulus hesitated, unwilling to voice what seemed like childish fears. What had he been thinking to allow such flights of fancy? ‘I … saw Brutus leave, sir. I thought there might be further orders.’

A subtle tension went out of the men as he spoke and Regulus saw Mark Antony too showed strain on his patrician features.

‘Join us, Regulus,’ Julius said. ‘Have one of your men keep order in the forum. You know Pompey as well as anyone and I want you to be part of the planning.’

Regulus felt a weight lift. He had been mistaken and chose not to mention his moment of superstitious fear. Yet as he seated himself he recalled the wildness in Brutus’ eyes and decided to seek him out before the day was over. Regulus did not enjoy mysteries, and he had never been a trusting man. With the decision made, he was able to turn to the business of the meeting and the incident slipped from his conscious thought.

Servilia’s house had hardly changed in the time Brutus had been away from the city. The three-storey building was clean and well-kept, with a single torch burning over the doorway at all hours of the day and night.

He paid a boy to look after his horse and walked into the main hall, removing his helmet and running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. He stood awkwardly as he announced himself, detached from the empty faces around him. He felt like a spectator in a play, hearing his own breath more loudly than the words of the servants.

She came out in a rush when she heard his name and he embraced her awkwardly, feeling her stiffen on the instant she came into contact. Her smile vanished.

‘What is it? Is there fighting?’ she said.

He shook his head and, without warning, tears threatened to humiliate him. ‘No. The city is cheering him in the forum. Julius is in the senate building.’

‘Then what is it? You’re so pale! Come inside, Brutus, and tell me.’

He followed past the stares of clients into the private suite of rooms and sank onto a couch, gazing at nothing. Servilia sat next to him and took his hands in hers. He saw how she had painted and prepared herself, and knowing it was for Julius was almost enough to make him walk out, if his legs would have borne him.

‘Tell me,’ she said softly.

He was surprised to see a rim of tears on her lashes. He reached up to touch them gently with his thumb and let his hand fall as she flinched from anything that would spoil her perfection. ‘I’m leaving, Servilia,’ he said. ‘I’m free of him.’

Servilia shook her head in confusion, gripping his hand. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded.

He grimaced. ‘Exactly what you heard me say, Mother. I am done with Julius and he is done with me.’

‘Will you tell me what happened?’

‘I saw him make Mark Antony first in Rome and it all became painfully clear. Julius was never the man I thought he was. Never. He’s played with my loyalty as cleverly as any other of those senate bastards, until we are all working for them, giving our lives for nothing more than their promises and prestige.’

‘What does it matter if he honours Mark Antony? The man is no more than competent. There are dozens like him working for Rome. Julius needs you. I have heard him say it.’

Brutus shook his head in disgust. ‘He doesn’t need anyone. Just followers. I’ve done that for too many years and I’ve been his dog for most of my life. That can end too, like anything else.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, overcome by memory and pain.

She reached a hand to his cheek and he flinched away, wounding her.

‘Have you thought what you will do, at all?’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘Have you planned how you will live? Or must a son of mine be reduced to mercenary work and petty theft? How will you eat?’

‘I’m a little old to be looking for another life, Mother, don’t you think? I’m a Roman general and I know how to train soldiers. There will always be a place for men like me. I’ll go as far as I can until I have to work and there I’ll stay. I’ll build armies for someone else and never see Rome until Julius has gone from her. You may prefer me to stay and wash his feet for the rest of my life, but I will not.’

‘You must talk to Julius,’ she said, her eyes pleading. ‘No, let me talk to him. You stay here for an hour and I will see him. He loves you, Brutus, as much as I do.’

He rose and she stood with him, not willing to let him go.

‘He will hurt you too in the end,’ Brutus said softly. ‘And he won’t even know.’

He tilted his head, watching as tears flowed down her cheeks and spoiled the powder. As he began to step away from her, she reached out with surprising strength and drew him into an embrace. For a long time, she held him in silence and he could feel the wetness of her tears on his throat.

‘You are my only son,’ she said, at last. ‘Did I tell you how proud I was when you stood on the tourney sand and the crowd rose to cheer you? Did I tell you that?’

‘You did, and I knew it anyway,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘You were shining with it, in front of them all.’

‘Is there nothing I can say to you? Will you not even give me an hour? It is not such a great thing.’

‘Let it go, Mother,’ he said, his expression hardening. ‘Let me go.’

‘Never,’ she said. ‘You are too precious to me.’

‘What a pair of fools we are,’ he said. He raised his hand to her face and this time she did not draw back as he smoothed the tears from her. ‘In my letters, did I ever say there was a battle where I wore his helmet and cloak?’

She shook her head and he shrugged, looking back into the past.

‘They thought they were following him. The legions were tired and starving and in pain, but they followed because they thought he was calling them out for one last charge. He was helpless with his shaking sickness and he could not do it. I led them because I love him more than any other man I have known. He has been with me all my life and we have seen places I would not have believed. We have conquered countries together, and by the gods you should have seen the armies we broke. Enough to fill little Rome twice over, and we went through them.’

‘Then why?’

‘Because I cannot give my whole life to a man who does not even know what he has been given. He showed how much he valued me with his gift to Mark Antony.’

He clenched his fists at that memory.

‘I could have been more, do you understand? If he had died in Gaul, I would have mourned him, but I would have taken his place and cut my own path. I could have done it, Servilia. He and I have something running in our blood that no one else in this feeble city has, not any more. Either one of us could have risen over all of them and accepted no equals – no masters, Servilia. Yet with him, I am a servant. He sends me, I go. He tells me to stay, I stay. Can you imagine how that feels, for me?’

He stroked her hair gently as he spoke, but his eyes were distant and cold.

‘I am the best of my generation, Mother. I could have ruled. But I had the misfortune to be born to a Rome with Julius in it. I have suffered it for years. I have pledged my life to him and he cannot see it.’

She pulled back from him at last and shook her head. ‘You’re too proud, Brutus. Even for a son of mine you are too proud. You’re still young. You could be great and still be loyal to him.’

Temper flushed his cheeks. ‘I was born for more than that! In any other city, I could have ruled, don’t you understand? The tragedy is that I was born into his generation.’ He sighed in misery. ‘You couldn’t know. I have won battles when Julius had already given them up. I have led men when they would have run under any other general. I have trained generals for him, Servilia. There are places in Gaul where my silver armour is part of legends. Don’t tell me I’m too proud. You were not there.’

His eyes glinted with banked fire.

‘Why should I throw my years away for him like so many others? Renius died to save him, and Cabera gave his health because it was Julius asking. Tubruk died to save his wife. They were good men, but I won’t go with them across the river, not for him. I have won Gaul for Julius; let that be the end of it. He has had enough from me.’ He gave a bitter laugh, which chilled his mother. ‘Perhaps I should cross to Pompey and offer him my allegiance. I doubt he would scorn what I could bring.’

‘You won’t betray Julius,’ Servilia said, her eyes dark with horror. ‘Even your arrogance wouldn’t stretch that far.’ For an instant, she thought he might strike her.

‘My arrogance? Is that what you call it? Well, why not, Mother? Where else in the world is crying out for good Roman generals? Perhaps when Julius comes asking for me, you should tell him he will find me in Greece, on the other side of a battle. Perhaps he would understand then what he has lost in me.’

He detached her clinging hands and smiled at the ravages her crying had made in her face. Her age was no longer concealed and he wondered if he would ever see her again.

‘I am your son, Servilia, and I do have too much pride to follow him any longer.’

She looked up into his eyes and saw his furious determination. ‘He will kill you, Brutus.’

‘Such little faith in me, Servilia. Perhaps I shall kill him.’ He nodded as if they had come to an end and kissed her hand before walking out.

Alone, Servilia sank slowly onto the couch. Her hands were shaking and she clasped them together, before reaching for a tiny silver bell at her side. A slave girl entered and stood appalled at the destruction of the morning’s work.

‘Fetch your paints and oils, Talia. We must repair the damage before he comes.’

Brutus guided his Spanish horse through the streets, taking a path that would leave the forum far to the east. He had no wish to meet any of the men he was leaving and the thought of having to speak to them gave him an urgency that cut through his stunned misery.

He rode without care for the citizens and slaves who scurried out of his way. He wanted to leave it all behind and get to the coast where he could buy his way onto a fishing boat or anything else that would take him. The familiarity of the city seemed to mock his decision and every turning brought fresh memories. He had thought he had few ties with the people, but instead of faces he found he knew the calls of vendors, the colours, even the smells of the alleys that led away from the main roads.

Even though he was mounted, hurrying citizens kept pace with him as he rode through their midst, rushing endlessly from place to place in the city. He flowed with them and felt the stares of stall-keepers as he rode stiffly through the arteries of trade. It was all familiar, but still he was surprised when he found he had taken the road that led to Alexandria’s shop.

There were ugly memories waiting for him there. He thought of the riots that had left him wounded. Yet he was proud of saving those who could not protect themselves and he sat a little straighter in the saddle as he approached.

He saw her in the distance as he gathered the reins to dismount. Though she was facing away from him, he would have known her anywhere. His hands froze on the high pommel as a man at her side reached around her waist with casual affection. Brutus’ mouth pursed in thought and he nodded to himself. It didn’t touch him except as a distant pain that something else in his life had ended. He was too numb with a greater loss. Her letters had stopped a long time ago, but somehow he had thought she might have waited, as if her life could only go on while he was there. He shook his head and saw a grubby child watching him from an alley between the shops.

‘Come here, boy,’ he called, holding up a silver coin.

The urchin came out with a swagger like a dockworker and Brutus winced at the lack of meat on the young bones.

‘Do you know the lady who works in this shop?’ Brutus asked.

The boy flickered a glance after the couple further along the road, an answer in itself. Brutus did not follow the look, but simply held out the coin.

‘Is she doing well?’ he asked.

The boy looked cynically at him, eyeing the silver and clearly caught between fear and need. ‘Everyone knows her. She won’t let me in the shop, though.’

‘You’d steal the brooches, I should think,’ Brutus said, with a wink.

The boy shrugged. ‘Maybe. What do you want for the coin?’

‘I want to know if she wears a ring on her hand,’ Brutus replied.

The boy thought for a moment, rubbing his nose and leaving a silvery trail on his skin. ‘A slave ring?’

Brutus chuckled. ‘No, lad, a gold marriage band on the fourth finger.’

The boy still looked suspicious, but his eyes never left the promised reward. At last, he came to a decision and reached for it. ‘I’ve seen a ring. She has a baby at home, they say. Tabbic is the one who owns the shop. He hit me once,’ he said in a rush.

Brutus chuckled and let him take the coin. On impulse, he reached into his pouch and brought out a gold aureus. The boy’s expression changed the instant he saw it, going from confidence to frightened anger.

‘Do you want it?’ Brutus said.

The child scrambled away at high speed, leaving Brutus bemused behind him. No doubt the boy had never seen gold before and thought it would mean his death to own such a thing. Brutus sighed. If the local wolves found out he had such a treasure, it probably would. Shaking his head, he put the coin back in the pouch.

‘I thought it was you, General,’ a voice came.

Brutus looked down at Tabbic as the jeweller strolled onto the road and patted his horse’s neck. His bald head gleamed from the forges and white chest hairs tufted over the apron he wore, but he was still the same steady figure Brutus remembered.

‘Who else?’ Brutus replied, forcing a smile.

Tabbic squinted upwards as he rubbed the horse’s muzzle, seeing eyes still red with tears and anger. ‘Will you come in and try a drink with me?’ Tabbic said. ‘I’ll have a boy stable this fine mount of yours.’ When he saw Brutus hesitate, he went on. ‘There’s spiced wine on the forge, too much for me.’

He looked away as he asked, making it easy to refuse. Perhaps that was why Brutus nodded and swung a leg over the saddle.

‘Just the one then, if you can make it strong. I’m going far tonight,’ he said.

The interior of the shop was subtly different to how Brutus remembered it. The great forges still stood solidly, a banked fire gleaming red under the grates. The benches and tool racks were new-looking, though the smell of oil and metal was like stepping back into old memories. Brutus breathed in, smiling to himself and relaxing a fraction.

Tabbic noticed the change as he crossed to the heavy iron kettle on the edge of the forge. ‘Are you thinking of the riots? Those were black days. We were lucky to get out with our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for helping us.’

‘You did,’ Brutus replied.

‘Draw up a seat, lad, while you taste this. Used to be, it was my winter brew, but it warms a summer evening just as well.’ Tabbic ladled steaming red liquid into a metal cup, wrapping it in cloth before handing it over.

Brutus took it gingerly, breathing in the fumes. ‘What’s in it?’ he asked.

Tabbic shrugged. ‘A few things from the markets. To be honest, it depends on what I have to hand. It tastes different every year, Alexandria says.’

Brutus nodded, accepting the old man’s lead. ‘I saw her,’ he said.

‘You would have done. Her husband came to bring her home just before I saw you,’ Tabbic replied. ‘She’s found a good man, there.’

Brutus almost smiled at the old jeweller’s transparent worry. ‘I’m not back to pick at old scabs. All I want is to get as far away as I can. I’ll not trouble her.’

He hadn’t noticed the tension in Tabbic’s shoulders until the old man relaxed. They sat in peaceful silence then and Brutus sipped at the mug, wincing slightly. ‘This is sour,’ he grumbled.

Tabbic shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t waste good wine on a hot cup. You’ll find it has a bite, though.’

It was true that the bitter warmth was easing some of the tightness in his chest. For a moment, Brutus resisted, unwilling to let go of even a part of his anger. Rage was something he had always enjoyed as it flooded him. It brought a kind of freedom from responsibility and to feel it ebb was to face the return of regret. Then he sighed and offered his cup for Tabbic to refill.

‘You don’t have the face of a man who came home this morning,’ Tabbic observed, almost to himself.

Brutus looked at him, feeling weary. ‘Maybe I have,’ he said.

Tabbic slurped the dregs of his own cup, belching softly into a fist as he considered the response. ‘You weren’t the sort to wrap yourself in knots the last time I saw you. What’s changed?’

‘Has it occurred to you that I might not want to talk about it?’ Brutus growled.

Tabbic shrugged. ‘You can finish your drink and leave, if you like. It won’t change anything. You’ll still be welcome here.’

He turned his back on Brutus to lift the heavy kettle off the forge and fill the cups once again. Brutus could hear the dark liquid slosh.

‘I think it’s grown stronger,’ Tabbic said, peering into the pot. ‘This was a good batch.’

‘Have you any regrets, old man?’ Brutus asked him.

Tabbic grunted. ‘I thought you had something troubling you. I’d go back and change a few things if I could – be a better husband, maybe. If you ever left your mother’s tit, there’ll be things you wish you hadn’t done, but it’s not all bad, I’ve found. A little guilt has made more than a few men live better than they would have done – trying to even the scales before they cross the river.’

Brutus looked away as Tabbic drew up an old bench, wincing as his knees flexed.

‘I always wanted a little more than that,’ Brutus said at last.

Tabbic sipped at his drink, the steam rising into his nostrils. After a time, he chuckled. ‘You know, I always thought that was the secret of happiness, right there. There are some people who know the value of a kind wife and children who don’t shame you. Maybe they’re the ones who had a cruel time of it when they were young; I don’t know. I’ve seen men who had to choose whether to feed the children or themselves each day, but they were content, even then.’

He looked up at Brutus and the man in silver armour felt the gaze and frowned to himself.

‘Then there are those who are born with a hole in them,’ Tabbic continued softly. ‘They want and want until they tear themselves to pieces. I don’t know what starts the need in a man, or how it’s stopped, except for killing.’

Brutus looked quizzically at him. ‘You’re going to tell me how to find a good woman after this, aren’t you?’

Tabbic shook his head. ‘You don’t come in here and ask me if I have any regrets without a few of your own. Whatever you’ve done, I hope you can mend it. If you can’t, it will be with you a long time.’

‘Another refill,’ Brutus said, holding out his cup. He knew his senses were being dulled, but he welcomed the feeling. ‘The trouble with your rustic philosophy,’ Brutus began, tasting the new cup. ‘The trouble is that there have to be some of us who want and want, or where would we be?’ He frowned then as he considered his own words.

‘Happier,’ Tabbic replied. ‘It’s not a small thing to raise a family and provide for them. It might not seem much to armoured generals of Rome, but it earns my respect. No poems about us.’

The mulled wine was more powerful than Brutus had expected on an empty stomach. He knew there was a flaw in Tabbic’s vision, but he couldn’t find the words to make him see it.

‘You need both,’ he said at last. ‘You have to have dreaming, or what’s the point? Cows raise families, Tabbic. Cows.’

Tabbic looked scornful. ‘I’ve never seen a worse head for drink, I swear it. “Cows”, by the gods.’

‘One chance you get,’ Brutus went on, holding up a finger. ‘One chance, birth to death, to do whatever you can. To be remembered. One chance.’ He slumped, staring at the red glow of the forge in the growing darkness.

They emptied the kettle down to bitter pulp at the bottom. Brutus had long ceased to move or speak when Tabbic eventually heaved him onto a cot in a back room, still in his armour. At the doorway, the jeweller paused, looking down at the sprawled figure, already beginning to snore.

‘My daughters remember me every day,’ he said softly. ‘I hope you make the right choices, lad. I really do.’

Julius picked a piece of fennel sausage out of his teeth and smiled as he watched the drunken guests become ever wilder as the moon sank towards the horizon. The music too became more frenzied as the wine flowed into the players. The drums and pipes beat out counterpoint rhythms, while the cithara players made their strings jump with blurring fingers. Julius had not heard a single dirge or ballad from them all the time he had been there, and their excesses suited his mood perfectly. The food too was magnificent after soldiers’ rations.

The invitation was one of dozens that had been delivered before sunset, but the host, Cassius, was a senator who had remained behind and Julius wanted to cultivate the man. Only the first hour had been spent in conversation, as Julius became reacquainted with the social class of his city. The free wine had been delivered all over Rome and they seemed determined to obey his command to celebrate, becoming increasingly wild as the moon set over the hills.

Julius barely listened to a drunken merchant who seemed to have fully recovered from his initial awe. The man wandered through topics without needing more than the occasional nod to keep him going. While he beamed and talked, Julius eyed the young ladies who had come to the party, not unaware that most of them had appeared only after his own presence became known. Some of them were shameless in their competition for his glance and he had already considered more than one of those to share his bed that night. Their faces were flushed with sexual excitement as the red wine lit them up and Julius found the spectacle mesmerising. He had been a long time in the field and the opportunities for female companionship had been few. Brutus had called it ‘scratching his itch’ and it had been no more satisfying, on the whole.

In comparison with the camp whores, the beauties of Rome were like a flock of painted birds arrayed for his enjoyment. Julius could smell the mingling perfumes in the air, even over the fennel.

He sensed his companion had stumbled at last to a halt and Julius looked at him, wondering if a question had been asked. He was a little drunk himself, though his wine was cut with water. Since passing through the Quirinal gate, he had felt the intoxication of challenge and sheer pleasure at being back with his people. The wine bore but a little responsibility for his good spirits.

‘My brothers in particular will be pleased to see a steady hand on the city after Pompey,’ the merchant continued.

Julius let his voice become a background noise as he watched the people around him. Apart from the simple arousal at the thought of bedding one of the Roman women, he wondered if he should be looking for something more than a night. He had once laughed at the suggestion that he needed heirs, but he had been younger then and many of those he called friends had still been alive. The thought sharpened his appraisal of the young women in the crowd, looking for more than a simple turn of leg and thigh, or the quality of the breasts. Given the option, he knew he would prefer a beauty, but perhaps it was also time to think of the connections and alliances of a union. Marriage was one of the powerful counters in the politics of Rome and the right choice could benefit him as much as the wrong one could be wasted.

With a slight gesture, Julius summoned Domitius from another knot of conversation. Senator Cassius saw the movement and came bustling over first, determined that Julius’ slightest whim should be met. He had been honoured by the arrival of the general and Julius found the constant attention flattering, as it was intended to be. The man was as slender as a youth and bore himself well amongst the guests. Julius had encouraged him with subtle compliments and felt sure the senator would be one of those returning to the new government. If the others who had stayed were as amenable, Julius thought the elections would go very smoothly indeed. The senate house could well be filled with his supporters.

He had intended to discuss the women with Domitius, but with Cassius there, Julius addressed him instead, choosing his words carefully. ‘I have been away for too long to know which of your guests are unmarried, Cassius.’ Julius hid his smile by sipping his wine as he saw the senator’s interest sharpen.

‘Are you considering an alliance, General?’ Cassius asked, watching him closely.

Julius hesitated only for a moment. Perhaps it was the excitement he had felt since his return, or part of his sexual interest that night, but he was suddenly certain. ‘A man cannot live alone, and the company of soldiers does not meet every requirement,’ he said, grinning.

Cassius smiled. ‘It will be a pleasure for me to arrange introductions for you. There is only a small selection here, though many are unpromised.’

‘A good family, of course, and fertile,’ Julius said.

Cassius blinked at the bluntness, and then nodded enthusiastically. He practically shook with the desire to spread the information and Julius watched as he searched for a way to take his leave without being rude.

Cassius found his solution in the slave messenger who entered the main room, moving quickly through the revellers towards Julius. The man was simply dressed and wore his iron ring to show his status, but to Julius’ eye he looked more like a bodyguard than a simple messenger. He had been around enough soldiers to know the manner and he felt Domitius prickle at the man’s approach, always wary as he had been trained to be.

As if sensing the discomfort his entrance had caused, the slave held up his hands to show he bore no weapons. ‘General, I have come from my mistress. She waits for you outside.’

‘No name? Who is your mistress?’ Julius asked.

The omission was interesting enough to halt even Cassius in the act of slipping back to the other guests. The slave blushed slightly. ‘She said you would remember the pearl, even if you had forgotten her. I am sorry, sir. Those are the words she gave me to say, if you asked.’

Julius inclined his head in thanks, quite happy to leave Cassius mystified. He felt a stab of guilt that he had not taken the time to see Servilia before the sun had fallen on his first day.

‘I will not need you, Domitius,’ he said, and ‘Lead the way,’ to the slave, following him outside and down the main stairs of the house. The doors were opened for him and he was able to step straight into the carriage waiting outside.

‘You did not come to me,’ Servilia said coldly as he smiled at her. She had always looked beautiful in moonlight and for a moment he was content just to drink her in.

‘Enough of that, Julius,’ she snapped. ‘You should have come as you promised. There is a great deal to discuss.’

Outside the snug confines of the carriage, her driver snapped his whip over the horse and the carriage trundled away over the stone streets, leaving the painted women of Rome to discuss the general’s interest without him.

CHAPTER SIX

The summer dawn came early, though it was grey and cold as Brutus shoved his head into a water barrel in the public stables. He came up gasping and rubbed his face and neck vigorously until the skin reddened and he began to feel a little more useful. He had taken a risk by staying a night in the city. Julius would have used the time to strengthen his grip on Rome. His men would be guarding the gates and Brutus knew he might have to bluff his way through. He had considered hiding the armour, but the horse bore a legion brand and legionaries would be far more interested in a horse thief than a general out for a morning ride.

He used the mounting block to jump into the saddle, the horse skittering sideways as his weight came on. Brutus took up the reins with unusually tight hands. Tabbic’s company had been like balm on an open wound, but he should have ridden straight for the coast.

Grim-faced, he threw a coin to one of the stable boys and clattered out onto the street. The closest gate was the Quirinal, but he headed instead for the Esquiline in the east. It was a traders’ gate and would be busy even at the early hour with countless merchants and labourers. With a little of the gods’ luck, the guards there would pass him with just a glance and a wave.

As he trotted stiff-backed through the city, Brutus felt himself sweating out the poisons of the night before. It was hard to imagine the optimism he had felt on coming into the city with the others. Even the thought of it brought his anger sliding back to the surface. His glare sharpened unconsciously and those who saw his expression kept their eyes downcast until he had gone.

There was one place in the world where he would be welcome, though he had said it half in bitter jest to his mother. Why should he weigh an old friendship in the balance of his life? It mattered nothing to Julius, after all. That had at last become clear. There would be no day when Julius turned to him and said, ‘You have been my right hand since the beginning,’ and gave him a country, or a throne, or anything approaching his worth.

He passed through the Esquiline gate with an ease that mocked his earlier worry. Julius had not thought to warn the guards and Brutus returned their salutes without a sign of tension. He would go to Greece. He would go to Pompey and show Julius what he had lost in passing him over.

With Rome behind, Brutus rode fast and recklessly, losing himself in the sweat and risk of hard ground. The exertion felt like tearing free, an antidote to the lingering effects of the mulled wine. The familiarity helped to keep his mind numb at first as he fell into the rhythms of a cavalry scout. He did not want to begin the endless self-examination he knew would follow his decision to leave Julius. Though it loomed over him like winter, he leaned forward in the saddle, concentrating on the ground and the sun on his face.

The sight of a marching column interrupted his reverie, snapping him back to a world where decisions had to be made. He yanked the reins to bring the horse to a skidding stop, both front hooves flailing for a moment in the air. Was it possible that Julius had sent men ahead to cut him off? He watched the snake of legionaries in the distance. They carried no flags and Brutus hesitated, turning his mount in a tight circle. There were no armed forces in the south that had not been dragged into the threatening war. Pompey’s legion had gone with him and he thought the Gaul veterans were safe in the city. Yet he had delayed a night in Tabbic’s shop. Julius could well have sent them out to hunt him down.

The thought brought back his anger and pride. He ignored his first impulse to circle around the column and approached warily, ready to kick his mount to a gallop. Julius would not have sent infantry, he was almost certain, and he saw that the column had no horses with them, not even for officers. Brutus felt a deep relief at that. He had trained the extraordinarii to hunt a single rider and he knew they would show no mercy to a traitor, even the man who had led them in Gaul.

The train of thought made him flinch unconsciously. He had not had time to consider what those left behind would think when they heard. They would not understand his reasons. Friends who had known him for years would be appalled. Domitius would not believe it at first, Brutus thought bitterly. Octavian would be crushed.

He wondered if Regulus would understand. The man had betrayed his own master, after all. Brutus doubted he would find sympathy there. The rabid loyalty that Regulus had shown to Pompey had been transferred in one violent jolt to his new master. Regulus was a zealot. There could be no half measures for him and he would hunt Brutus tirelessly if Julius gave the order.

Oddly, it was most painful to imagine Julius’ face as he heard the news. He would assume there had been a mistake until Servilia spoke to him. Even then, Brutus knew he would be hurt and the thought made his knuckles whiten on the reins. Perhaps Julius would grieve for him in his sanctimonious way. He would shake his balding head and understand that he had lost the best of them through his own blindness. Then he would send the wolves after him. Brutus knew better than to expect forgiveness for his betrayal. Julius could not afford to let him reach Pompey.

Brutus glanced behind him, suddenly afraid he would see the extraordinarii galloping in his wake. The fields were quiet and he took a better grip on his emotions. The column was a more immediate threat, and as he came closer he saw the pale ovals of faces glancing in his direction and the distant din of a sounding horn. He dropped his hand to his sword and grinned into the wind. Let the bastards try to take him, whoever they were. He was the best of a generation and a general of Rome.

The column came to a halt and Brutus knew who they were the moment he saw their lack of perfect order. The road guards had been sent to the old Primigenia barracks, but Brutus guessed these were the stubborn ones, finding their own way to reach a general who cared nothing for them. Whether they realised it or not, they were natural allies and a plan sprang full-grown into his head as he rode up to them. An inner voice was amused at how his thoughts seemed to come faster and with more force the further away he was from Julius. He could become the man he should have been without that other’s shadow.

Seneca turned in panic as the cornicen sounded a warning note. He felt a cold thumping in his chest as he expected to see the ranks of Caesar’s horsemen riding down to punish him.

The relief of seeing only a single rider was something like ecstasy and he could almost smile at how afraid he had been. Ahenobarbus’ talk of oaths had troubled him and he knew the men shared something of the same guilt.

Seneca narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the rider approached the head of the column, looking neither right nor left as he passed the standing ranks. Seneca recognised the silver armour of one of Caesar’s generals and on the heels of that came a fear that they were being surrounded once again. Anything was possible from those who had spun a wheel around them and made them look like children.

He was not the only one to have the thought. Half the men in the column jerked their heads nervously, looking for the tell-tale dust that would reveal the presence of a larger force. The ground was dry in the summer’s heat and even a few riders should have given themselves away. They saw nothing, but dared not cease their searching after the harsh lesson they had been taught outside Corfinium.

‘Ahenobarbus! Where are you?’ Brutus called as he reined in, his dark eyes examining Seneca for a moment and moving on, dismissing him from notice.

Seneca coloured and cleared his throat. He did remember this one, from the negotiations in Caesar’s tent. The mocking smile was always his first expression and the eyes had seen more war and death than Seneca could imagine. On the high-stepping Spanish gelding, he was a forbidding figure and Seneca found his mouth was dry from fear.

‘Ahenobarbus! Show yourself,’ Brutus shouted, his impatience growing.

‘He is not here,’ Seneca replied.

The general’s head snapped round at his words and he wheeled his horse with obvious skill. Seneca felt a little more of his confidence drain away under the man’s stare. He felt as if he was being judged and found wanting, but the initiative seemed to have been lost from the moment they sighted the rider.

‘I do not remember your face,’ Brutus told him, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘Who are you?’

‘Livinius Seneca. I do not …’

‘What rank do you hold to lead these men?’

Seneca glared. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few of the guards turn their heads to hear his answer. Against his will, he flushed again. ‘Pompey will decide how to reward my loyalty,’ he began. ‘At the moment …’

‘At the moment, you may be a few hours ahead of Caesar’s legions once he discovers you have left the barracks,’ Brutus snapped. ‘I assume command of these cohorts by right of my rank as general of Rome. Now, where are you heading?’

Seneca lost his temper at last. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’ he shouted. ‘We know our duty, sir. We will not return to Rome. Ride back to the city, General. I don’t have time to stand here and bicker with you.’

Brutus raised his eyebrows in interest, leaning forward to take a better look. ‘But I’m not going back to Rome,’ he said softly. ‘I’m taking you to Greece to fight for Pompey.’

‘I won’t be tricked by you, General. Not twice. I saw you in Caesar’s tent with Ahenobarbus. Are you telling me you have turned traitor in a day? That’s a lie.’

To Seneca’s horror, the silver-armoured general swung a leg over his saddle and vaulted lightly to the ground. He took three paces to stand close enough to feel the sun’s heat off his armour and his eyes were terrible.

‘You call me a liar and a traitor and expect to live, Seneca? I am no man’s servant but Rome’s. My sword has killed more men than stand here for the Senate and you dare to use those words to me?’

His hand caressed the hilt of his gladius and Seneca took a step back from his rage.

‘I have told you where I’m going,’ Brutus continued relentlessly. ‘I have told you I will fight for Pompey. Don’t question me again, boy. Be warned.’ The last words were a harsh whisper, before the light of madness fell from his gaze and his voice changed to a more normal tone. ‘Tell me where you are heading.’

‘The coast,’ Seneca said. He could feel a fat line of sweat run down his cheek and did not dare to scratch the itching trail.

Brutus shook his head. ‘Not with two cohorts. There aren’t fishing boats enough for all of us. We’ll need to head for a port and hope there is a merchant vessel Pompey didn’t manage to burn. Brundisium is two hundred miles south and east from here. It’s large enough.’

‘It’s too far,’ Seneca said instantly. ‘If they send the extraordinarii …’

‘You think you’ll be safer with your back to the sea? Then you’re a fool. We need a ship and there must be some trader still working.’

‘But if they send the riders?’ Seneca said desperately.

Brutus shrugged. ‘I trained those men. If Caesar sends the extraordinarii out against us, we’ll gut them.’

As Seneca stared at him, Brutus walked calmly back to his horse and leapt into the saddle. From that lofty position, he looked down at Seneca and waited for further opposition. When none came, he nodded to himself, satisfied.

‘Brundisium it is. I hope your lads are fit, Seneca. I want to be in Brundisium in ten days or less.’

He turned his horse to face the south and waved on the first rank of guards. To Seneca’s private fury, they turned to follow him and the column began to move once more. As he matched his pace to the ranks around him, Seneca realised that he would spend the next week staring at the rear of the horse.

In the soft light of morning, Julius paced the length of Marius’ old entrance hall, watched by the generals he had summoned. He looked exhausted and pale, a man made older by the news.

‘It’s not just that the betrayal will hurt our standing with the remaining senators,’ he said. ‘We could keep that quiet if we say he was sent away on some private task. But he has with him the knowledge of our strengths, our weaknesses, even our methods of attack! Brutus knows the details of every battle we fought in Gaul. He practically invented the extraordinarii as we use them. He has the Spanish secret of hard iron. Gods, if he gives all that to Pompey we will be beaten before we begin. Tell me how I can win against that sort of knowledge.’

‘Kill him before he can reach Pompey,’ Regulus said into the silence.

Julius glanced up, but did not reply. Domitius frowned in bemusement, wiping clammy sweat from his face. His thoughts were still heavy from a wild party in a house off the forum. The sweet smell of drink was on all of them, but they were steady. Domitius shook his head to clear it. They could not be discussing Brutus as an enemy, he told himself. It was not possible. They had taken salt and pay together, shed blood and bound each other’s wounds. They had become generals in hard years and Domitius could not shake the thought that Brutus would return with an explanation and a joke, with a woman on his arm, perhaps. The man was practically a father to Octavian. How could he have thrown that away for his stupid temper?

Domitius rubbed his callused hands over his face, looking at the floor as the angry conversation continued around him. They had come into the city only the morning before and already one of them was an enemy.

Mark Antony spoke as Julius resumed his pacing. ‘We could spread the word that Brutus is a spy for us. That would undermine his value to the forces in Greece. Pompey won’t be willing to trust him as it is. With just a little push, he might reject Brutus altogether.’

‘How? How do we do that?’ Julius demanded.

Mark Antony shrugged. ‘Send a man to be captured on the Greek coast. Give him your ring or something, to show he spies for us. Pompey will torture it out of him and then Brutus will lose his value.’

Julius considered this in angry silence. ‘And who shall I send to be tortured, Mark Antony? We are not discussing a beating. Pompey would take hours over him to be certain he has the truth. I’ve seen him work on traitors before. Our spy would lose his eyes to hot irons and with them the hope of surviving the ordeal. Pompey will be thorough with him. Do you understand? There’ll be nothing left but meat.’

Mark Antony did not reply and Julius snorted in disgust, his sandals clicking as he walked the marble floor. At the furthest point from them, he paused and turned. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept and his mind was numb.

‘You are right. We must lessen the coup of having Brutus go over to them. Pompey will trumpet it far and wide if he has any sense, but if we can sow distrust, Pompey could well waste our precious general. Do the men know yet that he has left?’

‘Some will, though they may not guess he has gone to Pompey,’ Mark Antony replied. ‘It is beyond belief for any of us. They would not think of it.’

‘Then a loyal man will suffer the worst agonies to undo this betrayal,’ Julius said grimly. ‘It is the first of what he will owe us. Whoever we send cannot know the truth. It would be burnt out of him. He must be told that Brutus is still one of us, but playing a subtle game. Perhaps we can have him overhear the secret, so he does not become too suspicious. Who can you send?’

The generals looked at each other reluctantly. It was one thing to order men into a battle line, but this was a dirty business and Brutus was hated in that room.

Mark Antony cleared his throat at last. ‘I have one who has worked for me in the past. He is clumsy enough to get himself caught if we send him alone. His name is Caecilius.’

‘Does he have family, children?’ Julius asked, clenching his jaw.

‘I don’t know,’ Mark Antony said.

‘If he has, I will send a blood-price to them when he is clear of the city,’ Julius said. It did not seem enough.

‘I will summon Caecilius here, with your permission?’ Mark Antony asked.

As always, the final order and the final responsibility rested with Julius. He felt annoyed that Mark Antony would not take the burden with a few easy words, but Brutus would have and Brutus had turned traitor. It was better to be surrounded by weaker men, perhaps.

‘Yes. Have him come here. I will give the orders myself,’ Julius confirmed.

‘We should send an assassin with him, to be certain,’ Octavian said suddenly. All eyes turned to him and he faced them without apology. ‘Well? Regulus has said what we are all thinking. Am I the only other one who will say it? Brutus was as much my friend as any of you, but you think he should live? Even if he tells Pompey nothing, or this spy weakens his position, he must be killed.’

Julius took Octavian by the shoulders and the younger man could not look him in the eyes. ‘No. There will be no assassins sent by me. No one else has the right to make that decision, Octavian. I will not order the death of my friend.’

At the last word, Octavian’s eyes blazed with fury and Julius gripped him harder.

‘Perhaps I share the blame for Brutus, lad. I did not see the signs in him until he had gone, though they trouble me now. I have been a fool, but what he has done changes nothing, in the end. Whether Pompey appoints him general or not, we must still go to Greece and fight those legions.’ He paused until Octavian looked up. ‘When we do, if Brutus is there, I shall order that he is kept alive. If the Gods kill him with a spear or an arrow, then my hands are clean. But if he lives through the war to come, I will not take his life until I have spoken to him, perhaps not even then. There is too much between us to think otherwise. Do you understand?’

‘No,’ Octavian said. ‘Not at all.’

Julius ignored the anger, feeling it himself. ‘I hope you will in time. Brutus and I have shared blood and life and more years than I can remember. I will not see him dead at my order. Not today, for this, nor at any other time. We are brothers, he and I, whether he chooses to remember it or not.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seeing Brundisium without the usual bustle of merchant and legion galleys was strange for such a key port in the south. When Brutus crested the last hill with the exhausted guard cohorts, he was disappointed not to find anything larger than a lobster boat tied to the quays. He tried to remember if he knew the quaestor of the port and then shrugged to himself. Whatever small contingent of Roman soldiers was stationed there would not be able to interfere. Outside of Rome herself, there was nothing in the south to trouble them.

The guards followed him down to the port, ignoring the stares and pointing fingers of the workers there. It was a strange feeling for most of them, but Brutus was familiar with hostile territory and fell back into the attitudes of Gaul without really thinking about it. The sight of soldiers would have brought a sense of peace and order only a short time before, but with a looming civil war they would be feared as much as any other band of scavengers. It was unpleasant to see the faces of those who stepped aside for the two cohorts of guards. Even with all his experience, Brutus could not ignore a subtle discomfort and found himself growing increasingly irritable as he led the column through to the import buildings on the docks. He left them there in the sun as he dismounted and strode inside.

The quaestor’s clerk was on his feet, arguing with two burly men. All three turned to face him as he entered and Brutus saluted lazily, knowing his arrival had been the subject of their debate.

‘I need food and water for my men,’ he said abruptly. ‘See to that first. We will not trouble you for long, gentlemen, so put yourselves at ease. I want to find a ship to take me to Greece.’

As he mentioned his destination, he noticed the clerk’s eyes flicker to a piece of parchment on his desk and then back up, guiltily. Brutus smiled, crossing the room. The dockworkers moved to block him and he dropped a casual hand onto his sword.

‘You are unarmed, gentlemen. Are you certain you’d like to try me?’ he asked.

One of the men licked his bottom lip nervously and would have spoken, but his companion tapped him on the arm and they both edged away.

‘Very good,’ Brutus said to them, letting his hand fall. ‘Now then; food, water and … a ship.’

He reached down to the desk and gripped the clerk’s bony hand, moving it firmly off the papers. Brutus took the sheaf and scanned them quickly, letting each fall until he came to one midway through the pile. It was a record of a legion galley that had landed at the port just the day before to replenish its fresh-water barrels. There was little detail to be gleaned from it. The captain had returned from the north according to the record and set sail after only a few hours in Brundisium.

‘Where was he heading?’ Brutus demanded.

The clerk opened his mouth and closed it, shaking his head.

Brutus sighed. ‘I have a thousand men standing on your docks. All we want is to leave here without trouble, but I am not patient today. I can give the word to set fire to this building and anything else you value. Or you can just tell me. Where is this galley?’

The clerk bolted for a back room and Brutus heard the clatter of his sandals as he rushed up a flight of stairs. He waited in uncomfortable silence with the two dockworkers, ignoring them.

A man wearing a toga that had seen better days came down the steps behind the clerk. Brutus sighed at the quaestor’s appearance.

‘Provincials,’ he murmured under his breath.

The man heard him and glared. ‘Where are your letters of authority?’ the quaestor demanded.

Brutus stared at him, focusing on a food stain on the man’s robe until he flushed.

‘You have no right to threaten us here,’ the quaestor blustered. ‘We are loyal.’

‘Really? To whom?’ Brutus asked. The man hesitated and Brutus enjoyed his discomfort before he went on. ‘I have two cohorts going to join Pompey and the Senate in Greece. That is my authority. Your clerk was good enough to show me the records and a galley passed through here yesterday. Tell me where they were heading.’

The quaestor fired a poisonous glance at his hapless servant before coming to a decision. ‘I spoke to the captain myself,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He was on patrol off Ariminum when the message reached him to come in. He was going to land at Ostia.’ He hesitated.

‘But you told him that Pompey had already left,’ Brutus said. ‘I imagine he would want to join the fleet by sailing around the south coast, meeting them halfway. Does that sound like the conversation you remember?’

The quaestor stiffened at the tone. ‘I had no new orders for him. I believe he may have put to sea to deny the value of his ship to … rebel forces.’

‘A sensible man,’ Brutus said. ‘But we are loyal to Pompey, sir. We need that galley. I expect such a thoughtful captain would have told you his next port in case the right person came asking. Somewhere further south, yes?’

As he spoke, he watched the clerk’s eyes and saw them shift guiltily. The quaestor was a far better gambler than his servant, but he caught the glance and the muscles stood out on his jaw as he considered what to do.

‘How do I know you are not with Caesar?’ he asked.

The question had a far greater effect than the quaestor could have intended. Brutus seemed to grow slightly, making the little office feel smaller and oppressively hot. The fingers of his right hand drummed for a moment on the silver breastplate, the noise startlingly loud in the silence.

‘Do you think I have a secret password for you?’ he snapped. ‘A special sign to show I am loyal? These are complicated days. There is nothing more I can say to you, except this. If you do not tell me, I will burn this port to the ground and you in it. I will have my men bar the doors and listen to you scratching at them. That is all I offer.’ He stared the quaestor down, knowing there would be no hint of a bluff in his eyes.

‘Tarentum. He said he would make a landing at Tarentum,’ the clerk said, breaking the tension.

The quaestor was visibly relieved to have had the decision taken from him, but he still raised his fist in reaction, making the clerk flinch. Brutus looked for some hint that they were lying, but he was satisfied and then ignored the pair, calculating quickly. Tarentum was a port he could reach in just a few hours of hard riding across an isthmus the galley would have to sail around.

‘Thank you, gentlemen, your loyalty will be rewarded,’ he said, watching their fear and confusion as they digested his words. He supposed it would be much the same all over Roman lands very soon, as the question of allegiance became more and more important. Civil war engendered a distrust that had already begun to eat at the foundations of their world.

Outside in the sun, Brutus watched the cohorts fill their waterskins from a well in reasonable order. He was tempted for a moment of wildness to have them burn the port as he had threatened. After all, it could well be one of those Julius would use to send a fleet to Greece. He did not give the order, preferring not to send a column of smoke to show their position. There was also a little pride in wanting Julius to make the crossing as soon as he could. Brutus needed just a few months to establish himself in Pompey’s forces and after that Julius could come and be welcome.

‘Seneca, there’s a legion galley heading for Tarentum. I shall ride there. Follow me when you have found provisions.’

Seneca looked at his men and his mouth became a firm line.

‘We have no silver to pay for food,’ he said.

Brutus snorted. ‘This is a port without ships. I’d say the warehouses are full of whatever you need. Take what you want and come after me as fast as you are able. Understood?’

‘Yes, I suppose …’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brutus snapped. ‘Then you salute as if you know what you’re doing, understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Seneca replied, saluting stiffly.

Brutus led his mount over to the well and Seneca watched irritably as he moved amongst the guards with an ease Seneca could only envy. He saw Brutus make some comment and heard their laughter. The general was a hero to men who had done nothing more than keep road forts safe for Rome. Seneca felt a touch of the same admiration himself and wished he could find a way to start again.

As he watched Brutus mount and trot out onto the southern road, Seneca felt the men look to him for orders once more. He realised that few others of his generation had the chance to learn their trade from a veteran of Gaul. He approached the group around the well, as he had seen Brutus do. It had not been his practice to mix with them and they glanced at each other, but then one of them handed him a waterskin and Seneca drank.

‘Do you think he’ll find us a galley, sir?’ one of the men asked.

Seneca wiped his mouth. ‘If he can’t, he’ll probably swim across, towing us behind him,’ he replied, smiling to see them relax. It was such a small thing, but he felt more satisfaction in that moment than he could remember from all his tactical drills.

Brutus galloped across the scrub grass of the southern hills, his eyes steady on the horizon for his first glimpse of the sea. He was hungry, tired and itching under his armour, but if the galley was making only a brief stop at Tarentum, he had to push himself on. He did not dwell on what he would do if the captain had gone. The longer Brutus was on land, the more the danger increased, but there was no point worrying. In his years in Gaul, he had learned the mental trick that allowed him to ignore what he could not control and bring his full weight onto levers he could move. He cleared his mind of the problem, concentrating on making the best speed over rough ground.

It surprised him that he felt responsible for the guards. He knew better than Seneca what would happen if Julius caught them. They had all taken solemn vows not to fight for Pompey and Julius would be forced to make an example. No doubt he would shake his head at the horror of it all before giving the order, but Brutus knew Julius was a general first and a man only rarely, when it profited him. The guards were inexperienced and out of their depth in the power struggle. They could very well be ground into bloody ash between the two sides, casualties of the civil war before it had properly begun. The ship had to be there, waiting for them.

It was easy to dream of the future as Brutus rode, taking the most direct route through rocky fields and valleys. If he arrived at Pompey’s camp with two cohorts, he would have influence from the first moment. Alone, he would have to rely on Pompey’s whim as to whether he was given a command. It was not a pleasant thought. Pompey would not dare to trust him at first and Brutus knew there was a chance he would find himself in the front line as a foot soldier. The silver armour would draw Julius’ Tenth like moths and he would never survive the first battle. He needed Seneca’s men even more than they needed him, perhaps.

The countryside to the south of Rome was a far cry from the lush plains of the north. Small farms survived by growing olives and thick-skinned lemons on twisted wooden skeletons, all wilting in the heat. Thin dogs yapped around his horse whenever he slowed and the dust seemed to coat his throat in a thick layer. The sound of hooves brought people out from the isolated farmhouses to watch suspiciously until he was off their land. They were as dark and hard as the ground they worked. By blood, they were more Greek than Roman, the remnants of an older empire. No one called to him and he wondered if they ever thought of the great city to the north. Somehow, he doubted it. Rome was another world to them.

He stopped at a small well and tied the reins to a stunted tree. He looked for some way of reaching the water, his gaze resting on a tiny house of white stone nearby. There was a man there, watching him from the comfort of a rough bench by his door. A small dog sat and panted at his feet, too hot to bark at the stranger.

Brutus glanced impatiently at the sun. ‘Water?’ he called, holding cupped hands to his mouth and miming drinking.

The man regarded him steadily, his eyes taking in every detail of the armour and uniform. ‘You can pay?’ he said. The accent was hard, but Brutus understood him.

‘Where I am from, we do not ask payment for a few cups of water,’ he snapped.

The man shrugged and, rising, began to move towards his door.

Brutus glared at his back. ‘How much?’ he demanded, reaching for his purse.

The farmer cracked his knuckles slowly as he considered. ‘Sesterce,’ he said at last.

It was too much, but Brutus only nodded and dug savagely amongst his coins. He passed one over and the man examined it as if he had all the time in the world. Then he disappeared into the house and returned with a stitched leather bucket and a length of rope.

Brutus reached for it and the man jerked away with surprising speed. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, walking past him towards the dusty well.

His dog struggled to its feet and wandered after him, pausing only to bare yellow teeth in Brutus’ direction. Brutus wondered if the civil war would touch these people. He doubted it. They would go on scratching a living out of the thin soil and if once in a while they saw a soldier riding past, what did that matter to them?

He watched the farmer bring up the bucket and hold it for the horse to drink, all at the same infuriatingly slow speed. At last, it was passed to Brutus and he gulped greedily. The cool liquid spilled down his chest in lines as he gasped and wiped his mouth. The man watched him without curiosity as he took his waterskin from the saddle.

‘Fill this,’ he said.

‘A sesterce,’ the man replied, holding out his hand.

Brutus was appalled. So much for honest country farmers. ‘Fill the skin or your dog goes down the well,’ Brutus said, gesturing with the sagging bag.

The animal responded to his tone by pulling its lips back in another miserable show of teeth. Brutus was tempted to draw his sword but knew how ridiculous it would look. There wasn’t a trace of fear in the farmer or his mongrel and Brutus had the unpleasant suspicion that the man would laugh at the threat. Under the pressure of the open hand, Brutus swore and dug out another coin. The skin was filled with the same slow care and Brutus tied it to his saddle, not trusting himself to speak.

When he was mounted, he looked down, ready to end the conversation with some biting comment. To his fury, the farmer was already walking away, winding the rope around his arm in neat loops. Brutus considered calling to him, but before he could think of anything, the man had disappeared into his house and the small yard was as still as he had found it. Brutus dug in his heels and rode for Tarentum, the water sloshing and gurgling behind him.

As he headed out of the valley, he caught his first scent of a salt breeze, though it was gone as soon as he had recognised it. It was only another hour of hard riding before the great blue expanse came into sight. As it always had, it lifted his spirits, though he searched in vain for a speck that would mean the galley was out. Seneca and his men would be marching behind him and he did not want to have to dash their hopes when they finally arrived at the port.

The land grew harsher before the coast, with steep tracks where he was forced to lead his horse or risk falling. In such an empty place, he thought it safe enough to remove his armour and the breeze cooled his sweat deliciously as he strode panting up the last slope and looked at the little town below.

The galley was there, at the end of a thin pier that looked as rickety as the rest of the place. Brutus thanked all the gods he could think of and patted his mount’s neck excitedly before taking a long drink from the skin. The land seemed to suck the moisture out of him and the sun was fierce, but he didn’t care. He mounted again with a whoop and began to trot down the hill. Pompey would understand his value, he thought. Letters would be sent to all the legions mentioning the Gaul general who had chosen honour and the Senate over Caesar. They knew nothing of his past except what he would tell them and he would be careful not to boast or to reveal his old mistakes. It would be a new start, a new life and, eventually, he would go to war against his oldest friend. The sun seemed darker at that thought, but he shrugged it off. The choice was made.

The sun was going down by the time Seneca arrived with his two cohorts. The bustle aboard the galley had increased as the soldiers and crew made ready to sail. It was a relief to see Brutus talking to an officer on the wooden pier and Seneca realised how much he had been depending on the man.

He halted the cohorts, painfully aware of the scrutiny of the galley crew as they coiled ropes and heaved the last of the fresh-water barrels up the planking and into the hold. This time, his salute was as perfect as he could make it and both men turned to him.

‘Reporting, sir,’ Seneca said.

Brutus nodded. He seemed angry and a glance at the galley captain told Seneca he had interrupted an argument.

‘Captain Gaditicus, this is Livinius Seneca, my second in command,’ Brutus said, formally.

The captain didn’t bother to look his way and Seneca felt a surge of dislike amidst the pleasure at his new title.

‘There is no conflict here, Captain,’ Brutus continued. ‘You were heading for Ostia to pick up men such as these. What does it matter if you cross to Greece from here?’

The captain scratched his chin and Seneca saw the man was unshaven and looked exhausted.

‘I was not aware that Caesar had come back to Rome. I should wait for orders from the city before …’

‘The Senate and Pompey gave you orders to join them, sir,’ Brutus interrupted. ‘I should not have to tell you your duty. Pompey ordered these men to Ostia. We would be with him now if we had not been forced to cut across country. Pompey will not be pleased if you delay my arrival.’

The captain glared at him.

‘Don’t flaunt your connections, General. I have served Rome for thirty years and I knew Caesar when he was just a young officer. I have friends in power I can call on.’

‘I don’t recall him mentioning your name when I served with him in Gaul,’ Brutus snapped.

Gaditicus blinked. He had lost that particular contest. ‘I should have known from the armour,’ he said slowly, looking at Brutus in a new light. ‘But you’re going to fight for Pompey?’

‘I am doing my duty. Do yours,’ Brutus said, his temper fraying visibly. He had had about enough of the opposition that seemed to spring up at every stage of this endless day. He looked at the galley rocking gently in the waves and ached to be leaving the land behind.

Gaditicus swept his eyes over the column of men waiting to board. All his life he had followed orders and though it smelled wrong, he knew he had no choice.

‘It will be tight, with so many. One storm and we’ll go down,’ he said, with the last of his resistance.

Brutus forced a smile. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said, turning to Seneca. ‘Take them on board.’

Seneca saluted again and went back to his men. The pier shivered underfoot as the column approached and the first ranks began to clamber up the gangplank onto the wide deck.

‘So why will you be fighting against Caesar? You did not say,’ Gaditicus murmured.

Brutus glanced at him. ‘There is bad blood between us,’ he replied, with more honesty than he had intended.

Gaditicus nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like to face him myself. I don’t think he has ever lost a battle,’ he said thoughtfully.

Brutus responded with a flash of anger, as Gaditicus had hoped he would. ‘The stories are exaggerated,’ he replied.

‘I hope so, for your sake,’ Gaditicus said.

It was a little revenge for having been forced to back down, but he did enjoy Brutus’ expression as he looked away. Gaditicus remembered the last time he had been in Greece, when a young Caesar had organised attacks on the camp of Mithridates. If Brutus had seen that, he might have thought twice before choosing Pompey as his master. Gaditicus hoped the arrogant general in his silver armour would be taught a harsh lesson when the time came.

When the last of the guards were on board, Gaditicus followed them, leaving Brutus alone on the dock. The sun was setting in the west and he could not look in the direction of Rome. He took a deep breath as he straightened and stepped onto the deck, gently moving on the swell. He had left them all, and for a while he could not speak for the memories that overwhelmed him.

The ropes were coiled and hung as the galley moved out onto the waters, the chant of the slaves at their oars like a lullaby beneath his feet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The city was closed while the voting went on, the gates sealed. The crowd on the Campus Martius were raucous and cheerful, as if electing consuls was a public holiday rather than a rejection of Pompey and his Senate. The sun beat on them all and there were many enterprising young families charging a bronze coin to enjoy the shade of an awning they had carried out to the great field. The smell of sizzling meat, the conversations, the laughter and the shouts of vendors all mingled into a sensual cacophony that felt very much like life and home.

Julius and Mark Antony climbed the steps up to the platform the legion carpenters had made for them. They stood together in white togas trimmed with purple. Julius wore the laurel wreath of a successful general, the dark leaves fresh-bound in gold wire. He was rarely seen in public without it, and there were some who suspected the attachment was in part to conceal the balding head beneath.

The Tenth were polished and shining as they stood guard on the new consuls. They held their spears and shields ready to signal for silence, but Julius was content simply to stand there, gazing over the heads of the vast crowd.

‘The last time I was made consul in this place, I had Gaul ahead of me,’ he said to Mark Antony. ‘Pompey, Crassus and I were allies. It seems more than a lifetime ago, now.’

‘You did not waste the time,’ Mark Antony replied and they shared a smile as they remembered those years. As always, Mark Antony had a polished look, as if he were carved from the best Roman stone. It sometimes irked Julius that of all the men he had known, Mark Antony looked most like a consul should look. He had a strong face and a powerful frame, coupled with a natural dignity. Julius had heard that the women of Rome fluttered and blushed in his wake.

Julius looked up at the taller man, knowing he had made the right choice in having him stand to lead the Senate. He was loyal, but not as Regulus was loyal, where a careless word might send death on quick wings to an enemy. Mark Antony cared deeply for the old Republic and would make it live while Julius went to Greece. He had shown a disdain for wealth that only those born to it could assume. He could be trusted and it was a relief for Julius not to have to worry that his precious city would suffer while he was away. Of all men, he knew the fragility of apparent peace, and the lessons of Milo and Clodius had not been lost on him, even as far away as Gaul. Rome needed a steady hand and peace to grow. Pompey could never have given that to her.

Julius smiled wryly, knowing he too was not the man to run a peaceful city. He had loved the conquest of Gaul and Britain too much to consider spending his latter years in sleepy debates. He cared enough for the law when he could change it to match his vision, but the tedious administration that followed would be a slow death. Like Pompey, he preferred to tear through the skin of comfort and find new places, new struggles. It was somehow fitting that the last lions of Rome should be facing each other at last. If Pompey had not been there to try him, Julius thought he would still have found himself handing power to Mark Antony, at least for a while. He would have gone to conquer Africa, perhaps, or to follow the footsteps of Alexander to the strange lands he had described in the east.

‘Shall we address our people, Consul?’ he said, signalling a centurion of the Tenth.

The soldiers around the platform crashed their spears into their shields three times and then there was silence and they could hear a breeze whisper across the field of Mars. The crowd stood respectfully, before some of them started cheering and the rest joined in before Julius could speak. The sound was carried upwards by thousands of throats as the sun beat down.

Julius looked at Mark Antony and was surprised to see there were tears in his eyes. He did not feel it so strongly himself, perhaps because his mind was already on the campaign to come, or because he had been a consul once before. He envied his companion, understanding without sharing the emotion.

‘Will you speak first?’ he asked softly.

Mark Antony inclined his head in thanks for the offer. ‘After you, General. They are yours.’

Julius rested his hands on the wooden rail his men had made for him, exactly at the height he wanted. He took a deep breath and flung out his voice.

‘The centuries have voted today and their mark has been made in the soil of our fathers. Mark Antony and I stand before you as consuls and Pompey will hear your voices even in Greece. He will know his absent Senate has been replaced. That is our message to him. No man is more than Rome, no single man more than those I see before me today.’

They cheered and stamped to show their pleasure at his words.

‘We have shown that Rome can survive the loss of those who care nothing for her. We have shown that there can be law without corruption. Have I fulfilled my promises to you?’

They roared incoherently in what may have been agreement.

‘I have,’ Julius told them, firmly. ‘The courts have been cleansed and bribery punished openly. There will be no secret deals in my city by those who rule. The workings of the Senate will be published each day at sunset. Your votes are a loan of power, but only to work in your interests, not to press you down. I have not forgotten this, as some have. Your voices sound with me each day and I will take their echoes to Greece to pass them to the armies there.’

The crowd had grown denser at his feet as those behind pressed forward. He wondered how many had come to the Campus to vote in the new posts. They had been standing since dawn and would be hungry and thirsty, their few coins gone to the vendors long before. He resolved to be brief.

‘The legions in Greece will have heard us here, today. They will wonder how they support a man who has lost the faith of the people who matter most. There can be no authority without your voice. You have made some of your number into magistrates and quaestors, yes, and even into consuls!’ He waited through the response, smiling down at them. ‘We have accomplished much in these last few months. Enough that when I leave I know that my city will be safe and at peace. I will take your votes to Pompey and I will tell him that he has been rejected by the citizens who raised him. I will serve my city faithfully and Mark Antony will be your hands, your eyes, your will in the Senate.’

As they cheered, he brought Mark Antony forward with a hand on his arm.

‘And now they are yours,’ he murmured.

Without a glance back at the massed citizens, he walked down the steps to the ground and left Mark Antony alone to face them. It was important that the new consul be seen to act on his own and Julius walked away to where his horse was held ready. He took the reins from a legionary of the Tenth and threw a leg over the saddle, sitting straight and taking a deep breath of the cool air.

As Mark Antony began to speak, Julius shook his head in gentle amusement. Even the man’s voice was perfect. It rang over the crowd and if Julius knew the words had been hammered out in late-night sessions, it did not show.

‘To stand here, my brothers, with the city behind us, is the reason I was born …’ Julius heard, before the voice was lost on the breeze. The extraordinarii formed up around him and they cantered towards the gates of Rome.

Julius watched in silence as two of the strongest men dismounted and walked towards the plates of bronze and wax that sealed the city. They carried heavy hammers and as they raised them Julius heard the noise of the citizens swell like the sound of distant waves. With a crack, the plates fell away and the gates swung open for him to ride back to his work. The elections had given him legitimacy, but he would still have to take his legions over a hostile sea to Greece. For a moment, the thought that he would face Brutus there made him falter. It was a pain he crushed ruthlessly whenever it surfaced. The gods would grant him another meeting with his oldest friend, or they would not. He would lead his army to triumph, or he would be killed and his path would end. He could not allow himself to weaken, having come so far.

‘It is just a step,’ he said to himself as he crossed the line of the walls.

Servilia was there at the old house of Marius when Julius arrived, sweating and dusty from his ride through the sweltering city. She looked fresh in comparison, but in the bright light of day, her age was ever more visible. She had always been a woman for the evening. He busied himself with the saddle for a moment while he collected his thoughts, unwilling to launch straight into another difficult discussion. The crowds of Rome were far easier to handle than Servilia, he thought.

A slave brought him a cup of iced apple juice and Julius emptied it as he walked into the rooms where she waited. Water could be heard from the fountain in the courtyard and the inner rooms were arranged as squares around an open centre so that the scent of plants and flowers was always in the air. It was a beautiful home and it was rare now that he imagined the voice of Marius echoing through it.

‘Consul once again,’ he said to her.

Her eyes softened for an instant, touched by his pride. There had been precious little softness from her since the night Brutus had left. At first, Julius had thought she felt guilt for her son’s betrayal, but he should have known better.

‘Your wife will be pleased, Caesar,’ Servilia said.

Julius sighed and saw her eyes flash with anger. He went to her and took her in his arms. ‘But I came here to you, Servilia, as I said I would. Pompeia is at the estate to give me an heir. Nothing more than that. We have discussed this enough, don’t you think? The granddaughter of Cornelius Sulla is the best match I could have found to give me a son. He will have the blood of two noble families running through him. One day, the boy will lead Rome after me.’

Servilia shrugged and he knew the hasty marriage still festered within her.

‘You were the one who warned me first that I would want a son, Servilia,’ he reminded.

She snorted. ‘I know that, but I also know the part men think with. You are not a breeding bull, Julius, for all your boasting. Oh yes, I’ve heard your drunken soldiers talk about your stamina. What a joy it was to hear how many times you ploughed her in a single night.’

Julius whooped with laughter. ‘You cannot hold me responsible for my soldiers!’ he said. ‘You should know better than to listen to such things.’ He took her by the shoulders, his amusement obvious. ‘I am here; does that tell you nothing? Pompeia will be mother to my children, that is all. I will not tell you there is no pleasure in fathering them. The girl is extremely well-proportioned …’

Servilia pushed him away.

‘I have seen her,’ she said. ‘Pompeia is beautiful. She is also witless, which I suspect you missed while you were gazing at her breasts.’

‘I wanted health and strength, Servilia. As the breeding bull, I will provide the wit for my children.’

‘You are a goat, at least,’ she said and he laughed again.

‘A goat who is consul for the second time, Servilia. A goat who will rule.’

His humour was infectious and she could not resist him. Gently, she slapped his face to interrupt his mood.

‘All men are fools around women, Julius. If you leave her out in that estate for too long without you, there will be trouble.’

‘Nonsense, she will pine for me. After a touch of Caesar in the night, all women …’

She slapped him again, with a little more force. ‘You chose for beauty and children, but keep a close eye on that one. She is far too pretty to be left alone.’

‘I will keep her away from the young men of Rome, of course. Now, enough of this, Servilia. As consul, I demand food and the best wine from the cellar. I have to go to Ostia later to see the new keels and I’m up at dawn tomorrow to take the auspices with Mark Antony. It will be a good year for Rome, I can feel it. There will be lightning tomorrow as the earnest priests look for signs.’

Servilia sighed. ‘And if there isn’t?’

‘Domitius will come and report he has seen some. That has always worked in the past. The priests won’t argue. We will have a year of good fortune, regardless.’

He stepped away from her and she ached to be held as strongly again. For all his laughing dismissal of his new wife, he had not shared Servilia’s bed for some weeks and the last time was almost a requiem for the closeness she remembered. There had been little hunger in him then; not for her. She swallowed her pride in his presence, but the marriage had hurt.

Yet he was with her, as he said, and his wife was out of the city with no one but slaves for company. Servilia had seen passion become friendship before. She knew she should be easing into that state, as she had once done with Crassus. But the slightest touch from Julius or a kiss would make her remember riding together in Spain and sitting at the feet of Alexander’s statue in the first glow of new love. It was too painful.

A slave entered and bowed to Julius before speaking. ‘Master, there are visitors at the gate,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ Julius replied, turning to Servilia. ‘I asked Domitius, Octavian and Ciro to bring their promotion lists to me.’ He seemed uncomfortable for a moment and the amusement faded from his face. ‘We have had to make changes since Brutus left for Greece. Will you sit in on the discussion?’

‘No, you don’t need me here,’ Servilia replied, raising her chin. Had she been summoned only to be ignored? Even for a leader of Rome, Julius was capable of the most appalling breaches of courtesy. It was more than possible that he thought the brief exchange was enough to fulfil his obligations to her. She folded her arms with slow care, and he looked at her then, seeing the irritation. His eyes lost their distracted blankness and she could almost feel the full force of his attention.

‘I should have kept the afternoon for you,’ he said, taking her hands. ‘Shall I send them away, Servilia? We could take horses out to the racetrack, or sit by the Tiber and enjoy the sun. I could teach you to swim.’

It was an effort not to fall under the charm of the man. Despite all that had happened between them, Servilia could still feel the glamour he cast.

‘I can already swim, Julius. No, you see your men and go to Ostia. Perhaps you will still have a chance to visit your young wife tonight.’

He winced at that, but they could both hear the clatter of his officers as they came into the main house. His time for her was coming to an end.

‘If there were two of me, it would not be enough for all I have to do,’ he said.

‘If there were two of you, you would kill each other,’ she retorted, as Domitius came into the room. He beamed at seeing Servilia and she acknowledged him with a smile before excusing herself. In a moment, only her fragrance remained in the air and Julius was busy welcoming the others and calling impatiently for food and drink.

In her own house, Servilia relaxed, the soft footsteps of her slaves hardly interrupting her thoughts.

‘Mistress? The man you wanted is here,’ her slave announced.

Servilia rose from her couch, her gold bracelets chiming gently in the silence. The slave retired quickly and Servilia regarded the man she had summoned with careful interest. He was not richly dressed, though she knew he could mimic any one of the classes of Rome if he chose to.

‘I have another task for you, Belas,’ she said.

He bowed his head in response and she saw that he had grown bald on the crown. She remembered when he had worn his hair down to his shoulders in heavy blond locks and she grimaced at the unfairness of it. Age touched them all.

‘I am playing Dionysus for three more days,’ he said without preamble. ‘The performance has been described as sublime by those who know the theatre. After that, my time is yours.’

She smiled at him and saw to her pleasure that he was still a little in love with her. It may have been that he saw her through a gauze of memory, but he had always been faithful in his adoration.

‘It will not be difficult work, Belas, though it will take you out of the city for a while.’

‘Out? I do not like the towns, Servilia. The peasants would not know a fine play by Euripides if it ran around them shouting vulgar obscenity. I haven’t left the city for almost twenty years and why would I? The world is here and there are some who come to every performance that has a part played by Belas, no matter how small.’

Servilia did not laugh at his vanity. Though he claimed a genius as yet unrecognised, he could be a hard and cunning man and he had been reliable in the past.

‘Not even the towns, Belas. I want you to watch an estate outside the city for me, a woman there.’

Belas took in a sharp breath. ‘Is there a tavern near this place? Surely I am not required to lie in stinking ditches for you? Dionysus should not be reduced to such a level.’

‘There is no tavern, my fox, and I suspect you have already guessed the place I will send you. As I remember the play, Dionysus would lie anywhere for a few good pieces of gold as well.’

Belas shrugged and his face changed subtly, his features a mask for the man within. ‘It can only be this new wife of Caesar’s. The whole city is talking of the girl. No courtship, I noticed, or poems bought from the writers of such lines, not for him. He must have spent her weight in gold, judging by the estate her father is suddenly looking at buying.’

He watched her closely as he spoke and could not resist smiling smugly as her face showed the accuracy of his chatter.

‘It has been a month since the hasty ceremony and still no announcement of a swelling belly,’ he went on. ‘Did he not sample her before the wedding? Pompeia comes from a fertile family and I have been waiting for the happy news and more free wine to drown our envy. He may be bald under those leaves, but he has had a daughter before, so perhaps she is barren?’

‘You are a malicious little gossip, Belas, did I ever tell you?’ Servilia replied. ‘He is not bald yet and not every marriage is blessed with children from the first night.’

‘I have heard he tries valiantly, though. Stallions have done less with mares in heat, from what I …’

‘Enough, Belas,’ she said, her expression growing cold. ‘An aureus a week, until the army leaves for Greece. Will you tell me you can do better in a playhouse somewhere?’

‘Not better than the payment, but my public will forget me. I may not get work as easily afterwards. They are fickle, you know, in their affection and prices have risen with all the gold Caesar brought from Gaul. Two gold pieces a week would keep me alive long enough to find work, when you are finished with old Belas.’

‘Two it is, but I will want your eyes on that house at all times. I do not want excuses from you, or one of your wild stories about gambling games that dragged you in against your will.’

‘My word is good, Servilia. You have always known that.’ His tone was serious and she accepted it.

‘You have not said what I am looking for,’ he went on.

‘She is very young, Belas, and the young can be fools almost as much as the old. Watch she does not stray or be tempted by some fine boy in the city.’

‘And your interest in this, my beautiful queen? Could it be that you are hoping she will be tempted? Perhaps I should put temptation in her path for her to stumble over. Such things could easily be arranged.’

Servilia bit her lip as she thought, before shaking her head. ‘No. If she is a fool, it will not come through me.’

‘I am curious to know why you would spend gold on another man’s wife,’ Belas said, tilting his head as he watched her reactions. To his astonishment, spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.

‘I … will help him, Belas. If to be useful is all I can be to him, then I will be useful.’

At her words, his face softened and he approached her, taking her in his arms. ‘I have been as hopeless, once or twice. Love makes fools of great hearts.’

Servilia pulled free of the embrace, touching at her eyes.

‘Will you do it then?’

‘Of course, my queen. It is done, as soon as I put the mask of beloved Dionysus back in the box and the crowds have sighed their last at my lines. Would you like to hear the climax? It is a rare piece.’

She glanced in gratitude at him for the chatter that smoothed over the moment of sadness. ‘Let me summon the girls, Belas. You are always better when there are pretty women listening to you,’ she said, relaxing now that their business was over.

‘It is my curse to have them inspire me,’ he said. ‘May I choose a favourite when I am done? An actor of my quality must be rewarded.’

‘Just one, Belas,’ she said.

‘Two? I thirst for love, Servilia.’

‘One,’ she said, ‘and a cup of wine for the thirst.’

Caecilius shivered as the cold sea spattered over the bows of the tiny boat in the darkness. He could hear the hiss and slap of waves, but on the moonless night it was as if he were floating through absolute darkness. The two rowers never spoke as they guided the craft and only the stars glimpsed through drifting cloud kept them on course for the Greek shore. The sail had been brought down some time before and though Caecilius was no sailor, he guessed the act had some significance.

‘In my favour, two knives and an assortment of Greek coinage, value as yet unestablished at current prices,’ Caecilius murmured to himself. One of the rowers shushed him between strokes and Caecilius went on in silence with his mental list. In times of discomfort, he had found that it helped him to see his way more clearly if he could take the most formless of situations and add a little structure.

‘A gold ring of Caesar’s tied into a pocket of a good leather belt. A pair of stout sandals with wool to pad the feet against blisters. A little food in case I have to hide for a few days. Salt and oil to add taste to the food. A waterskin that appears to have a small leak.’

These were the things he had brought to spy on Pompey’s army, he thought miserably. It didn’t seem like a great deal in the circumstances. As another spray of cold water crossed his seat, Caecilius took a better grip on his plummeting morale.

‘A fine mind, a good knowledge of Greek that can pass as a peasant, at least. Sharp eyes. Experience and some wisdom picked up along the way.’

He sat a little straighter in the boat as he listed those accomplishments, feeling better. After all, he had been recommended for the task and Caesar would not have sent a fool. All he had to do was gauge the strength of the legions and the numbers of galleys Pompey had assembled. With his Greek, he thought he would probably get work in one of the camps until it came time each month to head back for the coast and deliver his reports. Eventually, whoever came to meet him would tell him the task was finished and he could jump in and be carried back home.

‘Will it be you coming for me?’ he whispered to the closest oarsman.

The man hissed an angry reply before he had even finished his question. ‘Keep your mouth shut. There are galleys in the water around here and voices carry.’

It was not much of a conversation and Caecilius tried to settle back and ignore the water that seemed to delight in leaping over the bows and greeting him like an old friend. No matter how he tried to shelter himself, another splash would find him and work its way into his most intimate crevices.

‘On the other side,’ he thought to himself, ‘I have a right knee that hurts whenever I put weight on it. Two fingers that ache when it rains. A strong desire not to be here. I do not know what I will be facing and there is a chance that I will be captured, tortured and killed. And surly companions who care nothing for my troubles.’

As he finished his list, both rowers paused at some instinct and sat absolutely motionless in the boat. Caecilius opened his mouth to whisper a question, but the nearest pressed a hand over his face. Caecilius froze and he too looked around into the darkness, his ears straining.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the soft hiss of waves on a pebble beach and he thought that was what had stopped their progress. Then, from the dark, he heard creaking and a noise like fish leaping from the water. He squinted into the blackness and saw nothing at first, until a moving shadow loomed up on them, a white flower of foam at the bow.

Caecilius swallowed painfully as the little craft began to rock in the swell from the galley. As it closed on them, he could see the huge oars that dipped into the water and hear the muffled thumping of a drum somewhere close. The galley was going to smash them into splinters, he was sure of it. It seemed to be heading right at them and he knew he did not have the courage to sit and let the keel slice through the boat, taking him down along the slick green spine to be thrown out nicely bloody for the sharks. He began to stand in panic and the oarsman gripped his arm with the casual strength of his profession. A brief, silent struggle ensued before Caecilius subsided. The galley was a towering black mountain over them and he could see the dim light of lanterns on the deck above.

His companions lowered their blades into the water with infinite care, using the noise of the galley’s passage to hide their own. With a few strong pulls, they were out of range of the crushing keel and Caecilius swore the galley oars had passed over his head on the upsweep. It was a moment of pure terror to imagine them coming down on the boat, but the oarsmen knew their business and the galley moved on without an alarm being sounded.

Caecilius realised he had been holding his breath and panted in the bow as the two men resumed their steady stroke without a word. He could imagine their scornful glances and once again went through his lists to calm himself.

It seemed forever before they brought in the oars once again and one of the men leapt out into the surf to hold the bobbing craft steady. Caecilius looked down at the black water and clambered out with enormous care, causing the man in the water to swear softly with impatience.

Finally, he was clear of the boat, with gentle waves up to his waist and cold sand pressing between his unseen toes.

‘Good luck,’ one of the men whispered, giving him a gentle push to start him on his way.

Caecilius turned and his companions seemed already to have vanished. For an instant, he thought he heard the sound of their oars and then they were gone and he was alone.

CHAPTER NINE

Pompey enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his armour as he waited, his horse whinnying softly to itself. The parade ground at Dyrrhachium had been built after his arrival in Greece and the walls and buildings enclosed a vast yard of hard red clay. The breeze lifted bloody swirls of the dust and overhead, seabirds called mournfully to each other. Three shining legions stood to attention in his honour, their ranks stretching into the distance. Pompey had completed his inspection and wished Caesar could see the quality of the men who would end his pretension to rule Rome.

The morning had passed with pleasurable swiftness as Pompey watched their formal manoeuvres. The cavalry units were particularly impressive and he knew Caesar could not match more than a quarter of their number. Pompey had thrilled to see them gallop the length of the great yard in perfect formation, wheeling at a signal and sending stinging swarms of spears to destroy the practice targets. These were the men who would win Rome back from the usurper. Caesar was just the name of a traitor to them and Pompey had been warmed by the earnest support of their commanders as they gave their oaths of loyalty.

Ten legions had marched across Greece to join the evacuated Senate on the west coast and he had found them well-led, disciplined men with high morale. He basked in their indignation at his having been forced from their home city. There was no political weakness to be found in the legions of Greece: he had given the order and they had come. They were hungry to meet the enemy and Pompey had been amused to find that the reports from Gaul had rankled with these professional soldiers. They relished the chance to destroy the vanity of Caesar’s veterans, feeling it to be unjustified arrogance. They were good men with whom to go to war.

The quality of the Greek forces helped to diminish the constant irritation Pompey faced from the senators and their families. More than once he regretted bringing them at all, despite the weight of law they gave his position. They complained about the water, claiming it loosened their bowels; about the heat, about their accommodation in Dyrrhachium and a thousand other small gripes. Few of them appreciated how little use they were to Pompey now that he was in the field. Instead of giving him a free rein, they sought to influence his decisions and remain a force in an area for which they were poorly suited. Pompey had been tempted to ship them to one of the Greek islands for the duration. Only the fact that such a decision might undermine his authority prevented him giving the order.

Every eye was on him as he kicked his Spanish charger into a gallop and raced towards the target. He felt the warm Greek air whistle past his ears, and the thunder of hooves merged into a drumming vibration that heightened his concentration. The bag of straw sewn into the likeness of a man seemed to grow, and he thought he could see every stitch of the thread that held it together.

With the lines of soldiers watching, it had to be perfect, but he did not make a mistake. As the spear left his hand, he knew it would strike. The eyes of professional men followed the path of the spear and there were many who knew it was good before the straw figure jerked, twisting around with the impact. They cheered and Pompey raised his hand in salute, breathing hard. His face was pouring with sweat and his right shoulder ached terribly, answered by a blooming spot of pain in his gut. He had felt muscles tear as he released, but that did not matter. Romans respected strength and the demonstration would give them pride in their commander.

Pompey turned and rode along the line of men, noting their fierce faces and discipline. Only their commanding officer, Labienus, met his eyes and saluted as Pompey reined in.

‘I am pleased with them, Labienus,’ Pompey said, loud enough for the legionaries to hear. ‘Dismiss them to eat, but not too much on each plate. I want them lean and hungry.’ His voice dropped to a more conversational tone. ‘Accompany me to the temple, General. There is much still to discuss.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Labienus replied. His sharp eyes noted how Pompey favoured his right arm, but it would be disrespectful to mention it if Pompey chose not to. Labienus was pleased to see no sign of discomfort on Pompey’s flushed face. The Dictator was a hard, proud man and he cut a fine figure on a horse, even at his age. ‘They are always hungry, sir,’ Labienus added. ‘They will not disappoint you.’

‘No they will not,’ Pompey told him grimly. ‘They will scatter Caesar’s raptores like seeds on the wind.’

Labienus bowed his head in response, his eyes cast down. It was no hardship to show honour to such a man. What he had seen of Pompey had impressed him since his arrival. The Dictator carried his authority with an ease and dignity the men respected. Labienus knew the legionaries were confident and in truth many would welcome the chance to fight against a traitor. Greece had been peaceful too long for some, especially those who hoped for a bright career. As the lowest spear-carrier knew well, war brought promotion far faster than peace. The very least of them would be hoping to make his name against Caesar, to become a centurion and a respected member of the officer class.

Pompey waited while Labienus mounted his own gelding and was pleased to find nothing to fault in the man or his manner. The general was physically unremarkable, with hair shaved close to his head and dark eyes in a face of hard planes. His record was excellent and Pompey had felt no qualms about including him in his councils. There was a solidity to Labienus that he appreciated, almost an antidote to the poisonous intrigues of the Senate. Officers such as he could be found in every port and city that bowed its head to Roman law. They took no bribes, nor wavered in their loyalty. Their iron discipline kept posts for years, and when they went to war, they knew no equals in the field. They were the hard bones of Rome. Pompey nodded to Labienus, showing his pleasure.

Under that benign eye, Labienus gave the order and the lines of men dissolved as they fell out to head for the barracks. The smell of hot food was already wafting through the air and Pompey remembered Labienus would be as hungry as they were after such a long morning. He would have the best meats brought for the general. Labienus would understand the compliment without more having to be said.

As they rode towards the temple Pompey had taken as his base, Labienus cleared his throat. From experience, Pompey knew the man would not speak without permission. He was a fine example to his men.

‘Speak, General. Tell me what is on your mind,’ Pompey said.

‘I would like to send a galley to watch Ostia, with your permission. If we know when they sail, we will be prepared to receive them. Our fleet could very well sink the enemy ships before they are even in sight of Greece.’

‘You would regret that, Labienus, I imagine? It would deprive us both of the chance to beat him here,’ Pompey replied.

Labienus lifted his shoulders slightly. ‘A little, sir, but I would not ignore a chance to end it, even so.’

‘Very well, use my seal on the orders, but tell the captain to stay well clear of the coast. I have a spy in the port there to tell me when Caesar assembles his legions. We will not be surprised by them.’

‘I expected as much, sir,’ Labienus said. The two men glanced at each other and both smiled.

The temple of Jupiter in Dyrrhachium had nothing like the opulence of the one in the forum in Rome. It had been built for Greek gods before its current role and Pompey had chosen it for its space and central location rather than any religious significance. Nonetheless, it seemed fitting to have the head of the pantheon watch his preparations and Pompey had noticed his servants and soldiers were subtly awed by their surroundings. There was no coarse language heard within its walls and it was rare that their voices were raised above murmurs. Pompey had made a large donation to the temple priests and it came as no surprise that they approved his choice. Jupiter Victor was a military god, after all.

Leaving their horses in the hands of legion grooms, both men strode inside through the high white columns. Pompey paused for a moment on the threshold, his eyes watching for signs that the men within were not busy at their work.

The air of quiet bustle was exactly as he had left it that morning. More than two hundred officers, clerks and slaves were there to administer his new legions and the clacking sound of hurrying sandals echoed in the space. Pompey had brought in heavy tables for his maps and at each of those were senior officers, their heads bent as they made marks and discussed the positions. Silence spread as they stood stiffly to salute. Pompey returned the gesture and the work resumed without ceremony.

Labienus gave his helmet and sword to a waiting slave and Pompey ordered food brought for them as they walked down the central aisle together. The main map had been hung on the wall and Pompey went straight for it, already considering the problems of the campaign. As tall and wide as a man, it was painted onto squares of soft calfskin, smoothed to velvet with pumice stones. The whole of Italy and Greece lay there, rendered in perfect colour and detail.

Pompey checked his hands were free of dirt and touched the key ports of the western coast of Greece.

‘I would appreciate your views, Labienus. If the fleet does not stop Caesar, he will have hundreds of miles of coast to choose for his landing, north and south. If I gather our army in any one place, he can avoid the area we control and establish his camps in perfect safety. Yet even with fifty thousand men, I cannot guard every single mile of Greece.’

Labienus looked up at the map, his hard face resembling a man at prayer.

‘We must assume all seven of his legions survive the gauntlet of our ships,’ Labienus said. ‘It is not likely, but we must plan for it. They will need a huge amount of supplies each day and he will not be able to wait for us to come to him, unless he lets them starve. I have found that food and water win battles as readily as strength of arms.’

‘I have prepared,’ Pompey replied. ‘Dyrrhachium will be our main store. The city is bursting with grain.’ He expected a compliment and was surprised when Labienus frowned.

‘Perhaps it would be better not to leave such a resource in one single town. I do not say it can be done, but if he were able to cut us off from Dyrrhachium, where would we be? Eleven legions need even more meat than seven.’

Pompey called a clerk and dictated an order. In the months since their first meeting, he had come to realise that Labienus had a mind for such details and a quick grasp of the problems of a long campaign. Simply gathering eleven legions in one place caused immense difficulties of supply. Labienus had first come to his attention as he had created lines from the farms and cities of Greece into the west. As far as Pompey knew, not a single man had been short of rations from the first month. It was an awesome achievement.

‘If he avoids our fleet and lands in the east,’ Labienus continued thoughtfully, ‘he will have been at sea for more than a month and be running low on fresh water. His men would have to march hundreds of miles just to reach us. If he were not given to the sort of innovation you have described, I would ignore the east completely. Far better for him to make for one of the main ports in the west, though our galleys are swarming here. Dyrrhachium in the north, Apollonia or Oricum would be my estimate. I would bet on those three, or some stretch of the coast in between. He will not want to be at sea longer than he has to, with our galleys ready to attack.’

‘Of those, which would be your choice?’ Pompey asked.

Labienus laughed, a sound like chopping wood that disappeared as quickly as it came. ‘I can only guess at his choice, sir. If I were running his campaign, I would choose Oricum, knowing your legions will be spread around the cluster of ports further north. At least then I would not have to fight on two fronts.’

The sound of loud footsteps interrupted them and Pompey looked down the length of the temple, his good humour evaporating. Brutus.

Having one of Caesar’s most trusted men come over to him should have been a cause for rejoicing, Pompey knew. When Brutus had stepped ashore with his cohorts, the Greek legions had buzzed with the news and excitement. He had even saved the loyal members of the road guards from Caesar’s anger and the younger soldiers walked in awe of the Gaul veteran. Brutus had given up a great deal to risk his life with Pompey and he deserved to be honoured. If it were only so simple.

Pompey watched coldly as Brutus strode up the central aisle towards him. The silver armour had been burnished till it glowed. He saw Brutus had removed his sword as ordered and took a deep breath as the general came close. He could feel Labienus’ eyes on him, noting his reaction even as he tried to mask it.

Brutus saluted. ‘I am at your orders, sir,’ he said.

Pompey frowned at him, unable to remember if he had arranged a meeting, but unwilling to admit such a thing in front of either man. There had been a time when his mind was as sharp as anyone’s in Rome, but age had taken the edge off his memory as much as his physical strength. His shoulder seemed to ache more fiercely as a reminder. Some of this irritation could be heard in his tone as he replied.

‘I have decided not to confirm your command of the Fifth legion, Brutus. Your cohorts will make up the numbers there and you will accept the orders of the Legate Selatis. I will watch you closely and if you do well … if I find you loyal, you will be quickly rewarded. You are dismissed.’

Not a trace of disappointment showed on Brutus’ face. It was almost as if he had expected the answer.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, saluting and spinning on his heel.

Pompey saw that every eye in the temple followed the silver general as he left and he sighed to himself. The man was a thorn in his side, but he was also a legend. ‘What would you do with that one, Labienus?’ he said. ‘Would you trust him?’

Labienus hesitated. He was far less comfortable speaking of other officers than he was of the sweep of tactics or the difficulties of supply. As Pompey turned to him, he spoke. ‘No more than you have, sir, though I would be ready to give him a legion as soon as I was sure of him. He is … a most interesting officer. I have never seen a better swordsman. The legionaries seem to revere him and his experience suggests he is capable of leading well under your command. If he has fallen out with Caesar, as he claims, he will strive to prove your trust.’

‘That is the heart of the problem, Labienus. If he has been thrust upon me by some stratagem of Caesar’s, he could do as much damage as another legion on their side in the right place. A key charge withheld, a deliberate withdrawal at a crucial point, a sudden move to block my reserves. Any of those things could lose me the war.

‘If I could only be certain of his loyalty, I would honour and parade him in that flashy silver armour. I could not have hoped to command one of Caesar’s own generals. I could use him, Labienus. As it is, I dare not even trust the information he brings. I’d rather be ignorant than misled into a disaster.’

‘It is better to be cautious at this point, sir. When he kills the first of Caesar’s soldiers, we will know he is loyal. Or I will have him taken.’

The two men met each other’s eyes and Pompey nodded, accepting the suggestion.

The food arrived on silver plates and Pompey made sure Labienus took the best of what was offered. They ate standing by the map, continuing to discuss the problems of the campaign. Long after the plates were empty, they were still talking and the sun was sinking towards the horizon before it was time for Pompey to visit the angry old men of his Senate once more.

Brutus buckled on his gladius as he walked outside into the sun, leaving Labienus and the old fool to cook up their plans on their own. The pair of them suited each other, he thought. If there had ever been a spark of life in Labienus, it had been dried out on the stove of his years in Greece, and Pompey had lost his courage with his youth.

He glanced behind him and grunted as he caught sight of the two men Labienus had assigned to watch his movements. At first, he had accepted their presence, telling himself that he would have done the same. How could they trust a general of Gaul who had been Caesar’s right hand for so many years? As the months passed and Pompey had remained aloof, the injustice of his situation had begun to fester more and more. Brutus had a greater knowledge of Pompey’s enemy than any man alive and he knew he could be the key to destroying him. Instead, his suggestions were received almost with insolence by Pompey’s clerks. Brutus had begun to doubt they even passed on the majority of his messages. It was a bitter irony and the constant shadow of Labienus’ men irritated him more than usual that afternoon.

He grimaced as he walked, knowing they would be trotting behind him. Perhaps it was time to make them breathe a little harder than usual for their pay. He knew Dyrrhachium well enough after spending three months stationed in the barracks there and for once he was willing to ignore the inner voice that told him to bide his time until he was trusted. On that day, he was suddenly sick of it and as he turned a corner he burst into a run, accelerating across the street under the surprised gaze of a cart driver and his oxen.

Brutus dodged down an alleyway and raced to its end without looking back. That was one thing Renius had taught him the last time he had been in Greece. In the first moments of flight, looking back can only slow you down. You know they are there, following you.

He took two more corners at high speed and his legs were warming nicely. He was as fit as any of the soldiers in the barracks with the constant training and he felt as if he could run all day. An open door beckoned and Brutus charged straight through a strange house, coming out into a street he did not know. He didn’t stop to see if they were still following him, but pounded on for half a mile of twisting roads until he was sure he had lost them.

They would report it to the cold-hearted Labienus, he was certain, though it would earn them a flogging. The general was not cruel, but he enforced his orders to the letter and Brutus did not envy the pair. Pompey would certainly be told and his suspicions aroused. Perhaps a patrol would be sent out to comb the streets. Brutus panted lightly as he considered his position. At best, he had an hour before he was captured. Labienus was nothing if not efficient and it would not take much longer to close the net. Brutus grinned, knowing there was only one place worth visiting in such a short period of freedom. He took his bearings quickly and loped off, his sandals beating the red dust of the city in a rhythm he could keep up for miles.

Once, he thought he saw running legionaries in the distance, but Brutus kept a street between them and they never came closer. Sweat drenched his hair, but his lungs were still drawing well by the time he made his way to the centre of the city and the garden courtyard where he knew he would find the daughter of Caesar; a pretty bird in a cage.

Like the Senate themselves, Julia had no real role to play in the months of waiting for Caesar to build a fleet and cross. Brutus had seen her on the arm of her husband in the first few weeks after his arrival, but as the work had increased for Pompey, she had been left to her own devices. It had been a strange thing to be introduced to her in Pompey’s offices, so far from Julius’ estate. On that first meeting, Brutus had only managed a few polite words, but he thought he had caught a sparkle beneath her formality. Pompey’s slaves had painted and clothed her in jewels exactly as she had once predicted. For Brutus, the mixture of cold reserve and heavy perfume was deeply exciting, a warning and a challenge.

When he had first seen the garden where she sheltered from the heat of the afternoon, he had noted the entrances almost idly. He knew Pompey remained at the temple until evening and then went on to one of his dull meetings with the senators. Apart from a few personal slaves, his wife was often left practically alone.

Brutus guessed Pompey would have soldiers somewhere near her, but as he looked through the gate to the cool inner courtyard, no one else was visible. His heart beat faster at the danger of it. Pompey knew he had met Julia before through her father. It would not take a great deal for him to become suspicious of something more than a casual acquaintance.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had been denied his orders to lead a legion, or simply the irritation at the constant mistrust and distance that Pompey imposed. Either way, Brutus felt a thrill of pleasure despite the appalling risk.

‘Are you well, Julia?’ he called softly through the ornate bars.

He saw her stiffen and she looked round, the image of Julius’ first wife, Cornelia. She was a beautiful woman and the sight of her brought back memories of their single night together with surprising force. There had been little blood, he remembered, though enough perhaps to bind her to him.

She stood and came to the gate, her face flushed. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘My husband …’

‘Is discussing his dreary plans with Labienus, as always, Julia, as I’m sure you know. Why he leaves a woman like you alone on such a beautiful day, I cannot understand.’

He heard the high voice of a child sing tunelessly in the background.

‘Your son? Who else is with you here?’

‘You must not talk to me, Brutus!’ she said, looking around nervously. ‘He has guards within call and there are always slaves here. This is not private.’

A little boy tottered out of the house and Brutus winked at him. The child beamed.

‘He is very handsome, that one. Look at the size of his hands. He will be a great swordsman.’

Julia’s fear softened at the compliment and she turned to her son. ‘Go inside. I will play with you in a moment,’ she said. They both watched as the boy nodded gravely and made his way back across the garden.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ Brutus asked.

Julia shook her head firmly. ‘Definitely not. I cannot be seen with you and I don’t think I could trust you.’

‘I was remembering a night in a stable,’ he admitted, enjoying the way she blushed. ‘You can’t tell me you prefer Pompey now?’

‘He is my husband,’ she said, but the firmness was gone from her voice.

Unconsciously, she had crept closer to the bars. If they had not been there, he could have taken her into his arms and kissed her, but he thought she was ready to leap away if he made such an attempt.

‘Why did you leave my father?’ she asked, suddenly. ‘I never expected that from you. It was not to be with me, I know that.’

His reply came so quickly that she didn’t notice him look away for a flickering instant. The lies came easily to him in that mood.

‘Your father is the best man I have ever known, Julia. Pompey will have to be very lucky to beat him, for all his confidence.’

‘Then why did you desert him?’ she said, her eyes flashing.

He wondered at the conflict in her to have her husband planning a war with her father. As she looked at him, he had an idea as exciting as it was simple. By the gods it was a risk, though. How far could he trust what he saw in her eyes? Would she betray him?

‘Do I have your oath not to tell Pompey?’ he whispered.

‘On the life of my son,’ she replied, leaning even closer.

‘I have not left Julius,’ he said. ‘I am here to help him win.’

Her red lips opened as she took in what he was saying. He wanted to kiss them hungrily and his hand moved of its own accord to stroke her hair. She pulled back out of range on the instant.

‘No one else knows,’ he said. ‘I have told you only because I could not bear to have you think of me as a traitor.’

He could see she wanted to believe him and it was all he could do not to burst into laughter.

‘Your husband does not trust me, though,’ he continued. ‘He will not let me command enough men to make a difference. I think he intends to put me in the front ranks, to be killed in the first skirmish.’ Was he being too obvious? He had intended a subtle barb to have her fear for him, but it was difficult to find exactly the right tone.

Still she did not reply and he could see the agony in her expression as she found herself caught between conflicting loyalties. She loved her father, he knew. He had gambled that she would not tell Pompey and see him executed. If affection had grown for the Dictator, Brutus knew his life could be measured in hours. Already he was appalled at the risk he had taken, and as she remained silent he would have given anything to take back the words.

‘Does my father want you to lead a legion?’ she asked faintly.

He smothered a grin then, knowing she was his and he had won. ‘He does, Julia,’ he said.

‘Then I will persuade my husband to give you a command.’

He forced surprise onto his face, as if he had never considered the idea.

‘Can you do it? He will not like to be pushed,’ he said. He saw she had grown pale and now that the idea had been planted, he had a sense of time running away from him. He could not be found at her gate, especially now.

‘I know him well,’ she said. ‘I will find a way.’ On impulse, she pressed her face against the bars and kissed him hard on the lips. ‘Let my father know I have not forgotten him,’ she said.

‘I will, girl, but I must go now,’ he replied.

He could have sworn he heard the clatter of iron-shod sandals in the distance. He would have to be far away when they found him, preferably in a tavern with a girl on his arm. It would be difficult to talk his way out of it, but not, he hoped, impossible.

‘When will I see you again?’ she asked.

‘Dismiss the slaves two days from now at the same time. If I can, I will be here,’ he said, rejoicing inwardly. It was far more than he had hoped for at the beginning. Instead of the private pleasure of rolling Pompey’s wife once in a while, the stakes had become frighteningly large.

‘Go quickly!’ she said, catching his nervousness.

He nodded and ran at last, taking the first corner at a sprint. She watched him go and jumped as her husband’s soldiers clattered by a few moments later. He would lead them a merry dance, she thought, and for the first time since her arrival in Greece, her heart beat wildly with excitement.

CHAPTER TEN

The festival of Bona Dea was in full cry and Rome was filled with women. On this one day each year, the men closed their doors and went to sleep early while the free women of the city drank and sang and danced. Some went bare-breasted, revelling in the festival’s freedoms while their families were safely at home.

Many male citizens climbed to the roofs of their houses to watch the proceedings, but if they were seen, a barrage of stones would send them back out of sight. It would have been even less pleasant to be caught alone in the streets. Every year there were stories of young men who had been cornered after curiosity kept them out too long. Some of them were found trussed and naked the following morning, still too shocked to talk about what had happened.

Belas watched the old house of Marius from a high window opposite, wondering how to get closer. He had seen Caesar bid his wife a laughing farewell before heading off for an all-night meeting with his officers. The consul had left it late to make a dignified passage and his men were hooted as they marched down the Quirinal hill towards the forum. The normal rules were suspended for the Bona Dea and Belas had enjoyed the consul’s evident discomfort. There was no dignity in trying to resist the women’s festival, even for members of the Senate.

From his vantage point, Belas watched with interest as a group of Vestal virgins came whooping up the hill, accompanied by the sensual beat of drums and flutes. The two leaders were naked to the waist and their breasts bounced most attractively, in Belas’ opinion, their long oiled legs gleaming in the light of torches. He did not dare to lean out where they might glance up and see him. The Vestals in particular could be wicked when they caught sight of a man on that night. It was death even to touch one of them and the sentence was always enforced. Belas reassured himself nervously that he had locked the door of the house below, after renting his room for the evening.

Marius’ house was growing busy with the guests Pompeia had invited. As the wife of a consul, she had gained an instant social prestige and was clearly enjoying her new status. Belas watched the women of the great families arrive from all over the city and tapped his fingers on the windowsill in frustration at not being able to see what went on inside. Most men in Rome were prepared to add to the rumours of the festival, but Belas knew the gossip was based on very little. The secrets of the Bona Dea were well kept.

He strained to see through the open gate when it was not blocked with new arrivals. Large though the house was, Belas thought the grounds must be bursting with noble daughters. Their voices were raucous as they sang and laughed and chanted, knowing full well that men would hear and wonder what debauchery they were attempting.

Belas did not want to be there and he had told Servilia as much, saying that Pompeia could hardly shame Caesar on that night, above all others. She had been firm and he had taken his place in the high room that overlooked the street, with nothing but a little cheese and bread for companionship. It would be a long night on such a lonely vigil.

As the moon rose, there were tantalising glimpses of flesh in the street below, as all inhibitions were shed. Belas fidgeted as he waited through the hours, tormented by his own imagination. He could hear a woman snoring somewhere nearby, perhaps in the very doorway to his refuge. Sweat clung to his skin as he squinted through the glow of torches and tried not to picture the wine they would be pouring down each other’s skins, dark red on gold.

Lost in his reverie, he did not at first notice anything unusual about the swaying figure that came up the hill. Her hair was long and bound tightly in a club on her neck. She wore a cloak that fluttered in the breeze, revealing a stola as black as night underneath. Belas heard her footsteps patter on the stones below, pausing as they reached the house he watched.

He could not help but look again, his heart hammering as he edged closer to the window and peered down. His hands gripped the sill with sudden tension, his mouth opening to whisper a curse. What he saw was surely impossible.

The figure carried a limp wineskin like the scrotum of an old man. Belas watched as she tilted up her head so that the light from the torches caught the line of her throat. It was not a woman. The painted face was skilfully done and even the gait was female, despite the apparent drunkenness. But Belas had played women in the great theatres and he was certain. In the shadows, he applauded the man’s daring and wondered how long it would be before he was discovered. They would not be gentle. Midnight had come and gone and no man had the right to walk the city in those hours. If the Vestals caught the interloper, he would be lucky not to be held down and castrated. Belas shuddered at the thought and considered offering the stranger sanctuary until dawn. He was taking a breath to do so when he saw the man’s movements become subtly sharper as he looked into the garden.

The drunkenness too was feigned, Belas realised. The stranger was no young fool on a dare for his friends then, but someone more dangerous. Could he be an assassin? Belas cursed to himself that he had no way to contact Servilia during the Bona Dea. No matter what happened, he did not dare leave the sanctuary of his little room.

He watched as the man took in the sights and sounds that were denied to Belas and then staggered inside the gates to the scented gardens beyond. Belas was left alone, consumed with curiosity. Even in his wildest youth, he would not have risked being out on that festival.

Belas waited impatiently, expecting a sudden eruption of indignant screams as the man’s fraud was discovered. When it didn’t come immediately, he found himself shifting from foot to foot with the tension.

It took a long time to realise the man wasn’t going to come out, forcibly or otherwise. So concerned had he been with the danger that when the suspicion first struck him, Belas froze, almost in indignation. He did not believe the stranger could fool so many women for long, if at all, so had he been expected? In the darkness, Belas considered the possibilities. The man could have been a prostitute, perhaps, hired for the evening. That was infinitely preferable to a cold-blooded adventurer who might at that very moment be lowering Pompeia onto a silken couch. Belas began to hum to himself, as he sometimes did in moments of worry. He knew he had to look into the house.

He crept down two flights of stairs in pitch darkness until he could feel the polished wood of the door to the street. Gingerly, he opened it and glanced out. The snoring woman fell in as he removed her support and Belas froze as she slumped at his feet. She did not wake as he took her under the armpits and moved her to one side. He could feel his pulses throbbing as he watched her for movement. He deserved better pay for such a night.

Belas offered up a prayer to all the most masculine of Roman gods to keep him safe and darted across the street, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. With exaggerated caution, he peeped around the gatepost of the old Marius house, his imagination running riot.

A naked woman lay sprawled just inside the gate, with an empty wineskin at her side. Even through his fear, Belas realised she was a beauty, but not Pompeia. Sudden laughter from the house made him shrink back and Belas glanced up and down the street outside, terrified that he would be discovered by someone coming up behind. He shuddered as he imagined their glee. He crept further into the gardens and hid as a pair of women came past, only inches from discovering him. The fear was too much and he could smell his own acrid sweat.

He was almost ready to leave when he saw his stranger once more. The disguise was spoilt by the casual strength of the man as he walked into the open with a naked woman in his arms. She had her legs curled up like a kitten and was murmuring as he carried her towards some private place. Belas could only shake his head at the stranger’s brazenness. He still wore the dress, but his arms were too heavily muscled to be female. The woman seemed to be trying to sing through a spate of hiccoughs. As her head lolled, Belas caught a glimpse of Pompeia’s features and watched in amazement as she wrapped an arm about the man’s neck and pulled his head down to her lips. She had rarely looked finer, Belas could see, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and swaying as she kissed the stranger. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and passion and Belas rather envied the man who had risked everything to be there in that garden.

It occurred to him that if he left and said nothing, there would be little damage done to anyone. Part of him wanted to do just that, but he had accepted Servilia’s gold and everything that entailed.

‘Is she worth your life?’ he said suddenly, pitching his voice to carry.

The stranger almost dropped Pompeia at the sound and turned quickly towards the source. Belas ducked out of sight and scurried away. He was back across the street before any alarm could be given.

He had done his work and the young man knew he had been seen. Belas sighed as he watched the chaos that ensued from his high window. The stranger had disappeared, perhaps through the gardens to climb a wall to safety. The rest of the women in the house were roused by their mistress and they searched the area with oaths and threats. One of them even thumped on the door opposite, but Belas had barred it securely and could smile. He wondered if the stranger had been returning from a bed rather than going to one. The man deserved something for his efforts, after all. By the time morning came, there was going to be trouble.

Julius yawned as he ate the cold lamb and roasted onions that had survived the night. With the first grey light of dawn showing in the forum, the plans and discussions had begun to blur into one another until he knew it was time to call an end to it. Adàn too was yawning hugely, having spent the entire session with two other scribes taking down orders and keeping the records in perfect detail.

It was strange to be in the Curia without a single senator on the benches. Filling the seats with the officers of his legions had given an air of a military court and Julius wished the real Senate could see the efficiency of these men. There had been no wasted, pompous speeches throughout the long hours of darkness: there was too much real work to do.

Despite the freedoms of the festival, they had heard little to disturb the long watches of the night. In a breach of tradition, Julius had posted soldiers on the senate house steps to prevent any of the more foolhardy women coming close enough to interfere. It seemed to have worked, but the dawn light still brought a few smiles to the chamber as it signalled an end to the Bona Dea and the chance to get to bed at last.

Julius looked proudly round at the men who had assembled at his order. As well as the seven generals, he had called his most senior centurions and military tribunes to hear the final arrangements for leaving Rome behind them. More than three hundred men were packed into the seats and at times the discussion had been as noisy and jocular as a full Senate debate.

Though he was weary, Julius was content with the preparations for war. The fleet was waiting to sail at Ostia and he had the men to fill them, now that three more of his legions had come south and set up tents in the Campus Martius. Mark Antony was steady in his role as consul and every soldier in the room knew the main plans for the first landings in Greece, if not the final date.

‘One more month,’ Julius murmured to Domitius at his side, ‘then we will be free to go to war again.’

‘One more throw for the whole game,’ Domitius replied, echoing a conversation on the Rubicon months before.

Julius laughed at the reference. ‘It seems that whenever I think I have mastered a game, I find I have been playing blind on a greater board. I send Caecilius to Greece to be captured, but instead we receive detailed reports every month that are more valuable than gold. The man is a fox, it seems, and the gods have a strange sense of humour.’

Domitius nodded, feeling the same sense of satisfaction that showed in Julius’ face. The reports from Caecilius were a vital part of their preparations, and those who knew he had been sent simply to sow mistrust of Brutus were privately pleased that stratagem had failed, at least so far. Even then, the war to come was only half the task that faced them. Julius was obsessed with leaving the city safe and they had worked for months to prepare Rome to be handed over to Mark Antony.

The new magistrates had taken to heart the single instruction Julius had given them: ‘Work faster and take no bribes.’ Backed by their awe of the man, it had been enough to tackle some of the backlog of cases that had grown in the months preceding Pompey’s departure. Few of the officials had fallen back into corruption and those who did were at the mercy of their victims, now that complaints were taken seriously.

The city was working again, despite the upheavals. The people had been asked for their trust and had given it, at least for the present. Mark Antony would inherit a great deal of good will when the legions left. Julius had kept the promise he had made in the forum and provided ten full cohorts to keep the peace while he was gone. Leavened with more experienced officers, the road guards from Corfinium had been perfect for that task and Julius had been happy to confirm Ahenobarbus as their general.

At that thought, Julius raised his cup to Ahenobarbus in a private salute. He did not regret sparing him and the man’s stolid lack of imagination was well suited to the duties of keeping peace in Rome. Julius could see his pride as he returned the toast.

A soldier entered the chamber, one of those Julius had left guarding the bronze doors outside. Julius rose stiffly to his feet as he saw Servilia walked with him. With a clatter, the rest of his officers followed his example and in the silence they all heard the metallic whine of a plate as it spun on the marble floor before someone put his foot on it.

Servilia did not smile as she greeted him and it was with a sinking feeling that Julius regarded her.

‘What brings you here?’ he said.

Her glance took in the solid ranks of his officers and he understood she was reluctant to speak in public.

‘Come to my house, on the Quirinal,’ he said. ‘I will dismiss the men.’

‘Not there, Consul,’ she said, hesitating.

Julius lost his patience and took her by the arm, walking outside to the steps that led down to the forum. They could both see right across it and the clean air helped to settle his mind after the long hours of breathing the oil fumes of torches.

‘I take no pleasure in this,’ she began, ‘but I had a man watch your house last night.’

Julius glared at her, his thoughts jumping immediately to suspicion. ‘We will discuss your right to do so another time. Tell me what he saw,’ he said.

She passed on the details that Belas had witnessed and watched him grow colder and angrier as she spoke. For a long time, he was silent, gazing out over the expanse of the forum. A few moments before he had wanted nothing more than sleep, but his light mood had been torn away by her words.

He clenched a fist unconsciously, before he forced himself to speak again. ‘I will have the truth of this from her.’

Pompeia’s eyes were red with weeping as Julius came storming in. He had left his soldiers in the street rather than have them witness this most private of meetings. One glance at her guilty expression and his humiliation was complete.

‘I am sorry,’ she said as she saw him, and before he could speak she began to sob like a child.

The question simmered in him like stomach acid, but the words had to be spoken aloud. ‘It’s true then?’

She could not look at him as she nodded, burying her face in a tear-stained cloth. He stood in front of her, his hands opening and closing as he struggled to find a response.

‘He came last night? Was it rape?’ he said at last, knowing it was impossible. Attempting a rape on the Bona Dea would be tantamount to suicide. His thoughts had wrapped themselves so tightly that he could barely think at all. Shock was making him foolish, some small part of him noted, and he knew that when the anger finally came it would be terrible.

‘No, not that. I can’t … I was drunk …’

Her snivelling began to grind at his stunned calm. Visions of the brutal punishments he could exact flashed into his mind, tempting him. His men would not dare to come into the house, even if he strangled her. His hands clutched convulsively, but he did not move closer.

Raised voices in the street made him turn, almost with relief at the distraction. He heard a strange voice shouting and when he glanced back at Pompeia he saw she had gone as pale as milk.

‘Oh no …’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t hurt him. He’s a fool.’ She stood and reached for Julius.

He stepped back as if from a snake, his face twisting in rage. ‘He’s here?’ he demanded. ‘He’s come back to my house?’

Julius strode to the front gate where his soldiers had pinned a bawling figure to the cobbled street. His mouth was bloody, but he struggled like a madman. Pompeia gave a cry of sheer horror as she saw him. Julius shook his head in amazement. The stranger Belas had seen was a youth, no more than eighteen years old. He had long hair to his shoulders, Julius noted sourly. Looking at him made Julius feel old and his bitterness increased.

The soldiers held the intruder in grim silence as they realised their general was with them. One of them had taken a cut to his lip in the struggle and was red-faced with exertion.

‘Let him up,’ Julius said, his hand dropping automatically to his gladius.

Pompeia cried out in panic and Julius turned to slap her hard across the face. The shock silenced her and her eyes filled with tears as the young man rose to his feet and stood to face his tormentors. He was breathing heavily as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Take me,’ he said clearly. ‘Let her go.’

‘Get him inside,’ Julius snapped. ‘I won’t have the whole of Rome watching this.’

His men laid heavy hands on the youth, dragging him into the garden and locking the gate behind them. Pompeia followed, her eyes dark with terror and misery as they moved out of the sun into the cool halls beyond.

The soldiers threw the young man down on the marble with a hard slapping sound. He groaned in pain before staggering upright. He looked at Julius with reproof.

‘Well?’ Julius said. ‘What’s your name, boy? I am curious to find out what exactly you thought would happen here.’

‘My name is Publius and I thought you might kill her,’ the young man replied.

He held his head proudly and Julius lost his temper for an instant, rapping him hard across the mouth with his knuckles. Blood drooled slowly down Publius’ face, but the eyes remained defiant.

‘We are talking about my wife, boy. You have no right to an opinion,’ Julius said slowly.

‘I love her. I loved her before you married her,’ Publius said.

It was all Julius could do not to kill him. The rage he had expected was banishing the weariness from his mind at last, fuelling a restless energy that made him want to cut the arrogant fool down.

‘Please don’t tell me you expected to save her, puppy? Should I give her to you and wish you both luck? What do you think?’

As Publius began to reply, Julius hit him again, knocking him down. Publius panted hard as he struggled up and his hands were shaking.

Julius saw that blood had spattered across the marble of the entrance hall and fought for control of his emotions. Pompeia was sobbing again, but he could not look at her for fear his anger would become uncontrollable.

‘I am leaving Rome in less than a month to fight an army twice as large as the one I have. Perhaps you are hoping that I will leave you two together while I am gone? Or that I may not return, even?’ He swore, disgustedly. ‘It’s a long time since I was as young as you, Publius, but I was never such a fool. Never. You’ve staked your life on a romantic gesture and the trouble with the great poems and plays is that they rarely understand what it means to stake your life. It means I have my men take you somewhere quiet and beat you until your face caves in. Do you understand? How romantic will you look then, do you think?’

‘Please don’t,’ Pompeia said. ‘Please let him go away from Rome. You’ll never have to see him again. I will do anything you want.’

Julius turned his cold eyes on her. ‘Are you offering to be a faithful little wife now? It’s too late for that. My heir must carry my blood, girl, without rumour, without gossip. That’s all you had to do for me.’ He grimaced, unable to bear the sight of her any longer. ‘In front of these witnesses, girl. Three times I say this to you: I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you. Now get out of my house.’

She took a step away, unable to reply. Dark circles made her eyes looked bruised. She looked at Publius and they shared a glance of despair.

‘I doubt that dry womb of yours will ever be filled, but if it shows life while I am gone, the child will be a bastard,’ Julius told her. He wanted to hurt and was pleased as she flinched.

When Julius faced Publius again, he snorted at the look of hope on the young man’s face. ‘Please tell me you’re not expecting to get through this, boy? You’ve lived long enough to know what must happen, surely? No one can be that young and stupid.’

‘If you are letting Pompeia go free, it’s enough,’ Publius said.

His eyes were bright with righteousness and Julius was tempted to hit him again. Instead, he nodded to two of his men. ‘Take her out and leave her in the street. Nothing in this house is hers.’

Pompeia began to scream then, as the soldiers grabbed her and dragged her outside. The sound continued in the background as Publius and Julius looked at each other.

‘Will you kill me now?’ Publius asked, holding his head up.

Julius was ready to give the order, but the boy’s courage was extraordinary. Even in the absolute certainty of death, he remained calm and almost aloof from what was going on around him.

‘If it hadn’t been you, the whore would have had someone else in her bed,’ Julius said softly.

Publius lurched at him and the soldiers beat him to the ground with a rain of heavy blows.

‘No, I’m not going to kill you,’ Julius told him, leaning down. ‘A brave lad like you will do well in my legions. I’ll see you get a posting to the front line. You will learn my trade quickly there, one way or the other. You’re going to Greece, boy.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In the darkness, Julius could see the stern lamp of a galley like a distant firefly, twitching with the motion of the sea.

‘Tell the captain to take us a little closer,’ he said to Adàn. He heard the young Spaniard’s feet as he took the message forward, but the gloom swallowed him as if they were all blind. Julius smiled to himself. He had chosen the moonless night for exactly that quality and the gods had given him cloud to mask even the dim glow of the winter stars.

Huddled on the deck and in every space on the galley, the soldiers of the Tenth either dozed or applied one last coat of oil to protect their armour against the sea air. Only utter exhaustion could have dulled their tension into light sleep. They had launched knowing that there was just one chance to surprise the Greek ports. If that failed and the rising sun found them still far from the enemy coast, Pompey’s sleek galleys would descend on them and destroy them all.

‘No sign of dawn?’ Octavian said suddenly, betraying his nerves.

Julius smiled unseen in the darkness. ‘Not yet, General. The night will keep us safe a little longer.’

Even as he spoke, he shivered in the icy breeze and drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. The wind was strong, but changed without warning and Julius had seen the oars reach out for the dark waves three times since leaving Brundisium. At such a pace, the slaves below would be approaching their limits, but there was no help for that. They too would be drowned if they were caught by the coming day.

With only the shuttered lamp from the galley ahead to give them direction, it was easy to think they were alone on the sea. Around them were thirty galleys built in Ostia by the best Roman shipwrights. They carried Julius’ fortune: his men and his life. With some bitterness, he acknowledged the fact that there would be no son and heir if he died in Greece. His disastrously short marriage had been the gossip of the city and he still smarted under the humiliation. In the aftermath, he had found a young woman named Calpurnia and married her with unseemly haste. His name had been the subject of comic songs as his enemies mocked his desperation to father a son.

Calpurnia had nothing of the beauty that marked Pompeia. Her father had accepted the suit without a moment of hesitation, as if he were relieved to be rid of her. Julius considered her somewhat bovine features with little affection, even with the gloss of memory. She stirred little passion in him, but she came from a noble house fallen on difficult times. No one in Rome could question her line and Julius doubted she would have the temptations that had undone his second wife.

He grimaced at the thought of their last meeting and the tears Calpurnia had shed on his neck. She wept more than any woman he had ever known, considering the short time they had been together. She wept for happiness, for adoration and then at the slightest thought of him leaving. Her month’s blood had started the day before he took ship and she had cried at that as well. If he failed against Pompey, there would be no other chance to leave more than a memory of his name. This was his path, his final throw of the dice. This was the real game.

He took a deep breath, letting the cold air slide into the deepest recesses of his chest. Even then, he felt weary and knew he should sleep. Somewhere nearby, a man was snoring softly to himself and Julius chuckled. His Tenth were not the sort to be frightened by a little journey of seventy miles in the dark.

The last three days had been hard on all of them. When Julius finally gave the order, all seven legions had marched from Rome to Brundisium, covering the miles at a brutal pace. He’d sent out two fast galleys to chase Pompey’s spy ship clear of the coast and the fleet had launched, moving swiftly to pick up the legions on the other side of the mainland. Even at that late point, Julius had been tempted to hold back the strike until he had a fleet to match the one that Pompey controlled. Yet every day delayed was another for Pompey to entrench himself. Every hour. With the gods’ luck, the former consul would not be expecting Julius to arrive until spring.

Julius offered up a silent prayer that he was right. If Pompey’s spies had reached the Greek shore first, dawn would bring the last hours of sunlight they would ever see. The stakes of the gamble both appalled and excited him, but there was no calling it back. The moment his galleys had glided free of Brundisium, new-laden with his legions, the course was set for all of them.

The snoring soldier made a sound like a honking goose and one of his companions jerked him awake with a muffled curse. Julius had given orders for silence, but the night seemed alive with the hiss of waves and the creaking of ropes and beams. His spirits rose as he recalled other voyages, some so distant as to seem like another life. In a sense, he envied the freedoms of the young man he had been. His choices had seemed simpler and he could only shake his head at how innocent he must have seemed to men like Marius or Sulla.

Adàn returned to his side, staggering slightly as the galley pitched through a wave.

‘The watch glass has been turned three times, sir. Dawn cannot be far away now,’ he said.

‘Then we will know at last if they are waiting for us,’ Julius replied.

The night had seemed endless at the beginning and yet somehow it had flown. The generals of seven legions were aboard ships around him, waiting impatiently for the light. Each galley had a man at the highest point to call out the first grey gleam of dawn and scan the sea for the enemy. He felt an odd freedom as he realised there was nothing left for him to order or correct. It was a lull in the tension that he could almost enjoy and in the darkness he thought back to Renius, wishing he were there to see them. The old man would have enjoyed the gamble he had taken and seen the sense in it. Julius looked ahead, as if he could sight the coast of Greece by force of imagination. There were so many ghosts behind him, and somewhere ahead there was Brutus.

After the success of Caecilius reaching Pompey’s legions, Julius had sent another five men to infiltrate the Greek towns. Caecilius had reported their executions month by month until he was again the only voice reporting Pompey’s movements. It was galling to place so much trust in a single spy, and Julius worried constantly that the man had been turned against him.

In the dark, he shrugged off that weight with the rest. That too was beyond his power to change. If the reports were accurate, Pompey was in the north, around Dyrrhachium. His legions had been placed to defend the west coast, but they could not know exactly where Julius would land until it was too late. Unless they were ready for him. He smiled to himself, knowing the moment of peace had been an illusion. He could not stop his endless examination of the plans any more than he could stop the wind that froze his men where they lay.

A thump of hard bare feet on the wooden deck made him turn.

‘Sir? Dawn’s coming,’ the sailor said, pointing into the east.

Julius stared into unchanged darkness. Just as he was about to speak, a patch of grey became visible and with it the black line that separated the world from the heavens. He had seen the sun rise at sea before and still it caught his breath as the first line of gold wormed into existence and the underbelly of the clouds lit in bruised shades.

‘Enemy sail!’ another lookout called, shattering the vision.

Julius gripped the wooden rail, willing the light to come faster. Somewhere close, one of Pompey’s captains would be roaring panicky orders as the fleet materialised. Julius would not alter course. He imagined he could smell land in the sea air and knew it was desperation.

Dim shapes appeared around him as his thirty galleys were lit by the dawn. The decks were busy with activity as they prepared and Julius could feel his heart beat more strongly, almost painfully, as he waited for the word that Greece could be seen.

Three of Pompey’s galleys were visible now, the nearest close enough to see the flecks of white at its sides as the oarsmen churned the water.

‘Land!’ came the cry and Julius let out a roar of excitement, raising his fist to the sky.

His soldiers released the tension in a great cheer that echoed over the water as they saw the brown stain across their path that meant they would not be caught alone in the ocean.

The drums that had been silent all night came suddenly to life, setting an even faster, man-killing pace. Hearts would burst as they crossed the last length to land, but the drums pounded on at the charge and the galleys soared in together.

Julius could see the houses of a waking town and like the buzzing of an insect he heard alarm horns summon the soldiers of Greece to defend the inhabitants. Was it Oricum? He thought it was, though it had been almost twenty years since he last took ship from that port.

The sound of the drums fired his blood even higher as he watched the port come closer. Three galleys were in the dock there and even as Julius watched, they came alive with running, shouting men. He grinned at the thought of their fear. Let him just touch land and he would show them that Rome could still produce a general.

Brutus rose from the hard sleeping mat in his quarters and began the series of exercises with which he greeted every new dawn. Renius had set the original form, but Cabera’s influence had altered the routine, so that now there were as many moves to increase suppleness as to maintain strength. After half an hour, his body was gleaming with sweat and the sun had risen above the distant city of Dyrrhachium. He took a sword and began the routines he had learned with Julius decades before, the simpler forms growing into more complex strikes, almost as a dance. The routine was so much a part of him as to leave his mind completely free and he used the time to consider his position in Pompey’s forces.

It had become a dangerous game with Labienus after the first evasion of his guards. The Greek general was still suspicious and Brutus knew he was spied upon at all times. He thought he could have slipped away from their sight with enough effort, but that would only have added to Labienus’ mistrust. Instead, Brutus had confounded the man by complaining directly, dragging one of the watchers into Labienus’ presence.

Brutus had enjoyed seeming as indignant as any other loyal general would be. Labienus had been forced to apologise and claim a mistake had been made. The spies who watched Brutus had been replaced with new faces the following day.

Brutus smiled to himself as he lowered slowly into a lunge that ended with his outstretched gladius held straight for five heartbeats. To see Julia was an intoxicating challenge and simply vanishing from sight would begin another hunt for him. It was far better to act as an innocent man. On the two other occasions that he had stolen time with Julia since their first meeting in the garden, Brutus had gleefully ordered Seneca’s men to arrest the watchers. It changed nothing. Brutus knew Labienus would never be truly sure of him until he fought Julius in the field and proved his loyalty beyond all doubt.

Brutus spun lightly in a move he had learned years before from a tribe that fought with bronze weapons. Renius would have disapproved of anything that broke contact with the ground, but the leap was spectacular and hid the movement of the sword for instants that had saved his life on two separate occasions. As Brutus landed, he gripped the wooden floor of the barracks with his bare feet, feeling his own strength. He had been first sword in Rome and a general in Gaul. To have Labienus sniffing around him for disloyalty was an affront he would one day repay in full. Not one of Pompey’s men would ever appreciate what it had cost him to betray Julius. He knew they weighed his contribution to tactical discussion with a jaundiced eye. Part of him understood the necessity for their doubts, but still it was infuriating.

As he came to rest at last and brought his sword up to the legionary’s first position, he considered the irony of his new role. He had only ever fought under Julius’ command and he found Pompey merely competent in comparison. The man was a solid general, but he lacked the fire of innovation that Julius could bring to the direst situation. Brutus had seen Julius standing with arrows thumping into the ground around him as he turned a battle lost into a triumph. Though it did not sit easily with his pride, there were times when Brutus could admit he had learned more from Julius than he ever would from Pompey.

The silence of the night was broken as the soldiers around him woke and began to wash and dress. The temporary barracks had been sited near a stream that had its beginning above the snowline of distant mountains and Brutus could hear the men swear at the cold as they bathed. He reached under the cloth at his groin and scratched himself idly. There was a bathing room nearby, with a fire to heat buckets of water, but it had become a point of pride for the men that their officers dared the icy river with them. He smiled at the thought of the transformation he had wrought in the road guards. Even Labienus had complimented him in his stiff way. Seneca’s cohorts would hardly recognise the untrained soldiers they had been, after the months of drill and manoeuvres. Brutus had undertaken their instruction with deliberate thoroughness, knowing that only their skill would keep him alive when Julius came to Greece.

He left his set of silver armour in the room, preferring a simple set of leather and iron with long woollen bracae to protect his legs from the cold. A call brought a slave to carry them and Brutus went out into the pale morning sun.

The city of Dyrrhachium was wreathed in mist in the distance, with the grey sea shining at its westernmost point. Brutus tilted his head in ironic appreciation of Labienus, somewhere within that place. He did not doubt that his orders to train away from the city came from the subtlety of the general, solving his problem by removing the man who caused them.

As he strolled to the river’s edge, Brutus saw Seneca had risen before him and was standing naked on the bank, rubbing himself vigorously to revive his frozen flesh. The young officer grinned at Brutus, but then both men became still as they sighted movement near the city and peered into the distance.

‘Now who could be joining us out here?’ Brutus said to himself. The smudge of moving men was too far away to see details and Brutus resigned himself to a quick plunge and scrub so as to be ready to receive them.

Seneca was already pulling on his clothing and tying laces and straps that gleamed with oil. As Brutus waded gasping into the water, the alarm was being given around the camp and the wooden buildings clattered with the noise of men gathering weapons.

Brutus bore the cold in tense silence as he ducked under the surface, though it numbed him in moments. He panted sharply as he came out and accepted a blanket to towel himself dry.

‘I’m not due to report for another three days,’ he told Seneca as he pulled on his bracae and the wool sheaths that protected his feet from the worst cold. He did not voice his fear that Pompey had discovered his meetings with Julia. He was certain she would not have betrayed him, but Labienus could have had spies watching her as well, men he had not seen. He shook his head. Why send a column out to take him when he could be ambushed during his report?

Brutus and Seneca watched the soldiers from Dyrrhachium approach and both of them searched their consciences for some transgression, exchanging only a single baffled glance. The cohorts they commanded lined up in perfect order and Brutus took pride in their bearing. The days were gone when they could answer only a few horn calls in a battle line. They were as disciplined and hard as he could make them.

At the head of the approaching men, Brutus recognised Labienus himself, riding a black horse. He could not escape a chill at the sight of the second in command under Pompey coming out to see him personally. It did not bode well and he wished he had brought the silver armour from the barracks.

Labienus reined in only a few feet from the rigid figures that waited for him. Centurions cried the halt and the column stood facing them. Labienus dismounted with his usual care and Brutus noted again the quiet calm of the man that was so different from his own style. Battles won by Labienus were triumphs of discipline and economy. He never wasted men on pointless actions, but still had one of the finest records in Greece. Brutus detested his dry reserve on a personal level, though he could not deny the man understood tactics.

‘General Brutus,’ Labienus said, inclining his head in greeting.

Though the title was still officially used, Labienus’ eyes flickered over the tiny force Brutus commanded, apparently aware of the irony. Brutus let the silence stretch until Labienus grew uncomfortable. At last, he greeted Labienus by his own title and the tension receded.

‘Pompey has given these men to your command, General,’ Labienus continued.

Brutus hid his pleasure as he replied, ‘Your recommendation is valuable, then. You have my thanks,’ he said.

Labienus flushed slightly. He spoke carefully, as he had always done, knowing that to voice his distrust openly would invite a duel of honour he could not possibly win. ‘It was not my recommendation, as I am sure you realise. Pompey has other advisers. It seems he has been reminded of your success with extraordinarii in Gaul. After the first battle, you will command these men as a mobile force to shore up weaknesses in the lines as you see fit.’

‘After the first battle?’ Brutus queried, guessing what was coming.

Labienus produced a bound scroll from beneath his cloak, marked clearly with Pompey’s seal. As he placed it in Brutus’ hands, he spoke again with a glimmer of enjoyment. ‘For the first meeting of forces, your men will stand in the front rank against the enemy. That is Pompey’s direct order.’

He hesitated, choosing his words with extreme care.

‘I am to say that Pompey hopes you will survive that first attack, that he may use your abilities to the full in the latter stages of the war.’

‘I’m sure he said exactly that,’ Brutus replied coldly.

He wondered if the advice to use his abilities came from within Pompey’s own house. Julia had promised her influence and he had no other voice to speak on his behalf. Pompey was caught between a desire to use an extremely able general and the constant fear that Brutus was a spy for the enemy. Julia’s influence could have been the whisper he needed to gain this small concession.

Labienus watched his reaction with mixed feelings. He found the Gaul general unsettling. In training with the Greek legions, he had shown an understanding of terrain and men that was second to none. At the same time, he was arrogant and occasionally disrespectful to the point of outright insolence. Like Pompey, Labienus was loath to waste a man who had more years of actual battle experience than any other three generals in Pompey’s forces. Such a man could be vital in blunting Caesar’s eventual attack. If only they could trust him.

‘I will not take refreshment,’ Labienus said, as if any had been offered. ‘The fortifications are far from complete.’

Brutus raised his eyes at the mention of an area of policy he had not been able to influence. At Pompey’s order, vast stretches of walls and hill forts had been begun, stretching for miles around Dyrrhachium. They may have made the old man feel secure, but Brutus had scorned the very idea. As nothing else could, it showed that Pompey held Julius in too much respect as a commander, and preparing defensive positions before the enemy had even arrived did not inspire the men. Worse, Brutus thought it sapped at their courage to know that there were safe positions if they retreated.

‘Let us hope it does not come to that, Labienus,’ he said, more curtly than he had intended. ‘When Caesar comes, we may be able to break his forces without hiding from them.’

Labienus’ cold eyes went hard at the implication, unsure whether he should react to the perceived insult or not. In the end, he shrugged. ‘As you say,’ he replied. He signalled to a personal guard of a century to fall out and escort him back to the city. The rest stood impassively by the river, shivering in the wind.

Brutus was pleased enough not to play his games any longer and he saluted Labienus, noting the man’s relief as he returned the gesture.

‘Tell Pompey I will obey his orders and that I thank him for the men,’ Brutus said.

Labienus nodded as he mounted his horse once more and their eyes locked as if Labienus thought he could discern loyalty by the intensity of his gaze. At last, he wheeled his mount and rode stiffly back to the city.

As the galleys reached the docks, the spiked corvus bridges came crashing down, followed immediately by the soldiers of Julius’ legions. The galleys in the port were wedged in place before they could escape and many of the men who jumped onto Greek soil did so from their decks. They flooded ashore, killing the crews with merciless efficiency and moving on.

Oricum became jammed as they forced their way inland. The port town was manned by a thousand legionaries in billets and those were the first to be overwhelmed. Some of them managed to light signal fires of green wood and the plumes of smoke soared upwards to alert the country. Julius did not allow his men to show mercy before they were well established and that first thousand were cut to pieces in the streets of Oricum.

The three galleys that had sighted their fleet had not attempted to land, but turned north to take word of the invasion. Julius knew he had to use the surprise attack to its utmost advantage. If he had had more men waiting to come across, he might have secured a safe area around the port. As it was, Julius had thrown his entire force at the coast. He needed to be mobile and chafed at every moment of delay as the heavy equipment began to be winched out of the galleys. He was safe from the sea for the present. No other force could land easily behind him, with his galleys blocking the port. When the last ballistae and scorpion bows had been lifted out, he ordered them sunk, choking it completely.

Before the sun had reached its noon zenith, the veterans were ready to march inland. Spires of smoke rose from the port town around them, smudging the clear air as they waited in perfect rows and columns. Julius looked at them with pride and dropped his arm to signal the horns to sound.

The streets had given way to scrub fields by the time they saw the first of Pompey’s legions in full array in the distance. The veterans of Gaul roared their challenge and there was no reluctance in them. Who could have guessed how they would feel when they sighted a Roman legion as an enemy? Julius saw the feral interest as the legionaries watched the moving force in the distance. Wolf brothers could tear each other to pieces, regardless of shared blood.

Whoever commanded the five thousand men clearly rejected the opportunity to have them destroyed by such an overwhelming force. Even as Julius watched, the heavy column changed direction and headed north. Julius laughed aloud at the thought of the consternation in those ranks. They had not expected him and now it was too late. He slapped his horse’s neck in excitement, looking around at a country he had not seen for decades.

The land was bare in winter, with twisted trees bereft of their foliage and thin grass clinging to the soil. The stony earth was a dry dust that he remembered from fighting Mithridates many years before. Even the air smelled subtly different to Rome or Gaul. This was a hard land, where life had to be brought carefully into being. It was a good place to go to war. As he cast his eyes along the colourful lines of his legions, Julius thought of Alexander before him and straightened in the saddle.

His gelding was skittish as he rode along the silent ranks. One by one, he greeted his generals. Some, like Octavian, Domitius, Ciro and Regulus, he had known for years. Others had proved themselves in Gaul and been promoted after Brutus’ betrayal. They were good men and he felt his confidence soar. It seemed a dream to be actually on Greek soil, with the land opening up before them. He was back in his most natural element and all the stifling subterfuge of political Rome could be left behind. Flags snapped and fluttered in a winter breeze that could not cool the pleasure he felt to be at last in reach of his enemy. Pompey had almost twice as many men under his command, with the advantage of fighting on land they knew and had prepared. Let them come, Julius thought. Let them try us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Pompey paced the central length of the temple he had made his headquarters, his hands clasped tightly at his back. All other sound had ceased and his iron-shod sandals threw back a perfect single echo from the walls, as if his footsteps were stalked by an unseen enemy.

‘So he is among us,’ he said. ‘Despite the vaunted promises of my captains, he slips through them and takes Oricum from my control. He strikes at the heart of the coast and meets nothing more than a token resistance! Tell me again how this is possible!’

His last steps brought him face to face with Labienus, who stood at the entrance to the temple. His expression was as hard to read as ever, but he sought to soothe his commander’s anger.

‘There were good reasons not to expect him to cross in winter, sir. He gained the length of darkness he needed to avoid the fleet, but the ground is barren.’

Pompey gestured for him to continue, a spark of interest showing in his eyes.

Labienus cleared his throat. ‘He has risked a great deal to make a secure landing, sir. Until the spring crops have ripened, his men, his pack animals must survive on nothing more than they brought with them. At best, they can have two weeks’ rations in dried meal and meat. After that, they will grow weak. The decision could only have been made in desperation, sir. He will regret it.’

Pompey’s eyes seemed to darken as fury overtook him once more. ‘How many times have I heard that he has overreached himself? Yet still he seems to go on, while my advisers tell me he should be long dead. His luck is uncanny, Labienus.’

‘Sir, we have his measure. I have ordered our fleet to block the coast behind him. He cannot be supplied by sea. No matter how lucky he is, he cannot put grain that doesn’t exist into the stomachs of seven legions. Perhaps if he were left unchallenged he could raid the cities to steal food, but when we are there to harry his flank he will command slowly starving men.’

‘Oh I shall be there, Labienus. Gather our legions ready to move against him. I will not let him roam Greece as if he owns it!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Labienus replied swiftly, pleased to have been given the order after an hour of enduring Pompey’s temper. He saluted and turned to leave, but Pompey’s voice interrupted once again.

‘Be sure that Brutus is there to be seen by all of Caesar’s followers,’ Pompey said, his voice strained. ‘He will prove loyal or be cut down.’

Labienus nodded. ‘My own legion will never be far from him, sir. There are men I trust to contain him if he is false.’ He would have left then, but could not help but voice the concern that nagged at him. ‘It would be easier, sir, if he had only the cohorts he arrived with. The extra thousand you gave him will be an obstacle if he turns against your authority.’

Pompey looked away from his general’s coolly assessing eyes. ‘If he honours his oath to me, they will play a key part in the conflict to come. I would be a fool to hamstring the man who knows Caesar’s tactics best of all with only two cohorts. The decision is final, Labienus.’

Labienus left, still wondering who could have been influencing Pompey. Perhaps it was a voice in the exiled Senate that claimed so much of his time. Though it was uncomfortable even to think such disloyal thoughts, Labienus had found little to respect in the bickering old men Pompey had brought from Rome. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he could honour the senators for their position, no matter how much he disliked them personally.

Seven of the eleven legions Pompey commanded were encamped around Dyrrhachium. The main force would meet and absorb the others as they moved south to counter the invasion. Labienus found the sight of the host pleasing and was certain he had given Pompey the right advice. Fifty thousand men were the largest army he had ever seen in one place. The best reports of Caesar’s legions gave him no more than twenty-two. Labienus was of the opinion that Pompey had far too much respect for the upstart who had usurped the Senate of Rome. That the Gaul legions were veterans was beyond dispute, but veterans could be holed by spears as well as any other man.

In the near distance, Labienus heard the bellowing of a white bull, slaughtered by the takers of auspices. He would see their report before Pompey and alter it, if necessary. Standing in the sun, he rubbed his thumb over the tip of his sword hilt, polishing it in a nervous habit. He could not have imagined seeing Pompey so shaken by Caesar’s landing at Oricum. There would be no more bad news to jar his confidence.

Labienus watched as messengers approached to take his word out to the waiting legions.

‘We march,’ he told them, bluntly, his mind already on the campaign to come. ‘Give the order to break camp. General Brutus will form the vanguard, with my Fourth legion behind him.’

The messengers scattered down the roads out of the city, competing to be first on the field with the news. Labienus took a deep breath and wondered if he would have the chance to see the face of the enemy who could shake the confidence of Pompey. He shrugged to himself. Caesar would regret coming to Greece with his ambition. They had not forgotten the rule of law.

Julia was sitting in Pompey’s townhouse playing with her son on her lap when her husband came home. The peace of the day was shattered as he bellowed for servants to attend him. She winced at the strident tone and the child on her knee giggled at her expression, trying to copy it. The boy carried the promise of his father’s heavy features and she wondered if he would inherit the same brooding disposition. A clatter of dropped dishes nearby told her that Pompey had made his way through the main rooms and was coming out to see her. She could hear every word as he called for his best armour and sword to be brought. She knew then that Julius had come to Greece at last and her heart thumped as she rose.

‘There you are!’ Pompey said, as he came into the garden. He stooped to kiss her on the forehead and she bore it with a tight smile. Their little son held out his arms and was ignored.

‘It is time, Julia. I will be leaving and I want you moved to a place of greater safety.’

‘He has landed?’ she asked.

Pompey frowned and searched her eyes. ‘Yes. Your father made it through my fleet.’

‘You will destroy him,’ she said and without warning kissed her husband hard on the mouth. He flushed in pleased surprise.

‘I will,’ he said, smiling. The heart of a woman was ever a mystery to him, he thought, but his wife had accepted her new loyalty without pain or argument. She was a fitting mother to his son.

‘And Brutus? You will use him?’

‘As soon as I am certain, I will set him free to wreak havoc where he can. You were right about his extraordinarii, Julia. The man works best when he is not too tightly tied into the chain of command. I gave him two more cohorts.’

Gently, Julia placed her son on the ground and pushed him away. She stepped closer to her husband and enfolded him in a passionate embrace. She allowed her hand to slip down towards his groin and he jumped, laughing.

‘Gods, I haven’t the time!’ he said, raising her hand to his lips. ‘You have grown more beautiful in Greece, wife. The air suits you well.’

‘You suit me,’ she said.

Despite his worries, he looked pleased. ‘Now have your slaves gather whatever you’ll need.’

Her smile faltered. ‘Surely I am safe here?’ she said. ‘I would not like to be moved to a strange place at this time.’

Pompey blinked in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded, suddenly impatient.

She forced herself to reach out to him again, taking his hand in hers. ‘You will be a father once more, Pompey. I would not risk the child.’

Her husband’s face changed slowly as he took this in and considered. He eyed her figure. ‘It does not show.’

‘Not yet, but you could be in the field for months. It will.’

He nodded, coming to a quick decision. ‘Very well. This city is far from any fighting, after all. I just wish I could persuade the Senate to stay here with you, but they insist on accompanying the legions.’

The thought of having the Senate to question every order was enough to smother even the happiness of her news, Julia saw.

‘You must have their support, at least for the moment,’ she said.

He raised his eyes in exasperation. ‘It is a high price, Julia, believe me. Yet your father has been elected consul once again and I am forced to bend to the will of those fools. They know I need them now, that is the problem.’ He sighed. ‘You will have the company of their families, at least. I will leave another century to keep you safe. Now, promise me you’ll not stay if there is any danger. You are too precious to me to risk in this.’

She kissed him again. ‘I promise.’

Pompey ruffled the hair of his son affectionately. His voice rose to its previous volume as he went back inside the house, calling fresh orders to the guards and staff. After a while, he was gone and the house began to settle back to its usual sleepy quiet.

‘Are you going to have a baby?’ her son asked in his high voice, holding out his hands to be picked up.

Julia smiled, thinking how Brutus would react when she told him. ‘I am, darling.’

Her eyes were cold in the weak sunlight. She had made her choice. Knowing Brutus was ready to betray Pompey had proved a heavy burden since he had confided in her. Part of her felt pain at her own betrayal, but between her father and her lover, there was no loyalty left for Pompey.

‘Sir, there really is very little time,’ Suetonius said.

Cicero followed his gaze over the balcony of the meeting hall and his lips tightened. ‘Unless you would have me drag the great and good of Rome by the scruff of their necks, there’s little else to do but wait,’ he said.

The previous hour had seen Suetonius’ manner change from breezy confidence to indignation at the lack of progress. He watched as yet another group of slaves came in to add to the general confusion. It astonished him how many crates and packages were involved in moving the Senate and he could imagine Pompey’s growing impatience.

Below the pair, another argument erupted.

‘I should go down there,’ Suetonius said, reluctantly.

Cicero considered letting him try. It would be amusing at the very least and he had little liking for the senator. Maturity had not brought him wisdom, Cicero decided, looking him over. Yet he was a link to the military machine under Pompey and must be cultivated if the Senate were to maintain any influence during the campaign. The gods knew they needed every advantage they could gather.

‘They are in no mood to take orders, Suetonius, even if Pompey himself were here. Better to wait it out.’

They peered over the balcony again, looking for some sign that the chaos was lessening. Hundreds of slaves bore papers and materials in a snake of men that seemed to have no end. Suetonius tightened his grip on the railing, unable to hide his irritation.

‘Perhaps you could explain the urgency to them, sir,’ he said at last.

Cicero laughed aloud. ‘Urgency? Pompey has made it plain enough that we are nothing but baggage ourselves. What does he care if baggage take baggage with them?’

In his frustration, Suetonius spoke with less than his usual care. ‘Perhaps it would be better to have them stay. What use would they be on a battlefield?’

Cicero’s silence made him glance round. The orator was coldly angry, his words clipped. ‘We were to be government in exile, young man, not held at a distance from every decision. Without us, Pompey has no right to wage war in the name of Rome. No more legitimacy than Caesar and perhaps even less.’

He leaned forward and glared from under bushy eyebrows.

‘We have endured a year in this place, Suetonius, far from comfort and respect. Our families clamour to be taken home, but we tell them to endure until the lawful order is re-established. Did you think we would not be a part of the campaign?’ He nodded to the bustle in the hall. ‘You will find men here who understand the most rarefied subtleties of civilisation, those ideals most easily broken under a soldier’s sandals. Amongst them are writers of law and mathematics, the very ablest of the great families. Minds to have working for you when you face an opponent like Caesar, don’t you think?’

Suetonius did not want to be drawn, but he knew if the choice had been his, he would have left the Senate behind without a backward glance. He took a deep breath, unable to meet Cicero’s sharp anger.

‘Perhaps the decisions would be better left to Pompey now, sir. He is an able general.’

Cicero barked a laugh that made Suetonius jump. ‘There is more to this than sending in the flank! Caesar commands Roman legions. He has assumed authority over a new Senate. You may think of nothing more than the flags and horns, but there will be political decisions to be made before the end, you may count on it. Pompey will need advisers, whether he knows it or not.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ Suetonius said, nodding, trying to placate him.

Cicero was not so easily put off. ‘Is your contempt so strong that you will not even trouble to argue?’ he demanded. ‘What do you think will happen if Caesar wins? Who will govern then, do you suppose?’

Suetonius stiffened and shook his head. ‘He cannot win, sir. We have …’ He broke off as Cicero snorted.

‘My daughters have sharper minds, I swear it. Nothing is certain in battle. The stakes are too high to simply throw armies at each other until there is one man left standing. Rome would be defenceless and our enemies would have nothing to stop them walking into the forum as they pleased. Do you understand that much? There must be a surviving army when all the posturing and bluster is finished.’ He sighed at Suetonius’ blank expression. ‘What will next year hold for us, or the year after? If the victory is decisive, there is no one else to limit the authority of Pompey when Caesar has fallen. If he chooses to make himself a king, or an emperor, even, to abandon the Republic of his fathers, to launch an invasion of Africa – there will be no one who could dare to refuse. If Caesar is triumphant, the same applies and the world will change regardless. This is a new order, boy, no matter what happens here. When one general falls, there must be stability. That is when we will be needed.’

Suetonius remained silent. He thought he could hear fear in Cicero’s warnings and he scorned the old man’s worries. If Pompey triumphed, Suetonius would know only joy, even if it led to an empire begun on the fields of Greece. Caesar was outnumbered and would soon be hungry. Even to suggest that Pompey might not win was an insult. He could not resist a final barb.

‘Perhaps your new order will need younger blood, Senator.’

The old man’s gaze didn’t waver.

‘If the time for wisdom and debate has passed, then the gods help us all,’ he said.

Brutus and Seneca rode together at the head of a host of legions that blackened the countryside of Greece for miles. For once, Seneca was silent and Brutus suspected he was thinking of the orders from Labienus and what they would mean. Though in theory it was an honour to lead the vast army, both men knew the test of loyalty was likely to leave them dead on the field after the first charge.

‘At least we don’t have to tread through dung like the rest of them,’ Brutus said, glancing over his shoulder.

Seneca forced a tense smile. The legions were separated from each other by thousands of pack animals and carts and it was true that those further back would march a path made deeply unpleasant by their passing.

Somewhere ahead of them were the legions that had landed at Oricum, led by a general whose name was almost a byword for victory in the army. Every man there had followed the reports from Gaul and, even with the advantage of numbers, there were few who thought the battles to come would be anything but brutal.

‘I think Pompey is going to waste us,’ Seneca said, almost too quietly for Brutus to hear. As he felt his general’s eyes on him, he shrugged in the saddle. ‘When I think of how far I’ve come since Corfinium, I would rather we were not slaughtered in the first moments of battle just to test your loyalty.’

Brutus looked away. He had been thinking the same thing and was still struggling to find a solution. Labienus’ fourth legion marched close behind his cohorts and the orders had been painfully clear. Any creative interpretation would invite a swift destruction from their own rear. Though it would throw Pompey’s initial attack into confusion, Brutus knew Labienus was quite capable of such a ruthless act and it was all he could do not to look behind to see if the general was watching him. He felt the scrutiny as much as he had in Dyrrhachium and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

‘I doubt our beloved leader will order a straight thrust against the enemy,’ he said, at last. ‘He knows Julius will be planning and scheming for advantage and Pompey has too much respect to go in at the charge when we meet. Julius …’ He caught himself and shook his head angrily. ‘Caesar will likely have trapped and spiked the ground, dug pits and hidden flanking forces wherever there is cover. Pompey won’t let him have that advantage. Wherever we find them will be a trap, I guarantee it.’

‘Then we will be the men who die discovering it,’ Seneca said grimly.

Brutus snorted. ‘There are times when I forget your lack of experience, which is a compliment, by the way. Pompey will take up a position nearby and send out scouts to test the ground. With Labienus to advise him, we won’t be sent in until there’s a sweet wide path for us all to thunder through. I’d stake my life on it, if Labienus hadn’t done so already.’ He laughed as Seneca’s spirits visibly improved. ‘Our legions haven’t charged in like madmen since Hannibal and his bastard elephants, Seneca. We learn from mistakes, while every new enemy is facing us for the first time.’

Seneca’s smile faltered. ‘Not Caesar, though. He knows Pompey as well as anyone. He knows us.’

‘He doesn’t know me,’ Brutus said sharply. ‘He never knew me. And we’ll break him, Seneca.’

He saw Seneca’s grip on the reins was tight enough to make his knuckles white and wondered if the man was a coward. If Renius had been there, he would have snapped something to stiffen the young officer’s courage, but Brutus could not find the words he needed.

He sighed. ‘If you want, I can send you back before the first charge. There’ll be no shame in it. I can order you to take a message to Pompey.’ The idea amused him and he went on. ‘Something like, “Now look what you’ve done, you old fool.” What do you think?’

Seneca didn’t laugh, instead looking at the man who rode so confidently beside him. ‘No. These are my men. I’ll go where they go.’

Brutus reached over between the horses and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It has been a pleasure to serve with you, Seneca. Now stop worrying. We’re going to win.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Despite the heavy winter cloak that protected him from the worst of the cold, Pompey felt frozen into his armour. The only heat seemed to be in the bitter liquid that roiled and surged in his throat and bowels, making him weak. The fallow fields were littered with ice-split clods and progress was painfully slow. As a young man, he remembered being able to shrug off the worst extremes of campaigning, but now it was all he could do to clench his jaw and prevent his teeth from chattering audibly. Twin plumes of vapour came from his horse’s nostrils and Pompey reached down absentmindedly to pat its neck. His mind was on the army he could see in the distance.

He could not have asked for a better vantage point. Caesar’s legions had stationed themselves forty miles east of Oricum, at the end of a plain surrounded by forests. Pompey’s scouts had reached a crest of rising ground and immediately reported back to the main force, passing Brutus and Seneca without a sideways glance. Pompey had come forward to confirm their sighting and now he watched in suspicious silence.

The biting air was at least clear of mist. Though Caesar’s forces must have been two miles away, they stood out against the scrub grass of the plain. From so far, they looked a pitiful threat, like tiny metallic brooches pinned to the hard ground. They were as still as the patchy forest that covered the hillsides and Pompey frowned.

‘What is he doing?’ he muttered from between clenched teeth.

There was a part of him that had felt joy at finding the enemy within reach, but his more natural caution had reasserted itself. Julius would never stake his survival on a simple clash of arms. The plain where he had gathered his army was good land for a charge and Pompey knew his cavalry could smash through the smaller number of extraordinarii Julius had brought to Greece. It was far too tempting and Pompey shook his head.

‘How many legions can you count, Labienus?’ he said.

‘Only six, sir,’ Labienus replied immediately. From his sour expression, Pompey could see he shared the same doubts.

‘Then where is the seventh? What are they busy doing while we stand here watching the rest? Send the scouts wide. I want them found before we move on.’

Labienus gave the order and the fastest of their cavalry horses galloped out in all directions.

‘Have we been seen?’ Pompey asked.

In answer, Labienus pointed to where a distant horseman was trotting along the rocky tree line that bordered the plain. As the two men watched, the man raised a flag and signalled to Julius’ forces.

‘I don’t like it,’ Pompey said. ‘Those woods could hide anything. Yet it looks so much like a trap, I wonder if that is the conclusion he wants us to draw.’

‘You have men to spare, sir. With your permission, I will send a single legion out to test them – perhaps the cohorts with General Brutus, sir.’

‘No. Too few would not spring the trap, if it is one. He would let them close and then destroy them. We would lose men for nothing. I am reluctant to send more until I am better informed. Tell the men to stand down until the scouts return. Get a hot meal inside them and tell them to be ready for anything.’

The wind was increasing in force as the day waned. Dyrrhachium was a long way behind them and Pompey knew his men were tired. Perhaps it was better to set up hostile camps for the night and move on at dawn. He suspected Labienus was not impressed by his caution, but Pompey could still remember Julius gathering the old Primigenia legion around him and making them the core of his famous Tenth. Even those who hated Caesar admitted his ability to seize success against the odds. His skill could be read in the reports, and Pompey knew Julius was one of those rare ones who kept a sense of a battle even as it raged around him. Gaul had not fallen on its own, nor the shores of Britain. His men gave him their first loyalty, above the Senate and Rome. When he asked them to die, they went because he was the one asking. Perhaps because of that faith, they had become used to victory. Labienus had never even met the man, and Pompey was determined not to be another name on the list of those Julius had broken. His stomach twisted with a pang and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

‘Sir! They are moving east!’ one of the scouts called out, just as Pompey became aware of it himself. Ten heartbeats after the enemy legions began to shift, the distant whisper of their horns reached them, almost lost on the wind.

‘Your opinion, General?’ Pompey murmured.

‘They could be trying to draw us in,’ Labienus said doubtfully.

‘That is my feeling,’ Pompey replied. ‘Have the scouts keep the widest chains back to us as we move around it. I want them in sight of each other at all times.’

Labienus cast a concerned glance at the thick woodland that gripped the earth in patches all around them. Even in winter, the branches formed an impenetrable mass and it would be difficult to stay in contact on that terrain.

‘It will be dark in only a few hours, sir,’ he said.

‘Do the best you can with the daylight left to us,’ Pompey snapped. ‘I want them to feel us breathing down their necks as night comes. Let them fear what we will do when they can no longer see us. Tomorrow will be long enough to kill them all.’

Labienus saluted and rode clear to give the orders. The legionaries who had already begun to huddle together in expectation of a meal were called to their feet by centurions. Labienus chose not to hear the muttered complaints of the rank and file as he rode through to pass the word to the officers. Soldiers loved to criticise the hardship of their lives, he knew, but these were experienced men and it was almost out of habit rather than any real feeling. From the beginning, they had known a winter campaign would be a test of their fitness and endurance. He did not expect them to fail.

As the great column began to move, Brutus rode back past the lines of scouts, his silver armour drawing the eye of Pompey’s officers. He was flushed with some emotion and rode with effortless skill. Pompey saw him approach and his expression became subtly tauter, his mouth a pale line in the tanned skin.

Brutus drew up beside Pompey’s horse, saluting quickly. ‘Sir, my men are ready to attack. With your order, I will let them loose.’

‘Return to your position, General,’ Pompey replied, wincing as his stomach spasmed. ‘I will not send a charge over ground he has had time to prepare.’

Brutus showed no reaction to the dismissal. ‘He’s moving now, sir, and that is a mistake. He hasn’t had time to trap the whole area.’ Pompey’s expression did not change and Brutus spoke more urgently. ‘He knows us both, sir. He will expect us to wait and judge his plans before we strike. If we go in now we can wound them before it gets dark. By the time we must withdraw we will have raised morale with a victory and damaged his confidence.’

When Brutus finished, Pompey made a small gesture with his hand on the reins. Labienus took the cue, riding up to Brutus’ right side.

‘You have your orders, General,’ he said.

Brutus glanced at him and for an instant Labienus stiffened at what he saw there. Then Brutus saluted once more and rode back to the front ranks.

Pompey drummed his fingers on the high pommel of his saddle, a sign of the tension Brutus had created. Labienus did not break the silence of the march, allowing Pompey the privacy of his own thoughts.

The scouts reported every hour to keep them on course when line of sight became impossible for the main force. The winter night was coming quickly and Pompey waited with growing impatience for the enemy legions to call a halt.

‘If they don’t stop soon, they will be spending the night in the open,’ Pompey said irritably. ‘Half of them will freeze to death.’

He squinted through the shadows of trees into the distance, though there was nothing visible. The enemy had vanished in the gloom, but the most distant of the scouting riders still reported their progress back down the line. Pompey clenched his jaw against the cold and wondered if this too was a test. Perhaps Julius was hoping to lose them, or simply march them to death over the Greek plains.

‘They may have already prepared a camp, sir,’ Labienus said.

His lips were numb and he knew Pompey would have to let the men rest or start seeing them drop. He smothered any sign of his irritation as Pompey rode on as if unaware of the suffering of those around him. He did not want to prompt his commander, but if they did not make camp soon they risked losing the edge they had worked so hard to gain.

The sound of galloping hooves distracted both men from their thoughts and the cold. ‘They have halted, sir!’ the scout reported. ‘A small party are riding towards us.’

Pompey raised his head like a dog with a scent. ‘How many?’ he demanded.

Even in the last grey light, Labienus could see the scout was frozen to the point of barely staying in the saddle. He moved his own horse closer and took the reins from the younger man’s stiff fingers. ‘Your general asked you how many were coming,’ he said.

The scout blinked, summoning his wits. ‘Three sir, under a flag of truce,’ he replied.

‘Order a hostile camp, Labienus,’ Pompey said, at last. ‘I want high walls around us by the time they arrive. No doubt they will report every detail to Caesar on their return. Let there be nothing out of place.’ He paused and straightened his back to conceal his discomfort. ‘Send my physician to me. I need a little of his chalk and milk to settle my stomach.’

Labienus sent men running to fulfil the order. Weary and cold as they were, the army of fifty thousand would make short work of the walled camps. It was almost second nature to them after so long in training and he was pleased as the squares began to take shape. The sound of axes chopping into trees was as familiar as home to him and he began to relax. Pompey had left it late, Labienus acknowledged to himself. Part of the work would be finished in the dark and there would be accidents.

The three men Caesar had sent to speak to Pompey worried him far more. What was there to say at this late stage? It could not be to surrender before a single spear had been thrown in anger. Labienus grimaced in the gloom as he considered sending a few of his cavalry out to make the group disappear. He did not fear the consequences, knowing that if the bodies were well hidden, Pompey would think it was a delaying tactic. Labienus had loyal men he could trust to kill them in the dark and then it would just be another tiny mystery, quickly forgotten.

The alternative was to feed what he now saw as Pompey’s fear of this enemy. The confidence that had drawn Labienus to him on their first meetings seemed to have vanished with the news of the landing at Oricum. Labienus had seen the way he pressed a hand into his stomach and he feared the sickness was affecting more than his health and temper. Pompey had aged before them all and Labienus was faced with a role as second in command that went far beyond anything he had expected.

He was on the point of calling men he knew over to him when one of the scouts reported. The three riders had reached the mile perimeter and were being escorted in. Labienus let his hand fall, irritated that his own hesitation had stolen the chance. Perhaps that was the secret of Caesar’s genius, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Those who faced him tied themselves in knots guessing what he would try next. Labienus wondered if he would prove as vulnerable as Pompey seemed to be and took heart from the city of soldiers they had brought out of the north. No matter what cleverness Caesar summoned to the field, he had never faced Roman legions in their full strength. Gaul would not have prepared him for their onslaught.

By the time the three riders appeared out of the darkness, the camps were taking shape. Thousands of legionaries had dug trenches and banked earth to the height of two men. Every tree for miles around had been cut and pegged, sawn and strapped into place. Banks of earth and grass sod buttressed the columns, proof against fire and enemy missiles. They built fortresses out of nothing in just hours, havens of order and safety in the wilderness. Torches stood on iron stands all around the camp and lit the night in flickering yellow. Labienus could smell meat cooking on the night wind and his empty stomach creaked. His own needs would have to wait a little longer and he forced down his body’s weakness.

He waited for the three riders as they were passed through the scout lines into the camp, noting the insignia of the Tenth legion and their centurion’s armour. Julius had sent senior men to speak to Pompey, Labienus observed. They had been forced to walk through the defensive rings with drawn blades at their backs. Labienus watched them with narrowed eyes. At his order, their horses were taken and the three soldiers quickly surrounded.

Labienus walked across the frozen ground towards them. They exchanged a glance as he approached and their leader spoke first.

‘We have come at the order of Gaius Julius Caesar, consul of Rome,’ he said. The centurion stood confidently as if he were not ringed with men willing to cut him down at the first sudden move.

‘You seem a little blunt for diplomacy, soldier,’ Labienus replied. ‘Speak your message, then. I have a meal waiting.’

The centurion shook his head. ‘Not to you, Labienus. The message is for Pompey.’

Labienus regarded the men, his face showing nothing of his irritation. He had not missed the fact that his name was known to them and wondered how many spies Caesar had in Greece. He really should have had them killed before they had reached his position, Labienus thought ruefully.

‘You may not approach the general with weapons, gentlemen,’ he said.

They nodded, and removed swords and daggers to fall at their feet. The wind howled around them and the nearest torches fluttered madly.

‘Remove the rest of your clothes and I will have more brought to you.’

The three men looked angry, but they did not resist and were soon shivering and naked. Their skins showed each of them had fought for years, collecting a web of scars. The man who had spoken had a particularly fine collection and Labienus thought Caesar must have excellent healers for him to have survived. They stood without embarrassment and Labienus felt a touch of admiration at how they refused to hunch against the cold. Seeing their arrogance, he considered ordering a more intimate search, but decided against it. Pompey would be wondering about the delay as it was.

Slaves brought rough wool shifts, which the centurions draped over their skins, already turning blue.

Labienus examined their sandals for anything unusual and then shrugged and tossed them back.

‘Escort them to camp one – to the command tent,’ he said.

He watched their faces closely, but the men were as impassive as the soldiers around them. Labienus knew his meal would have to wait a little longer. He was too curious to find out why Caesar would send valuable men to such a meeting.

Camp one contained eleven thousand soldiers and the key links in the command chain. It was surrounded by four others of similar size so that from above they would look like the petals of a flower drawn by a child. Three roads crossed the heart of the camp and as Labienus walked along the Via Principalis towards Pompey’s command tent, he noted how the centurions took in every detail around them. He frowned at the thought that they would carry their observations back to an enemy and once again considered having them quietly dispatched. Rather than waste another chance, he broke away from the escort and gave quick instructions to a tribune from his own fourth legion. Without hesitation, the man saluted and went to gather a dozen others for the task. Labienus hurried along the main road to catch up with Caesar’s men, feeling better about their mission.

The Praetorium tent was an enormous leather construction towards the northern gate of the camp. Reinforced with beams and taut with ropes, it was as solid as a stone building and proof against rain or gale. The whole area was well lit with oil torches partially shielded by a lattice of iron. Their flames streamed out with the wind, casting odd shadows as Labienus reached his men and had them halt outside. He gave the password of the day to the outer guards and ducked inside, finding Pompey in discussion with a dozen of his officers. The tent was simply furnished, with one long table and an ornate oak chair for Pompey. Benches rested against the walls for meetings and it had a spartan air of which Labienus approved. More importantly, the tent was far warmer than the outside. Braziers glowed on the packed earth, making the air thick and sluggish with heat. Labienus felt sweat break out on his skin at the sudden change.

‘You’ve brought them here?’ Pompey asked. His hand crept towards his stomach as he spoke.

‘I’ve stripped and searched them, sir. With your permission, I will have my men bring them in.’

Pompey gestured to the maps that lay across a heavy table and one of the officers quickly gathered them into neat scrolls. When there was nothing important visible, he seated himself carefully, twitching his toga into perfect folds over his legs.

The three centurions held themselves well as they came into Pompey’s presence. Even dressed as they were, their short-cropped hair and scarred arms marked them immediately for what they were. The escort kept their weapons bared as they took positions around the walls of the tent and left the three men facing Pompey. Labienus found himself breathing more heavily as he waited, his hunger forgotten.

‘So tell me what Caesar has to say that is so important as to risk your lives,’ Pompey said.

In the silence, only the crackle of the braziers could be heard.

The centurion who had spoken before took a step forward and, as one, the guards in the tent went from stillness to a knife edge of danger. He glanced around at them and raised his eyes for a moment as if he was amused by their stance.

‘My name is Decimus, sir. Centurion of the Tenth legion. We have met once before, in Ariminum.’

‘I remember you,’ Pompey said. ‘At the meeting with Crassus. You were there when Caesar brought gold back from Gaul.’

‘I was, sir. Consul Caesar preferred to send a man you would recognise to show his good faith.’

Despite the neutral tone, Pompey coloured with anger immediately. ‘Do not use a false title in my presence, Decimus. The man you follow does not have the right to claim consul in front of me.’

‘He was elected by the voting centuries, sir, in accordance with the most ancient traditions. He claims his authority and rights as given him by the citizens of Rome.’

Labienus frowned, wondering what Decimus could hope to achieve by antagonising Pompey so early in the meeting. He could not escape the worrying thought that the words were intended for the other men there, who could be counted upon to discuss them with friends and colleagues. As if he shared the suspicion, Pompey glanced around the men in the tent, his eyes narrowing.

‘As Dictator, even false consuls are answerable to my orders, Decimus, but I suspect you are not here to argue that point.’

‘No, sir. I have been ordered here to request that soldiers loyal to Rome leave this camp and either quit the field or join Caesar’s legions against you.’

There was immediate uproar. Pompey rose from his seat and at his signal, all three men were hammered to their knees by the guards closest to them. None of them made a sound. Pompey controlled himself with difficulty.

‘Your master is insolent, Decimus. There are no traitors here.’

Decimus looked a little dazed from a blow to the back of his head. He raised a hand to rub where he had been struck and then thought better of the action. The guards around him were eager to cut him down at any provocation.

‘In that case, I have his authority to offer peace, sir. For the good of Rome, he asks that you listen.’

Pompey remembered his dignity with difficulty. He raised his hand in preparation for ordering the deaths of the centurions and Decimus watched its movement, his eyes glittering in the light of the torches.

‘Be warned, Decimus,’ Pompey said at last. ‘I will not be rebuked in my own camp. Choose your words carefully or you will be killed.’

Decimus nodded. ‘Caesar wishes it to be known that he serves Rome above his own safety or ambition. He does not wish to see her armies broken against each other and so leave the city poorly defended for a generation. He offers peace, if certain conditions are met.’

Pompey clenched the fist he held up and one of the men with Decimus flinched slightly, expecting to feel cold iron in his back at any moment. Decimus did not respond to the threat, and as Pompey held his gaze they all heard voices raised outside the tent.

An instant later, Cicero entered with two other senators, sweeping into the warmth with crystals of ice on their cloaks. They were pale with the cold, but Cicero took in the scene before him immediately. He bowed to Pompey.

‘General, I have come to represent the Senate at this meeting.’

Pompey glowered at the old man, unable to dismiss him while the three centurions watched.

‘You are welcome, Cicero. Labienus, draw up a bench for the senators, that they may witness the impertinence of Caesar.’

The senators settled themselves and Decimus raised his eyebrows in inquiry. ‘Should I repeat myself, General?’ he said.

His calm was unnatural for a man with sharp iron at his neck and Labienus wondered if he had chewed one of the roots that were said to dull fear. Pompey resumed his seat and his long fingers fussed with the lines of his toga while he thought.

‘Caesar has offered peace,’ he said to Cicero. ‘I suspect it is yet another attempt to sow discord amongst our men.’

Decimus bowed his head for a moment, and took a deep breath. ‘My master claims the rights granted him by the people of Rome in lawful election. With those rights, he accepts the responsibility to avoid a war if it is possible. He fears that a conflict between us would leave Greece stripped and Rome undefended. He thinks first of Rome.’

Cicero leaned forward like an old hawk. ‘But there is a sting to be borne, yes? I would not expect Caesar to brave our fleet to reach Greece and then meekly give up his ambition.’

Decimus smiled. ‘No, Senator. He looks for a peaceful resolution only because he would not see Rome weakened.’

‘What does he offer?’ Cicero said.

Pompey flushed at the old man’s interruptions, but pride prevented him from showing his anger in front of his most senior officers.

As if he sensed Pompey’s discomfort, Decimus turned away from Cicero and addressed Pompey directly. ‘Caesar offers a truce between the two armies. No man will be punished or held responsible for his officers at this time.’

He took another deep breath and Labienus tensed, sensing the strain Decimus was under.

‘He asks only that Pompey take a small honour guard and leave Greece, perhaps to peaceful allies. His army will return to their posts and no harm will come to them for taking arms against the lawfully elected consul of Rome.’

Pompey rose once again, standing over the kneeling men. His voice was choked with fury. ‘Does your master think I would accept a peace under those terms? I would rather be ashes than take my life at his generosity!’

Labienus looked around at the other men in the tent. He was bitter with regret and knew he should have had the men killed before they could reach Pompey. Who could tell what damage the offer might achieve by the time it had spread to the lowest ranks?

‘I will let him know your response, General,’ Decimus said.

Pompey shook his head, his expression hard. ‘No, you will not,’ he said. ‘Kill them.’

Cicero rose in horror and Decimus too stood up as he heard the order. A legionary stepped towards the centurion and with a sneer Decimus opened his arms to receive the blade.

‘You are not fit to lead Rome,’ he said to Pompey, gasping as the gladius was shoved hard into his chest.

The pain distorted his features and yet he did not fall, but reached out to the hilt with both hands. Holding Pompey’s gaze, Decimus pulled it further into himself, letting loose an animal cry of rage. As the other two had their throats opened, Decimus collapsed and the sickly smell of blood filled the tent. Some of the men made the hand gesture against evil spirits and Pompey himself was shaken by the man’s extraordinary courage. He seemed to have shrunk in his chair and he could not tear his gaze from the bodies at his feet.

It was left to Labienus to give orders and he had the dead men removed, the guards following them. He could not believe what he had seen Decimus do, or his complete disregard for his own death. Caesar had chosen wisely in sending such a man, he was forced to acknowledge. Before dawn, every soldier in Pompey’s camp would have heard of the centurion’s words and actions. Above all things, they respected courage. Labienus frowned as he thought how best to handle the spread of information. Could he blunt the force of the tale with a counter rumour? It would be difficult, with so many witnesses. He knew his soldiers. Some of them would indeed wonder if they followed the right man.

As he stepped out into the howling wind and pulled his cloak more tightly around him, he could applaud the use of three lives for such an effect. They faced a ruthless enemy, and when it came he would relish Caesar’s eventual destruction all the more.

He looked away into the distance as he considered his own commander. Labienus had known men who survived for years with ulcers or hernias. He remembered an old tent-mate who delighted in showing a shiny lump that stood out from his stomach, even taking coins from those who wanted to force it back in with a finger. Labienus hoped Pompey’s illness was not the source of his weakening spirits. If it was, there could only be worse to come.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Julius could not remember ever having been so cold. Knowing he would make the crossing to Greece in winter, he had paid for his men to be outfitted in the best cloaks and woollen layers for their hands and feet. After marching through the night with only a few mouthfuls of rubbery meat to keep up his strength, his very thoughts seemed to flow more slowly, as if his mind was sluggish with ice.

The night had passed without catastrophe as his legions took a wide berth around Pompey’s camp. The gibbous moon had given them enough light to make good progress and his veterans had stuck to the task doggedly, without a word of complaint.

He had met with Domitius’ legion ten miles west of Pompey’s camp and delayed two hours there while the cart animals were bullied and struck into movement. They too had been sheltered with blankets from the stores and they had eaten better than the men.

As dawn came, he could only estimate how far they had come north. Pompey’s army would be preparing to march against an abandoned position and it could not be long before his absence was discovered. Then they would be hunted, by men who were rested and well fed. It would not take long for Pompey to guess his destination and seven legions left a trail that could hardly be disguised. Their iron-shod sandals beat the earth into a wide road a child could find.

‘I … I do not remember Greece being this cold,’ Julius stammered to the muffled figure of Octavian at his side. The younger man’s features were hidden by so much cloth that only the plume of white breath proved he was somewhere within the mass.

‘You said a legionary should rise above the discomforts of the body,’ Octavian replied with a slight smile.

Julius glanced at him, amused that his relative appeared to remember every conversation they had ever had.

‘Renius told me that a long time ago,’ he confirmed. ‘He said he’d seen dying men march all day before they fell. He said the true strength was in how far we could ignore the flesh. I sometimes think the man was a Spartan at heart, except for the heavy drinking.’ He looked back at the column of his legions as they marched in grim silence. ‘I hope we can outrun our pursuers.’

He saw Octavian’s head turn stiffly towards him and he met the eyes that were deep within the folds of the hood.

‘The men understand,’ Octavian said. ‘We will not let you down.’

Julius felt a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘I know, lad. I do know,’ he said gently.

The wind battered against them like the pressure of a warning hand as they pushed on. Julius could not speak for the pride he felt. He thought he hardly deserved the simple faith his men placed in his leadership. The responsibility was his alone to see them survive their time in Greece and he knew what he had been given in their trust.

‘Pompey will be in our camp by now,’ Octavian said suddenly, looking at the sun as it fought clear of the eastern hills. ‘He’ll come fast when he sees where we’re going.’

‘We’ll run them into the ground,’ Julius said, not sure if he believed it.

He had planned and prepared as much as he could before leaving Rome, but the simple fact was that he needed to find food for his men. Caecilius had said Dyrrhachium held the main supply and Julius would have to push his legions on through exhaustion to reach it. He had other reasons for going to the city, but without food, his campaign would come to a shuddering halt and everything they had fought for would be lost.

He feared the pursuit. Though his men had been well rested as they prepared the feint to the east, they could not march for ever in such conditions. No matter what Renius had thought of the spirit of fighting men, the strength of their bodies could only take them so far. Julius glanced behind him out of primitive fear, knowing that if Pompey’s army was sighted, he would have to double the pace. His men would begin to fall without rest and Dyrrhachium was still far to the north.

Every stage of the campaign seemed to have skirted the edge of disaster, he thought privately. Perhaps after seizing the supplies in Dyrrhachium, he would have time to breathe without Pompey’s army nipping at his heels. The only cause for optimism was that his knowledge of Pompey seemed to be giving him an edge in the manoeuvres. He had hoped Pompey would not attack while a full legion remained out of sight. Domitius had been ready to take Dyrrhachium alone if necessary, while Julius decoyed his enemy into the east, but Pompey had behaved exactly as he had hoped.

Julius told himself over and over that he had to be cautious, though he had never expected Pompey to abandon Rome. He could not shake the suspicion that the Dictator had lost his taste for war. If that was true, Julius knew he should do everything possible to keep Pompey afraid.

He looked at the sun and gave way to the inevitable.

‘Call a halt here and let the men eat and sleep. We will rest for four hours before moving on.’

The horns sounded and Julius dismounted painfully, his hips and knees aching. All around him, the legionaries sat down where they were and took what little food they had from their packs. The dried meat was like stone and Julius looked dubiously at his ration as it was brought to him. It would need a lot of chewing before it approached being edible. Shivering like an old man, he forced a piece of it between his lips and took a swig from a waterskin to begin the softening. From a pouch in his cloak, he took a wad of dried watercress that was said to reverse baldness, pushing it into his cheek in a quick, furtive motion. Visions of soft bread and fruit in Dyrrhachium filled his thoughts as he worked his jaw.

Pompey was ten hours or less behind them and would make better time in the short winter day. Julius passed his reins to a soldier on first watch and lay down on the hard ground. He was asleep moments later.

Octavian smiled with affection as he saw the still, pale features. Careful not to wake him, he took an extra blanket from his saddle and draped it over his general.

Pompey put his hand into the ashes of a watch fire, frowning as he felt the warm heart. His stomach had revolted at the thought of food and he had eaten nothing since noon the day before. He swallowed bitter acid and winced as it seared his throat.

‘Are the trackers in?’ he demanded, his voice harsh with anger and pain.

‘They are, sir,’ Labienus replied. ‘The path leads south and west before curving north towards Dyrrhachium.’

He stood stiffly in the wind, ignoring the discomfort of the cold while his thoughts raged within. The men would know very well that Pompey had lost an army of twenty thousand men through his caution. It would not help morale, after coming close enough to see them the day before. They had woken from sleep with the nervous tension that was to be expected before a battle and now there was no enemy to be seen.

‘I knew it,’ Pompey snapped, furious. ‘As soon as I heard they had gone, I knew it. We should be able to cut that curve and gain an hour on them.’ He clenched a fist and tapped it on his leg. ‘If it is Dyrrhachium they’re after, there must be spies in the camps,’ he said, working his mouth.

Labienus stared at the horizon.

‘How could they go round us without a single scout marking their movement, Labienus? Tell me that!’ Pompey demanded.

Labienus knew as well as he that the proof that it could be done lay in the fact that it had been. By taking a wide route, Caesar had not come closer to Pompey’s camp than two miles and it had clearly been enough. Pompey did not seem to require an answer.

‘It seems that I must follow,’ he went on, angrily. ‘They have had the night to get ahead. Can we catch them?’

Labienus looked at the sun automatically, judging how many hours had been lost. His sour conclusion was that it would be near impossible, but he could not find it in himself to tell Pompey in that mood.

‘At our best speed, eating on the march and without sleep, we should hit their rear before they are in the city,’ he said. ‘Your new walls may slow them.’ He paused to choose the right words that would not worry Pompey further. ‘Even if they reach the city, they will need time to replenish their supplies. We can deny them that.’

Labienus was careful to keep any hint of criticism from his voice, though he was privately appalled at the turn of events. Dyrrhachium was a key port on the coast and still the main store for the army in the field. Caesar’s legions should not have been allowed to make a strike for it. He knew some of the responsibility lay on his shoulders, but it profited nothing to dwell on past mistakes. The new position was not yet lost.

Pompey glared around him. ‘Then let us leave this barren place. Everything but food and water must come behind us at the best speed they can manage. The Senate too: they won’t stand the pace we will set.’

As Labienus saluted, Pompey mounted, his movements stiff with anger. He did not need to say that his family and the families of the Senate were in Dyrrhachium. Once Julius had them as hostages, his position would be immeasurably stronger. Pompey shook his head to clear it of hatred and fear. His stomach seemed to have settled as he made the decision and he hoped a dose of chalk and milk would keep it docile for the day. His legions began to move around him, but he could no longer take comfort from their numbers.

Julius calculated the distance they had come, wishing he had the map in front of him. They had marched for twelve hours and the men were dragging their feet in the dust. Though they bore it grimly, some of them were staggering along and Julius had finally given the order to close up and rest an arm on the shoulder in front. It made them resemble invalids or refugees rather than legions of Rome, but every mile was one further from the enemy behind.

‘It should be in sight by now, surely?’ Octavian said at his side.

Julius stared at him in silence until his younger relative swallowed and looked away. Julius squinted into the distance, searching for the first sign of the city. The sea glimmered silver to the west and that gave him hope that they were close. His eyes felt painful with weariness and he might have closed them as he rode, if the weakness would not have been seen.

Julius remembered marching in the wake of Spartacus’ slave army years before, and it was strange to realise there was a huge advantage in being the hunter in such a chase. Something about being followed sapped the will to go on and Julius saw more and more of the heads turn to watch the land behind as they marched. He was on the point of snapping an order to keep their eyes to the front when he saw Domitius was there ahead of him, bellowing out commands as he rode up and down the ranks.

The ground they walked on was stained in places by dark splashes of urine. It was not an easy thing to do whilst marching, but the men were long inured to it. The ones at the back would be walking on damp ground all the way to Dyrrhachium. When they stopped to rest, there was no time to dig a latrine pit, and they had to use whatever foliage they could find to wipe themselves clean. Some of the men carried a cloth that they dampened with water, but the material became slick and foul after the first night and day. A long march was an unpleasant, stinking business for all of them and the cold ate at their strength far worse than a summer’s heat.

The day seemed to have lasted for ever and although Julius had been irritated with Octavian’s comment, he too thought Dyrrhachium should have been in sight by then. The sun was already dropping towards the horizon and the order to snatch another four hours of precious rest would have to come soon.

A warning note sounded from the rear of the column and Julius turned in the saddle, craning to see. In the distance, something glinted amidst a low line of dust. He shook his head in desperation. Just at the moment when he would have called a halt, Pompey had appeared on the horizon. Julius did not know whether to rage at the fact that the gap had been closed, or be thankful his aching, exhausted men had not been told to stop at this most dangerous time. He looked at the stumbling, swaying lines of men and knew they would somehow have to go on.

Two of his far-flung extraordinarii came galloping back to his position and saluted as they turned their mounts.

‘What news?’ Julius asked, impatient at the slightest delay.

‘The city is in sight, sir. Three miles ahead.’

Automatically, Julius looked at the sun and back at his column. It would be dark before they reached the walls, but the news would keep the men going, for all that.

‘There is a wall before the city, sir, about two miles away. It looks manned.’

Julius swore aloud. Pompey had been busy. The thought of having to break through a defensive line while Pompey came racing up behind was almost too much to bear.

‘I’ll ride forward with you,’ he said quickly. ‘I must see this for myself.’ As he took a tighter grip on the reins, he looked over his shoulder at Octavian. ‘Tell the men to resume the standard distance between ranks. I will not be shamed in front of the enemy. Increase the pace for the last miles.’

He saw Octavian hesitate, not daring to voice his dislike of such an order.

‘They will not let me down, General. My Tenth will lead them in.’

In the gloom of the fading day, the army of Caesar sent tremors of fear into the hearts of every soldier who stood on the uncompleted wall around Dyrrhachium. At the full height of twelve feet and with a few thousand men, they might have had a chance of stopping the Gaul legions, but more than one section was just a few beams across a gap. It would not be nearly enough.

The warning shouts of Pompey’s officers sent the Greek labourers haring back to the protection of the city, tools littering the ground around them. Those grim soldiers who were left took positions as they were ordered, drawing swords and exchanging a few last words. They did not consider turning away, though the wind made them shiver as they waited.

‘Hold until you are relieved,’ the senior centurion bellowed, making his voice carry. It was taken up further down the line and the defenders raised their shields and readied themselves. They all knew there would be no relief force, but it was strange how the words brought a little hope.

Caesar’s legions came closer and closer, until faces could be seen despite the failing light. Both sides roared a challenge as the Gaul legions reached the last barrier to Dyrrhachium and forced their way through. The gaps in the wall vomited men and the defenders were cut down, their bodies tumbling. Julius’ Tenth stormed through with barely a check on their speed, loping on towards the unprotected city.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Julius rode slowly through dark streets, struggling with exhaustion. A local man led the way with a gladius prodding his back, but it was still disconcerting to be so deep in a maze of streets that none of them had ever seen before.

Only the Tenth had been allowed into the inner city. The other six legions would see no more of it than the walls they manned. Julius was determined not to give them a loose rein in hostile territory. He still shuddered to remember a town in Gaul where he had lost control of his men. Whenever his heart was made to race by the thunder of a charge or the snap of flags in a stiff breeze, he would recall Avaricum and how the streets had looked with the coming of day. He would not allow such actions to be repeated under his command.

If any other man had led the Greek legions, Julius would have expected an assault in the night. Pompey’s officers knew the city well and there could even have been entrances Julius had not seen. It was enough of a threat to keep his own men out of trouble on the walls, but he did not think Pompey would risk the lives he valued in Dyrrhachium. The days of reckless youth were behind for both of them.

His guide mumbled something in Greek and pointed to a wide gate set into a wall. A single lamp hung from a brass chain to light the entrance and Julius had the whimsical thought that it had been set there to welcome him. He gestured and two men with hammers stepped forward to break the lock. In the silent street, the sound was like a ringing bell and Julius could feel eyes on him from all the local houses. Possibilities swirled in his head and he took a deep breath of the night air, thinking of the enemy outside the walls of Dyrrhachium.

To fight a war with subtlety and propaganda was dangerously intoxicating. Julius seized on every tiny detail of Pompey’s strengths and weaknesses, anything that might be used. He had sent men to undermine the Dictator in his own camp, knowing they could be killed. It was a vicious sort of war they had carried to Greece, but he had come too far and lost too much to lose it all.

His sombre thoughts were interrupted as the gate fell with a clang on the stones of the street. The noise had woken the house and lamps were being lit inside, acting as a spark for the local inhabitants as they roused and sought light to banish terror.

As he had expected, the sound of marching feet came quickly behind the hammer blows and it was only moments before the space in the wall filled with grim soldiers. Julius did not speak at first, watching with professional interest as they locked their shields to prevent a sudden rush.

‘You are late, gentlemen,’ he said, dismounting. ‘I could have been inside by now if I hadn’t waited for you.’

Five hundred of his Tenth were stretched along the street and he could feel their tension in the biting air. A single word from him and they would cut the defenders down. He looked into the eyes of the centurion guarding the gate and was intrigued to find no sign of fear there. The officer did not bother to answer and merely returned his stare. Pompey had chosen well.

‘I am a consul of Rome,’ Julius said, taking a step forward. ‘Do not dare to block my way.’

The men in the gateway shifted uncomfortably, the words pulling at everything they had been taught from childhood. The centurion blinked and Julius saw him reach out to one of the defenders, settling him.

‘My orders are from Pompey, Consul,’ the centurion said. ‘This house is not to be touched.’

Julius frowned. It would not be a good beginning for his new policies if he butchered decent men doing their duty. With the restrictions he had imposed on himself, it was an impasse.

‘Will you allow me entry on my own? I will come unarmed,’ he said, stepping into range of the weapons held before him.

The centurion narrowed his eyes and Julius heard a hiss of breath from the soldiers of the Tenth. His legion would not like him walking into danger, but he could see no other choice.

A voice sounded from within the grounds. ‘Let me through!’

Julius smiled as he recognised it. A low murmur of protest came from somewhere out of sight.

‘The man you have kept waiting is my father. I don’t care what your orders are, you will let me through to him!’

Once again the soldiers at the gate shifted, this time in excruciating embarrassment. Julius laughed at their predicament.

‘I don’t think you can stop her coming out to me, can you, gentlemen? Will you lay hands on Pompey’s own wife? I think not. My daughter walks where she chooses.’

Though he spoke to all of them, his eyes held those of the centurion, knowing the decision was his. At last the man spoke a few curt words and the shields were pulled back.

Julia stood there, her son in her arms. Julius breathed in deeply and noticed the fragrance of the garden for the first time, as if she had brought the scent with her.

‘Will you invite me in, Julia?’ he asked, smiling.

Julia cast a scornful glance at the soldiers around the gate, still standing awkwardly. Her face was flushed and Julius thought his daughter had never looked more beautiful than in the light of the single lamp.

‘You may stand down, Centurion,’ she said. ‘My father will be tired and hungry. Run to the kitchens and have refreshments brought.’

The centurion opened his mouth, but she spoke again before he could voice any objection.

‘I want the best sausage, fresh bread, hot wine from my husband’s cellar, cheese and a little fruit.’

The beleaguered soldier looked at father and daughter for a long moment before he gave up. With stiff dignity, he retreated at last.

‘My home is yours, Consul,’ Julia said and from the way her eyes sparkled, Julius knew she had enjoyed the clash of wills. ‘Your visit is an honour.’

‘You are kind, daughter,’ he replied, enjoying the mock formality. ‘Tell me, are the families of the Senate still in the city?’

‘They are.’

Julius turned to his men, noting the nervous figure of the Greek who had guided them in from the walls. The man shook with fear as Julius considered him.

‘You will lead my men to the families,’ Julius said. ‘They will not be harmed, I swear it.’ The Greek bowed his head as Julius addressed his men. ‘Gather them …’

He paused to look at his daughter. ‘I do not know this city. Is there a senate building, a meeting hall?’

‘The temple of Jupiter is well known,’ Julia replied.

‘That will do very well,’ Julius said. ‘Remember, gentlemen, that my honour protects them. I will hang you for a single bruise. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ his centurion replied for all of them.

‘Send men to General Domitius and tell him to begin loading the supplies onto our carts. I want to be able to leave quickly in the morning.’

The soldiers of the Tenth marched away, the noise of their steps fading slowly in the echoing street.

‘So this is my grandson,’ Julius said. The little boy was still half asleep and did not stir as Julius laid a hand gently on his head. ‘Am I truly welcome here, Julia?’ he said softly.

‘How could my father not be?’ she asked him.

‘Because I am at war with your husband and you are caught between us.’

She reached out to touch the man who had been absent for all of her childhood and most of her life. He had escaped showing her the normal faults of fathers. She had never seen him beat a dog or fall down drunk, or show some petty spite. She knew him only as the general of Gaul, a consul of Rome. It was true that she had hated him with all the passion of a young girl when he first offered her to Pompey as a wife, but the habit of adoration was too strong for that to last. Brutus had brought her into her father’s conspiracies for the first time, and it was a heady joy to be valuable to this man. It was too much to put into words and instead she decided to give the only proof of loyalty that she had.

‘If your blood did not run true in me, I would have given Brutus away,’ she whispered into his ear.

Time stood still for Julius as his mind raced. He struggled to remain calm.

‘What did he tell you?’ he said.

She blushed a little and he could not help the suspicion that came into his thoughts.

‘That his betrayal is part of your planning.’ She saw that he closed his eyes for a moment and misunderstood. ‘I told no one. I even helped him get another two cohorts from my husband.’

She raised her chin with fragile pride that wounded him. He felt the exhaustion of the long march north as if it had been waiting for just such a moment. He swayed slightly as he looked at her and put out his hand to the wall.

‘Good … good,’ he said absently. ‘I did not think he would tell you that.’

‘He trusted me,’ Julia said. ‘And I trust you to let my husband live, if it falls to your hand by the end. That is the choice I made, Father. If you win, both of you will survive.’ She looked at him with pleading eyes and he could not bear to tell her there was no secret agreement with Brutus. It would destroy her. ‘The pardon at Corfinium was news here for months,’ she went on. ‘Can you do less for him?’

With infinite tenderness, Julius took her hand. ‘Very well. If it is in my gift, he will live.’

The temple to Jupiter in Dyrrhachium was very nearly as cold as the streets outside. Julius’ breath was a streamer of mist as he entered, his men taking places along the walls with clattering efficiency.

All noise ceased as he walked down the long central aisle towards the great white statue of the god. His sandals clicked and echoed, and at the end he saw the families of the Senate still blinking in the light. They resembled refugees after their hasty summons by armed guards. The benches were packed with them and more sat on the cold marble floor. They fluttered with renewed fear at the sight of the general their men had come to Greece to destroy.

Julius ignored their beady-eyed scrutiny. He halted before the statue of Jupiter and went down briefly onto one knee, bowing his head. It was an effort to concentrate and he had to smother the worry and fear his daughter had caused him. Brutus was a practised seducer, and it was easy to see how vulnerable she would have been. Yet to involve her in such a way was breathtakingly callous. It was no comfort to know that Julius had given her to Pompey with as little compunction. That was his right as her father. The general who knelt in the lamplight added the information to what he knew of Pompey’s forces. Brutus was a little in love with risk and perhaps that could be used. The father and the man were so angry he could barely reason.

‘So will you close the doors and have us killed?’ a harsh voice came, shattering his reverie.

Julius looked up sharply as he rose, recognising Cicero’s wife, Terentia. She looked like a raven swathed in black, with sharp features and sharper eyes.

Julius forced himself to smile, though the effect caused some of the younger children to start bawling, grating on his ears.

‘I am a consul of Rome, madam. I do not make war on women and children,’ he said coldly. ‘My honour keeps you safe.’

‘Are we to be hostages then?’ Terentia demanded. Her voice had a particularly shrill note that made Julius wonder what Cicero saw in her.

‘For tonight. My men will make you as comfortable as they can in this building.’

‘What are you planning, Caesar?’ Terentia said, narrowing her eyes. ‘Pompey will never forget this, do you realise that? He will not rest until your armies are butchered.’

Julius felt anger surge through him. ‘Be silent,’ he snapped, his voice rising in volume. ‘You know nothing of my business, or Pompey’s. Leave your threats for your sisters. My men fight because they love Rome and because they love me. Don’t speak of them.’

Bitter shame flooded him as he saw the fear in their faces. He was sickened by his own weakness. With a huge effort, he took control, clasping his shaking hands behind his back.

Terentia raised her head in defiance. ‘So you are one of those men, Caesar,’ she said, sneering. ‘You put swords into your enemies and you think it is something wonderful. A butcher might as well sing songs about the pigs he kills each day.’ One of the other women put a hand on her arm but she shook herself free. ‘You are here because you chose to be, Caesar, do not forget that! You could have gone back to Gaul with those legions that “love” you. If you valued their lives, you would have saved them then.’

Fear became palpable as the rest froze. Something in Julius’ own pale fury made her realise she had gone too far, and she looked away, biting her lip. After a long pause, he spoke with terrible force.

‘Men will die, but they give their lives because they understand more than you ever could. We are here to make the future, woman, nothing less. We will not be ruled by kings. For your safety, for our citizens in Spain and Greece and Gaul, we are here to remake the Republic. It’s a worthy dream. What makes us different from the tribes of Gaul, or the men of Greece? We eat, we sleep, we trade. But there is more, Terentia. More than comfort and more than gold. More even than family, which must eat at you. You sneer because you cannot see there must be a time when a man looks up from his work and says, “No. This is too much to bear.”’

Terentia might even then have replied if the women around her had not whispered harshly in warning. She subsided under Julius’ glare and would not look at him again.

‘If you have sense,’ Julius went on, ‘you will tell the Senate that I have only one enemy in Greece and I have offered him exile rather than this conflict. I have shown my honour at Corfinium. Tell them to remember that I am consul by the same citizens who granted their authority. Rome is with me.’ He looked at their hard faces and shrugged. ‘Make your personal needs known to my men, within reason. I will be on the walls. I will send word to your husbands and fathers that you are safe and unharmed. That is all.’

Without another word, Julius spun on his heel and strode back towards the great doors to the temple. His eyes itched with exhaustion and the thought of collapsing into a soft bed drew him with the force of lust. He knew his battered body would carry him on for a little longer, but then he would run the risk of pushing himself into a fit on this crucial night. He still rode the knife edge and a single slip could cost him the war.

As he reached his guards, the centurion met his eyes for an instant and nodded briefly, proving he had been listening. Julius returned the gesture with a tight smile as he went outside into the cold dark. Dawn was still far away and the stunned city was silent with fear. The invader walked amongst them.

Pompey looked up at the walls of the city, thankful for the darkness that hid his despair. He had dismissed Labienus with only the barest attempt at civility, furious that they had not reached Dyrrhachium before Caesar was safe to strut inside. The pain in his stomach felt like he was being eaten alive from within. The chalky gruels that had helped in the beginning now seemed almost useless. A soft moan came from his mouth as he kneaded his gut with a fist. He had wiped blood from his lips before coming out and viewed the red specks that stained the white cloth with sick dread. His own body was turning on him and he shoved hard fingers into his flesh as if he could dig the sickness out by force. He could not afford to be ill and he thought the Senate demands had become more strident with the worsening pain. It was as if they scented his weakness and were ready to tear him apart.

Only the stern resistance of his soldiers had kept Cicero and his colleagues from reaching him in his tent. What was there to be gained from another bickering discussion with them? Pompey couldn’t bear the thought of having to be polite to those frightened men as they bleated about their precious wives and slaves.

He did not know what Caesar would do with the city. Of course, the stores would disappear into the ravening maw of his legions. Pompey had listened to Labienus’ dispassionate appraisal of their own supplies now that Dyrrhachium was closed to them. He thanked his gods that he had found the foresight to shift tons of it before the war started. At least his own men would not starve while Julius grew fat on salt beef and black treacle.

He heard the sound of hooves in the darkness and looked up at the shadowy figure of Labienus approaching. With an effort, Pompey stood straighter to receive him, letting his hand fall. The pain in his stomach seemed to intensify, but he would not show it to his general.

‘What is it now?’ he snapped as Labienus dismounted.

‘A messenger from Caesar, sir. He has come under a flag of truce,’ Labienus replied.

Both men thought of the three centurions Julius had used before and wondered if this man too would sow discord in the camps.

‘Have him brought to me in my tent, Labienus. Inform no one if you value your commission.’

Pompey struggled to maintain his impassive expression as a spot writhed in his stomach. Without waiting for a reply, he walked past his guards and seated himself in his tent, ready to hear what Caesar wanted.

He had barely settled when Labienus brought the man into his presence. Sweat broke out on Pompey’s brow despite the cold and he mopped at it with a cloth, unaware of the brown stain of old blood.

The messenger was a tall, thin soldier with close-cropped hair and dark eyes that took in every detail of the man he faced. Pompey wondered if his illness would be reported and it took all his strength to ignore the pain he suffered. No sign of it must reach Caesar.

‘Well?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘General. My master wishes you to know that the Senate families are unharmed. He will return them to you at dawn. The city of Dyrrhachium will be yours by noon. He has forbidden looting or damage of any kind.’

Pompey saw Labienus blink in surprise. It was unheard of for an army to give up the advantage they had won so easily.

‘What does he want?’ Pompey said, suspiciously.

‘Three days, sir. He offers you the families and the city for the supplies within and three days of truce to get clear. He asks that you accept these terms.’

‘Labienus,’ Pompey said, ‘take him away while I think.’

In the moments of precious privacy, Pompey leaned forward, wincing. By the time Labienus returned, he was upright again and his face was bright with sweat.

‘Are you ill, sir?’ Labienus asked immediately.

‘A passing discomfort. Tell me what you think of these terms.’

Pompey’s mind felt clouded and the pain made it almost impossible to plan. As if he understood, Labienus spoke quickly.

‘It seems generous, though once again our men will see Caesar act the role of statesman. They will see the families released and the truce days will be another victory as we are forced to follow his lead.’ Labienus paused. ‘If the stakes were not so high, I would attack at dawn, as the gates are opened to release the families.’

‘They could be killed in such a venture,’ Pompey snapped.

Labienus nodded. ‘That is a risk, though I doubt it. Caesar would have been denied the chance to show his generosity to us all. Morale is low in our camps and three more have been caught trying to desert.’

‘I was not informed!’ Pompey said angrily.

Labienus held his gaze for a moment. ‘You were not available, sir.’

Pompey remembered his earlier dismissal and flushed.

‘Make it known that any deserters will be killed in front of the rest. I will remind them of their duty with the blood of those men.’

‘I thought we might question them first, sir, and …’

‘No. Kill them at dawn as a lesson to the others.’ He hesitated, anger struggling against the need to send the man away and tend his pain. ‘I will grant the truce, Labienus. I have no choice if my Dictatorship is to be renewed. The Senate families must be kept from harm.’

‘And the city, sir? If we let him go without resistance, he will have the supplies to keep him in the field for three months at least. We must attack when the Senate families are safe.’

‘And how long do you think it would be before every common soldier knows I broke my word? You see the choice he has left me?’ Pompey said.

‘This is a chance to end it, sir,’ Labienus said softly.

Pompey glared at him, wanting him gone. His eyes strayed to a pestle and mortar that contained a little of the gruel from an hour before. He could hardly bear to have Labienus continue a moment longer in his presence. He remembered a time when his oath had made him who he was.

‘Get out, General. Caesar has offered a good price for three days of truce. After that, we will be free to take the war to him again. No more now.’

Labienus saluted stiffly. ‘I will tell the messenger what you have ordered, sir,’ he said.

Alone at last, Pompey called for his physician and closed his eyes against the pain that consumed him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Julius sighed with pleasure as he finished his meal. Every cart with his legions groaned under the weight of the provisions they had taken from the city. For the first time since coming to Greece, the men were able to eat well. Their new confidence could be seen as they marched and even the cold did not seem to bite with such ferocity.

In the command tent, his generals were in jovial mood as they sampled good wine and tore into meat and fresh bread made from Greek grain. The fact that it had come from Pompey’s supplies seemed to give it all a special flavour.

Julius looked around at the seven men he had gathered in this place, proud of them all. He knew there would be harder days to come, but why should they not laugh and joke amongst themselves? They had fooled Pompey in the field and then forced him to accept a truce in exchange for a city. That was a move they applauded more than the legionaries, who felt cheated of their usual spoils. Even then, they had such a belief in Julius that the grumbling was muted. As soldiers, they rejoiced in stratagems that humbled their enemy without a major battle.

‘If I can drag you away from your trough, gentlemen,’ Julius said, tapping the table for attention, ‘the scouts are in and there is news.’ He put a hand over his mouth to belch and smiled, remembering the long hard march to take the city. The gods were smiling on his venture and though he warned himself against overconfidence, the latest reports confirmed what he had come to believe. He had their attention.

‘Pompey’s army has not left Dyrrhachium. He has continued with his line of forts and walls, now that we have shown the need for them.’

Octavian slapped Domitius on the back at this and Julius smiled at their enthusiasm.

‘We have only one man in the city itself and Caecilius has not been able to reach us. The scouting reports are all we have. It may be that Pompey intends to ring the city with a line of solid forts before he takes the field once more. Or perhaps he has lost his taste for war completely. He is not the man he once was. When I think of how he fought Spartacus, the change is extraordinary.’

‘He’s grown old,’ Regulus said.

Julius exchanged a glance with him, knowing that Regulus knew Pompey as well as any of them. ‘He’s not yet sixty, though I cannot think of any other reason for him to play such a defensive role. He has twice the men at my command, yet they sit around Dyrrhachium and do nothing but build walls to keep us out.’

‘Perhaps he’s terrified of us,’ Octavian said, between mouthfuls of salted beef. ‘We’ve given him cause after leading him around Greece by the nose. The Senate have their wives and daughters back by your generosity and they must know we could have burnt Dyrrhachium.’

Julius nodded, thinking. ‘I had hoped some of his legions would have joined us by now. I have done everything but ride to ask them personally, yet still there are only a few who dare to defy Pompey and the Senate. The scouts report more than eighty heads adorning his new walls, honourable men who answered our call and were caught. Fewer still have made it to our camps.’

‘It will not help him,’ Domitius said. ‘The more he kills for desertion, the more will lose respect for him. We gave them Dyrrhachium without hurting a hair of the citizens’ heads. Killing his own men must aid our cause.’

‘I hope so, though I wish more had tried to reach us,’ Julius said. ‘Their loyalty is proving a difficult obstacle.’ He rose to his feet and began to pace the floor of the tent. ‘Unless we can reduce his numbers, we have not gained more than a respite. How long will this new meat and grain last? Pompey can be supplied by sea while we have to carry everything with us.’ He shook his head. ‘We must not be complacent. I have tried to beat him without bloodshed, but I think it is time to risk a little more than that.’

Julius held up a written report and glanced at the words on the parchment once more.

‘His legions are spread thinly to build these walls. Only six cohorts are stationed at the furthest eastern point of his lines. If I take a single legion, leaving our equipment here, we can cut them out of his control and reduce his strength. More importantly, we need a solid victory to sway more of his men into coming over to us. This could give us that.’

The mood in the tent changed as they realised the days of planning and strategy were over. Food was laid aside and they watched their pacing leader, feeling the old excitement stiffen their backs.

‘I do not want to be dragged into a major confrontation, gentlemen. This is to be a fast strike, in and then out again. Ciro, you may remember how we fought Mithridates in this same land. That is what I have in mind. We will destroy these cohorts and then withdraw before Pompey can summon his main army.’

He paused, looking around at the faces of the men he trusted.

‘Domitius, you will command four cohorts and hit them on one side as I attack on the other. We have the advantage of surprise and darkness and it should be over quickly.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Domitius said. ‘Will four cohorts be enough?’

‘With four more under me, it will. A small force can move quickly and silently. Any more and Pompey may have the chance to prepare a counterattack. This is all about speed. We’ll march in darkness, smash them and disappear.’ He rubbed a point on his forehead as he thought. ‘It may sting Pompey into taking the field. If that happens, all legions are to withdraw south until we reach land best suited for a defence.’

‘What if he does not move?’ Ciro asked.

‘Then he has lost his nerve completely. I assume the Senate will attempt to replace him with another from his Greek legions. I will then reopen negotiations. Without Pompey, any action they take will be illegal and we should have more of them desert to us.’ He picked up his cup of wine and raised it in a toast to them.

‘There is no moon tonight. As they will not come out, we will take the fight to them.’

The work of building Pompey’s walls never ceased. Even in the winter darkness, the men laboured in shifts under flickering torches. Labienus looked over the hillside, listening to the calls and orders as his legion built an extension to the fortifications around Dyrrhachium.

‘This is madness,’ he murmured under his breath.

Even standing alone, he glanced around him to see if any of his men could have heard. Ever since Dyrrhachium had been handed back to Pompey, Labienus had found his personal discipline strained to the point of breaking. He was forced to watch as Pompey gave up chances to end the war, wasting his men on forts around a city that had already lost its only real value. True, more supplies were being landed in the port, but to spend time and strength on protecting one small area while Caesar roamed the rest of Greece went against all Labienus’ instincts. In his most private thoughts, he had realised Pompey was terrified. Whether it was the illness he vainly sought to hide, or simply that his courage had deserted him, Labienus could not tell. He did not care what the reason was. The largest army Greece had seen in generations was either growing soft in the city or building useless defences.

It was infuriating to see loyal legions become sullen and watchful. Only that morning, Labienus had carried out the execution of another four men at Pompey’s order. The record of punishment would show they were insolent, though that had come only after Pompey condemned them. It had begun with a flogging for carrying bone dice on watch. Three of them had been fools enough to let their anger show.

Labienus clenched his fist in a spasm. He had known one of them personally and suffered the misery of having to reject a private appeal. He had risked a request for mercy, but Pompey would not see him until the executions had been carried out.

It was fear, Labienus supposed, to see enemies even amongst your own men. Pompey took out his frustration on the legions of Greece and the worst of it was that they knew very well what was happening and despised him for it. Labienus could sense their restlessness and growing anger. Eventually, the most loyal of soldiers would rebel under such treatment.

In a climate of suspicion, Labienus detested the risks he was forced to take. When he tried to consult with Pompey, he was rebuffed, but the chain of command threw up its orders and requests as always. He could not allow his subordinates to see Pompey’s weakness. Each morning, Labienus issued crisp instructions as if they were from Pompey, hoping all the time that the Dictator would come to his senses and resume control. It was a suicidally dangerous game, but Pompey’s only interest seemed to be the defensive walls that grew like ugly bones across the landscape. With the pace he demanded, lives were lost building them and the mood of the legions was souring further each day. They knew their strength and numbers should not be wasted, even if Pompey didn’t.

Only that morning, Labienus had had to send his military tribunes away as they broached the subject of Pompey’s leadership. They did not understand he could not be seen to waver. His loyalty had to be public and absolute, or the chain of command would shatter. It was too dangerous even to discuss and he was still furious with their stupidity. More worrying was the fact that if senior men dared to bring it up, the rot must be deep amongst the lower ranks.

Labienus suspected he had not been sent so far from the city by accident. Perhaps Pompey already doubted his loyalty. He was certainly suspicious enough. The last time Labienus had been admitted into his presence, one of Julius’ propaganda sheets had been found circulating and Pompey had raged about the traitors amongst them, promising more and more savage reprisals. Copying the letters had become punishable by death, but still they appeared. Pompey had insisted on reading Caesar’s words aloud, spittle and chalk forming a paste at the corners of his mouth. In the days that followed, he had begun sudden inspections of the legions around the city, punishing the slightest error with brutal floggings.

The thought that could never be spoken aloud had become a whisper at last for Labienus. Unless Pompey recovered from whatever plagued him, he could destroy them all. Though it was almost painful to consider, Labienus knew there could come a time when he would have to take control himself.

He thought the Senate would back him, if they could bring themselves to overturn Pompey’s authority. The Dictatorship they renewed each year was ending in only a few days. It would either pass without incident, or Pompey would be broken. If Pompey called on the legions without a Senate mandate, Labienus knew he would have to oppose him. It would be chaos. Some would follow Pompey, perhaps more would desert to Caesar. Labienus shuddered, telling himself it was just the cold.

Julius lay flat on the hard earth and felt the chill of it seep into him. Hidden by the darkness more than the undergrowth, he watched the building work for a full hour, noting every detail of the men who toiled on Pompey’s walls and forts.

The soldiers who carried wood and bricks were never far from their weapons, he saw. Only the fact that they did not have sentries out for miles showed their feeling of safety. Julius bit his lip as he considered whether it meant a larger force was close enough to answer their horns. He had no way of being sure without going past the line of Pompey’s walls, and the plan had already been set. Domitius had taken two thousand men of the Third legion in a wide circle to the north. When Julius fired flaming arrows into the air, they would hammer both sides of the camp at the same time. With the gods’ luck, it would be a quick destruction.

Julius wondered suddenly if Brutus was down there amongst his enemies, perhaps anticipating just such an attack. They had mounted night missions in Gaul; would he have warned Pompey? Julius shook his head in a spasm, angry that he was allowing his thoughts to wander. He had seen it happen to others, when foresight tipped over into indecision. He clenched his jaw against the cold and concentrated on seeing only what was real.

In the deep darkness, the sentries seemed to vanish between the lamps that lined the perimeter of the camp. The wall too was lined with them, so that its glittering length stretched away towards Dyrrhachium.

He glanced up to where Venus had risen. He had waited long enough for Domitius to get into position. Slowly, Julius drew the sword at his waist and heard the sibilant whisper as the soldiers of the Third legion did the same around him. To their credit, there was not a single murmur to disturb the silence of the night. He had chosen them in part because they had been Brutus’ legion. He knew they needed to be blooded against the enemy more than any other group. They had suffered jeers and humiliation after their general’s betrayal and they still burned with the shame of it. This night would go some way to restoring their pride.

‘Pass the word for archers,’ Julius whispered, keeping so low that he could smell the dark earth. He had brought a full hundred of them to attack the camp and once the fire arrows had flown, they would wreak havoc amongst the enemy.

Julius winced as their flints sparked. Their bodies hid the flashes as they worked, but he still worried that some sharp-eyed sentry would spot the light and sound an alarm. He breathed out in relief when flames flickered at last, passed quickly along the line until a hundred arrows burned.

‘Now!’ Julius called and the flames shot high into the air. Domitius would see them and come in to shatter the camp.

Julius rose to his feet. ‘With me,’ he said, beginning to run down the slope. They followed him.

Domitius crawled through the darkness, pausing only to take a sight of the stars he needed to stay on course. The route he had chosen led him inside the unfinished wall and he was able to use their own lights to judge his progress. There were no sentries within the perimeter and his two thousand were still undiscovered. He prayed they would remain so, knowing that Julius must not attack without him.

He was proud of the trust Julius had placed in his leadership, but it added to the terrible tension he felt as he wormed his way across the dark landscape. Sweat stung his eyes from the physical effort, but he was determined to be in position by the time Julius gave the signal.

He glanced behind him at the men who had come on the attack. Their faces had been blackened with charcoal and they were almost invisible. When they rose to attack the flank of the legion camp, they would seem to come from nowhere. Domitius grunted as a sharp stone scraped along his ribs. He was thirsty, but they had not even brought water with them on this lightning raid. He was thankful not to have to drag a skin or a shield through the undergrowth. Their only encumbrances were swords and even those caught on roots and made progress harder.

Two of Domitius’ forward scouts came crouching back to him. He jumped as they appeared at his shoulder without a sound.

‘Sir, there’s a river ahead,’ the closest one whispered into his ear.

Domitius stopped moving. ‘Deep?’ he demanded.

‘Looks like it, sir. It’s right in our path.’

Domitius grimaced. He ordered his men to halt, knowing that time was running out for all of them. Venus was approaching the zenith and Julius would go in knowing Domitius would be there to support him.

Half-rising, Domitius ran forward for a hundred paces. He heard the sound of water and saw a strip of moving blackness. Sudden fear touched him.

‘How wide is it?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I went in up to my waist, then came back to warn you,’ the man replied. ‘There’s a vicious current. I don’t know if we can get across it.’

Domitius grabbed him, almost throwing him towards the water. ‘We have to! This is why you are sent ahead. Take a rope across while I bring the men up.’

As the scout clambered into the shallows, Domitius ran back to the silent cohorts. It took only moments to bring them to the river and together they waited in the darkness.

Domitius clenched his fists as the minutes stretched with no sign. At intervals, he reached out to touch the rope that had been tied around a fallen tree. It twitched invisibly and he cursed the delay. He should have given the scout some sort of signal to tell them he had reached the other side, he realised. Such tiny details were easy to forget in the heat of the moment, but now he had to suffer the wait. The scout could have drowned, or he could just as easily be making his slow way back to them. He reached for the rope again and swore softly. It was slack and there was no movement.

The enemy camp was visible beyond the far bank. Domitius could see their lamps like gold coins in the dark. He fretted and shivered in the cold.

‘Two more into the water here,’ he ordered at last. ‘Ten more in each direction to find a fording place. We have to cross this.’

As he spoke, he saw bright streaks of fiery arrows leap into the air from the other side of the camp.

‘Oh gods, no,’ he whispered.

Labienus was jerked from his thoughts by screaming. He hesitated only for an instant as he saw a line of black figures appear in the pools of lamp-light and slaughter the first of his legionaries.

‘Horns!’ he bellowed. ‘We are attacked! Sound horns!’

He began to run towards the enemy as the strident notes sounded, knowing he had to take control quickly. Then he halted, skidding, and slowly turned towards the other side of the camp, to the peaceful darkness there. He was reacting as Caesar would hope him to, he realised.

‘First Cohort – guard the west.’

He saw men reverse direction at his order and only then did he run to his horse, throwing himself into the saddle. His legion were experienced men and he saw structure in the hurrying figures around him. He heard his centurions call for a defensive line and the beginnings of one form out of the first moments of chaos. He showed his teeth.

‘Defend the east!’ he bellowed. ‘Shield line and spears.’ He dug in his heels and galloped through the camp towards the sounds of death and iron.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Julius knew he was in trouble. The legion he faced had wasted very little time before a strong defensive line formed and the counterattack began. Wherever he looked, he could see soldiers rushing towards his position. Whoever commanded them clearly knew his business and Julius could feel the sudden wavering of his men as their charge staggered and slowed.

‘Forward, Third!’ Julius ordered.

The original plan for a fast destruction and withdrawal lay in ruins. He could not withdraw and leave the cohorts with Domitius to be slaughtered. Though surprise had been lost, Julius knew if he could hold for long enough, Domitius would send a shiver through the defenders and he could still salvage the attack. He needed to push the enemy back just to give the Third space to retreat, but there was no weakness in the lines. Julius had to watch as his men were hammered from their feet and more and more of the enemy charged in to add their strength. It was carnage.

Three ranks of men separated him from the killing and Julius could see his soldiers glance back at him as more and more were slain, willing him to call a retreat. The ground was covered with his black-faced soldiers and in the cold their wounds steamed visibly as blood pumped into the soil.

Julius waited, growing desperate. Domitius had to come soon or he would lose everything.

‘Archers! Signal again!’ he bellowed, though many of them were dead.

His men held firm as they heard, standing toe to toe with the enemy. Without shields, they were terribly vulnerable and Pompey’s men used the advantage, ramming their own shields into faces, or down to break the small bones of sandaled feet. Julius winced at the screaming and even as the flaming arrows soared over their heads once more, he felt something shift in his men. He could not see the start of it, but where they had been holding, suddenly they were turning to run.

Julius stood in stunned disbelief as men he had trained began to pelt past him. He heard his centurions snap furious orders, but the effect whiplashed through the Third and terror broke them apart.

In the distance, Julius heard the rumble of cavalry and his heart sank. Pompey was coming and his men were routed. He saw the standard-bearer of the Third come racing past him and Julius ripped the flag from his grasp.

‘Third to me!’ he roared, brandishing the pole in great sweeps.

The crowd of rushing men did not pause in their flight as they went around him. He saw a great dark mass of riders and realised he would die when they charged. In the churning chaos of the rout, Julius felt an eerie calm settle on him. He could not rally the Third and soon he would be left alone. His arms ached and he wondered how Brutus would take the news when he heard. That was just one regret in a sea of them and he felt the ground shake as thousands of Pompey’s extraordinarii galloped in from the dark.

He barely noticed that a few of the Third had responded and were forming up around him. New horn calls split the air and Julius saw the surge of cavalry halt. It did not matter. He could not outrun them. He waited for the end and wondered at his own lack of emotion. It had happened so quickly that he could hardly take in the change in fortunes. Pompey had no other opponents in Rome. Mark Antony would be brushed aside, quietly banished or killed.

Julius leaned on the flagpole, panting. He did not speak to the men around him in the dark, feeling only contempt for them. He had learned the lessons of fear too long ago to remember. Perhaps it had been Renius’ example, or his own father, or Tubruk’s simple brand of courage, but it had stayed with him. No matter what else a man accomplished, it was all worthless if he allowed fear to rule his actions. If it was terror of pain, it should be faced and crushed. What was pain, after all? Wounds healed and even those that did not were better than having to live in shame. Julius had seen men with crippling injuries who still held themselves proudly. They bore the scars with the same courage they had shown to receive them.

He held his head high as the enemy riders milled, waiting as he did for the order that would send them flying towards him. He would not cry out. He would not run.

Pompey rode to the head of his cavalry, every jolt from his horse sending a stab of pain that dimmed his vision. He had heard the alarm calls and interrupted his inspection to answer them, but now his eyes narrowed at the sight of Julius’ legionaries running away.

He saw Labienus come galloping towards him and accepted his salute.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘A night attack, sir. We have beaten it back. A cavalry charge will finish them.’

Both men looked across the camp towards the fleeing enemy disappearing into the dark. A distant lonely figure waved a flag in the gloom and the movement attracted Pompey’s eye. He saw the man plant the standard in the hard earth, where the breeze tugged at it. The man stood unnaturally still, the white speck of his face turned towards the horsemen. Pompey frowned in suspicion.

‘It is a victory, sir,’ Labienus said, more urgently. ‘With your permission, I will take the extraordinarii and ride them down.’

‘It is a trap,’ Pompey replied. ‘I am certain of it. When have you ever heard of Caesar’s legions running in fear? He wants us to race out into the night for whatever he has waiting there. No. You will hold position until dawn.’

Labienus took a breath that hissed through his teeth as he struggled to control his temper. ‘Sir, I do not believe that. They have lost hundreds against my lines.’

‘And he sent three to die in my tent, just to spread lies amongst the faithful, Labienus. That should have told you the quality of the man. He is a deceiver and I will not be deceived. You have heard my orders.’

Pompey’s eyes were coldly implacable and Labienus knew he either had to kill him or accept what he had been told. It was not a real choice.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘I will have my men stand down.’

Pompey saw the distress even as Labienus tried to hide it. Despite the pain that spread in waves to torment him, he forced himself to speak. ‘You have done well here, General. I will not forget your loyalty.’

Looking out past the camp, Pompey saw the flag-bearer turn and be swallowed by darkness. The flag was left to flutter as a smudge of dim colour against the night. With a last glance at Labienus, Pompey wheeled his mount and rode away, his cavalry turning with him.

Labienus could see the frustration in their faces, mirroring his own. It had not been a trap. Labienus had seen enough battles to know the moment when the enemy broke. It could come from a single coward throwing down his sword, or even a strange unseen communication when the courage would drain from men who could not have imagined it only an hour before. He clenched his fists in rage, looking out into the blackness. His second in command hovered at his shoulder and Labienus had no words for him that he dared speak aloud.

At last, he smothered his disappointment behind a stiff mask. ‘Have the men build a hostile camp around the fortifications,’ he said. ‘It will slow the work, but what does that matter?’

He clamped his mouth shut rather than continue and his second saluted and went away to pass the orders on. Labienus felt the stares of his soldiers around him and wondered how much they understood of the battle.

‘You have done well tonight,’ he told them on impulse. ‘We have wounded Caesar at last.’

They cheered at his approval and order began to return around him. The cohort he had sent to the west came in looking fresh compared to their colleagues. They had not been needed, but Labienus found a few more words for them before he returned to his tent to write the formal report. For a long time, he sat by the light of a single lamp and stared into space.

Julius marched numbly through the darkness. Tiredness made him clumsy and every bush and thorn seemed intent on impeding his progress. More of the Third legion had coalesced around him, though the gods alone knew where the rest had scattered. It was the worst defeat he had seen in years and he walked as if dazed. He could not understand what had happened. When the attack had not come, he had given up his station by the flag and turned his back on Pompey. Even then, he had expected them to ride him down.

Julius had seen the Dictator in the lamp-lights and known him even at a distance. His red cloak had swirled around him in the wind and it had been easy to picture the man’s savage pleasure when he was brought Julius’ body. There had even been a moment when Julius felt Pompey looking directly at him, but still he had been allowed to slip into the sheltering night and head for the safety of his own lines.

When he heard the noise of marching men nearby, Julius drew his sword, convinced it was Pompey’s men come at last. When he saw Domitius he did not speak, indeed he felt unable to utter a word to any of them. The soldiers of the Third had disgraced themselves. They knew it and marched across the land with their heads bowed in private misery. Even their ranks were chaotic as each man found his own pace, like a band of marauders rather than a disciplined force. No orders were called. It was as if the failure had stripped them of any claim to be soldiers of Rome. Julius had never seen such a dejected group and he had no sympathy for any of them.

Dawn was coming by the time they neared their main camp and with the grey light, Julius believed at last that Pompey had lost his nerve. There was no other explanation that he could see. Domitius tried to speak, and was quickly silenced by a glare. The sentries let them pass without a challenge and they did not call out for news. The woeful expressions and dragging spears were clear enough.

Julius strode into his tent and threw down his helmet and sword with a clatter, before sitting at his map table. He rested his head on his hands for a moment and considered the events of the night. He had been terrified when he felt Pompey’s gaze on him from across the camp, but there was no shame in being afraid, only in what followed. Men could still stand while they sweated in fear. They could resist pain and exhaustion and weakness. They could beat it all down inside and stand their line. That was Rome’s strength and his men knew it as well as he did. Yet somehow the Third had run.

Approaching steps made him straighten in his seat and he took a deep breath as Ciro made it first into his presence. Regulus, Octavian and Domitius were close behind and Julius watched Domitius without expression as he came to stand before him. Had he too lost his courage that night?

Under the black smears, Domitius looked exhausted. He removed his sword and laid it on Julius’ table.

‘Sir, I ask to be relieved of command,’ he said. Julius did not reply and Domitius swallowed. ‘I … could not reach the position in time, sir. There is no excuse. I will resign my commission and return to Rome.’

‘If our enemies were led by a man who knew how to win, I would be dead,’ Julius said softly.

Domitius stared straight ahead in silence.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Julius said.

Domitius took a deep breath that shuddered out of him. ‘We found a river too deep to get across, sir. I saw the arrow signal while I was still on the wrong bank. By the time we had found a fording place, Pompey’s legions had answered the horns and it was too late. I could still have attacked then. It was my choice alone that I did not. We recrossed the river and made our way back here.’ He did not say that to have attacked Pompey’s legions would have been suicide. His orders had not allowed him to make the decision.

Julius drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Did you see why Pompey halted the attack?’

‘I saw him talk to his officers, but they were too far away,’ Domitius replied, ashamed not even to be able to provide this small piece of information.

‘I have not yet decided your fate, Domitius. Leave me and summon the Third before my tent. Have my Tenth march prisoner escort to them.’

Domitius saluted, his raised hand trembling. Julius waited until he had left before speaking again.

‘I never thought I would see a legion of mine run in fear,’ he said. He looked up at his generals and they could not meet his gaze. ‘I held the legion standard and they ignored it. They went past me.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘I left it there for Pompey. He has their honour, he might as well have their flag.’

They all heard the shouts and tramp of feet as the Tenth and Third gathered. Julius sat looking at nothing while his generals waited. The defeat seemed to have aged him and when he stood at last his eyes were blank and tired.

‘Take your places, gentlemen. The day must run its course,’ he said, gesturing outside. Without a word, they left the tent and he followed them into the pale sun.

The Third legion stood in silent ranks on the frozen ground. Many still bore the marks of the soot they had used on their faces, though most had taken a wet cloth and removed the worst of it. They carried their shields and swords and stood like men waiting for execution, with fear in every eye.

At their backs stood the Tenth; older and harder men. Julius remembered a time when some of them had run in the battles against Spartacus. He wondered if any of them were thinking back to that bloody day when Pompey himself had ordered the decimation of their ranks. The soldiers marked by the count had been beaten to death by the fists of their closest friends. It had been the most brutal thing Julius had ever witnessed at that time, yet out of it he had formed the Tenth and given them a name to record the deed.

The Third legion waited in silence for him to speak. A cold breeze blew through their ranks as Julius walked to his horse and mounted.

‘You have fought with me in Gaul. Shall I name the tribes, the battles? The Helvetii, the Suebi, the Belgae, Nervii, more? You fought with me at Gergovia, Alesia, against Vercingetorix and in Britain. You were with me when I pardoned the men of Corfinium. You took Dyrrhachium with me here.’

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment in disgust.

‘You left your honour on the field when you ran. All that you have been before was made ashes last night. You dishonoured and shamed me and I never thought I’d see that. Not from you. Only my Tenth have been longer at my side.’

From the height of his mount, he could see right across the gathered ranks. They stared ahead without daring to look at him, but he saw some of them were shaking with humiliation as if he were a father lecturing repentant sons. He shook his head and stared into nothing for a long time.

‘Your lives are forfeit,’ he said harshly, forcing himself on. ‘There can be only one payment for cowardice.’

Octavian had mounted his own horse and trotted along the silent lines towards Julius. When he was close, he leaned forward and spoke for Julius alone. ‘Sir, the Tenth are undermanned. Let them choose the best of them.’

Julius turned red-rimmed eyes on his younger relative and after a time he nodded. He raised his head to speak once more to the Third.

‘I have no sons. I have never needed them while I have known you. Let it be over between us. We have come far enough.’ He cleared his throat and threw his voice as far as he could. ‘My Tenth are short of men. They will walk among you and some will swell their ranks. The rest of you will be decimated. The survivors will fill the places of the dead in my loyal legions. I have no use for you now.’

A low murmur of agonised fear came from the ranks of the Third. No one moved from their position. Julius could hear the pleading note in their voices and he hardened himself to it.

‘Tenth legion! Stand forward and take the best of them. You will oversee what comes after.’

He watched as the centurions of his Tenth moved out amongst them. He was exhausted and despair filled him. They had lost hundreds of men the night before to death or capture. Yet there were still more than three thousand of a veteran legion remaining. He could not disband them so far from Rome. They would be forced to prey on the villages and towns of Greece just to survive. He would be releasing a plague on Roman citizens that would eventually have to be hunted down and killed. He had no choice but to mark the day in their blood. They had run.

The officers of the Tenth indicated their choices with a brief touch on the shoulder. Each man chosen seemed to crumple slightly, as if he could not believe what was happening. They left gaps in the lines as they walked back to the Tenth and humiliation and relief rode them in equal measure.

As the process continued, Julius shot a suspicious glance at Octavian and found his general already watching him. The younger man was stiff with tension and when Julius opened his mouth to interrupt the choosing, he saw Octavian shake his head minutely, his eyes begging. Julius resumed his gaze over the legions and said nothing.

The chosen men re-formed as a third group standing by the Tenth and it was soon clear that the officers had interpreted Julius’ orders to suit them. Julius guessed Octavian was behind the idea and he could only watch as every single man of the Third was tapped on the shoulder and marched over to the new position. They had left no one behind and Julius saw the beginnings of hope on the faces of the Third as they understood. The pressure of Octavian’s gaze was relentless.

Julius beckoned Octavian over to him. When he was close enough, Julius leaned towards him, his voice low. ‘What have you done?’ he murmured.

‘Their lives belong to the Tenth now,’ Octavian replied. ‘Please. Let it stand.’

‘You undermine me,’ Julius said. ‘Would you have them go unpunished?’

‘The Third are gone, sir. These men are yours again. They will not forget the chance if you grant it to them.’

Julius stared at Octavian, seeing again how far he had come from the boy Julius had known. The warrior and general before him had outgrown his youth. Julius knew he had been manipulated, but he took an odd pride in seeing it from his own blood.

‘They are yours, then, General. Domitius will lead the Tenth.’

Octavian shifted in his saddle. ‘You are honouring him?’ he said.

Julius nodded. ‘It seems I can still surprise you. It is the only choice now. This “new” legion will fight well for you, as the man who saved them. If I let Domitius command any lesser men than my own Tenth, he will lose face and that will eat at his discipline. This will show I do not hold him to account for the failure.’ He paused, thinking. ‘In fact, I do not. I should have allowed for delays and arranged for a different system of signals. Too late now, but the responsibility is my own as well.’

He saw Octavian relax as he realised his scheme to save the Third would not be overturned. He had presented Julius with the choice of humiliating both Octavian and the Tenth, or making the best of it. The cleverness of it appealed to Julius as it would have to no other Roman commander.

‘Have you a name for them?’ Julius asked.

Had Octavian thought that far ahead? It seemed he had, as the younger man answered immediately.

‘They will be the Fourth Greek legion.’

‘There is already one of that name,’ Julius replied coldly. ‘They are the ones we fought last night. Labienus commands them.’

‘I know it. When they next meet in battle, they will fight all the harder to earn the right to keep it,’ Octavian said.

Despite his experience, he searched Julius’ face for approval and in response Julius reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but if they ever run again, I will crucify them to the last man. I will not save you from their punishment, Octavian. Do you still want to lead them?’

Octavian did not hesitate. ‘I do, sir,’ he said, saluting. He took up his reins and trotted back to the lines, leaving Julius alone.

‘My Tenth have bought new honour for you,’ Julius said, his voice ringing over them. ‘If they can see your worth, I will not refuse them this. The Third are no more and their name will be removed from the Senate rolls in Rome on our return. I cannot give you back your history. I can only offer a new start and a new name. You will be the Fourth Greek legion. You know that name from the men we faced last night. We will take it from them, and when we meet in war we will take back our honour with it.’

The soldiers who had been freed raised their heads in relief. Many of them shook with the power of their deliverance and Julius was satisfied he had made the right choice.

‘General Domitius is free of blame and will command the Tenth to show the honour I place in him. General Octavian has asked to be given the new Fourth and I have accepted. Remember that your lives have come from the honour of my Tenth and you carry that honour with you. Do not shame them.’

He swept his gaze over the thousands before him and felt that some of the shame of the previous night had indeed been washed away. He knew now that Pompey had lost his courage. He could be beaten.

Labienus stood still on the training yard at Dyrrhachium. More than two hundred of Caesar’s Third legion were on their knees in the red dust, their hands bound behind them. The wind whipped across the yard, coating them in grit so that they were forced to lower their heads and blink out the stinging grains.

Labienus was still furious with the man who watched the proceedings from the back of a fine Spanish gelding. He knew his duty, however, and he would not hesitate to give the order for the execution to begin. A dozen officers were under guard in another barracks and would be tortured for information. The rest were simply an example to be made.

Labienus glanced at Pompey, waiting for his nod. He could not escape the feeling that the three legions Pompey had assembled hardly needed to see more Roman blood. They had witnessed enough of their own being shed to learn anything new from the process. This was not for them, he thought. This was for Pompey. Perhaps there was a part of the old man who knew what a fool he had been in holding back the extraordinarii the night before. Labienus had sent out his trackers at dawn and they had found no sign of any larger force. Labienus knew the information would seep out and morale would sink even lower.

As Pompey met his eyes, Labienus realised he had been staring and saluted hurriedly to cover his embarrassment. Pompey looked as if the stiff breeze could blow him down and his skin was taut and yellow across his bones. Labienus thought he was dying, but until the Senate revoked his Dictatorship, he had the power of life and death over them all.

Pompey nodded sharply and Labienus turned to the five men who had been chosen for the task. He could see they did not relish it, though he had picked the most brutal killers under his command.

‘Begin,’ Labienus said.

Four of them walked forward, their knives held ready, but the fifth hesitated.

‘Sir, these are Roman. It’s not right.’

‘Stand still,’ Labienus snapped at him. ‘Centurion! Come to me!’

The soldier shook his head in terror as his officer approached. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I only meant …’

Labienus ignored him. The centurion who had come at his order was pale and sweating, he saw.

‘This man has refused my order. He will join the others,’ Labienus said.

The soldier opened his mouth to cry out and the centurion struck him hard with his fist before he could add to the shame he had brought to his legion. Two more crashing punches forced the dazed soldier to his knees and Labienus watched dispassionately as he was disarmed and trussed at the end of the line of prisoners. They did not look at him.

Labienus expelled a slow breath, stilling his racing pulse. Pompey had witnessed the incident, but it seemed he chose to ignore it. Labienus clenched his fists behind his back, trying not to show the tension he felt. In calmer days, he might have had the man whipped for insolence, but Pompey was capable of executing the entire century for the idiocy of one man. That had been averted at least and Labienus offered up a silent prayer to see him through the day.

The four remaining men of the execution party went to work with swift efficiency. They walked behind the kneeling prisoners with knives reaching to encircle their throats. One quick jerk and then a shove to send dying men onto their faces and they moved on. The dust grew darker with blood until the ground was full and could take no more. Then lines of it moved sluggishly out in twisting branches, like a red tree drawn on the ground.

Pompey waited until the last of the prisoners fell twitching before he summoned Labienus to his side.

‘The Senate have demanded a meeting with me, General. It is strange that they should ask so soon after the events of last night, is it not? I wonder if there is someone amongst your ranks who could be passing information to them?’

Labienus met his stare without daring to blink. He thought of the letter he had written and left unsigned, but no sign of guilt showed in his face. It was done and he could not regret it.

‘Impossible, sir. They have been under my eye ever since we came back.’

Pompey grunted and shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is just to confirm my Dictatorship then. It is due for renewal in two days, though it is just a formality. Your men must return to work on the walls, General. As soon as these bodies have been burnt.’

Labienus watched Pompey leave the parade ground and wished he could be present to hear what the Senate would say to him. He suspected the future would be shaped by it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘My health is not at issue here!’ Pompey shouted, red in the face. ‘You dare to suggest I am incapable?’

The sinews on his hands stood out like wires as he gripped the rostrum and faced the Senate. The meeting hall was packed and many were on their feet to speak. It was chaotic without the ordered traditions of Curia debates. Pompey had already been interrupted twice and a vein throbbed visibly in his temple as he considered stalking out and leaving them. He would have done if he had had even a month in hand before his Dictatorship was to be renewed. They knew the leverage they had and seemed determined to extract its value.

Cicero dropped his gaze to scan a parchment in his hand. Pompey would have given a great deal to know its author. As Cicero looked up again, the rest fell silent with a discipline they had not shown to Pompey.

‘Your health is at issue when illness prevents you from acting in the best interests of Rome,’ Cicero said, glancing infuriatingly at the parchment once more. ‘You should stand down until you are well, Pompey. If it was another man, you would be among the first to say it.’

Pompey glared at him, feeling the gaze of them all batter at his defences. The pain in his gut was a wild red thing and it took every grain of his strength not to let it show.

‘You were not so insolent when Rome was burning and I was granted my Dictatorship,’ Pompey said. ‘I kept order then, when no one else could. I broke Spartacus when his army threatened us all; do you remember that? And you dare to suggest I am not fit for my command? Why don’t you read that paper in your hand, Cicero, instead of hinting at its contents? I fear no criticism from you or any man. My record speaks for me.’

There was a murmur of approval from the benches and Pompey was pleased to see Cicero did not have the complete support of the others in the hall. Many of them would be horrified at an attempt to end the Dictatorship on such grounds. If they had been in Rome, it could not have been contemplated, but Pompey knew the campaign had not been going well. There were too many in the Senate who understood nothing of war and were suffering without the comfort and respect they enjoyed in their own city. He knew he had to find words to move them.

‘Your record is without equal,’ Cicero said, ‘but you are sweating now, Pompey, because you are in agony. Stand down for a month and we will have the best healers brought to you. When you are well, you will resume the war.’

‘And if I do not? Speak your threats aloud, Cicero, so that we can all hear. Let us know what treason you are considering,’ Pompey said harshly, leaning forward on the rostrum. More murmurs met his words and he saw Cicero look uncomfortable.

‘Your Dictatorship ends in two days, Pompey, as you know. It is better that it lapse until you are healthy enough to continue.’

Cicero met his gaze steadily and Pompey knew he would not dare to suggest that sickness had stolen his courage. He had heard the whispers about him and he scorned them. He would have replied, but he saw Suetonius stand and gestured towards him. He could not carry the vote on his own, and as he and Cicero took their seats he was desperate with hope.

Suetonius cleared his throat. ‘This question should never have been raised,’ he began. Cicero rose immediately and Suetonius fixed him with a glare. ‘I have the floor,’ he said. ‘There are setbacks in every campaign, as those with experience know well. It was at Pompey’s word that the Greek legions gathered. It was he who lured Caesar from the safety of Rome to a better field for war. This is where we want him to be and that was achieved only through Pompey’s skill. Which of you had the vision to see the war must take place in Greece? Pompey has taken hard decisions on our behalf. His Dictatorship was created to withstand threats too great for the common rule of law. He has fulfilled his obligations and to consider removing his authority at this stage is a dangerous gamble.’

He paused to sweep his eyes over the assembled men.

‘I do not know of another general capable of beating Caesar. I do know that Pompey is more than capable. I will vote to continue the Dictatorship. There is no other honourable course.’

He sat down to a strong ripple of approval that gave Pompey some comfort. He felt a spasm build in his stomach and delayed standing for a moment, using a fine cloth to dab his lips. He did not dare look at it as he pushed it inside his toga.

Cicero too hesitated before standing. He knew Pompey’s illness was worse than he pretended. If he were left in command, he could very well hand the victory to Caesar. Perhaps that was the better course, in the end. If Labienus took the field, the two armies could waste their strength against each other and where would Rome be then? He had hoped that after Pompey was removed some new accommodation could be found with Caesar, but now his thoughts were jumbled and he did not know how to bring the Senate round. It was a difficult path to walk. There were many there who wanted Pompey to wage outright war without pause or mercy. That was why they had come to Greece, after all. Cicero could only shake his head at the blindness of such men. He cared little for Pompey and less for Caesar. The future of Rome outweighed them both.

Cicero saw his delay had not gone unnoticed. He spoke quickly to cover the lapse. ‘I speak for the good of Rome, Pompey, can you deny it? I have waited here for you to win this war, but you have not managed to meet the enemy. These are not the “setbacks” of a campaign that Suetonius mentioned. You have killed more of your own men for mutiny than Caesar has managed. Morale is low and you threw away the single chance you had to attack with Labienus.’ He took a deep breath, knowing he was making a dangerous choice. ‘How many more will you shrink from taking?’

‘There it is, at last,’ Pompey said.

He grimaced suddenly and looked down at his hands. Cicero felt a rush of hope that the pain would be revealed to the others. Let him collapse, or cry out and it would all be over.

Pompey raised his head slowly, his eyes glittering.

‘You dare to suggest I have lost my courage, Cicero? Is that what has begun this personal attack? I have built walls to protect a city that was taken once by Caesar. I have sought him out in the field and, yes, he eluded me.’ Pain prevented him from speaking for a moment and he waited for it to pass.

‘You have twice the men and four times the cavalry,’ Cicero interrupted. ‘In better times you would have carried the day by now. Only your illness …’

‘My illness, as you call it, is nothing more than a griping stomach controlled by draughts of chalk and milk,’ Pompey snapped. ‘I will not stand here and have you question me in this way.’

‘Your Dictatorship …’ Cicero tried again.

‘Enough!’ Pompey roared at him. ‘Very well, if you want to see war, I will give it to you! I will take my army out and force an end to this. Is that what you want to hear? I will crush Caesar and bring back his head, or I will die. That is my word. Vote to continue my Dictatorship or not, as you please. By the time it passes, I will be in the field.’

Cicero paled as the bulk of the Senate cheered the announcement. Of all things, he had not meant to sting Pompey into being so rash. The last thing he wanted was an outright confrontation.

‘For the good of Rome …’ he called, but he was ignored.

The Senate rose to their feet. Pompey accepted their approval with a last poisonous glare at Cicero and descended the rostrum, making his way out. Suetonius and the other tribunes fell in behind him and Cicero was left to sink slowly into his seat, staring at nothing.

Brutus stood with his arms outstretched, taking long, slow breaths. His body had been oiled and scraped and his skin shone with health. His mind was on the battle to come and he hardly noticed the silent slaves as they raised his tunic over his head and tugged it into place, gathering it in a knot tied at the nape of his neck. His armour hung on a wooden tree in the tent and he looked it over with a critical eye, noting where old scratches and dents had been hammered and polished out. The silver had not lost its lustre with use and though it was a softer metal than iron, he knew its white gleam could be seen across a battlefield. Julius would see it as soon as the armies met.

While he stood motionless, the slaves buckled a wide leather belt around his waist, drawing in the folds of dark linen. Before they could proceed, he flexed his shoulders and checked he was still free to move. The ritual was carried out in silence and Brutus took comfort from its familiarity. Nothing he wore was new and the woollen bracae and tunic had been part of his kit in Gaul. The colours were faded from being washed a thousand times, but they were comfortable as new, itchy material could never be. He bowed his head as the slaves tied a light scarf around his throat to protect his neck from chafing. He loosened it slightly with two fingers and stared at nothing, thinking of facing Julius.

Pompey had come back from the Senate meeting with a fire under him at last. There would be no rest for any of them until their enemies were beaten in Greece. It was as Brutus had wanted from the beginning and he knew his four cohorts would be first in the line of battle.

That was the thought that sent a shudder of fear down his spine. For all his training, if Julius sent in the Tenth as his front line, it would be hard and bloody work. Brutus had seen them fight enough to know they would not give ground except over their dead. They were the surviving veterans of countless battles and the Greek legions had nothing like their experience.

‘We have the numbers,’ Brutus murmured, causing the dress slaves to pause and look at him inquiringly. ‘Go on,’ he said to them.

One of the men knelt at his feet to tie the laces of his sandals, checking they were taut with elaborate care as he crossed them up to Brutus’ ankles. The soft woollen cloth under them bulged against the restraining net of leather and Brutus splayed his toes comfortably. He raised his arms again as a leather kilt was tied around his waist to protect his groin and felt a thrill of anticipation as both men turned towards the armour at last.

The chestplate brought back bittersweet memories as he thought of the hands that had made it. Alexandria had loved him when she worked on the design and her care showed. It was a beautiful thing, with a representation of muscle overlaid by carved figures of Mars and Jupiter, joining hands at his throat. Brutus took a deep breath as it was fastened to its mate at his back, releasing the air as the buckles were pulled tight. It would not restrict him. He moved his head from side to side and felt the beginning of excitement that wearing it always brought. The shoulder pieces were joined at his throat and made secure and again he tested it, checking for snags in movement. He brought his left leg forward to have the silver greave attached and then took the helmet and lowered it onto his head. It too was a marvel of light design and shone even in the dimness of the tent. It would draw the enemy to him, he knew.

He secured the buckle that held the cheek-guards and enclosed his head in metal.

Seneca entered the tent as Brutus stood there testing every one of the knots and buckles the slaves had tied. Seneca knew better than to interrupt the ritual, but Brutus looked at him and smiled.

‘Are you ready?’ he said.

‘I am, but that is not why I’ve come here. There is a stranger from the city who has come to see you.’

‘Send him away,’ Brutus replied immediately. ‘Whatever it is can wait. We’re marching at dawn.’

‘I would have, but when I told him to go back he gave me this.’

Seneca held up a ring Brutus knew very well. It was a simple gold seal and his hand shook slightly as he took it.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he said.

Seneca shook his head and Brutus rubbed his fingers over the crossed arrow design that had once belonged to Marius. It felt hot in his hand and he thanked his gods that Seneca had not understood its significance. If Pompey had seen it, or any of the older men, it would have meant his death.

‘Bring him to me,’ he said, dismissing the slaves. Seneca looked curiously at his general, but he saluted and left him alone without a word.

Brutus found himself sweating as he waited. After consideration, he walked to where his weapons lay on a table and took up the gladius he had won in the tournament for all Rome. Like his armour, it was beautiful, finely balanced and made of the best iron in the world. He would have liked to draw the blade to check for flaws as he had a thousand times before, but at that moment Seneca returned, bringing the stranger.

‘Leave us alone, Seneca,’ Brutus said, staring at the newcomer. He was not an inspiring sight and looked like any other Greek peasant who thronged the city. For a moment, Brutus wondered if he had found the ring and hoped to claim a reward, but why would he bring it to him, of all people?

‘Where did you find this?’ he asked, holding the ring up between them.

The man looked nervous and before he spoke he rubbed sweat from his forehead. ‘It was given to me, sir. By his hand, it was.’

‘Say his name,’ Brutus whispered.

‘Caesar,’ Caecilius replied. ‘I am his spy.’

Brutus closed his eyes for a moment, feeling danger loom over him. Was this another test from Labienus? The general was easily cunning enough to have thought of it. He could be waiting outside with a century of men to take him for questioning. Surely he would have seen some nervousness in Seneca, some signal that something was wrong?

‘Why did you bring it to me?’ Brutus asked him. He dropped his hand to his sword pommel, more for the comfort of its touch than any threat. Caecilius saw the motion and seemed to twitch.

‘I was sent to report on Pompey’s army, sir. Before I left, I found out that you were still loyal. I have seen you many times in the city, but I did not approach in case it put you in danger.’

‘Why now then?’ Brutus said. Games within games, he thought. If the man were truly a spy, why would Julius have lied to him? It made no sense.

‘I am leaving Dyrrhachium, sir. Someone must carry a warning to Caesar and I believe I am the only one of his spies left alive. I do not expect to return here and I thought you would want me to take a word from you to him.’

‘Stay there,’ Brutus snapped, striding to the flap of the tent and throwing it open. He stood in the light, staring around him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Men scurried everywhere as they prepared to march. Orders were being shouted, but there was no sign of Labienus or Pompey, or any threat to him. He shook his head in confusion and let the flap fall.

If the little man was an assassin, Julius had made a poor choice, Brutus thought. Without warning, he grabbed hold of Caecilius and searched him roughly and thoroughly. The thought crossed his mind that Pompey would appreciate having a spy brought before him, but Brutus crushed the idea even as it formed. The man believed Brutus was playing some elaborate double role. It would not do to have that suspicion brought to Pompey just before he marched. He would be likely to leave Brutus behind.

Something of these thoughts showed in his face and Caecilius flinched before his gaze.

‘Sir, if there is no message, I will leave. I have barely enough time as it is, even if I start now.’

Brutus examined him closely. The man seemed genuine, but Julius had misled him deliberately and that was a mystery. Unless Pompey was meant to discover him. Under torture, the man would have his knowledge exposed and Brutus would have been finished. He chuckled as he saw he had it at last and walked over to his weapons, picking up the silver-handled dagger and unsheathing its blade.

Caecilius watched his every movement with growing discomfort. ‘Sir, I should leave. I must carry the warning.’

Brutus nodded, walking smoothly towards him. ‘I understand,’ he said. In a sharp movement, he grabbed Caecilius by the hair and whipped the knife across his throat, dropping him to the floor. The little spy clawed at the wound in agony.

‘But I do not want him warned,’ Brutus said, wiping the knife between two fingers. There were spots of blood on his armour and he cursed as they formed beads over the oil. It would have to be rubbed clean once more.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ten miles south of Dyrrhachium, Julius stood on the saddle of his horse, watching the distant column. His cloak snapped and fluttered like a live thing, tugging at the clasp that held it around his neck. Octavian stood with reins in one hand, gripping Julius’ ankle with the other. Both men were gritty with dust and hungry from marching all day.

‘He’s coming straight at us,’ Julius said. ‘No word from Caecilius?’

‘None. Unless he’s in Pompey’s camp, he’s been left behind by now,’ Octavian replied. He shifted from one foot to the other in impatience. ‘What can you see?’

From so far away, Pompey’s column was a black smear across the landscape, with tiny figures of outriders like crawling insects.

‘I can’t tell if he has his entire force in the field. Gods, there are a lot of them,’ Julius said. ‘Has our beloved Dictator lost patience with us, do you think?’

‘We can lose him after dark,’ Octavian said.

Julius glanced down at the general holding him in position. ‘That’s not why I came to Greece, lad. I won’t have my legions run from Pompey, not after the shame of the men you now command. We have food enough and we are strong again. I would put our veterans against an army twice the size of this one and expect to win.’

Julius fell silent as he stared at the numbers ranged against him. He had always known Pompey would eventually leave the safety of the walls around Dyrrhachium, but something had forced him out before they were finished and once again both armies were close enough to threaten war. Julius pretended a confidence he did not feel. It was true that he had done what he could to sap the morale of the Greek legions. Every one of them would have heard his offers to Pompey and those who had been caught deserting would have had friends and colleagues. They had seen Dyrrhachium returned whole with the Senate families and Julius knew the act would have struck to the heart of the Greek legions. They were honourable men, living and working far from the intrigues and plotting of Rome. If he could only have had an hour with them to make his case! Everything Julius had done had been to sow doubt amongst their ranks and he hoped Pompey’s ruthlessness would have tested their loyalty even further.

The sight of so many bent on his destruction should have been frightening, but Julius felt a slow anger grow. Pompey was arrogant with such a following, but those who marched with him were not his men. They were soldiers of Rome, doing their duty as they saw it. The veteran legions from Gaul belonged to Julius alone.

Julius looked over his shoulder at the ranks he had sent marching further south. He could catch them on horseback easily enough and had stayed behind to make his own judgement of the army they faced. It still awed him to see so many legions in the field. Closer now, the ranks fluttered with flags, and bronze eagles shone in the setting sun. If they had not been enemies, he would have gloried in the sight. In all his experience, he had never seen so many of Rome’s warriors and it moved him. The army of the Helvetii had been far larger, but these were legionaries, with the same blood and the same armour. The same history. It would be like fighting brothers, and he knew there could be bitterness for years when they were done. His Tenth would never forgive Romans who had stood against them.

‘We can take these,’ Julius said. Octavian stared upwards and saw a smile twist at the corners of his mouth. ‘They’ve seen Pompey humbled at Dyrrhachium. They’ve seen him waste the chance he had with Labienus. They will not want to die for such a man, Octavian, and that will weaken them.’

He watched the column approach, knowing he would have to move soon or fall into the range of their scouts.

‘Come to me,’ he said, almost too softly for Octavian to understand. Both of them could hear the closest riders sound their tinny horns as they sighted them.

‘We should go,’ Octavian said.

Julius did not move and Octavian watched nervously as the scouts kicked their horses into a gallop and began to converge on their position.

‘Sir, we should go now.’

‘They have the numbers, Octavian,’ Julius said. ‘Just matching their front line will leave us thin on the ground, but this is why we came. This is why we crossed the Rubicon. We have nowhere else to go, General. Find me a place to stand and we’ll break them.’

To Octavian’s relief, Julius lowered himself into his saddle and took the reins once more. Octavian leapt onto the back of his own gelding and they galloped clear of the approaching scouts, racing long shadows beneath them. A few of Pompey’s riders stayed on their trail for a mile before wheeling back, their horns sounding mournful regret as they faded behind.

Brutus yanked savagely on his reins as the order to halt split the air. He could see Julius’ legions still marching ahead and every mile lost would be another to make up the following day. It was strange to think how well he knew the men in those ranks. He had fought with them for years and he could imagine the voices of friends and colleagues as they dressed their lines. Part of him ached for that old familiarity, but there was no going back. Julius was somewhere in the mass of men and Brutus would see him dead by the time they were done. He was hungry for the confrontation and his men walked carefully around him as he gazed over the hills.

By the time the walls were up and the trenches dug, darkness had fallen and the first lamps had been lit. Pompey had ordered a single camp to enclose his entire army. It was a city in the wilderness, and inside its safe barriers the Greek legions put a last edge to their swords and ate without talking, sitting around watch fires. Many made their wills and those who could write earned a few extra coins copying for their friends. There was no laughter and Brutus felt uneasy as he listened to them in the night. They outnumbered the enemy and they should have been raucous and loud with boasting. There were no songs sung in the camp and the sour mood seemed stifling.

Brutus strode over to where Seneca stared into the flames of a watch fire, chewing idly on a last piece of roasted sausage. The men who had crowded to the warmth moved aside at his approach and Brutus sat down with a sigh, looking around. The silence was strained and he wondered what they had been saying before he came.

‘Well this is a cheerful group,’ Brutus said to Seneca. ‘I would have thought I’d hear a bit of singing at least.’ Seneca smiled, but did not reply and Brutus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve done a great deal for you, you know. I found a galley to take you to Greece, didn’t I? I’ve given you my time and experience. Have any of you polished my armour or passed on a little of your pay out of gratitude? No. Have any of you even offered me wine?’

Seneca chuckled, looking at the man who sat in his silver armour.

‘Would you like a little wine, General?’ he said, reaching behind him for an amphora.

‘No. Not a little,’ Brutus replied, taking a tin cup from the man next to him as he held it out. The man blinked in surprise.

‘We’re going to win, you know,’ Brutus said, holding out the cup to clink it against Seneca’s. Seneca emptied his without a word. ‘He can’t stop us flanking him with our cavalry, can he? And once we’re behind his lines, they’ll roll up like an old carpet. You heard how they ran from Labienus? How do you think they’ll do against the rest of us?’

He watched as Seneca nodded reluctantly, seeming to lose a little of his heavy mood. When Brutus had heard the news of his old legion being routed, he had been sure it was some clever plan. He had ridden out at the first light of dawn to read the ground, but there had been no print or trace of an ambushing force. He could still hardly credit it. In a way, it was a twisted comfort: the Third had never run while he commanded them. Perhaps Julius was losing his touch.

Draining his own wine, Brutus reached inside his armour to produce a bag of dice. He chose two without looking and rattled them in the cup. The sound worked like magic on the faces of the men around him, making them look up with sudden interest.

‘Ah, I have your attention now,’ Brutus said cheerfully. ‘Shall we have a little game before we turn in? I’m thinking about buying a new horse and funds are low.’

An hour later, Labienus passed the group and saw Brutus at the centre of them. The laughter and shouting had drawn in many more to watch and other games had started on the fringes. Labienus let out a slow breath as he watched Brutus scoop up a pile of coins, cheering his own success without embarrassment. The camp stretched away into the darkness around them and Labienus smiled to himself before moving on.

At dawn, Pompey rose from his bed and summoned his healer. His stomach was hard and swollen, the skin so tight as to send spasms of pain at the slightest touch. He gritted his teeth as he probed it with stiff fingers, letting anger shield him from the pain until he gasped. Should he allow the physician to cut him? There were nights when it was bad enough for Pompey to take a knife to it himself out of sheer desperation. Each morning, he fantasised about a thin blade to let out all the wind and pus that was making it swell, but then he would force himself to dress, binding the swollen mass himself so that no one else could see.

He rubbed a rough hand across his face, seeing it come away shining with night sweat. His eyes were sticky and sore and he rubbed at them, furious with the body that had let him down.

Pompey sat on the edge of his pallet, doubled over the bulging skin. His physician entered and frowned at his sickly colour. In grim silence, the man laid down his bag of materials, crossing to him. A cool palm was pressed against Pompey’s forehead and the healer shook his head.

‘You are running a fever, General. Is there blood in your stools?’

‘Make your mixtures and get out,’ Pompey snapped without opening his eyes.

The healer knew better than to respond. He turned away and laid out his mortar and pestle with a row of stoppered bottles. Pompey cracked open an eye to watch him as he added ingredients and ground them into a white paste. The healer sensed the interest and held up his bowl to show the milky mucus that lined the sides.

‘I have hopes for this preparation. It is a bark I found in Dyrrhachium, mixed with olive oil, water and milk. The man I bought it from swore it would help with any illness of the stomach.’

‘It looks like semen,’ Pompey said through clenched teeth.

The healer flushed and Pompey gestured irritably, already tired of the man.

‘Give it to me,’ he said, taking the bowl and using his fingers to scoop the mixture into his mouth. It tasted of nothing, but after a time it did seem to ease him a little.

‘Make another batch. I can’t be running to you whenever the pain worsens.’

‘It’s working, is it?’ the healer said. ‘If you would only let me release the poisons in you, I could …’

‘Just seal another dose of it under wax so I can take it later,’ Pompey interrupted. ‘Two doses, and one more of your usual muck.’

He shuddered as he thought of stomach wounds he had seen in the past. When he was little more than a boy, he had killed a rabbit and slit its guts as he tried to remove the skin. Stinking black and green curds had stained his hands, tainting the good meat. He had been forced to throw the whole rabbit away and he could still remember the stench. Pompey had seen simple spear punctures bruise with filth once the stomach was open to the air. Death always followed.

‘As you wish, General,’ the man replied, offended. ‘I have more of the bark in my own tent. I’ll have it sent to you.’

Pompey only glared until he left.

When he was alone, Pompey levered himself to his feet. The legions would be ready to march, he knew. The light was already brightening at the flap of the command tent and they would be in ranks, waiting for his appearance. Still, he could not summon his dress slaves until he had bound his stomach. Only the healer had seen the expanse of angry flesh he hid with strips of clean linen and even he knew nothing of the blood Pompey spat during the night. When he was in public, he swallowed the gummy mass back each time it rose into his throat, but it grew more difficult each day.

As he stood, a wave of dizziness struck him and he swore softly to himself, waiting for it to pass. More itching sweat dripped down his face and he found his hair was wet with it.

‘Give me just a few more days,’ he whispered and did not know if it was a prayer to the gods or to the sick growth that consumed him.

He reached for the sweat-stained strips he had placed over the end of his pallet and began to wind them around his torso, constraining the swelling with savage jerks that left him trembling. His fingers were clumsy on the knots, but at last he was able to stand straight and took a series of deep breaths. He crossed to a water bucket and splashed it on himself before tugging a tunic over his head.

He was panting by the time he called for his slaves. They entered with downcast gazes and began to fit his armour to him. Pompey wondered if they guessed at the reason for the delay and decided he did not care. The gods would give him the time he needed to humble his last enemy. When Julius was dead he would let them cut him, but until then he would get through each day, each hour, until it was over.

The healer’s paste had taken the edge off his discomfort, he thought with relief. As the slaves were dismissed, Pompey touched a hand to the pommel of his gladius and raised his head to walk out to the waiting men. He paused on the threshold and took a deep breath. Perhaps it was some calming property of the healer’s paste, or perhaps because he was finally committed to his path. For the first time in months, he realised he was not afraid of his enemy.

On the third morning of the march south, the scouts came back to Julius’ column, their faces flushed in the race to be first with the news. They described a vast and empty plain just a few miles ahead. Pharsalus.

There were few in the ranks who recognised the name, but those who knew Greece felt the first twinges of excitement. At last, they were coming to a place well suited for battle.

It was somehow fitting that the struggle should be settled as the old Roman generals had fought. On the flat earth of the valley floor, there could be no traps or clever use of land. Only a muddy brown river ran through the southern part of the plain, making a natural boundary. If Pharsalus were the battleground, Julius knew it would come down to speed, tactics and simple strength. The commanders would face each other across lines of men and their armies would clash and kill until just one earned the right to return to Rome. Scipio Africanus would have approved the choice. Julius made the decision quickly. He would stand at Pharsalus.

The Gaul legions entered the plain two hours later and the column did not pause as they marched across the open land. It was a barren place. Even in the protective shadow of the mountains, the winter had left a black landscape of smooth dry earth and broken boulders, shattered as if they had been thrown by vast forces. It was a relief to have firm ground under their feet, though it was so dry that curling dust shapes screamed across it, vanishing into the distance. The legionaries leaned into the wind and shielded their eyes from grit that rattled against their armour.

The city of Pharsalus lay beyond the sluggish river to the south, too far to be seen. Julius dismissed it from his thoughts. The citizens there would play no part in the battle unless he was forced to retreat and needed their high stone walls. He shook his head as he considered finding fording points on the banks. There would be no retreat.

‘Continue the line of march to the far side,’ he ordered Domitius over the wind’s howl. ‘I want a solid camp in the foothills there.’

Julius watched as the extraordinarii streamed around him, freed at last from the need to guard the flanks. The enemy were all behind and Julius heard his riders whoop as they kicked their mounts into a gallop, drawn to speed by the openness of the land. He too felt the lift in spirits and tightened his hands on the reins.

‘We will stop them here,’ he shouted to Octavian and those who heard him grinned savagely. They knew Caesar had no other enemies after Pompey. Once the old man had been broken, they would be able to retire at last. Those who had grown old in Julius’ service felt the change in the air and marched a little taller, despite their tiredness. Aching bones were ignored and any man who looked around him saw the irresistible confidence of those who had brought Gaul to her knees.

Only the new Fourth legion under Octavian remained grim and silent as they crossed the plain. Once more, they had to prove the right to walk in Caesar’s steps.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The light of dawn spilled over Pharsalus, cloud shapes racing across its surface. The armies of Rome had woken long before, while it was still dark. By the light of torches, they had prepared themselves for the coming of day. Kit had been stowed with routine care; leather tents folded and bound in silence. They had eaten a steaming stew mopped up with fresh bread from clay ovens. It would give them strength for what lay ahead. The camp followers and tradesmen stood with their heads respectfully bowed. Even the whores were silent, clustering together as they watched the legions move out onto the plain. Horns wailed at either end of Pharsalus and the tramp of feet sounded like a heartbeat.

The veterans of Gaul found themselves eager for the fight. They pushed forward like the finest horses and the lines had to be dressed and orders shouted to keep the pace steady. Despite the best efforts of optios and centurions, cheerful jibes and insults were exchanged by men who had fought together for too many years to count. As Pompey’s army grew before them, the calls and banter lessened until they were grimly silent, each man making ready for what was to come.

The patterns of men and cavalry changed constantly as the armies closed. At first, Julius placed his Tenth at the centre of his fighting line, but then sent them to the right flank, bolstering the strength there. Pompey saw the movement and his own ranks shifted like shining liquid, manoeuvring for the slightest advantage. It was a game of bluff and counterbluff as the two commanders altered formations like pieces on a latrunculi board.

Pompey had known both fear and exultation when he saw Caesar’s legions would turn at bay and face him at last. It was an act of colossal confidence for Julius to choose the open plain. Another man might have tried for broken ground: something more suited to stratagem and skill. Caesar’s message was clear to Pompey’s soldiers. He feared them not at all. Perhaps it was that which made Pompey deploy his legions in three wide lines, each ten ranks deep, stretching for more than a mile across Pharsalus. With the river protecting his right flank, he could use his left as a hammer.

When Julius saw the heavy formation, he felt a surge of new confidence. If a commander thought his men could break, he might shelter them in such ponderous blocks, supporting and trapping them among friends and officers. Julius knew the Greek legions would feel Pompey’s lack of faith and it would drag their morale even lower. He planned accordingly, sending a string of new orders to his generals. The armies drew closer.

Julius rode at walking pace on his best Spanish mount. He had surrounded himself with scouts to take his orders, but on such a wide line the command structure was dangerously slow. He was forced to trust in the initiative of his generals. He had known them long enough, he thought. He knew their strengths and weaknesses as well as his own. Pompey could not have that advantage, at least.

Julius saw that Pompey had concentrated his horsemen on the left flank as he faced them. The sheer numbers were intimidating and Julius sent quick orders to detach a thousand men to form a mobile fourth line. If he allowed his veterans to be flanked by so many, there would be no saving them. He positioned himself on the right with his Tenth, so that he and Pompey would face each other. He touched the pommel of his sword and scanned his lines again and again, looking for flaws. He had been in enough battles to know that the illusion of time to spare would vanish as quickly as dawn mist in summer. He had seen even experienced commanders leave it too late to move their men to the best position. He would not make that mistake and chose to send them early, letting Pompey react.

The wind had lessened and the dust spirals were trampled down unnoticed as the two armies marched inexorably towards each other. Julius squinted at the formation Pompey had created. With just another thousand extraordinarii, he might have threatened the far edge of Pompey’s army and forced him to split his cavalry. As it was, Pompey was free to muster them in one great mass. Behind them the ground was black with archers, protecting Pompey’s own position. It would begin there.

‘Send to General Octavian and have his Fourth move back towards the centre,’ Julius told the closest scout. ‘When it begins, he must push forward with all speed.’ He looked around him and selected another, little older than a boy. ‘The extraordinarii are not to advance past the flank. They must hold the position.’

As the man scurried away, Julius fretted, sweating despite the wind. Had he thought of everything? His scorpion bows and heavy engines were being pulled into position by oxen and shouting men, all along the marching mile. Pompey too had assembled his massive weapons and Julius shuddered at the thought of what they could do. Pompey had many more than he had been able to bring to the field. No doubt they would play a part in deciding the battle.

At two thousand feet, both Julius and Pompey ceased looking for an advantage from their formations. The battle lines were set and what followed would be a test of courage and skill that neither man had experienced before. For all the skirmishes and minor battles between them, they had not faced the best of Roman legions on good, dry land. The outcome could not be known.

Julius continued to give orders, as he knew Pompey must be doing. Part of him was almost hypnotised by the ritual moves of the dance as the armies neared each other. It was formal and terrifying and Julius wondered if Pompey would close to the exact distance specified in the manuals before beginning the final charge. His memory flickered back to the dry voices of his tutors telling him that six hundred feet was perfect on good ground. Any more and the men would be flagging before they reached a charging enemy in the middle. Any less and they risked losing the advantage of a crashing first strike. Julius reached up and pulled down the full-face helmet that hid his features. As it clicked shut, the wind became a dull thrumming and sweat trickled down from his hair.

The vast lines were a thousand feet apart and Julius felt the tension in his legions as he walked his horse forward with them. The animal snorted and fought the tight rein he held on it, bowing its head almost back to the neck. His horses and men had been fed and waterboys marched with them. The grindstones had been busy all night to put an edge on their swords. He had done everything he could think of to weaken the host he faced.

He did not know if it was enough and he felt the old signs of fear from every battle of his youth. His bladder tightened, though he had emptied it into the piss trench before mounting. His mouth was dry with the grit that swirled in the cold air. His vision became sharper as every sense drank in the land and men around him. He knew he could die on the plain and he scorned the thought. He had been consul twice and had taken Gaul and Britain. He had taken Rome herself. He had written his legacy into the laws of his city and he would not easily be forgotten.

He searched for silver armour somewhere amongst the enemy. Brutus would be there and Julius knew him well enough to imagine his thoughts, his expression as the armies neared. The pain of the betrayal was constant in him, with the need to see Brutus one more time, even if it was over a sword’s length.

He looked across the ranks at Octavian. He wished he had left sons to carry on his line, but the blood would survive even if he did not. Had he told Octavian how proud he was of him? He thought he had.

‘Let him live, if I fall,’ Julius whispered against the clasp of his helmet. ‘By Mars, let them both live.’

Pompey looked at the legions coming against him and he could not feel the gods. Memories of Caesar’s victories in Gaul slipped like tongues into his mind. The man had beaten the hordes of the Helvetii. Pompey’s sickness throbbed at his waist, draining his confidence.

There were men in Rome and Greece who said Caesar was the greatest general of an age; and now Pompey would try to kill him. He wished he could summon the reckless courage of his youth, but it was not there for this enemy. He was cold and uncomfortable on the saddle, at times so angry with the pain that he could barely see. Sweat poured under his armour and chilled so that he felt the cloth of his tunic chafe wetly against his neck.

Pompey glanced to his left, where Labienus sat on his horse, stiff with anger. The general had argued against the order to place the men in such deep ranks, but Pompey knew them better than he. He had watched them closely and seen the reluctance that was the death of fighting spirit. They feared the legions of Gaul. It would not matter once they saw his cavalry crush the flank, but until the battle began, Pompey did not dare trust them.

Even as the veteran legions neared, he could see signs of distress in his ranks. They took their positions as he had ordered, but his experienced eye saw flaws and hesitation.

‘Have General Labienus approach me,’ Pompey told his messengers.

They cantered along the shifting lines and returned with him.

‘General, at six hundred feet, we will stop and await their charge,’ Pompey said.

For a moment, Labienus was too shocked to speak. ‘Sir?’ he said.

Pompey beckoned him closer.

‘They will break at the first charge unless we make them stand, General. I have deep lines and now I will use them. Have the men ready to halt. Their spears will be thrown accurately, at least.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes glittering. ‘If my extraordinarii break the flank as quickly as I think they will, the legions may not even have the chance to throw!’

‘Sir, you must not force …’

Pompey turned abruptly away from him. ‘You have orders. Follow them.’

Instinct made Labienus salute before he rode back to his legions, sending the new command up and down the lines. Pompey felt the gaze of his soldiers as they turned to him in puzzlement, but he stared stonily ahead. If they had shown a better spirit, he would have let them charge against the veterans. Instead, they would be his wall against the charge.

As the armies crossed a thousand feet, the noise of so many marching men could be heard as dim thunder, felt by all of them through the soles of their sandals. Hundreds of standards flew on each side and the bronze eagles were held proudly up to catch the sun. At eight hundred feet, both armies readied their spears. The front lines were punctuated with the heavy weapons and those who marched opposite them felt the first silken touch of terror.

At six hundred feet, Pompey saw Caesar’s entire front line twitch as they expected his men to begin the charge. Instead, Pompey raised his sword and brought it down, halting fifty thousand men in three paces. Orders echoed up and down the lines and Pompey began to breathe faster in anticipation as teams winched back the machines. He could see the faces of the enemy as the gap narrowed all along the mile.

The scorpion bows hammered into their rests on both sides, sending bolts as long as a man out so fast they could be seen only as a dark blur. They punched their way through the ranks, scattering men in tangles of limbs.

As Pompey’s cavalry began to accelerate on the wing, Caesar sent in the charge at less than two hundred feet, his men pounding across the dry earth. Twenty thousand spears went up on both sides, sending a writhing shadow over the ribbon of ground between them.

If there were screams, they were swallowed by thunder as they met.

Across a mile of land, thousands of armoured men crashed into the shields and swords of their enemies. There was no thought of brotherhood. They killed with a manic ferocity that gave no quarter and expected none in that bloody slash across Pharsalus. The fighting mile was solid as they gave their lives.

Pompey’s extraordinarii galloped along the edge, riding at the smaller force of cavalry they had come to destroy. Pompey wiped slippery sweat from his eyes and craned to see. As his horsemen began to push back the flank, he found himself shaking. He could not tear his eyes from their progress, knowing the battle depended on it. They hammered into Caesar’s cavalry, shattering their ranks with sheer numbers, so that every one was faced by two or three of Pompey’s riders.

‘Break, you bastards. Break! Give him to me,’ he shouted into the wind.

Then the Tenth counterattacked. They widened their line to include the cavalry on the wing and Pompey saw them gutting his precious horses and riders as they slowed in the mass. Pompey cried out as he saw them press towards him. He flickered a glance at the centuries guarding his position and was reassured. As well as the best of his guards, he had kept archers back to wreak carnage on any force that threatened him. He was safe enough.

Even the blades of the Tenth could not stop Pompey’s cavalry as they went round them. They were too fast and mobile to be caught for long and Pompey saw the line of battle blister out to the east as Caesar’s riders struggled hopelessly to halt the advance.

Pompey could see Julius on his horse over the heads of thousands. The slight figure was gesturing calmly, sending orders over the field. Pompey looked along his own lines to check that they were holding. He stared back at the cavalry charge and with a rush of joy saw Caesar’s riders break at last, turning their backs on the enemy and galloping away. Pompey’s pain was forgotten as he raised both hands.

Men and horses lay dying on ground made slippery with blood. Pompey saw his officers detach two hundred riders from the furthest edge and send them after the fleeing enemy. He nodded sharply, his face savage. It had happened as he had hoped it would and he thanked the gods. His messengers looked to him for new orders, but there was no need.

The noise was appalling and the dust had risen above the ranks in such heavy clouds that riders and men appeared out of it like shadows. Pompey saw his cavalry break away to re-form and knew once they struck at full gallop, they would carve their way to the very heart of the veterans. Even the Tenth could not hold them while they fought on two sides. The reputation Caesar had built around himself would be destroyed.

Four cohorts of the Tenth turned neatly to face the charge they knew was coming and Pompey swore at the concealing dust. These were the core of Caesar’s legend and he wanted to see them humbled as much as their commander. Julius himself was somewhere in the mass, but it was getting harder and harder to see.

‘Come on, come on. Cut into them,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Make the charge.’

In the centre of the battle line, Brutus shoved a dying man backwards and raised his shield to stop a blow. His horse was dead and he had barely cleared the saddle before it collapsed. He did not know if it was deliberate that Julius had sent his old legion against him. Perhaps they had expected it would weaken his arm. It had not. Though he had trained the men he faced, though he knew them as brothers, he killed them without a thought.

As he had known it would, his armour drew them to him, distorting the fighting ranks as they caught sight of the silver and struggled to bring him down.

‘Are you afraid of your old teacher?’ he called to them, laughing wildly. ‘Is there not one of you good enough to face me now? Try me, boys. Come here and try me.’

They heard and the response was so savage that Brutus was shoved back, his sword trapped against his body by the press of men. Something heavy thumped into his helmet and broke the strap at his chin. He swore as he hit the ground and felt the helmet come loose, but he rose up with a jerk and killed two men before they could recover.

More came at him then and his shield was torn from his hand as he raised it, ripping flesh from his fingers. He cried out in pain and ducked a sword, ramming his own into a man’s groin from below. His foot slipped as his sandal studs raked the face of a corpse. He saw it was Seneca, his open eyes coated in dust.

Brutus fought without reason for a long time, cutting anything that came into range and bellowing weary defiance at the lines of men. He caught a glimpse of silver armour in a set that matched his own and yelled a challenge, seeing Octavian jerk his head around as he heard. Brutus waited for him. He could not make a space to breathe as they pressed him and he was growing tired. The endless energy of youth had somehow slipped away without him noticing. At his back, he heard Labienus calling for the Fourth to advance and the shout seemed to galvanise his old legion. They roared again and fought like berserkers, ignoring wounds. Octavian was straining to reach him and Brutus beckoned him on wearily. Blood spattered him as he struggled, panting. He wanted to see Julius, but he could not find him.

His sword blade turned uselessly against a shield. He did not see the blow that brought him to his knees, or the second that left him on his back.

‘Where are you?’ he called for his old friend, looking up at the sky. A crushing weight squeezed the air from his lungs and he heard his right arm snap. Then he knew nothing more.

Two hundred of Pompey’s horsemen galloped across the plain, leaving the noise and blood and death behind until all they could hear were the pounding rhythm of hooves and the snorting breath of their mounts. They were fierce with exhilaration as they chased the beaten enemy. They held their long spatha swords high over their heads and yelled with the pleasure of it. Casitas had risen to the post of decurion without seeing battle in the slow years of his Greece posting. He had not known it would be so exciting and he laughed aloud as he shot across Pharsalus, feeling as if he were flying.

Ahead of them, the extraordinarii of Caesar responded to a single horn and the wild rout changed. The ranks pulled together with the precision of a parade ground and the flying column slowed to wheel as one, turning back towards the battle.

Casitas could not believe what he was seeing. In dawning fear, he realised that the best part of two thousand crack cavalry were coming back in perfect riding order. He looked over his shoulder and considered trying to prevent them rejoining Caesar’s army. One glance at the dark line of enemy horses was enough to know it was a pointless gesture.

‘Get back to the lines. We’ll gut them there,’ he shouted, heaving his horse around and leading them. He saw his men look nervously over their shoulders as they rode and tried to resist the temptation himself. It was going to be close. Casitas could hear them coming.

The bulk of Pompey’s cavalry seemed to leap from distant figures to a mass of men and horses, churning amidst a cloud of dark dust. Casitas shouted uselessly into the wind to warn them, but his voice went unheard.

Julius bellowed orders to men he could barely see in the dust that cloaked them. His Tenth were fighting in perfect order, closing the holes in their ranks as they were cut out. It was agony to see them so hard-pressed, but Julius could not bring their whole strength to bear on the soldiers around Pompey. Out on the edges, he could see the mass of riders forming up for a charge. He could hear the whinnying of horses through the dust and every nerve and muscle was tight with strain. If they smashed his lines from behind, he knew the battle would be lost and he searched for anything he could use to blunt the attack when it came.

There was nothing. He looked over the lines and saw more of the Tenth die, fighting to the last as he would have expected. The dust would blind the horses, he realised. Even a solid shield wall would be broken as they smashed into them. He shook his head, shivering. The Tenth could not lock shields and defend the main line at the same time. They would be destroyed.

‘Sir! To the east!’ one of his scouts shouted.

The man had been taken from the extraordinarii and perhaps it was that allegiance that made him look for them. Julius turned in the saddle and his heart leapt. He saw Pompey’s chasers returning to the battle. Behind them came his extraordinarii, at full gallop.

Julius watched dry-mouthed as the fleeing riders tried to enter their own lines. There was no time for them to slow and the result was instant chaos. The attempt to form a charge was sent reeling and then Caesar’s extraordinarii struck them from behind.

Pompey’s riders were ruined by them. Their own men opened the holes in the ranks that the extraordinarii battered through, scattering them apart. Julius saw horses rear in terror before the choking dust swallowed them. It swelled to a thick cloud over the killing and out of it came Pompey’s riders, broken and bloody. Some were dying and fell from their saddles. Others were pulling uselessly at the reins of their bolting mounts.

The Tenth rushed forward as Pompey’s cavalry were smashed. Julius shouted and kicked his own horse into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the desolate figure of Pompey in the distance. The dust cloud swirled across him and he swore, pushing forward with his men.

Pompey’s flank buckled as if a great pressure had been removed and they almost fell towards the archers surrounding the Dictator. Julius was about to order shields raised when they too broke and the Tenth slaughtered those who dared to show their backs.

As the dust blew on, Julius saw Pompey’s cavalry were clear of the field and still going. His extraordinarii were not chasing them, he saw, almost delirious with the change in fortunes. He watched his riders cut along the rear of Pompey’s lines, selecting their points of entry to begin carving them in slices.

Julius searched again for Pompey, but he was not there. His horse rode over the broken bodies of archers, stabbed by every rank that passed. The hooves threw up clots of blood and earth that hit his legs and slid away, leaving cold smears he did not feel.

Somewhere in the distance horns blew and Julius snapped around in the saddle. It was the tone for surrender and he had a sudden terror that his veterans had failed while he had been busy on the right flank. He heard a crash of arms as men threw down their weapons and in the press he still did not know if he had won or lost.

Octavian rode along the lines towards him, breathing heavily. His greave hung from a single strap and his armour and skin were torn, bruised and scraped in equal measure. One eye had swollen completely shut, but it didn’t matter. He had survived and Julius’ heart leapt to see him.

‘They have surrendered, sir,’ he said. ‘As soon as Pompey left the field. It is over.’ He saluted and Julius saw he was trembling with reaction.

Julius sagged in his saddle, leaning forward with his head bowed. After a long moment, he drew himself straight and looked north. He could not let Pompey escape, but the fighting could erupt again at the slightest provocation unless he stayed with his legions. His duty was to remain on the plain and bring order, not to chase a beaten man. He knew it, but he hungered to call his extraordinarii back and ride Pompey down. He shook his head clear of the warring emotions.

‘Disarm them all and begin taking the wounded back to Pompey’s camp,’ he said. ‘Bring the generals to me and treat them with courtesy. They did well to surrender, but it will be hurting them. Make sure the men understand there will be no mistreatment. They are not enemies. They will be given every courtesy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Octavian said. His voice shook slightly and Julius looked at him, smiling wryly at the worship in the younger man’s bloodshot eyes.

‘I will accept a new oath of loyalty from them, as consul of Rome. Tell them the war is over.’

He could hardly believe it himself and he knew the reality would not sink in for hours or days. He had been fighting for as long as he could remember and it had all brought him to the plain of Pharsalus in the middle of Greece. It was enough.

‘Sir, I saw Brutus fall,’ Octavian said.

Julius broke out of his reverie. ‘Where?’ he snapped, ready to move.

‘In the centre, sir. He fought with Labienus.’

‘Take me there,’ Julius replied, urging his horse into a trot. A sick dread settled on him then. His hands shook slightly as he rode, though whether in reaction or fear, he could not have said.

The two riders passed through the lines of men already involved in the routines they knew so well. Piles of captured swords were being formed and water passed to those who had not drunk for hours. When the legions saw their general, cheering began and swelled until they were all shouting in relief and triumph.

Julius barely heard them, his eyes on a limp figure in silver armour being pulled from a pile of corpses. He felt tears sting his eyes as he dismounted. He could not speak. The men of the New Fourth legion stood back respectfully to give him room and he went down on one knee to look into the face of his oldest friend.

There was blood everywhere and Brutus’ skin was marble white against the stain. Julius took a cloth from his belt and reached out with it, gently wiping away the caked filth.

Brutus opened his eyes. With consciousness came pain and he groaned in agony. His cheek and mouth were swollen and deformed and blood trickled from his ear. His gaze seemed vacant as it swivelled towards Julius, then slowly a dim awareness returned. Brutus tried to lift himself, but the broken arm was useless. He fell back, crying out weakly. His lips moved over bloody teeth and Julius bent closer to hear him speak.

‘Will you kill me now?’ Brutus whispered.

‘I won’t,’ Julius said.

Brutus let out a long shuddering breath. ‘Am I dying then?’ he said.

Julius looked him over. ‘Perhaps. You deserve to.’

‘Pompey?’

‘He ran. I’ll find him,’ Julius replied.

Brutus tried to smile, a cough wracking him with agony. Julius watched, his dark eyes colder than death.

‘So we lost then,’ Brutus said weakly, trying to spit blood onto the ground. He didn’t have the strength. ‘I was worried when I couldn’t see you, before,’ he said. ‘I thought I was finished.’

Julius shook his head in slow sadness.

‘What am I to do with you?’ he murmured. ‘Did you think I didn’t value you? Did you think I wouldn’t miss having you in Rome? I didn’t believe your mother when she told me. I told her you wouldn’t betray me, not you. You hurt me then. You hurt me still.’

Tears came into Brutus’ eyes, screwed out by pain and misery. ‘Sometimes I just wanted to do something without the thought that the great Julius can do it better. Even when we were young I wanted that.’ He stopped to let a spasm run its course, clenching his jaw. ‘Everything I am, I’ve made. I’ve struggled through things that would have broken weak bastards. While I flogged myself, you made everything seem easy. It was easy for you. You are the only man ever to make me feel I’ve had a wasted life.’

Julius looked at the broken figure of the man he had known for too many years to remember. His voice broke as he spoke. ‘Why couldn’t you have been happy for me?’ he said. ‘Why betray me?’

‘I wanted to be an equal,’ Brutus said, showing red teeth. Fresh pain made him gasp as he shifted. ‘I didn’t expect Pompey to be such a fool.’ He looked up into Julius’ cold gaze and knew his life, his fate was being decided while he lay helpless. ‘Can you forgive me this?’ Brutus murmured, raising his head. ‘Can I ask you for this last thing?’

Julius did not reply for so long that Brutus fell back, his eyes closing.

‘If you live,’ Julius said at last, ‘I will let the past rest. Do you understand me? I will need you, Brutus.’

He did not know if he had been heard. Brutus’ battered face had paled even further and only the flutter of a vein in his throat showed he still lived. With great gentleness, Julius wiped his friend’s mouth free of blood and pressed the cloth into the limp hand before standing.

He faced Octavian and saw the younger man’s blank shock at what he had heard.

‘Look after this one, Octavian. He is badly hurt.’

Octavian closed his mouth slowly. ‘Sir, please …’ he began.

‘Let it go, lad. We’ve come too far together for anything else.’

After a long moment, Octavian bowed his head.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Pompey’s camp crested a hill that overlooked the plain. Bare grey rock showed through green lichen like bones and the only sound came from the wind. At such a height, the gale was free to moan and howl around them as Julius made his way to the gates. He saw Pompey’s camp workers had lit great torches, and streamers of black smoke reached over the plain below.

Julius paused to look down on Pharsalus. His generals were creating order on the battlefield, but from his vantage point Julius could see the line of bodies that marked where the armies had clashed. They lay where they had fallen. From so far away, it looked like a meandering scar on the land, a feature of the plain rather than a place of death. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and refastened the clasp that held it to him.

Pompey had chosen the site well for his stronghold. The path to the flat crest was narrow and overgrown in places as if even wild goats shunned the steepest trails. His horse picked its way carefully and Julius did not press the pace. He was still stunned at the new reality and his usual swift thought seemed to have been buried beneath a crushing weight of memory. All his life he had fought against enemies. He had defined himself in their shadow, saying that he was not Sulla, not Cato, not Pompey. It was a new world without them and there was fear in the freedom.

He wished he could have brought Cabera up to the fort on the hill. The old man would have understood how he could not exult in the moment. Perhaps it was just the wind and great height, but it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen. There was no sense in death. Men like Renius and Tubruk filled graves as long and wide as Cato or Sulla. In the end, all that was flesh would be ash.

Later, he would make offerings to the gods and give thanks, but as he made his way up he felt numb. Only hours before, he had faced a vast army and victory was still too fresh and raw to be real.

The great fort Pompey had built loomed over him as he grew closer. To know that every piece of it had been brought up from the lowlands was a testament to Roman ingenuity and strength. Julius had thought he would have it burnt, but as he reached the flat ground of the crest, he knew it should be left as a memorial to those who had died. It was fitting to leave them something on that bare landscape where even bloody dust soon vanished in the scouring wind. In a few days, when the legions had been sent away, the fort would be shelter for wild animals until age and decay made it slump and fall.

The gates stood open as Julius rode towards them. A thousand of his Tenth had made the climb with him and he could hear them panting as he passed through the walls and looked over the neat order of Pompey’s last camp.

Cooking pits and tents lay untended for as far as he could see. It was a lonely place and Julius shuddered to think how many of the men who had left it at dawn were now cold on the plain. Perhaps they had known they would surrender to him even then, but duty had held them until Pompey fled the field.

The old Senate of Rome formed silent lines on the main road through the camp, their heads bowed. Julius did not look at them, his eyes on the praetorium tent where Pompey had woken that morning. He dismounted in front of it and paused to untie the thongs that kept out the wind. His Tenth came forward to help him and two of them threw back the heavy leather, tying it securely as he strode into the gloom.

Julius looked around him, unnerved by the dark chamber and feeling as if he were an intruder. He waited as his men lit the lamps and braziers and flickering gold illuminated the interior. It was bitterly cold, and he shivered.

‘Wait outside,’ he told them and in a moment he was alone. He brushed past a partition and saw Pompey’s bed had been neatly made for his return. There was a sense of order to the place, no doubt the work of slaves after the army had gone. Julius picked up a clay bowl crusted with white paste from a table and sniffed at it. He opened a chest and looked quickly through the contents. He felt nervous, as if at any moment Pompey would come through the door and demand to know what he was doing.

Julius continued his examination of the Dictator’s private belongings, finally shaking his head. He had hoped against reason that the seal ring of the Senate might have been left behind, but there was no sign of it and no reason for him to stay.

As he walked across the packed earth, his gaze fell on Pompey’s desk and a packet of his private papers. On impulse, he reached out for the red silk that tied them and his fingers picked at the knot as he thought. He knew he should read them. The journal and letters would complete the picture of the man he had fought across Greece. They would reveal his mistakes as well as Julius’ own, his most private thoughts. Somewhere in the neat packet would be word of Brutus, the details Julius craved to know.

The crackle of flames from a brazier broke into his thoughts and he acted before his wandering mind could begin its arguments, lifting the package and dropping it whole onto the flames. Almost immediately he reached to pull it back, but then he mastered himself and stood watching as the red band charred and curled, browning slowly until flames leapt along the edges.

The smoke was not thick, but still it seemed to sting Julius’ eyes as he walked back into the weak sunlight. He saw the thousand soldiers of the Tenth had formed up outside and he took pride in their bearing. They would expect him to lead them back to Dyrrhachium, to negotiate with Pompey’s Senate in a city rather than a battlefield. Part of him knew he should complete that work. There were a thousand things to do. The legions had to be paid, and with a start he realised he had assumed responsibility for the legions Pompey had led. They too would expect their silver on time, as well as food, equipment and shelter. Pyres for the dead would have to be built.

Julius walked back to the edge of the hill crest and looked into the far distance. Pompey was broken and there was no need to chase him further. It was true he carried a Senate ring, but from Rome Julius could send ships and letters denying his authority. The Dictator would be forced to take his straggling riders away from Roman lands and disappear.

Julius blew out a long breath into the wind. His legions had fought for years for this moment. They wanted to retire to the farms he had promised them, with silver and gold to build fine houses in the colonies. He had given them part of what they had earned in Gaul, but they deserved a thousand times more. They had given everything.

Julius saw Octavian walking his horse up the winding track. The younger man looked weary, though he tried to hide it under Julius’ scrutiny. He arrived at the top with a new sheen of sweat on his face, smearing the dust of Pharsalus.

‘Orders, sir?’ Octavian said as he saluted.

Julius looked towards the horizon. He could see for miles and Greece had never seemed so vast and empty as from that height.

‘I will stay for the funerals of the dead tonight, Octavian.’ He took a deep breath, feeling his own exhaustion in his bones. ‘Tomorrow I will go after Pompey. I’ll need the extraordinarii, the Tenth and the Fourth. I’ll speak to the others and send them home.’

Octavian followed his commander’s gaze before replying. ‘They won’t want to go back, sir,’ he said at last.

Julius turned to him. ‘I’ll write letters to Mark Antony. They will be paid and those that want it can have the land I promised them. I’ll make good my oath to all of them.’

‘No, sir, it’s not that. They won’t want to be sent back while you go on. I’ve heard them. Ciro even came to me to put in a word for him. They want to see it to the end.’

Julius thought of the promise he had made to his daughter. Would she hate him if he killed Pompey? For an instant he imagined taking the Senate ring from Pompey’s dead hand. Perhaps it would be enough to bring him peace. He did not know, but until he was able to stand before the Dictator it would never be over. Sulla had left Mithridates alive in this same land and Roman blood had been the price.

Julius rubbed his face roughly. He needed a bath and fresh clothes and something to eat. The body was always weak.

‘I will speak to the men. Their loyalty …’ He paused, unable to find words. ‘Rome must be kept safe and we stripped her bare to come here. I will take the Fourth and Tenth and the extraordinarii, no more. Tell Ciro to commission his senior tribune in his place. I’ll take him with me. I suppose it is fitting that those who were on the Rubicon should see this out.’

Julius smiled at the thought, but he saw Octavian’s expression had hardened at his words.

‘Brutus too, sir? What would you have me do with him?’

Julius’ smile faded. ‘Bring him. Put him in one of the carts for provisions. He can heal on the way.’

‘Sir,’ Octavian began. He fell silent under Julius’ eyes.

‘He’s been with me since the very beginning,’ Julius said softly, his words almost lost in the wind. ‘Let him come.’

Brutus lay in darkness and pain. Under a full moon, the plain was a ghostly place of white shadow that barely reached the wounded in their tents. Brutus closed his eyes, wishing sleep would take him once more. His arm had been set and splinted and his ribs bound where they had cracked under the weight of dead men. The pain was worse when he tried to move and the last time his swollen bladder forced him to sit up, the effort made him grind his teeth against screaming. The pot brimmed under his cot, growing dark and foetid. His mind still swam from the blows he had received and he had only a vague memory of speaking to Julius in the blood and filth after the battle. It burned worse than his wounds to think of it.

Someone nearby cried out in their sleep, making him jump. He wished he had the strength to stagger out of the stinking tent into the night air. He sweated constantly and when his thoughts were clear he knew he was running a fever. He croaked for water, but it did not come. At last, he slid away into blacker depths and peace.

He surfaced from unconsciousness with a moan, tugged from deathlike sleep by a rough hand on his arm. Fear made his heart race as he saw men standing around him. He knew them. Each one had been with him in Spain and Gaul. They had been brothers once, but now their expressions were cruel.

One of them reached down and pressed a small blade into his left hand.

‘If you have any honour left, you should cut your throat with this,’ the man said, spitting the words.

Brutus passed out for a time, but when he woke again they were still there and the knife was tucked between his arm and his bandaged chest. Had it only been moments? It had seemed like hours, but none of the men had moved.

‘If he won’t do it, we should,’ one of the soldiers said in a hoarse growl.

Another nodded and reached for the knife. Brutus swore and tried to writhe away from the probing fingers. He was too weak. Fear of dying in the stinking tent filled him and he tried to cry out, but his throat was too swollen and dry. He felt the knife pulled clear and winced in anticipation.

‘Put it in his hand,’ he heard and felt his lifeless fingers opened.

A new voice broke through his terror in the dark. ‘What are you men doing in here?’

He didn’t recognise it, but they scattered and the newcomer shouted angrily as they shoved their way past him in the gloom. Brutus panted as he lay on his back, the little knife clutched unfelt in his hand. He heard footsteps approach and looked into the face of a centurion as he bent over him.

‘I need a guard,’ Brutus whispered.

‘I can’t spare one for you,’ the centurion replied coldly.

Outside on the plain a rush of flame from the funeral pyres lit the night. The darkness of the tent lessened slightly and the centurion’s gaze fell on a bowl of soup on a wooden stool. He picked it up and grimaced at the shining clots of phlegm that floated there.

‘I’ll get you some clean food and a clean pot to piss in,’ he said, in disgust. ‘I can do that much for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Brutus said, closing his eyes against the pain.

‘Don’t thank me. I don’t want anything from you,’ the man snapped.

Brutus could hear the outrage in his voice. He raised the knife without looking. ‘They left this,’ he said. He heard the centurion snort.

‘You keep it. I heard what they were saying to you. Maybe they were right. Not by their hands, though, not on my watch. But maybe you should think about doing it yourself. It would be clean.’

With a huge effort, Brutus threw the knife away from him, hearing it thump into the earth somewhere near. The centurion did not speak again and after a time he left.

The crackle of the pyres went on for hours and Brutus listened to the prayers before he slid into sleep once again.

As dawn came, the cries of the wounded men in the tent grew louder. The legion healers bathed and stitched and splinted as best they could. Infection and sickness would come later for most of them.

Brutus slept lightly, but it was the sudden silence that woke him. He raised his head and saw Julius had come into the tent. The men would not let the consul see their pain and those who moaned in sleep were shaken awake.

With a struggle, Brutus raised himself up as best he could. The men lying nearby stared openly at him. He could feel their dislike and resolved not to reveal his own pain, clenching his jaw against the sharp stabs from his broken arm.

Brutus watched as Julius spoke to each of the men, exchanging a few words and leaving them sitting proudly in his wake, their agony suppressed. Whether it was his imagination, Brutus did not know, but he felt the tension increase as Julius neared him until at last the consul of Rome pulled up a stool at his side and sat heavily on it.

Julius’ eyes were red-rimmed from smoke. His armour had been polished and, compared to the men in the ward, he seemed cool and rested.

‘Are they looking after you?’ Julius asked, glancing over the splints and bandages that tied his battered frame.

‘Flowers and grapes every morning,’ Brutus replied.

He opened his mouth again to speak the words he wanted to say, but could not begin them. There was no guile in the dark eyes that looked so steadily into his. He had not been able to believe it at first, but somehow he had been forgiven. He felt his heart race in his chest until sparks fired on the edges of his vision. He knew the fever was still in him and he wanted to lie back into the darkness. He could not face Julius and he looked away.

‘Why didn’t you kill me?’ he whispered.

‘Because you are my oldest friend,’ Julius replied, leaning closer. ‘How many times have you saved my life over the years? Do you think I could take yours? I can’t.’

Brutus shook his head, unable to comprehend. In the night, he had thought the shame would kill him and there had been moments when he had wanted the knife he had thrown away.

‘The men think you should,’ he said, thinking of the dark figures and the tainted food.

‘They don’t understand,’ Julius said and Brutus hated him for his mercy. Every citizen of Rome would hear how Julius had spared the friend who had betrayed him. Brutus could imagine the heart-wrenching verses the poets would write until it was all he could do not to spit.

He showed Julius nothing of his thoughts as he looked up at him. This was a new world after Pharsalus and he had been reborn. Perhaps a new beginning was possible for him. He had imagined casting off the dead skin of the past and finding his place as Julius’ friend once more. But not his equal. That had been denied for ever by the sickening nobility of his pardon. His life had been given by Julius’ hand and he did not know if he could bear to go on.

Despite himself, he clenched his teeth and groaned, overwhelmed by pounding emotions. As if from a distance, he felt Julius’ hand rest on his forehead.

‘Steady there, you’re still weak,’ he heard Julius say.

Tears shone in Brutus’ eyes as he wrestled with despair. He wanted desperately to have the last two years back, or to be able to accept what had happened. He could not bear it. He could not.

He closed his eyes tightly against the sight of the man sitting by his side. When he opened them after an interval, Julius had gone and he was left with the accusing glares of the wounded soldiers. Their fascination prevented him sobbing out his hatred and his love.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The legions of the Tenth and Fourth were tired and gaunt after many days of marching. The carts had been stripped of provisions and the spring grain was still little more than dark green shoots. Their water had soured and they were always hungry. Even the horses of the extraordinarii showed their ribs under a coat of dark dust, but they did not falter. Whenever Julius thought they had reached the end of endurance, another village gave news of Pompey’s riders and drew them ever further into the east. They knew they were closing on Pompey as he raced to reach the sea.

Julius rubbed weary eyes as he stood on the docks and looked out over the grey waves. There were six galleys there, slim and deadly as birds of prey. They guarded the strait between Greece and Asia Minor and they waited for him.

Pompey had reached the coast just the night before and Julius had hoped he would be trapped, forced to face his pursuers. Instead, the Dictator’s ships had been ready to take him off. Pompey had hardly paused in his flight and the plains of Greece had been left behind.

‘To come this far …’ Julius said aloud.

He felt his men look up all around him. If the way had been clear, Julius would not have hesitated. The east coast of Greece was busy with merchant vessels and he could have crossed. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Pompey’s ships manoeuvre over the deep water, their prows white with spray. They could not be well-manned, with most able soldiers taken out of them, but that was no comfort. In the open sea, they could tear merchant shipping apart. Even a night crossing was impossible, now that his legions had been seen. He could not hope to surprise the enemy galleys and the response would be brutal.

Despairing, he wondered how many more lay up and down the rocky coast out of sight. They made a wall of wood and iron that he could not break.

On the docks, his men waited patiently. Though Pompey had stripped the port of almost everything, there was water enough to wash the dust from their faces and fill the skins and barrels. They sat in quiet groups of eight or ten across the docks, gambling and sharing what little food they had been able to find. The problem of the crossing was not theirs, after all. They had done their part.

Julius clenched his fist, tapping it on the heavy wooden column he leaned against. He could not turn back and let Pompey go after such a chase. He had come too far. His gaze fell on a fishing boat, its owners busy with ropes and sails.

‘Stop those men,’ he ordered, watching as three soldiers of the Tenth grabbed hold of the little boat before the fishermen could pull away. The sail flapped noisily in the breeze as Julius strode over to the stone quay.

‘You will take me to those ships,’ he told the fishermen in halting Greek. They looked blankly at him and he called for Adàn.

‘Tell them I will pay for passage out to the galleys,’ he said, as the Spaniard approached.

Adàn produced two silver coins and tossed them to the men. In elaborate mime, he pointed to the ships and Julius until the fishermen’s frowns disappeared.

Julius looked at his interpreter in disbelief. ‘I thought you said you were learning Greek?’ he said.

‘It is a difficult language,’ Adàn replied, embarrassed.

Octavian walked to the edge and looked into the tiny boat. ‘Sir, you can’t be thinking of going alone,’ he said. ‘They’ll kill you.’

‘What choice do I have? If I go out in force, the galleys will attack. They may listen to me.’

Julius watched as Octavian handed his sword to a soldier and began to remove his armour.

‘What are you doing?’ Julius asked.

‘I’m coming with you, but I can’t swim in this if they sink us.’ He looked meaningfully at his general’s breastplate, but Julius ignored him.

‘Go on then,’ Julius said, gesturing to the frail craft. ‘One more will make no difference.’

He watched carefully to see how Octavian found a place on the slippery nets, wincing at the smell of fish. Julius followed him, making the boat rock dangerously before he was settled.

‘Up sail,’ Julius said to the fishermen.

He sighed at their expressions before pointing to it and raising his hands. In a few moments, the boat was easing away from the quayside. Julius looked back to see the worried expressions of his soldiers and he grinned, enjoying the motion.

‘Are you ever seasick, Octavian?’ he asked.

‘Never. Stomach like iron,’ Octavian lied cheerfully.

The galleys loomed and still both men felt an inexplicable rise in spirits. The fishing boat passed out of the sheltering bay and Julius breathed deeply, enjoying the pitch and roll of the sea.

‘They’ve seen us,’ he said. ‘Here they come.’

Two galleys were backing oars and swinging round to face the boat that dared the deep water. As they grew closer, Julius heard the lookouts call. Perhaps a fishing crew would have been ignored, but the sight of soldiers on board was enough to bring them heeling swiftly round. Julius watched flags go up to the highest point of the masts, and in the distance more of the deadly craft began to turn.

His lightness of mood vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He sat stiff-backed as the galley sculled towards him and the fishermen dropped the sail. Without the hiss of speed, the only noise came from Roman throats calling orders and he felt a pang of nostalgia for his own days on the swift ships on a different coast.

As they drew closer, Julius looked up at the soldiers lining the sides, wishing he could stand. He felt fear, but the decision was made and he was determined to see it through. He could not have escaped them then, even if he had wanted to. The galleys could outrace the little boat under oars alone. With an effort, he swallowed his nervousness.

The galley’s side was green and slick, showing they had been at sea for months while Julius struggled against Pompey. The oars were raised and Julius shivered as cold water dripped onto his upturned face as the boat passed under them. He saw the uniform of a centurion appear amongst the soldiers.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

‘Consul Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Julius replied. ‘Throw me a rope.’

The motion of the two vessels made it impossible for him to hold the centurion’s gaze, though Julius tried. He appreciated the man’s difficulty. No doubt Pompey had given strict orders to sink and burn those who followed.

Julius did not smile as a long rope ladder came clattering down the side of the galley, its weighted ends disappearing beneath the surface of the sea. With difficulty, he reached for it, ignoring the warning shouts of the fishermen as their boat threatened to spill.

He climbed carefully. It did not help his composure to be watched by the crew of more than three galleys close by, nor the thought that his armour would drown him if he fell. His breathing was heavy by the time he reached the railing and accepted the captain’s arm to help him over it. The ropes creaked as Octavian followed him up.

‘And your name, Captain?’ Julius said as soon as he stood on the deck.

The officer did not reply and stood frowning, tapping one hand on the other.

‘Then I will tell you mine once more. I am Julius Caesar. I am a consul of Rome and the only elected authority you are sworn to serve. All orders given by Pompey are revoked. You are under my command as of this moment.’

The captain opened his mouth but Julius went on, unwilling to lose the momentary advantage. He spoke as if there was not the slightest chance of being disobeyed.

‘You will pass the word to the other galleys to summon their captains here to be given orders. I have six thousand men and horses waiting to be picked up on the docks. You are my transport to Asia Minor, Captain.’

Deliberately, Julius turned away to help Octavian over the railing. When he faced the captain once more, he showed the first sign of anger.

‘Did you not understand the orders I gave you, Captain? As consul, I am the Senate in transit. The orders I give take precedence over any others you may have received. Acknowledge now, or I will have you relieved.’

The captain struggled to reply. It was an impossible position. He was being asked to choose between two commanders and the conflict slowly brought a flush to his cheeks.

‘Acknowledge!’ Julius roared, standing closer.

The captain blinked in desperation. ‘Yes, sir. The orders are acknowledged. You have authority. I will send the signals to the other galleys.’

He was sweating as Julius nodded at last and the crew ran to raise the flags that would bring the other captains in.

Julius felt Octavian staring at him and did not dare risk a smile.

‘Return to the docks and get the men ready to leave, General,’ he said. ‘We go on.’

Brutus stood on the stone dock, scratching a scab under his sling as he watched the galleys. His arm and ribs were healing at last, though he’d thought being carried in a jolting cart would drive him mad at first. It had been a clean break, but he had seen enough injuries to know it would take as long to build back the muscle as it did to heal the bones. He still wore the sword he had carried at Pharsalus, but he could draw it only with his left hand and felt as clumsy as a child. He hated to be weak. The soldiers of the Tenth and Fourth had grown bold with their sneers and insults, perhaps because he had too much pride to complain. They would not have dared when he was well. Though it burned him, Brutus could do nothing but wait, his fury well hidden.

With him stood Domitius, Octavian, Regulus and Ciro, their nervousness showing as they strained their eyes on the darkening sea. Octavian had returned with the news and they had all watched as the galley captains rowed across to meet Pompey’s enemy. No word had come since the last of them had climbed onto the deck and the tension mounted by the hour.

‘What if they’re holding him?’ Domitius said suddenly. ‘We’d never know.’

‘What can we do if they are?’ Octavian replied. ‘Take those fat merchant ships out to do battle? They’d sink us before we could get close and you know it.’ He spoke without his eyes ever leaving the sleek shapes of the galleys as they rocked in the swell outside the port. ‘He chose the risk.’

Ciro glanced at the setting sun, frowning to himself. ‘If he’s not back by dark, we could slip out. If we packed onto a single ship, we’d have enough to storm one of the galleys. Take one and you can take another.’

Brutus looked at him in surprise. The years had subtly altered the men he thought he knew. Ciro had become accustomed to command and his confidence had grown. Brutus replied without thinking.

‘If they hold him, they’ll expect us to try that. They’ll anchor as far out as they can get and spend the night in close formation. That’s if they don’t head straight for Asia Minor with Julius, to give him to Pompey.’

Octavian stiffened as he spoke. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he said flatly. ‘You hold no command. You are here only because my general did not see fit to execute you. You have nothing to say to us.’

Brutus glared back at him, but dropped his gaze under the combined stares of the men he had known. It did not matter, he told himself, though he was surprised how much they could still hurt him. He noted how they looked to Octavian in Julius’ absence. Perhaps it was something in the blood. He took a deep, angry breath and his right hand twitched in the sling before he gained control.

‘I don’t think …’ he began.

Octavian rounded on him. ‘If it were my choice, I would nail you to a cross on these docks. Do you think the men would object?’

Brutus did not have to consider it. He knew the answer very well indeed.

‘No, they’d love a chance at me. But you won’t let them, will you, boy? You’ll follow his orders even if it means everything you value is destroyed.’

‘You can still try to justify what you did?’ Octavian demanded. ‘There aren’t words enough. I don’t understand why he brought you here, but I will tell you this. If Julius expects you back as one of us, I won’t do it. The first time you ever try to give me an order, I’ll cut your throat.’

Brutus narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. ‘You’re brave now, boy, but bones heal. When they do …’

‘I’ll do it now!’ Octavian said, raging.

He surged at Brutus, and Regulus and Ciro grabbed hold of his arm as it came up with a blade. Brutus staggered back out of range.

‘I wonder how you would explain killing me to Julius,’ he said. His eyes were full of malice as the younger man struggled to reach him. ‘He can be cruel as well, Octavian. Perhaps that’s why he let me live.’

Octavian subsided as Ciro prised the knife from his hand.

‘You think you’ll heal, Brutus?’ he said. ‘What if I had the men take you somewhere quiet and smash your arm properly? They could shatter your hand so badly you’d never use a sword again.’

Octavian smiled as he saw a trace of fear in Brutus’ eyes.

‘That would hurt you, wouldn’t it? You’d never ride a horse, or write your name, even. That would break the arrogance out of you at last.’

‘Ah, you’re a noble man, Octavian,’ Brutus said. ‘I wish I had your principles.’

Octavian went on, his hatred barely in check. ‘One more word out of you and I’ll do it. No one will stop me, not to save you. They know you deserve it. Go on, General. One more word.’

Brutus stared at him for a long time, then shook his head in disgust before turning and walking away from the group. Octavian nodded sharply, shaking with reaction. He hardly felt Domitius’ grip on his shoulder, steadying him.

‘You shouldn’t let it show,’ Domitius said softly, looking after the broken man he had once revered.

Octavian snorted. ‘I can’t help it. After all he’s done, he stands with us as if he has a right. I don’t know what Julius was thinking, bringing him here.’

‘Neither do I,’ Domitius replied. ‘It’s between them, though.’

Regulus hissed in a breath, making them all turn back to the sea. As the sun sank in the west, the galleys were moving, their great oars sweeping them in towards the dock.

Octavian looked at the others. ‘Until we know he is safe, I want the men in formation to repel an attack. Get spears ready. Domitius, have the extraordinarii stand back as foot reserves. They’re no good to us here.’

Caesar’s generals moved away quickly to give the orders, not thinking to question his right to command them. Octavian was left alone to watch the galleys sweep in.

The little port could not take all six of the ships that clustered around the bay. Two of them came in together and Octavian watched as one bank of oars withdrew, leaving the other to scull the final gap to the dock. In the gloom, he could hardly make out the details of the great corvus bridges that were sent crashing down. Crewmen carrying ropes thumped across them and then Octavian saw Julius on the wooden slope. He sagged in relief.

Julius raised an arm in formal greeting. ‘Are the men ready to board, General?’ he called.

‘They are, sir,’ Octavian replied, smiling. Julius could still astonish him, he realised with amusement.

‘Then get them on. There is no time to waste. The galleys carried his horses only two days ago – we have almost closed the gap.’ He paused, feeling again the thrill of the hunt. ‘Tell them there are good stocks of food on board and they’ll move a little faster.’

Octavian saluted and walked over to the men he commanded. Julius would have noted the formations and ready spears, though he could hardly mention it with the galley crews in earshot. Octavian could not help but grin as he relayed the order to the centurions of the Fourth legion. Though there would be harder days of marching ahead, he felt a growing confidence. Pompey would not escape them.

The slow dawn brought the coast of Asia Minor into view, with sharp, grey-green mountains plunging into the sea. Geese called overhead, and pelicans floated high above the galleys, watching for silver shoals beneath the surface. The first touches of spring were in the air and the morning seemed full of promise.

It was a new land for all of them, further east from Rome than Britain lay to the west. Asia Minor supplied the cedar that built galleys for Rome. Its figs, apricots and nuts would pack the holds of merchant ships heading for home markets. It was a golden land, an ancient one, and somewhere in the north were the ruins of Troy. Julius remembered how he had bothered his tutors to be told the stories of that place. Alexander had been there and offered sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Julius ached to stand where the Greek king had stood.

He shivered in the spray from the bows as the oar slaves propelled them towards a tiny port.

‘When I return to Rome after all this,’ he said to Domitius, ‘I will have seen the ends of Roman land, both east and west. It makes me proud to be so far from home and still hear the speech of my city. To find our soldiers here; our laws and ships. Is it not wonderful?’

Domitius smiled at Julius’ enthusiasm, feeling it himself. Though the pursuit across Greece had been hard, a different mood was stealing through the legions. Perhaps it was the aftermath of Pharsalus, as they realised they had come to the end of their years of battle. The sight of Julius commanding the enemy galleys had made it a reality. They were no longer at war. Their task was merely to stamp out the last embers of Pompey’s rule. Those who had been with Julius from Spain and Gaul felt it most strongly of all. They clustered at the rails of the six galleys, laughing and talking with unaccustomed lightness.

Domitius glanced up to where Adàn had climbed the mast. Even so far above their heads, the Spaniard’s voice could be heard as he sang some ballad from his youth.

The quaestor of the tiny coastal port spoke excellent Latin, though he had grown up in sight of the local barracks. He was a short, dark man who bowed as Julius entered the dock buildings and did not rise until permission came.

‘Consul,’ he said. ‘You are welcome here.’

‘How long since Pompey’s riders left this place?’ Julius asked impatiently.

The little man did not hesitate and Julius realised Pompey had left no orders to stop the pursuit. He had not expected them to cross against his galleys. It gave Julius hope that Pompey might have slowed his pace.

‘The Dictator left last night, Consul. Is your business urgent? I can have messengers sent south if you wish.’

Julius blinked in surprise. ‘No. I am hunting the man. I do not want him warned.’

The quaestor looked confused. In two days, he had seen more foreign soldiers than at any other point in his life. It would be a story for his children that he had spoken with not one but two of the masters of Rome.

‘Then I wish you luck in the hunt, Consul,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

They sighted Pompey’s riders after four days of hard marching. They had made good time heading south and when at last the scouts rode in with the news, Julius’ men let out a great cheer. It had been a long chase, but when the horns sounded and they formed ranks for an attack, they were ready to crush the enemy for the last time.

Pompey’s men heard the horns and Julius could only imagine the fear and consternation in their ranks. These were the same extraordinarii who had run at Pharsalus. To find themselves hunted in another country would be a terrible blow. They had been beaten once and Julius did not doubt his men could do it again. It gave him pleasure to outnumber Pompey’s small force, as he had been at Pharsalus. Let them know what it felt like to face so many warriors bent on their destruction.

In the distance, Julius saw the ranks of Roman horsemen wheel, turning to face the threat. It was a hopeless gesture, but he admired their courage. Perhaps they wished to wipe the slate clean for the rout they had suffered before. He saw them kick their mounts into a steady trot back towards the Tenth and he showed his teeth in anticipation, looking for Pompey’s red cloak amongst them.

Along the ranks of the Tenth and Fourth, the legionaries readied spears. As the thunder of hooves came to them, they lifted their heads, swept up in savagery that was a little like joy.

‘Go, sir, please! Let us hold them here,’ the decurion, Casitas, shouted to Pompey.

The Dictator sat as if stunned. He had not spoken since the first appalling moment when Roman war horns had sounded behind. It was not a sound he had ever expected to hear again.

As he watched the legions from Pharsalus, Pompey mopped at a dark stain on his lips and considered riding with the last of his armies. It would be a grand gesture perhaps. The poets of Rome would write it into their ballads when they spoke of his life.

His vision blurred as his pain writhed inside him. He wore armour no longer, having none that could contain the swelling. It grew daily, pressing up into his lungs until it was hard to breathe. There were times when he would have given anything just to slip into the peaceful dark. He dreamed of an end to the agony and as he patted his horse’s neck he yearned to kick his mount into a last gallop.

‘Sir! You can get clear. The coast is only a few miles further south,’ Casitas bellowed, trying to break through the stupor that held his commanding general.

Pompey blinked slowly, then Caesar’s legions seemed to sharpen in his vision and his wits returned. He looked across at the decurion. The man was desperate for Pompey to ride and his eyes pleaded.

‘Do what you can,’ Pompey said at last and somehow, over the noise of the horses, Casitas heard and nodded in relief. He called quick orders to those around him.

‘Fall out, Quintus! Take Lucius and go with the consul. We will hold them as long as we can.’

The named riders pulled out of the formation to Pompey’s side. Pompey looked around him at the men who had come so far from home. The vagueness that had smothered his mind as the sickness worsened seemed to have lifted for a few precious moments.

‘I have been well served by you all,’ he called to them.

He turned his back and as he rode away he heard the order given to begin the advance that would end in a desperate blow against Caesar’s soldiers.

The sea was not too far away and there would be ships there to take him clear of Roman lands at last. He would lose himself where Rome had no authority and Julius could search for years without finding him.

Pompey patted the leather bag that was strapped to his saddle, taking comfort from the gold within. He would not be poor when he reached the ports of Egypt. They had healers there who would take away the pain at last.

The Tenth and Fourth launched their spears less than thirty feet from the charging line. The heavy shafts destroyed the first horses and hampered those behind as they found the way blocked. The veteran legions moved quickly forward, darting in to gut the milling horses and pull men down from saddles. They had fought cavalry in Gaul and had no fear of the stamping, rearing beasts.

Pompey’s riders did not give their lives easily and Julius was staggered at their recklessness. Even when it was hopeless, they fought on with grim despair. He could hardly believe they were the same soldiers he had seen fleeing the plain of Pharsalus.

The field was filled with guttural shouts and the hacking sound of metal cutting flesh. Julius’ own riders had moved to flank the single charge and began to batter them on all sides. They trampled purple flowers under the feet of their mounts, spattering the ground with strips of blood until they were numb with killing.

When Pompey’s men were reduced to less than a thousand, Julius signalled the cornicens to sound the disengage. His legions stepped back from piles of broken flesh, and in the lull he offered an end to it.

‘What does it profit you to fight to the last?’ he shouted to them.

One man in the armour of a decurion rode up and saluted, his face grim.

‘It is not such a great thing, to die here,’ Casitas said. ‘Our honour is restored.’

‘I grant you all honour, Decurion. Accept my pardon and tell your men to stand down.’

Casitas smiled and shook his head. ‘It is not yours to offer,’ he said, turning his horse away.

Julius gave him time to reach his companions before he sent the legions in once more. It took a long time to kill them all. When there were no more than a few weary men standing on the red field, he tried for peace a final time and was refused. The last man alive had lost his horse and still raised his sword as he was smashed from his feet.

The legionaries did not cheer the victory. They stood, bloody and panting, like dogs in the sun. The silence stretched across the field and there were many in the ranks who whispered prayers for the men they had faced.

Julius shook his head in awe at what he had witnessed. He barely noticed as the search began for the body of Pompey. When it was not found, Julius looked south, his face thoughtful.

‘He did not deserve such loyalty,’ he said. ‘Find me a clear spot to make a camp and rest. We will move on tomorrow when we have honoured our Roman dead. Make no distinction between them. They were men of the same city.’

In three merchant ships, only the two thousand survivors of Julius’ beloved Tenth made the final crossing to Alexandria. His extraordinarii had been left behind with the Fourth to wait for transport. He did not know if he could find Pompey there. The land had never been conquered by Rome and all he knew of the customs were memories taught to him as a child. It was Alexander’s city, named for him. Though Egypt was another world to Julius, Alexandria was the resting place of the Greek king he had idolised all his life.

The mark he had left on the world had endured for centuries and even the Egyptian kings were descended from one of Alexander’s generals, Ptolemy. If Pompey had not fled across the sea to escape him, Julius knew he might well have travelled there just to see the glories he had heard described as a boy. He remembered standing once at a broken statue of the Greek king and wondering if his own life could be used so well. Now he would step onto the soil of Egypt as ruler of the greatest empire in the world. He need not bow his head to any man, or any man’s memory.

The thought brought a wave of homesickness as he realised spring would have come in the forum in Rome. The orators would be addressing the crowds, teaching points of philosophy and law for small coins. Julius had spent only a few months in his birthplace in almost twenty years and grown old in her service. He had left his youth on foreign lands and lost more than Rome had ever given him.

What had he gained in comparison to the lives of men he called friends? It was strange to think that he had spent the years so freely. He had earned the right to be first in his city, but he could take no joy in it. Perhaps the path had changed him, but he had expected more.

The main entrance to the port of Alexandria was through a deep-water passage between enclosing arms of rock that made the experienced men frown. The gap through which they sailed was narrow enough to be easily blocked and Julius could not escape the feeling that the harbour was a natural trap.

As the ships glided under sail towards the docks, the heat seemed to increase and Julius wiped sweat from his brow. The soldiers on deck gestured in amazement at a vast square column of white marble built at the edge of the port. It stood higher than any building in Rome and Julius was touched by nostalgia for the days when he had nothing more to fear than a whipping from his tutors. The Pharos lighthouse had seemed impossibly distant then. He had never expected to pass so close and he craned his neck with the others, lost in wonder. Somewhere in the city lay the greatest library in the world, containing all the works of philosophy and mathematics that had ever been written. It was somehow obscene to bring his killers into such a place of wealth and learning, but soon his vengeance would be over and he would be free to see the lands of gold.

The water was busy with hundreds of other craft carrying the trade of nations. Julius’ merchant captains had to work to avoid collision as they approached the spit of land reaching out into the perfect anchorage that had once attracted Alexander.

Julius turned his gaze at last to the city, frowning as distant figures resolved into armed warriors, waiting on the docks. He saw bows and spears held upright. The front ranks carried oval shields, though they wore no armour and only a breechcloth and sandals, leaving their chests bare. It was clear enough that they were not Roman. They could not have been.

At their head stood a tall man in bulky robes that glittered in the sun. The man’s gaze could be felt even at a distance and Julius swallowed dryly. Were they there to welcome him or prevent a landing? Julius felt the first prickle of alarm as he saw that the closest soldiers carried drawn swords of bronze, gleaming like gold.

‘Let me go first, sir,’ Octavian murmured at his shoulder. The legionaries of the Tenth had fallen silent as they caught sight of the army on the docks and they were listening.

‘No,’ Julius replied without turning round. He would not show fear in the face of these strange people. The consul of Rome walked where he chose.

The corvus bridge was lowered with ropes and Julius walked over it. He heard the clatter of iron studs as his men followed and he sensed Octavian close at his side. With deliberate dignity, Julius strode to the man who waited for him.

‘My name is Porphiris, courtier to King Ptolemy, thirteenth of that name,’ the man began, his voice oddly sibilant. ‘He who is King of lower and upper Egypt, who displays the regalia and propitiates the gods. He who is beloved …’

‘I am looking for a man of Rome,’ Julius interrupted, pitching his voice to carry. He ignored the shock and anger in Porphiris’ eyes. ‘I know he came here and I want him brought to me.’

Porphiris bowed his head, concealing his dislike. ‘We have received word from the merchants of your search, Consul. Know that Egypt is a friend of Rome. My king was distressed to think of your armies clashing in our fragile cities and prepared a gift to you.’

Julius narrowed his eyes as the ranks of armed men parted and a muscular slave walked forward with a measured tread. He carried a clay vessel in his outstretched arms. Julius saw figures of great beauty worked into the surface.

As it was placed at his feet, the slave stood back and knelt on the docks. Julius met the gaze of the king’s representative and did not move. His question had not been answered and he felt his temper fray. He did not know what they expected of him.

‘Where is Pompey?’ he demanded. ‘I …’

‘Please. Open the jar,’ the man replied.

With an impatient jerk, Julius removed the lid. He cried out in horror then and the lid slipped from his fingers to shatter on the stones.

Pompey’s sightless eyes looked up from under fragrant oil. Julius could see the gleam of his Senate ring resting against his pale cheek. He reached slowly down and broke the surface, touching the cold flesh as he drew out the gold band.

He had met Pompey first in the old senate house, when Julius had been little more than a boy. He recalled the sense of awe he had felt in the presence of legends like Marius, Cicero, Sulla and a young general named Gnaeus Pompey. It had been Pompey who cleared the Mare Internum of pirates in forty days. It had been he who broke the rebellion under Spartacus. For all he had become an enemy, Julius had bound his family and his fate with Pompey in a triumvirate to rule.

There were too many names on the scrolls of the dead, too many who had fallen. Pompey had been a proud man. He deserved better than to be murdered by the hands of strangers, far from home.

In front of them all, Julius wept.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

As the chamber doors swung silently open, Julius caught his breath at what he saw within. He had expected his audience to take the form of a private meeting, but the vast hall was filled with hundreds of royal subjects, leaving only the central aisle free right up to the throne. They turned to see him and he was astonished at the range of colours that swirled and mingled. This was the court of the king, painted and bejewelled in opulence.

Lamps on heavy chains swung in unseen currents above his head as he crossed the threshold, trying not to show his awe. It was not an easy task. Everywhere he looked, there were black basalt statues of Egyptian gods looming over the courtiers. Among them, he recognised the figures of Greek deities and he could only shake his head in amazement when he saw the features of Alexander himself. The Greek legacy was everywhere, from the architecture to the customs of dress, subtly blended with the Egyptian until there was nowhere else like Alexandria.

The scent of pungent incense was strong enough to make Julius feel drowsy and he had to concentrate to keep his wits about him. He wore his best armour and cloak, but against the finery of the courtiers he felt shabby and unprepared. He raised his head in irritation as he felt the pressure of hundreds of eyes on him. He had seen the edges of the world. He would not be cowed by gold and granite.

The throne of kings lay at the far end of the hall and Julius strode towards its occupant. His footsteps clicked loudly and, like gaudy insects, the courtiers ceased all movement as he approached. Julius glanced to his side and saw that Porphiris was keeping pace without a sound. Julius had heard rumours of eunuchs serving the kingdoms of the east and wondered if Porphiris was one of that strange breed.

The long walk towards the throne seemed to take forever, and Julius found to his annoyance that it was raised on a stone dais so that he must look up as a petitioner to the king. He halted as two of Ptolemy’s personal guard stepped across his path, blocking it with ornate staffs of gold. Julius frowned, refusing to be impressed. He thought Ptolemy regarded him with interest, though it was hard to be certain. The king wore a gold headdress and mask that obscured all but his eyes. His robes too had threads of that metal woven into them, so that he gleamed. Even with slaves to fan him, Julius could only guess at the heat of wearing such a thing in the stifling chamber. Porphiris stepped forward.

‘I present Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Porphiris said, his voice echoing, ‘consul of Roman lands, of Italy, Greece, of Cyprus and Crete, Sardinia and Sicily, of Gaul, of Spain and of the African provinces.’

‘You are welcome here,’ Ptolemy replied and Julius hid his surprise at the soft, high-pitched tone. The voice of a young boy was hard to reconcile with the wealth and power he had seen, or with a queen renowned for her beauty and intelligence. Julius found himself hesitating. Fumes of myrrh hung in his throat, making him want to cough.

‘I am grateful for the quarters provided to me, great king,’ Julius said after a moment.

Another man stood to one side of the golden figure and leaned down to whisper into his ear before drawing himself up. Julius glanced at him, noting the vulpine features of a true Egyptian. His eyelids were stained with some dark sheen that gave him an eerie, almost feminine beauty. There was no Greek blood in this one, Julius thought.

‘I speak with Ptolemy’s voice,’ the man said, staring into Julius’ eyes. ‘We honour great Rome that has brought trade here for generations. We have watched her rise from simple herdsmen into the glorious strength she has today.’

Julius found himself growing irritated again. He did not know whether it would be a breach of manners to address the man directly, or whether he should reply to Ptolemy himself. The king’s eyes were bright with interest, but gave no clue.

‘If you would speak to me, tell me your name,’ Julius snapped at the courtier.

A ripple of shock went around the hall and Ptolemy leaned a little closer in his seat, his interest obvious. The Egyptian was unflustered.

‘My name is Panek, Consul. I speak with the voice of the king.’

‘Be silent then, Panek. I am not here to speak with you,’ Julius said. A babble of noise came from behind him and he heard Porphiris take a sharp breath. Julius ignored him, facing Ptolemy.

‘My people are indeed a young nation, as Alexander’s was when he came here,’ Julius began. To his astonishment, every single head in the chamber bowed briefly at the mention of the name.

Panek spoke again before Julius could continue, ‘We honour the god who began this great city. His mortal flesh lies here as mark of our love for him.’

Julius let the silence stretch as he glared at Panek. The man returned his gaze with placid blankness, as if he had no memory of Julius’ command. Julius shook his head to clear it of the fumes of incense. He could not seem to summon the words he had intended to say. Alexander a god?

‘A Roman consul came before me,’ he said. ‘By what right was his life taken?’

There was silence then and the gold figure of the king was as still as his statues. Panek’s gaze seemed to sharpen and Julius thought he had irritated him at last.

‘The petty troubles of Rome are not to be brought to Alexandria. This is the word of the king,’ Panek said, his voice booming around the hall. ‘Your armies and your wars have no place here. You have the head of your enemy as Ptolemy’s gift.’

Julius stared hard at Ptolemy and saw the king blink. Was he nervous? It was difficult to judge behind the heavy gold. After a moment, Julius let his anger show. ‘You dare to call the head of a consul of Rome a gift, Panek? Will you answer me, Majesty, or let this painted thing speak for you?’

The king shifted uncomfortably and Julius saw Panek’s hand drop to Ptolemy’s shoulder, as if in warning. Now all trace of calm had vanished from the oiled face. Panek spoke as if the words burned his mouth.

‘The hospitality you have been offered extends for only seven days, Consul. After that, you will board your ships and leave Alexandria.’

Julius ignored Panek, his eyes firmly on the gold mask. Ptolemy did not move again and after a time Julius looked away in fury. He could feel the anger of the guards around him and cared nothing for it.

‘Then we have nothing more to say. Your Majesty, it has been an honour.’

Julius turned away abruptly, surprising Porphiris so that he had to hurry to catch him before the far doors.

As they closed behind him, Porphiris deliberately blocked his path. ‘Consul, you have a talent for making enemies,’ he said.

Julius did not speak and after a moment Porphiris sagged under his stare.

‘If the king considers you have insulted him, your men will not be allowed to live,’ Porphiris said. ‘The people will tear you apart.’

Julius looked into the man’s dark eyes. ‘Are you a eunuch, Porphiris? I have been wondering.’

Porphiris moved his hands in agitation. ‘What? Did you not hear what I said to you?’

‘I heard you, as I have heard the threats of a dozen kings in my life. What is one more, to me?’

Porphiris gaped in amazement. ‘King Ptolemy is a god, Consul. If he speaks your death, there is nothing in the world that will save you.’

Julius seemed to consider this. ‘I will think on it. Now take me back to my men in that fine palace your god provided. The incense is too strong for me in there.’

Porphiris bowed over his confusion.

‘Yes, Consul,’ he said, leading the way down.

As night came, Julius paced up and down the marble floor of his quarters, brooding. The palace he had been given was larger and more spacious than any building he had ever owned in Rome and the room where he had eaten was but one of many dozens available. Porphiris had provided slaves for his comfort, but Julius had dismissed them on his return from the king’s court. He preferred the company of his own Tenth to spies and potential assassins.

He paused at an open window, looking out at the port of Alexandria and letting the breeze cool his indignation. As well as the eternal flame on Pharos, he could see thousands of lights in homes, shops and warehouses. The docks were busy with ships and cargo and darkness had changed nothing. In another mood, he might have enjoyed the scene, but he tightened his grip on the stone sill, oblivious to its craftsmanship. He had been awed at first at the level of ornamentation in the city. His quarters were no exception and the walls around him were lined with some blue ceramic, overlaid in gold leaf. It had palled after only a short time. Perhaps because he had been so long in the field, or because his roots lay in a simpler Rome, but Julius no longer walked as if his steps could break the delicate statuary on every side. He didn’t care if they fell into dust at his tread.

‘I was all but dismissed, Octavian!’ he said, clenching his hands behind his back. ‘You cannot imagine the arrogance of those courtiers in their paints and oils. A flock of pretty birds without enough wits to fill a good Roman head between them.’

‘What did their king say about Pompey?’ Octavian asked.

He had taken a seat on a cushioned bench carved from what looked to be a single piece of black granite. He too had experienced the Egyptian welcome, with half-naked guards preventing his men from exploring the city. Domitius had managed to evade them for an hour, then been brought back like an errant child, with the guards shaking their heads in disapproval.

‘The king might as well have been a mute, for all I had from him,’ Julius said. ‘From the few words I heard, I’d say he was only a boy. I never even saw his famous queen. More insults! His courtiers are the real power in this city and they have dismissed us like unwelcome tradesmen. It is insufferable! To think that this is Alexander’s city and I have a chance to see it. I could have spent days in the great library alone and perhaps gone further inland to see the Nile. Rome would have waited a little longer for me to return.’

‘You have what you came for, Julius. Pompey’s head and ring …’

‘Yes! I have that grisly remnant of a great man. His life was not theirs to take, Octavian. By the gods, it makes me furious to think of those golden-skinned eunuchs killing him.’

He thought of his promise to his daughter, that he would refrain from taking Pompey’s life. How would she react when she heard the news? Pompey had not died at his hand, but perhaps the manner of his passing was worse, so far from his home and people. He clenched his jaw in anger.

‘They made it sound as if we would have sacked the city in our search for him, Octavian. As if we were barbarians to be placated and sent on our way with a few beads and pots! He was my enemy, but he deserved better than to be killed at the hands of those men. A consul of Rome, no less. Shall I let it pass without revenge?’

‘I think you must,’ Octavian said, frowning to himself.

He knew Julius was capable of declaring war on the city over Pompey’s death. Though the courtiers and king could not know it, almost four thousand men and horses could arrive at the port at any time. If Julius sent word back to Greece, he could order a dozen legions to march. One spark and Octavian knew he would not see Rome again for years.

‘They believed they were doing your will when they gave you Pompey’s head,’ Octavian said. ‘By their standards, they have treated us with courtesy. Is it an insult to be given a palace?’

He decided not to mention the humiliations the Tenth had endured from the palace guards. Julius was more protective of his beloved legion than his own life. If he heard they had been ill-treated, he would be blowing the war-horns before the sun rose.

Julius had paused to listen and in the silence Octavian could hear the tap-tap of his fingers behind his back.

‘Seven days, though!’ Julius snapped. ‘Shall I turn tail and meekly follow the orders of the gold-faced boy? That’s if they were his orders at all and not just the whim of one of his controlling clique. Alexander would be appalled if he could see this city treat me in such a fashion. Did I say they revere him as a god?’

‘You mentioned it,’ Octavian replied, though Julius did not seem to hear him. He stared in wonder as he considered the idea.

‘His statue adorns the temples of their gods here, with incense and offerings. It is astonishing. Porphiris said that Ptolemy himself is divine. These are a strange people, Octavian. And why would you cut the testicles from a man? Does it make him stronger, or better able to concentrate? What benefit is there in such a practice? There were some with the king who could have been men or women, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps they had been gelded. I have seen some strange things over the years – do you remember the skulls of the Suebi? Incredible.’

Octavian watched Julius closely, suspecting that the tirade was finally coming to an end. He had not dared leave Julius alone in the grip of such a temper, but he could not help yawning as the night slipped by. Surely dawn could not be far off.

Domitius entered through tall bronze doors. Octavian rose as soon as he saw his friend’s expression.

‘Julius,’ Domitius said, ‘you should see this.’

‘What is it?’ Julius replied.

‘I’m not sure if I know,’ Domitius said with a grin. ‘There’s a man the size of Ciro at the gate. He’s carrying a carpet.’

Julius looked blankly at him. ‘Is he selling it?’

‘No, sir, he says it’s a gift from the queen of Egypt.’

Julius exchanged a glance with Octavian.

‘Perhaps they want to make amends,’ Octavian said, shrugging.

‘Send him up,’ Julius said.

Domitius vanished, returning with a man who loomed over the three Romans. Julius and Octavian heard his heavy step before he came through the doors and they saw Domitius had not exaggerated. The man was tall and bearded, with powerful arms wrapped around a tube of gold cloth.

‘Greetings and honour to you, Consul,’ the man said in flawless Latin. ‘I bear the gift of Cleopatra, daughter of Isis, queen of Egypt, honoured wife to Ptolemy.’

As he spoke, the man lowered his burden to the floor with immense care. Something moved within it and Octavian whipped his sword from its sheath.

The stranger spun at the sound, his palms held up. ‘Please, there is no danger to you,’ he said.

Octavian stepped forward with his blade and the man knelt quickly, unrolling the carpet with a jerk.

A young woman tumbled out, landing catlike on her hands and knees. Julius’ jaw dropped as she came to rest. A scanty patch of yellow silk covered her breasts and another wound around her waist, revealing long legs down to bare feet. Her skin was dark gold and her hair wild from her time in the carpet. Tendrils of it fell forward to cover a face flushed with heat and embarrassment. It may have been Julius’ imagination, but he thought he could hear her swearing softly under her breath.

As the Romans watched in astonishment, she put her lower lip half over the other and blew a tendril of hair out of her vision. Her gaze fixed on Julius as she arranged herself in a more dignified position and rose slowly.

‘I am Cleopatra,’ she said. ‘I would speak with you alone, Caesar.’

Julius was entranced. She had the body of a dancer with heavy-lidded eyes and a full mouth that suggested a rare sensuality. Gold earrings gleamed and a red garnet like a drop of blood hung around her throat. She was as beautiful as he had heard.

‘Leave us,’ Julius said, without looking at the others.

Octavian hesitated for a moment until Julius met his eyes, then he left with Domitius and the bearded servant.

Julius crossed to a table and filled a silver cup with red wine, using the action to give him time to think. She came with him and accepted the cup in both hands.

‘Why did you have yourself delivered in such a fashion?’ Julius asked.

She drank deeply before replying and he wondered what it had been like to be trapped in the stifling cloth of the carpet for so long.

‘If I had come openly, the courtiers would have imprisoned me. I am not welcome in Alexandria, not any more.’

Her eyes never left his as she spoke and Julius found her directness uncomfortable. He gestured to a bench and she followed him to it, drawing her legs up slowly under her.

‘How can the queen be unwelcome?’ Julius asked.

‘Because I am at war, Caesar. My loyal warriors are at the borders of Syria, unable to enter Egypt. My life would have been worth nothing if I had come by day.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Julius said.

She leaned closer to him and he could smell a rich perfume coming from her bare skin like smoke. He found himself becoming aroused by the near-naked girl and struggled not to show it.

‘My brother Ptolemy is thirteen years old,’ she said. ‘Under Panek he has no say in the rule of my lands.’

‘Your brother?’ Julius said.

She nodded. ‘My brother and my husband, in one.’ She saw his expression and laughed, a low chuckle that he enjoyed.

‘It is a formal thing, Roman, to keep the bloodline pure. We were king and queen together, as my father married his own sister. When Ptolemy was of an age, I would have borne his children to rule after us.’

Julius felt lost amidst these revelations. He struggled to find something to break the silence that had sprung up between them.

‘You speak my language beautifully,’ he ventured.

She laughed again, delighting him. ‘My father taught it, though I am the first of his line to speak Egyptian. Would you prefer to converse in Greek? It was the language of my childhood.’

‘It makes me glad to hear you say it,’ he said earnestly. ‘I have admired Alexander all my life. To be here with the descendant of his general is intoxicating.’

‘Egypt claims me now, Caesar; runs like fire in me,’ she said.

Her skin was smooth copper-gold, oiled every day of her life. He knew she would be extraordinary to touch.

‘But you cannot take your throne, for fear,’ he said softly.

Cleopatra snorted. ‘Not of my people. They are loyal to the goddess in me.’

Julius frowned at the statement from such a youthful girl. ‘I do not believe such things.’

She looked at him with interest and he felt his pulses throb. ‘The flesh you see is nothing, Caesar. My Ka is divine within me, held until my death. You could not see it.’

‘Your Ka?’

‘My … spirit. My soul. Like a flame in a shuttered lamp, if you wish.’

Julius shook his head. Her perfume seemed to fill every breath he took, so close was he sitting to her. He had not seen her move, but the distance between them seemed to have shrunk and the room felt hot.

‘You have not said why you came to me,’ he said.

‘Is it not obvious? I have heard of you, Caesar. I have prayed to Isis to be delivered from my exile and you were sent to me. You have an army to tip the balance in the very heart of Alexandria.’ Her eyes pleaded.

‘What of your own soldiers?’ he asked.

‘They are too few and spies crawl like flies around their camp. I risked death to reach you, Caesar, and I am only one.’ She reached out to him and touched his face with a cool hand. ‘I need a man of honour, Caesar. I need him desperately. You may claim not to believe, but the gods led you here for this.’

Julius shook his head. ‘I followed Gnaeus Pompey, murdered on your own docks.’

She did not look away. ‘And what made him come to Alexander’s city? There are many ports. If you cannot believe, then give me my revenge as you take yours! The order for Pompey’s death bore the name of my family, in dishonour. Panek uses the royal seal as if it were his own. Will you help me, Roman?’

Julius rose clumsily from the couch, overwhelmed by her. The idea of bringing the arrogant courtiers to their knees appealed to him. He thought of the extraordinarii and soldiers coming over from Asia Minor and wondered if they would arrive before his seven days were up.

‘How many men do they have?’ he said.

She smiled, unfolding her legs until her toes touched the bare marble floor.

Domitius and Octavian watched as Julius paced with new energy. He had not slept or taken time to shave, though the sun had risen over the city and the noise of trade and life came in through the high windows.

‘This is not our struggle, Julius,’ Octavian said, worried and upset. He could see the prospect of returning to Rome dwindling before him and had conceived an instant dislike for the woman who had brought the change.

‘It is, if I make it so,’ Julius replied. ‘My word alone is reason enough.’ He paused, wanting the younger man to understand. ‘If we intervene here, then perhaps one day this city will be part of our empire – and all of Egypt beyond it. Imagine that! Cities older than Greece and a pathway to the east.’ His eyes were shining with the vision and Octavian knew there would be no turning him home.

‘I assume her beauty has not affected your judgement,’ Octavian said.

Julius set his jaw in anger, then shrugged. ‘I am not immune, but this is a chance to set the precedent of Roman interest. I could not have asked for a better chance than to cut the knots of their tangled politics. If the gods are on our side, they are Roman gods! It cries out to me, Octavian.’

‘And Rome cries out for your return!’ Octavian snapped, surprising them both. ‘You have won all your battles. It is time to return to the rewards, surely? The men are expecting your word on it.’

Julius rubbed his chin with his hand, looking suddenly weary.

‘If I go back, I may never leave Rome again. I’ve grown too old to be planning new campaigns. But not old enough to fear one more for the right cause. How can I claim to bring the light of our civilisation and then turn away from this? If we only look inward to our own affairs, the influence we have gained will be wasted.’ He paused in front of Octavian, gripping him by the shoulder. ‘I intend to use the influence those years of battle have won for me. I would have you join me willingly, but if you cannot, you may return.’

‘Without you?’ Octavian said, knowing the answer. Julius nodded and Octavian sighed. ‘My place is at your right hand. If you say we must go on, I will be there, as I always have been.’

‘You are a good man, Octavian. If there are no sons to follow me, I would be proud to see you in my place.’ He chuckled. ‘Where else would you find an education like this one! I can teach you more politics here than you would find in a decade of Senate meetings. Think of the future, Octavian. Think of what you will accomplish when I am gone. This is Alexander’s city and it could be a prize for Rome. Who better than we to take his mantle?’

Octavian nodded slowly, and Julius clapped him on the arm.

‘How many are we facing, exactly?’ Domitius said, interrupting. Both men seemed to break free of some private communication.

‘Too many for the Tenth alone,’ Julius said. ‘We must wait for the Fourth to arrive. Even then, we might need Cleopatra’s army before we are done. Though they are so ringed about with informers that the courtiers will know if they begin to move. We need to wrench an advantage from the first moment, while they still think we are going to leave in peace. We have surprise. With the Fourth here in strength, we’ll strike where they don’t expect it.’

He grinned and Octavian responded, feeling the excitement despite his misgivings.

‘What do you have in mind?’ Octavian asked.

‘It is like a game of latrunculi,’ Julius said. ‘We must capture the king.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In gloom, the legions waited, crammed into every corner of the Roman quarters. Julius himself had gone down to the docks to greet the soldiers of the Fourth as they sailed in. They had come expecting to pursue Pompey across a new continent, but instead found themselves part of a plot to kidnap a boy king. It may have been the return of warm nights, or simply the fact that Pompey was dead and they were free at last, but a rare mood of juvenile excitement had stolen amongst them. They nudged each other and smiled in the darkness. Caesar had triumphed over his enemies, and they had been there to see it happen.

Julius waited by the heavy doors, peering out at the moon. He heard a snort from a Roman mount and glanced at the source, watching shadows move. The horses had been well fed on grain, better than they had seen in weeks. The palace too was filled with stores, the first choice of cargoes from Cyprus, Greece, even Sicily. Roman gold had weight on the docks of Alexandria.

Despite the tension, Julius could not hide the fact that he was enjoying himself. Ciro, Brutus and Regulus had come across to Egypt. He had his generals around him once more and he felt gloriously alive.

At Julius’ side, Brutus could not share the lightness of the others. His broken arm had healed in the weeks of pursuit, but the muscles were still too weak to risk on such a venture. He yearned to go with them, for things to be as they had once been. There were times when he could forget everything that had happened and imagine they were back in Gaul or Spain, with trust and friendship binding them together. He could not miss the glances of dislike from the men to remind him of his new status. They did not allow him the luxury of any doubt on the subject. He sensed Octavian was watching him and stared at nothing until the feeling faded. It would change when his strength returned. He would make it change. Until then, he accepted that he would stay and barricade the palace ready for their return.

Facing the night, Julius did not see Cleopatra at first. She came silently into the packed entrance hall without announcement, weaving her way in and out of startled soldiers. Julius turned in time to see her smile as one of the men let out a low whistle and a ripple of laughter went through them. He was at a loss to say how she had done it, but she had found a new costume only slightly less revealing than the one she had worn on their first meeting. Her lithe movement was girlish, though her eyes were older. Her hair was held back by a bar of gold and her legs and bare stomach drew sidelong glances as she walked amongst them.

Julius found himself blushing as she approached him, knowing his soldiers were happily drawing their own conclusions for his sudden interest in Egypt. His generals had met her before, but they still stood rooted as she spun in place to face the men.

‘I have heard of Roman courage,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘And I have seen your honour in coming to my aid in this. You will learn the gratitude of a queen when I have my throne again.’

She bowed to the rough killers of Rome and in that moment they would have gone anywhere for her. They knew better than to cheer the beauty who came so humbly amongst them, but a low murmur of approval went through the palace, almost a growl.

‘It’s time,’ Julius said, looking strangely at the queen.

Her skin gleamed in the shadows and her eyes were bright with the moon as she turned to him. Before he could react, she took a step and kissed him lightly on the lips. He knew he was blushing again with embarrassment. She was less than half his age and he could practically feel the grins of the men as they exchanged glances.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon his dignity. ‘You have your orders, gentlemen. Remember that you must not engage the enemy unless you have to. We find the king and get straight back here before they can muster enough of a force to slow us. You’ll hear the retreat horn blown when Ptolemy is captured and when you do, get out as fast as you can. If you are separated, come here. Understood?’

A chorus of assenting murmurs answered him and he nodded, heaving open the door to the moonlit garden.

‘Then follow me, gentlemen,’ he said, responding at last to their bright eyes and smothered laughter with a grin. ‘Follow me.’

They drew their swords and rose to their feet, moving out into the darkness. It took a long time for the last of them to pass through from the furthest reaches of the palace. Only one cohort remained behind as Brutus closed the doors, plunging them all into a deeper dark. He turned to them and hesitated in the presence of the queen who stood like a scented statue, watching him.

‘Block the windows and entrances,’ he ordered, his voice sounding harsh after the echoing silence. ‘Use grain sacks and anything else you can lift – the heavier the better.’

The single cohort moved quickly into action, its six centurions snapping out orders until the last of them had work. The entrance hall emptied, leaving Brutus standing uncomfortably with the Egyptian queen.

Her voice came from the shadows. ‘The general in silver armour …’

His eyes adjusted to see the moon outline her bare shoulders in a faint glimmer. He shivered. ‘I am, mistress. Or should I call you goddess?’ He could feel her gaze like a weight.

‘August Majesty is one title, though I carry the goddess in me. Does the idea offend you, Roman?’

Brutus shrugged. ‘I have seen a lot of foreign lands. I’ve seen people who paint their skins blue. There isn’t much that can surprise me now.’

‘You must have been with Caesar for many years,’ she said.

He looked away, suddenly unnerved. Would Julius have spoken of him? ‘More than I care to tell you,’ he said.

‘How were you injured? In his service?’

He snorted to himself then, growing irritated with the stream of questions. ‘I was injured in battle, Majesty. I think you may have already heard the details.’

He raised his splinted arm, as if to have it inspected. In response, she came closer. She reached out and, despite himself, he shivered again at her cool touch. She wore a heavy ring of gold with a carved ruby. In the gloom it was as black as the night sky.

‘You are the one who betrayed him,’ she said in fascination. ‘Tell me, why did he let you live?’

He blinked at her bluntness. Here was a woman used to every question being answered, every whim met. She seemed unaware of the pain she was causing him. ‘He could not find a better general. I am a perfect scourge in the field, though not as you see me now.’

He spoke with sardonic amusement, but when she did not respond, he could not hold the expression. His features slowly drooped into blankness. ‘We were young together,’ he said. ‘I made a mistake and he forgave me.’ He was surprised at his own honesty. It was less painful to spin a tale.

‘I would have killed you,’ she muttered, biting her lower lip.

Brutus could only look at her, sensing she spoke the truth. He reminded himself that the queen had known absolute power from her youngest years. She was every bit as deadly as the black snakes of the Nile.

‘I could never forgive a betrayal, General. Your Caesar is either a great man or a fool. Which do you think it is?’

‘I think you and he have much in common. I do not answer to you, however, nor will I explain myself to you any longer.’

‘He has gone tonight to kidnap my husband, my brother and my king. He has seen only the edges of the army Egypt can field. Caesar may die in the striving, or my brother fall and be pierced with arrows. This is the great game, General. These are the stakes involved. Listen to the words when I say this to you. He let you live because he is blind to you. He does not know what goes on in your heart.’

She touched his neck with the palm of her hand, pressing. He thought she must bathe in lotus oil to have such an effect. He felt a tiny scratch, as if from a thorn. He might have jerked away, but his senses pressed in on him and he longed for a breath of cold air. He heard her speak through layers and layers of winding cloth, muffled.

‘I know you, General. I know every small sin, and every great one. I know your heart as Caesar never can. I know hatred. I know jealousy. I know you.’

Her hand dropped away and he staggered, still able to feel where her nails had pressed.

‘Be loyal now, General, or measure your life in beats. His fate is tied up in Egypt, in me. And my arm is long. I will not suffer another betrayal, nor even the shadow of one.’

He gaped at her intensity, stunned and bewildered. ‘Egyptian bitch, what have you done to me?’ he said, groggily.

‘I have saved your life, Roman,’ she said.

Her lips formed a smile then, but the eyes were cold and watchful. Without another word, she left him alone in the entrance hall, slumped against a pillar and shaking his head like a wounded animal.

The Canopic Way cut through the heart of Alexandria. The two legions with Julius jogged east along its length, their clattering sandals shattering the peace of the night. In the darkness, the main artery of the city was an eerie place. Temples to strange gods loomed over them and statues seemed ready to leap into life on every side. The flickering of night lamps cast shadows on the grim men who ran with drawn swords towards the palace quarter.

Julius kept pace with them, measuring his breaths as his legs and chest began to loosen. The feeling of excitement had not lessened. If anything, he had wound himself to an even tighter pitch of tension and he felt young as he counted the roads they passed. At the fifth, he gestured left and the snake of legionaries turned into the outskirts of the palace, following the same route he had taken with Porphiris three days before.

The royal palace was not a single building but a complex of many structures, set in sculpted gardens. The first gates were manned by nervous guards, long alerted by the crash of pounding feet. Soldiers of the Tenth stepped forward with heavy hammers and brought the barrier down in a few swift blows. The first blood of the evening was shed as the guards raised their weapons and were left to be trampled as the legions went on into the dark grounds.

The main building where Julius had met the boy king was lit at all points and gleamed in the night. Julius had no need to direct the men towards it. There were more guards there and they died bravely, but the Tenth had spread out into their fighting line and only an army could have held them.

Panic was spreading through the palace quarters and the resistance they met was sporadic and badly organised. Julius had the impression that a direct assault had never even been considered. The outer gates had been designed for artifice and beauty rather than solid defence and the defenders seemed to be in chaos, shouting and screaming at each other.

Armed soldiers began to spill from an unseen barracks, trying desperately to form before the Tenth reached them. They were slaughtered like cattle and lambs, their blood spilling down the steps to the main entrance. The doors of bronze that had been open for Julius’ first visit were now closed, and as he reached them he could hear bars thumping into place. He thanked his gods for Cleopatra’s knowledge and leapt over a stone wall at the side of the steps, calling for hammers as he ran to a lesser entrance.

The ringing blows sounded far in the dark. As if to answer them, an alarm bell began to ring somewhere near and Julius despatched a century to silence it.

The side door was solidly made and Julius was forced to control his impatience. He checked the edge of his sword, though he had yet to blood it. Then the tone of the impacts changed and the door fell. His Tenth roared into the breach and Julius heard screaming inside. He stayed close to the front, shouting orders and directing them as best he could. The palace looked very different from his previous visit by day, and it took a few moments to get his bearings.

‘Tenth with me!’ he shouted, racing through a hall.

He heard Octavian and Domitius panting at his back and allowed his pace to slow a little. It would do no good for him to run straight onto the swords of defenders around the king and the two generals were better able to clear the way.

Even as he had the thought, the black corridor seemed to fill with men and Julius saw Octavian and Domitius dart in with their swords swinging. The only light was from a lamp much further down and the combat was brief and terrifying, bodies struggling in shadows. The Roman armour held against the bronze blades of the palace guard and in only a few moments the first of the Tenth were stepping over the dead and rushing on.

‘Which way?’ Octavian said, spitting blood from a broken lip.

Julius wished for more light, but he could make out the white gleam of marble stairs he had ascended a lifetime before.

‘Up there!’ he said, pointing.

His breath was coming harshly and his sword had lost its shine with the stain of an unknown guard, but he ran with the others as they pounded up the steps. Cleopatra had told him where her brother slept and Julius took a turning away from the meeting hall into a corridor that was better lit than the rest of the labyrinth. Once more, he saw Octavian and Domitius take positions ahead and suddenly he was shouting for them to stop.

They had passed a door that seemed to be made of solid gold. Julius looked around for the men who carried hammers.

‘Here! He’s in here,’ Julius called. ‘Hammers to me!’ He threw his weight against the door, but felt no give in it.

‘If you’d stand back, sir,’ a burly soldier of the Tenth said at his shoulder.

Julius stepped clear as the man raised the iron head and began a pounding rhythm, quickly joined by two more. The corridor became the focus for the Roman force, with defensive stations taken up around it while the last obstacles were broken.

The gold was heavy but it dented under each blow and it was not long before one of the great oblong barriers sagged away on a broken hinge.

An arrow flew through the gap, ricocheting off the head of a hammer and slicing into a soldier’s cheek. With an oath, he yanked at it and three of the Tenth held him down while the arrow was snapped and the head removed with brutal efficiency. Shields were raised as the second door fell and two more of the whining shafts struck uselessly against them as the Tenth surged into the room.

The lamps were lit in the royal chambers and Julius was astonished to see two naked girls with bows inside. They cried out in terror as they tried to pull back one more shaft. Almost with contempt, the legionaries stepped forward and slapped the weapons out of their hands. The women struggled wildly as they were shoved away from the doorway they guarded.

The king’s bedroom was dark and Julius knew the first ones through would be silhouetted against the light. His soldiers hardly hesitated, trusting to speed to keep them safe. They leapt into the shadows, rolling and coming up ready to kill.

‘He’s here,’ one shouted back. ‘The king alone.’

As Julius crossed the outer chamber, he saw the wall was marked in lighter patches where the bows had been torn from their wires. Other weapons were held against the polished marble and Julius wondered if the boy Ptolemy collected them. The women were concubines rather than guards, Julius guessed, glancing at them. The king could clearly have his pick of the beauties of Alexandria.

Ptolemy’s bed was a huge construction that dominated the private rooms. The boy himself stood part dressed by its side and only the rumpled sheets showed where he had been sleeping. It was strange to see his face in the dim light after their first meeting and Julius was impressed at the courage of the slight figure standing with his bare chest heaving and a knife held too tightly in his fist.

‘Put that away,’ Julius said. ‘You will not be harmed.’

The boy recognised him then and took in a hiss of breath. The soldiers of the Tenth moved closer to the king and with a jerk he raised the blade to his own throat, glaring at Julius.

A legionary snapped out an arm and gripped the king’s wrist, making him cry out in pain and astonishment. The knife was thrown down with a clatter. Ptolemy began to shout for help and the man who held his wrist took careful aim and hit him on the point of his chin, heaving him onto his shoulder as the boy went limp.

‘Sound the signal horns. We have the king,’ Julius said, already turning away.

‘There’ll be more of them by now, waiting for us,’ Domitius said, gazing at the limp body of Ptolemy. The king’s head lolled as he was carried back down the corridor, his arms swinging.

The fighting began again with even greater ferocity as the legions tried to retrace their steps back to the gardens. The sight of the unconscious king stung the roaring Egyptians into greater efforts and three of the Fourth were wounded, slowing the retreat. Even so, the ceremonial guards were no match for the hardened soldiers of Rome and they fought their way through to the gardens, leaving a trail of dead behind.

The night met them with a cool breeze that dried their sweat as they ran. Julius heard more voices calling out words he did not know, and as they reached the broken gates to the streets a flight of spears came from somewhere near, one of them knocking down a panting optio. He was dragged to his feet by two of his men and he screamed as they hacked through the shaft, leaving only a blood-wet stump of wood sticking out of his back. They carried him onto the streets with the king.

The disturbance at the palace had roused the people of Alexandria and crowds were gathering. Julius urged his men to hurry. If they saw their king being carried like a sack of wheat, they could be shocked into an attack and Julius felt every moment pass, increasing his anxiety.

The legions pounded along the Canopic Way at their best speed, spittle turning to thick soup in their mouths as the breath burned out of them. In full armour, the mile of road seemed to stretch further than it had on the way in, but the crowds parted before them and they did not falter.

It seemed hours before Julius saw the gates of his quarters open and ran through them, gasping in relief. The palace began to fill with his men once again and this time there were no restrictions on their noise. They whooped and shouted at the victory, even as the wounded were passed overhead to where healers waited with sutures and clean cloths. Not a man had been killed, though the optio who had stopped a spear was not likely to walk again. Julius spent a moment with him before he was borne away, passing on a few words of comfort as best he could.

When the last of them were in, the doors were closed and barred. Every lamp Brutus could find had been lit and Julius could see the windows were blocked with heavy sacks and stones. The palace had become a fortress and he anticipated the dawn with enormous pleasure.

‘Let them wail and bluster now,’ he said to the men around him. ‘We have their king.’

They cheered and Julius sent an order to open the kitchens below to prepare a meal. His centurions set the first watches against a counterattack and he finally had a moment to himself.

‘Where is Cleopatra?’ he asked.

Brutus was close by, watching him. ‘She has taken rooms on the floor above,’ he replied, his expression strange. ‘She waits there for you.’

Julius smiled at him, still flushed with the victory. ‘I will tell you about it when I’ve seen her. Find a secure place for our new guest and set guards.’ He paused to take a deep breath, steadying himself. ‘It was easy, Brutus.’

‘They will strike back,’ Brutus said, wanting to puncture the pride he saw. ‘She said we have seen only the edges of their army.’

His head ached terribly as if he were recovering from drunkenness. He remembered the queen speaking to him, though the details were dim and wavering in his mind. Julius didn’t see his distress.

‘How will they attack us while their king is in my hands?’ Julius replied. ‘I will humble the men who controlled him, Brutus, when they come.’ He laughed at the thought and walked away to see Cleopatra, leaving Brutus behind.

The suite of rooms Cleopatra had taken had not been touched by the soldiers. All the others Julius passed were stripped bare of anything that could be used in the barricades, but her chambers were warm and comfortable with rugs and hangings. Flames crackled in tall braziers at either end, though Julius hardly saw them. His eyes were drawn to the slender figure of the queen as her shadow moved behind gauze hangings on a bed to match Ptolemy’s own. He could make out the outline that had aroused him on their first meeting and wondered why she did not speak.

His heart beating strongly, Julius closed the doors behind him and crossed the room, his footsteps loud in the silence. He could smell her scent in the air as well as wisps of steam and warm dampness that came from another room off the main one. She had been bathing, he realised, finding the thought fascinating. Without her slaves to heat and carry water, he did not doubt that his own men had been willing.

He reached the bed and still she did not speak as he ran his callused palms down the gauze, the noise like a whisper.

‘We have him, Cleopatra,’ he said softly, feeling her stir at his voice. As he spoke, his hands moved the gauze aside.

She lay on her back, naked, as he had somehow known she would be, with only shadows to cover her. Her skin shone gold as she looked up at him and her eyes were dark. ‘He is not hurt?’ she said.

Julius shook his head, unable to reply. His gaze travelled down the length of her body and he found it difficult to take a breath.

In an instant, she had risen and fastened her mouth on his. He could taste the sweetness of honey and cloves and her perfume washed over him like a drug. Her fingers pulled at the fastenings on his armour and he had to help her. His chestplate fell away with a clang of metal that made them both jump. Her hands were cool where they touched his skin and then he was naked. Her hands reached to his hips and pulled him gently towards her mouth. He cried out at the warmth, shuddering as he closed his eyes.

His hands strayed down to her breasts and he pulled away from her, climbing onto the bed and letting the gauze fall back behind him.

‘Is this my reward?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

She smiled slowly, her hands roaming him, touching old scars. Holding his gaze, she turned lithely onto her stomach, raising herself and reaching behind to hold his hot flesh in her hands as he rose over her.

‘It is just the beginning,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With dawn yet to break, Julius strode through the lower corridors, nodding to the guards as they stood to attention. The king of Egypt was locked in a room that had once held jars of oil. It had no windows to tempt a rescue and the door was solid.

‘Has he been quiet?’ Julius asked.

Before his legionary could reply, a high voice yelled a stream of oaths and curses inside, barely muffled by the heavy wood.

‘He’s been doing that for hours, sir,’ the soldier said.

‘Open the door,’ Julius replied, pursing his lips. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

As he entered, he saw that Brutus had stripped this room as bare as any of the others. No bed had been provided and a small bench and bucket were the only furniture. A single lamp burned steadily on the wall and in its glow Julius could see white smears of dust on the boy’s skin. The king of Egypt had clearly spent the night on the cold floor.

Ptolemy stood with stiff dignity, facing his captor with his arms folded over his narrow chest. Julius could see the outline of his ribs and the dust had smeared on his cheeks as if he had tried to hide his crying.

‘Good morning,’ Julius said, seating himself on the bench. ‘I will have some clothes found for you when the men bring breakfast. There is no need for you to be uncomfortable while you are here.’

Ptolemy glared at him without speaking. He was smaller than Julius had realised the night before and his face was pale and delicate, as if it had never seen the sun. His features lent themselves easily to expressions of sullen anger. The dark eyes and long lashes were twinned in Cleopatra and Julius repressed a shudder of dislike at the thought of their relationship.

Julius let the silence stretch for a little longer, then stood. ‘If there is nothing else, I will go back to my work,’ he said.

He turned to leave and Ptolemy snapped words at his back. ‘You will release me immediately!’ he said. His Latin was faultless.

Julius faced him and this time could not prevent a smile. ‘No, I will not, Your Majesty. I need you, you see.’

‘What do you want? Gold?’ The boy’s lips twisted into a sneer.

‘I want to see Cleopatra restored as queen,’ Julius replied, watching the boy closely. As he spoke, he wondered if that was truly what he desired. Before meeting Cleopatra the night before, his aims had been clear. Now, the thought of restoring her to the incestuous arms of her brother did not seem as attractive.

‘I knew she would be behind this!’ Ptolemy burst out. ‘I knew it! You think I want her back? She treated me as a child.’

‘You are a child,’ Julius snapped, instantly regretting it. Sighing, he seated himself once more. ‘Your courtiers honoured your every wish, I suppose?’ he said.

Ptolemy hesitated. ‘When I acted with honour and with the traditions, they did. They respected the office and the blood, despite my youth.’ His eyes would not meet Julius’ as he spoke, but then he stiffened in fresh anger. ‘Your men struck me, invaded my private rooms. You will be burnt and torn when …’

‘From what I saw, Panek barely listened to you,’ Julius murmured.

Ptolemy’s eyes flashed. ‘You know nothing of my life, Roman! I am a child and I am a king. I carry the god flame within me. Panek is …’

He hesitated again and Julius spoke quickly, wanting to probe the weakness. ‘Panek is the power behind the throne, I think. Are you expecting him to stand back when you are older? It would never happen. There would be an accident – a tragic fall, or an illness – and Panek would have another decade to rule while the next child grows. I have known the compulsion of power, lad. Take that warning from me, if nothing else.’

He watched while the boy considered his words, quietly surprised at Ptolemy’s composure. Julius had half expected him to be in tears when he entered, but instead he had found himself addressed as an equal or a servant. The king may have been a child, but he had a sharp mind and Julius could see him thinking and planning.

‘Panek will be furious when he hears I have been taken,’ Ptolemy said thoughtfully.

Julius could see the idea amused the boy and he waited for more.

‘You will have to show him I am unharmed, or he will raze this place to the ground.’

‘I can do that,’ Julius said. ‘If you wish it.’ Ptolemy glanced quizzically at him and Julius went on. ‘You might not want to be returned to him. Have you thought of that? I could demand that your courtiers are banished and you could rule with Cleopatra once more without their influence.’

The boy’s eyes were dark and unfathomable. Julius did not know him well enough to see if he had reached him.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Ptolemy said at last. ‘Are you lusting after my sister? Or is it my younger flesh you desire?’

Julius controlled his temper. ‘If you were a son of mine, I would have you beaten for speaking to me in that way,’ he said. ‘I may still.’

‘You would not dare,’ Ptolemy replied, with such confidence that Julius was taken aback. He considered calling for a switch, but settled himself, resting his hands on his knees.

‘You were very rude to Panek,’ Ptolemy said, clearly enjoying the memory. ‘He had to lie down afterwards, with cool drinks and slaves to massage away his anger. You are a rude people, I think.’

‘He is an irritating vulture,’ Julius replied.

Some of the tension eased out of Ptolemy and Julius suspected he had struck a chord at last.

‘May I see your sword?’ Ptolemy asked suddenly.

Without a word, Julius drew the short gladius and handed it over. The boy seemed astonished as he took it from Julius’ hand and immediately pointed it at the seated consul.

‘Are you not afraid I will kill you with it?’ he asked.

Julius shook his head slowly, watching for the slightest move. ‘I am not. The blade is nothing without the man to hold it. You could not strike before I had taken it from you.’

Ptolemy looked into his eyes and saw nothing but honesty. He turned away and tried to swing the short blade, his wrist bending under the weight.

‘Would you like to learn its use?’ Julius said.

For a moment, he saw Ptolemy’s face light up, then clouds of suspicion dimmed his interest. He turned it round awkwardly and handed it back hilt-first.

‘Do not pretend to be my friend, Roman. I am nothing more than a bargaining piece to you, yes? Something to be used for whatever it is you really want. You are my enemy and I will not forget it.’ He paused and clenched one of his fists. ‘When I am a man, I will make you remember how you kept me prisoner, Roman. I will come for you with an army like locusts. I will see your joints smashed with hammers and your skin burnt. You will know me then!’

Julius stared at the ferocious expression on the boy. ‘You have some growing to do, first,’ he said, rising to his feet.

For a moment, he thought Ptolemy might attack him, before the boy turned his back in impotent fury. Julius left him alone in the little room, walking out to the day with a light step.

Panek arrived with a delegation of courtiers at the first light of dawn. They approached the guards Julius had placed in the gardens and suffered a rough inspection for weapons before the three most senior were allowed inside.

Julius stood as they were brought into his presence, feeling again the wave of dislike from Panek’s cold eyes. It did not matter, now that he had the king.

Julius gestured to a stone block and sat down on a padded couch facing them, enjoying their discomfort. Five soldiers of the Tenth stood nearby and Octavian took position directly behind the courtiers, making them nervous. Panek’s face and neck shone with oil or sweat, Julius could not tell. His eyes were unpainted and he looked a little more human in the morning light without that decoration. The omission spoke volumes.

‘You cannot hope to survive this crime,’ Panek said, wrenching out the words as if the barest trace of civility was painful. ‘If the citizens learn that you are holding the king, I will not be able to restrain them. Do you understand me? You have only hours before the rumours spread and then they will come to burn you out of this nest.’

‘I do not fear untrained men,’ Julius said, casually. He signalled to a guard to bring him wine and sipped at it.

Panek raised his eyes in exasperation. ‘What do you want then, for the boy’s return? I’m sure you have a price.’

Julius reflected that Panek was not the best man to have sent. His anger was too obvious and if it had merely been a matter of gold, he would have asked for more after such a sneering tone.

‘We will start with the free run of the city, obviously,’ Julius said. ‘No more of this seven days you mentioned. I want to see the library and Alexander’s tomb. Perhaps you can arrange guides for my officers.’

Panek blinked in confusion. ‘You would be torn apart by the mob, Consul, the first moment you set foot outside these walls.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ Julius said, frowning. ‘My second demand is for the court to leave Egypt. I have ships to take you to Cyprus or Sardinia, far away from the difficulties of your lives here. I imagine it will be a peaceful retirement and I’m sure I can arrange for a little gold to make it comfortable for you.’

The three Egyptians went very still and Panek’s eyes glittered dangerously.

‘You mock me in my own city, Consul. Do you think I will not respond? The army has been summoned. The city is filling with soldiers crying out in rage at what you have dared. If you do not return the king, they will sweep your small force away in the flood. Understand that I do not lie.’

‘The boy will not survive an attack on this place,’ Julius told them. ‘You will be killing him if I see a single sword drawn in anger. I suggest you do your best to keep the peace.’

‘You cannot hold him here for ever,’ Panek replied. ‘How long do you think your food will last? Your water?’

‘We have enough,’ Julius said, shrugging. ‘Perhaps you are right. We should not be threatening each other. Instead, you can begin by telling me how much you value his life. What can you offer me for your king?’

The three men conferred in their own language for a few moments and then Panek spoke again, his anger rigidly controlled.

‘Trade deals could be arranged between Roman ports and the Egyptian interior. I can arrange to have your merchants given first access to our goods.’

‘Excellent,’ Julius said, signalling that wine should be brought for the men. ‘I believe the negotiations have begun.’

It took thirty days of argument and discussion to reach a final agreement. Neither Julius nor Panek attended every hour of the meetings, instead sending subordinates to make offers and counter-offers. It could not have worked without Cleopatra’s influence, but she seemed to know exactly how far the delegation of courtiers could be pushed in each area.

She did not attend the negotiations herself, instead spending her days with her younger brother, who had been given the run of the palace. It was strange to see the pair of them walking the halls, deep in discussion, and stranger still for Julius to consider their relationship. She was his elder sister and a mature wife used to the intrigues of the court. He listened to her as no one else and his angry outbursts had not been repeated.

At night, she told Julius how much her brother had hated the stifling life of court. It seemed his smallest request would have to be approved by Panek, and Ptolemy had admitted his hatred for the man. In a sense, he had been confined far more thoroughly before Julius stole him away. Panek spoke with the voice of the king and the army would obey his every order.

‘But your brother is the king, by the gods!’ Julius had exclaimed, when she told him. ‘Why couldn’t he just have Panek taken out and beaten?’

‘He is a boy and he has known no other life. Panek frightened him,’ she said. ‘He does not frighten me, but even I missed the lust for power in him.’ She paused and clenched her fists in the sheets. ‘A year ago, he brought orders from the king to have me banished. I knew they could not have come from my brother, but I was not allowed to plead my case. Those loyal to me marched into exile and the women tore their hair and rubbed ashes on their breasts. Believe me, Panek is too clever for a sheltered boy to resist.’

On the thirtieth day, Julius had contracts drawn up and Ptolemy was brought to fix his signature to them. Cleopatra came with him and Panek staggered to his feet as he saw her.

‘My queen,’ he stammered, falling to his knees and lowering his head to the floor.

The other courtiers followed suit and she smiled.

‘Get up and finish what you have begun here, Panek. You have bound us in gold to Rome as I wished and with your king’s approval.’

Panek’s eyes flickered to where Ptolemy sat watching them. Slowly, Ptolemy nodded.

‘We have reached an agreement, my brother and I,’ Cleopatra purred. ‘Your influence is over, Panek. We will take our places on the thrones of the upper and lower kingdoms once more. We will rule, Panek, though you will not go unrewarded for your work.’

Panek watched as Ptolemy handed a quill to his sister and she scribbled the words ‘Let it be so’, as she signed all official documents. The papyrus sheets marked trade agreements that would hurt the growth of Alexandria, not to mention the heavy tithe of gold to be sent to Rome for ten years. Against them, Julius had made the astonishing offer of returning Cyprus to Egypt, as she had been owned centuries before. The Roman’s apparent generosity had troubled Panek deeply, not knowing that the suggestion had come from Cleopatra. Cyprus had been lost since Alexander’s death and its return would have almost been worth the weeks of torment and the insults to the king. Panek realised the queen had been the silent voice behind the negotiations, the reason that his bluffs were revealed and his strategies undone. He stood like a broken man and bowed stiffly to the first family of Egypt.

‘I will await your return, Majesty,’ he said to Ptolemy.

‘You will have him tomorrow at dawn,’ Julius said, interrupting the intense gaze between the two of them.

Panek gathered his copies and writing materials and left, his slaves and colleagues going with him. The room seemed empty without the tension he had brought and Cleopatra turned to her brother to embrace him.

‘Now you will truly be king, Ptolemy, as our father would have wished. I will have Panek killed and my army will protect you from his spite.’

The boy accepted the embrace, looking over her shoulder at Caesar. ‘You are a strange man, Roman,’ he said. ‘My sister trusts you. I wonder if that is enough.’

‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ Julius replied.

Ptolemy nodded. ‘I will go out to them at dawn, for the people to see me safe. There will be a new order then, in Egypt. I will not have my wife taken from me again.’

His eyes were intense and Julius wondered how much Ptolemy had guessed about their relationship. The marriage was too ludicrous for him to think he had come between husband and wife and he was not even sure if he had. Despite their intimacy, Cleopatra was still a mystery to him. It was possible that she would simply rearrange her court and resume her role as queen, politely dismissing the Roman who had made it possible.

‘I have a gift for you,’ Julius said, signalling the armourer of the Tenth who waited nearby.

The burly man stepped forward with a bundle of cloth and Julius unwrapped it to reveal a gladius reduced in size for the king. Ptolemy’s eyes widened with pleasure as he took it. He had tried the simple forms of attack and defence with Domitius at Julius’ request, but the heavy swords had been too much for his arms. Julius could see the smaller blade was exactly right and the king’s boyish smile was mirrored in his own face.

‘It is magnificent,’ Ptolemy said, rubbing his thumb along the bronze wire and leather of the grip.

Julius nodded. ‘I hope you will have time to continue your lessons,’ he replied.

‘I will try. Thank you for the gift, Roman.’

Julius chuckled at the wry tone, remembering the furious little boy he had met on the first morning a month before.

‘Until tomorrow then,’ he said.

As dawn came, the army of the house of Ptolemy gathered on the streets of Alexandria, waiting to welcome the return of their king. Julius looked out through a hole in the barricaded windows and whistled softly to himself. There were many thousands waiting there, a show of strength.

The citizens themselves had come out to catch the first sight of Ptolemy. There had been no mobs to threaten the palace after Julius had spoken to Panek and he wondered if it had been a bluff, or whether his influence reached further than even Cleopatra knew.

Ptolemy’s footsteps were loud on the marble as he approached the great doors and looked up at Julius. He carried himself well and Julius was pleased to see the small sword on his hip.

Julius eased the door open a little further, so that Ptolemy could see the army gathered in his honour.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked the boy king.

Ptolemy did not reply and when Julius looked at him, he was astonished to see there were tears in his eyes.

‘I do not trust Panek,’ Ptolemy whispered aloud, his gaze on the warriors in the distance.

‘We have to send you out,’ Julius said. ‘Your army must see you alive. As proof of our good faith, you must be released. Panek is not a fool. He knows you have been united with your sister. He would not dare hold you. I would see him dead and he knows it.’

Gently, he put a hand on Ptolemy’s shoulder and began moving him towards the doorway. The young king reached up with a jerk and grabbed Julius’ hand in his own.

‘He cannot be trusted! The agreements will mean nothing to him, I know it. If you send me out, I will be powerless once more. Let me remain and we will find another way.’

Gently, Julius removed the boy’s hands. ‘We are running out of food, Ptolemy, and I gave my word that you would be released. The negotiations are over.’ His voice became harder. ‘Now do your part and I will see you on your throne later today. First you must be given back to your people.’

Tears streamed down Ptolemy’s face and he held Julius’ arm with desperation. ‘You don’t understand! Out there, I will be the king once more. I am afraid!’

Julius looked away, embarrassed for the sobbing boy. Where was Cleopatra? She had a way with her young brother that calmed his spirits. Julius was on the point of calling for her when Ptolemy wiped angrily at his tears and let his grip loosen.

‘I will go out to them,’ he said.

Julius saw terror in his eyes and could not understand it. No matter what Panek intended, Ptolemy would be safe for the few hours it took to return him to his palace and then bring Cleopatra out with the legions.

‘Courage, lad,’ Julius said softly, giving Ptolemy the slightest push.

The king took in a great heave of breath and squared his shoulders, his hand dropping to touch the hilt of his sword as he had seen the Romans do. He nodded once and walked out into the sun.

The army cheered as they saw his slight figure at the top of the steps. They raised their arms in perfect unison and Julius wondered if these were indeed better soldiers than the ones he had faced on palace duty. Even from the elevation of the doorway, he could not estimate their full number.

Brutus came to stand by his side with Octavian, each man carefully ignoring the presence of the other. With Julius, they watched Ptolemy descend the steps and make his way to the first ranks of men. Panek was there, waiting for him with his head bowed.

Horns blew in a crash of sound as Ptolemy reached them and Julius and the others watched in fascination as the lines of men parted.

‘What’s happening?’ Octavian asked.

Julius shook his head in answer.

Before their eyes, the cloth of gold Ptolemy had worn at his first meeting was brought forward and draped around his shoulders. The Romans squinted as the rising sun seemed to intensify around him, making Ptolemy shine. Panek lifted the headdress and his voice could be heard crying out a chant to the gods.

Ptolemy stood looking up into the mask as it was lowered onto him. For a long time he did not move, then slowly he turned to face the watching Roman soldiers at every window and door. The mask hid his youth and had a malevolence that made Julius frown. Time seemed to slow and an oven heat blew across the gardens.

‘He wouldn’t …’ Brutus said in disbelief, but the golden figure raised his hand and brought it down in a sharp gesture. The army roared its battle rage and came surging into the gardens.

Julius jerked back in horrified disbelief. There was no time to consider the implications. ‘Bar the doors and be ready!’ he cried. ‘I want men on the roof with spears and bows. They are coming!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Egyptian army killed the horses of the extraordinarii. Inside the palace, the Romans could hear their mounts screaming.

High above their heads, more than a hundred of the Fourth legion had climbed onto the tiles to send a withering fire down into the horde that crashed against the palace. They could hardly miss against such a mass of besieging warriors.

In the chaos of the first few minutes, grapnels and ropes were sent spinning upwards for any purchase. Some were cut before the men below could begin to climb, but the Egyptians had archers of their own and legionaries fell as they hacked at them. The attack was loud and violent, but the palace was not an easy place to storm. Only the highest windows had been left open and everything below that was solid with barricades. Even the warriors who clung to ledges could not find a way in. As they scrabbled at the windows, swords came through the gaps to send them screaming onto the heads of their own men.

A dull booming was heard as Ptolemy’s army thumped a wooden beam against the main doors. Arrows rained down on them, but as fast as they died, more rushed forward. Inside, Julius had Cleopatra’s rooms stripped and the contents piled against the door for when it broke. He had not had time to consider a strategy against the army. He knew he could not stay there for ever and regretted telling the boy king how little food they had left. Even on half-rations, they would be starving inside a week.

Ptolemy himself stayed out of range of spears, though Julius sent Ciro up to the roof to try for a long shot. The sudden change in manner was beyond comprehension to the Romans. Cleopatra at least had seemed to understand when Julius described the gold headdress being placed on the boy. He remembered Ptolemy’s warning that outside, he would be the king.

The first attack came to nothing and those who battered at the doors were driven back at last by a storm of heavy tiles from the roof. Though they had retreated, Julius was sure they would return with more to hold shields over their heads. It was what he would have done.

Over the noise outside, Julius called to his generals: ‘Brutus! Go to Cleopatra and tell her I need a way out of here. We cannot stay in this place and let them smash it. If they burn us out, we’ll have to rush them.’

Cleopatra had come to the entrance hall as he spoke. ‘They would not dare to set fires while I am here,’ she said.

Julius wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t take the risk. ‘They have us surrounded. Are there no tunnels, no secret routes?’ he demanded, wincing as the battering ram struck again. No doubt the men were better protected this time.

Cleopatra shook her head. ‘I would have used one by now if there were,’ she snapped.

Julius swore under his breath, turning away to peer through the cracks of daylight at the warriors beyond. The palace felt claustrophobic and he hated to play such a passive role. Apart from the men on the roof, he had no way of attacking his enemies unless he sent the legions out in a direct assault that could very well have been suicide.

‘Do they have heavy weapons, catapults and the like?’ he shouted over the noise. The palace could be reduced to rubble by such things and he had a sudden terror of them.

‘Not close,’ Cleopatra replied. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting the dust in the air and frowning. ‘Follow me to the roof and I’ll show you.’

Julius hesitated, unwilling to leave his men. Brutus stepped forward a fraction before Domitius and Octavian.

‘Go, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll hold them here for a while.’

Julius nodded in relief and raced after the queen, taking flights of stairs to the highest floors without slowing down. He was panting by the time he reached the top and climbed a ladder into the sunlight.

Summer had come to Alexandria and he felt the heat like a blow. The tiles stretched away in all directions, though his gaze was immediately drawn to the line of efficient killers he had sent to the edge of the roof. Ciro was with them and as Julius watched he took careful aim and sent a spear down at a difficult angle. The big man smiled at the result and the others clapped him on his shoulders. Then a rush of arrows sent them all leaping backwards. They saluted as they recognised Julius and he waved them back to their task.

Julius took a sharp breath at the view of the city and sea the height gave him. The port was laid out in miniature below and the horizon was split between the deep ocean and the brown blur of the Egyptian heartlands.

Cleopatra stood beside him, her hair whipped into curls by the wind.

‘There are barracks at Canopus, two days to the east, along the coast,’ she said, pointing into the dim distance. ‘They have catapults there and ships to carry them.’

Julius studied the mouth of the port. He could see the tiny galleys of the port watch on patrol. Merchants sailed or rowed across the harbour and dozens more sat at anchor, protected from storms. Alexander had chosen well when he built his city.

‘I must get men out tonight,’ Julius said. ‘I can block the entrances to the port with ships sunk in the entrance. Where will the army go then, to reach us?’

Cleopatra shrugged. ‘The coast is rocky and dangerous anywhere else. You will delay them for days, wherever they try to land.’

‘Can they still pass with the heavy weapons, though?’ Julius asked.

‘Eventually. We are an ingenious people, Julius.’

He studied the coast, his gaze darting from place to place as he thought.

‘I could lower men from ropes tethered up here,’ he said at last.

He strode to the far edge and looked down, swallowing painfully as he saw how far his men would have to descend. An arrow hummed past him, its force almost spent. He ignored it.

Cleopatra had come with him and stood looking down the sheer walls at her brother’s army.

‘Just one man could carry a message to my own forces,’ she said. ‘My slave, Ahmose, can take the news. They will tip the balance and give you the chance to break free of the siege.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Julius replied. ‘Send him if you wish, but I cannot stay here without knowing whether he reached them or was killed. We don’t have food for more than a few days.’

Julius walked along the edge, looking down at the minor buildings surrounding the palace. He reached the rear and had to edge around a sloping section, thankful the old tiles were dry and steady underfoot. Behind the palace, there were smaller structures used by slaves and servants. As Julius saw them, he smiled.

‘Can you see this?’ he said.

Cleopatra peered over the edge with him.

Below, a sloping line of tiles seemed to come close to the main wall. Julius knelt, then lay on his stomach. The other roof looked near enough to jump to, or climb over on ropes. From there, he could see a mismatched trail of homes and temples leading across the city.

‘That’s the place,’ he said. ‘If I can get men down to that first roof, they can cross above the heads of Ptolemy’s soldiers. They’ll never know we are there. Can you see a window at the same level?’

Cleopatra lay flat to crane her head over the rim. She nodded and both of them became aware of their closeness at the same time. Julius knew his men would be watching, but he was still captivated by her. He shook himself.

‘I must go down and find the room that looks out onto those roofs.’

‘Isis has favoured you, Julius, in showing you the way,’ Cleopatra said.

He frowned. ‘My own eyes had something to do with it.’

She laughed at that, coming quickly to her feet with all the easy grace of youth. Beside her, he felt old, but then she kissed him, her tongue grazing his with the taste of marble dust.

Ciro and Domitius eased their heads a fraction out of the rear window, looking down before jerking back. The Egyptian archers were good and they did not want to risk even a long shot.

‘Twenty feet down and about six across,’ Domitius said. ‘We can make it, if they don’t see us coming. After that I don’t know. I couldn’t see how far the roofs reach before we’d have to come down. It may not be far enough.’

‘There’s no other way,’ Julius replied. They could all hear the hammering below while the army milled in the grounds. ‘As soon as they bring catapults, we’re finished, unless our food and water run out first. We need to draw some of them away at the very least.’

‘Let me have this one, sir,’ Domitius said. ‘With a cohort of the youngest men to try for the ships.’

Julius looked at him. ‘Very well. Ciro, you go with him. Pick your men ready for sunset.’

Brutus had come to see what delayed his commander and he seemed nervous. ‘I would like to go as well,’ he said.

Julius frowned. ‘Your arm is barely healed. How would you climb down twenty feet of rope?’

Brutus looked relieved not to have had a straight refusal. ‘After the rope is anchored, the rest will slide down. I can do that.’ He raised his right arm and opened and closed his fist.

Julius shook his head. ‘Not this time, Brutus. The gods alone know how difficult it will be to cross those roofs. Worse, if your arm gave way and you fell, they would know we were trying to get out.’

Brutus took a deep breath. ‘As you order, sir,’ he said, disappointment clear on his face.

‘We could tie his wrists to the rope we’ll use to slide, sir,’ Domitius said suddenly. ‘Even if his arm goes, he won’t fall then.’

Brutus turned in astonishment to Domitius, and Julius saw how much his old friend needed to be back in the fight.

‘If you sink the ships, you could have to swim. There’s a good chance you won’t be coming back. Do you understand that?’

Brutus nodded, a touch of his old wildness showing. ‘Let me go. Please,’ he said.

‘All right, but if your arm snaps, you stay on the first roof until it is over.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brutus replied, his face strained with tension. He clapped his hand on Domitius’ shoulder as Julius turned away and Domitius accepted it with a nod.

Below their feet, the hammering went on.

Though the sun had set, the grounds of the palace were lit with bonfires at all points and arrows soared sporadically up to the roof and against the windows. The army had either settled in to starve them out, or were waiting for catapults to arrive. Julius watched from a high window, well hidden from the sight of their archers. He hated to be trapped and hardly dared reveal how much his hopes were pinned on the men clambering across to lower roofs at the back.

The time would come when he was forced to send the legions out against the army that faced them, he knew. When the moment was perfect, he would try for a shattering blow, but against such numbers he feared he would be leading them straight to destruction. Cleopatra had been invaluable with her knowledge of their tactics and strengths, but the Tenth and Fourth were vastly outnumbered even so. In his most private of thoughts, there were times when he wished he had simply left the city when his time was up. Then he would grow angry in reaction. He would not run from a rabble of foreign soldiers. If he had to, he would find supplies and send for reinforcements from Greece and Spain. The Egyptians would learn what it meant to threaten the life of the man who ruled Rome.

Behind the palace, Domitius was at the window with Brutus, tying his wrists securely to the piece of waxed cloth that would send him sliding into the arms of the waiting legionaries. Moving five hundred soldiers in strained silence was difficult, but there had been no cries of alarm and the plan was moving without a fault.

As Domitius tugged the knot, he felt Brutus looking at him in the dark.

‘We were friends once,’ Brutus said.

Domitius snorted to himself. ‘We could be again, old son. The men will accept you in time, though Octavian … well, he might not.’

‘I am glad you spoke up for me,’ Brutus replied.

Domitius gripped him by the shoulder. ‘You risked all our lives for your pride and temper. There have been times when I would rather have put a knife in you.’

‘If I could change it, I would,’ Brutus said truthfully.

Domitius nodded, helping his legs over the edge. ‘I stood on the white cliffs of Britain with you,’ he said. ‘You killed that big blue bastard with the hatchet when I was flat on my back. That counts for something.’ He spoke slowly, his voice low and serious. ‘I can’t call you a brother, after what you did. Perhaps we can get by without spitting in each other’s bread.’

Brutus nodded slowly, without looking round.

‘I’m glad of it,’ Domitius said, heaving him off the ledge.

Brutus gasped as the rope sagged and his initial rush was jerked into a slow descent. Halfway down, when there was nothing but yawning darkness beneath him, he spun and the cloth twisted, halting him. His weakened muscles protested as he swung his legs frantically. With an effort, he managed to turn himself back round and the slide began once more. His arm ached worse than he cared to admit, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and then found himself being held by the men on the roof below. They untied his wrists in silence and handed him his sword, which he strapped to his waist. Like him, they wore no armour, and carried no shields. Their faces were black with soot and only the whiteness of their teeth and eyes in the moonlight showed their positions, spread over the roofs like mould. The hulking figure of Cleopatra’s slave, Ahmose, was there with them, unsmiling and silent as he crouched on the tiles.

Before Brutus could step clear, Domitius thumped into his back and sent him sprawling.

‘No more to come,’ he heard Domitius whisper as he guided Brutus through the men to the front.

The tiles creaked under their feet and they could only hope their progress wasn’t being followed from below, with archers ready to catch them as they came down. The first roof blended into the next without a gap, but the third was too far away to step across.

‘I need a man to jump this,’ Domitius said.

In the moonlight, the alleyway seemed larger than it had any right to. A young soldier of the Fourth stepped forward and removed his sword. With barely a nod to his officers, he took two quick steps and launched himself over. The clatter as he landed made them all freeze, but already the palace seemed far behind and no one came. The rope was thrown to him, and one by one they used it to cross. Brutus went first this time, trusting his arm to hold his weight. The muscles were sending shooting pains, but the bones held and he reached the other side, sweating but exhilarated.

Four more roofs were passed in the same way before they came to a space too great to bridge. The street below seemed empty as the front rank lay on their stomachs and looked down. At the crouch, they came back and reported that the way was clear, then sent ropes skipping down to the stones below.

Brutus lost skin on his palms as he opted to slide, not trusting his arm to take his full weight yet again. With some misgiving, he realised there would be no retreat that way, not for him. Ahmose landed behind him without a sound. With a smile, he raised a hand to the Romans and strode away into the darkness. Brutus wished him luck in bringing Cleopatra’s army. Even if they managed to block the harbour entrance, Julius needed an edge.

The cohort jogged through the streets in almost complete silence. For better grip on the roofs, they had tied cloths around their sandals and no challenges were shouted as they made their way to the docks.

The harbour of Alexandria was well lit and busy. Domitius halted the men in the last shadows of the road, passing the word for them to be ready. They would be seen at any moment, and after that it would be a rush to block the port before the army could respond.

A voice began to yell and Domitius saw two men pointing in their direction. ‘That’s it, then. We go,’ he said, running out into the light.

There were never fewer than a dozen merchant vessels working their cargoes on or off the quayside. The cohort of five hundred Roman legionaries raced towards them, ignoring the shouts of panic as word spread. As they reached the docks, they split into four groups and ran up the loading planks of the nearest ships to them.

The crews were terrified at the sudden attack and three of them surrendered without hesitation. In the fourth, two sailors reacted more from instinct than sense, trying to stab the first men to board them. They were cut down and their bodies heaved over the side into the dirty water. The rest did not resist and moved down the loading planks as they were told until the Romans had the ships to themselves.

The sails went up with only a little confusion and the mooring ropes were cast free or cut. All four of the vessels began to ease away from the docks, leaving their shouting crews behind them.

Brutus could see men racing off into the dark streets to alert Ptolemy’s army. By the time their night’s work was over, the docks would be crowded with soldiers. At least it would give Julius a respite, he hoped. He could not regret having come, and for the first time in months he felt alive enough to cheer as the sails fluttered and the ships began their crisscrossing courses to the mouth of the port.

‘Get two men up top, as lookouts,’ he ordered, smiling as he remembered a time in his youth when he had climbed to that position himself. He did not imagine he could reach it now, but it gave him pleasure to recall the journey across Greece with Renius, when the world lay before them. The legionary who had been first over the roofs was climbing even before Brutus had finished giving the order. Brutus thought he should learn the man’s name and was embarrassed that he did not know it. He had been apart from the workings of the legions for too long. Even if he did not survive the night, it felt right to be back in command. He had missed it more than he knew.

Away from the lights of the port, the moon followed their movement on the still, black water. The same barriers that prevented storms from wrecking Alexandria allowed only the smallest of breezes and progress was painfully slow. It did not suit the mood of the men on board. They all turned to see the great fire on the lighthouse of Pharos, its gleam warning ships for miles. The glow of its flames lit their faces as they passed and they cast long shadows on the decks.

‘Port watch coming!’ a voice called from above.

Brutus could see them clearly, silhouetted against the glow of the lighthouse. Three galleys had altered course to intercept them, with oars working easily against the wind. Brutus wondered how well they were manned. He welcomed their presence, fully aware that he would have to try and swim home otherwise.

The spits of rock that formed the outermost gates of the port came slowly into view, marked for shipping with smaller lights that were never allowed to go out. Brutus had his men steer steadily for them, seeing that two of the other ships would reach the point first. Movement was still gentle over the waters and he could see their pursuers were gaining. It would be close, he realised. Brutus shook his head as he watched the galleys sweep closer. Julius had said axes or fire, but cutting through the lower holds would take too long. It would have to be fire.

‘Find me a lamp, or a flint and iron,’ he said.

A shuttered lamp was found and lit without delay and Brutus nursed the flame, extending the wick. The merchant vessels were built of old timber and would burn to rival the lighthouse.

Two of the stolen ships were in position and Brutus could see men lashing them together. He was thankful for the limp sails and weak breeze then. Such delicate manoeuvring would have been difficult in anything stronger.

As he came alongside, ropes were thrown and his own ship creaked and groaned as the lines tautened, finally resting to rock in the waves from the deeper waters. As the anchors were sent splashing over the side, Brutus could see the galleys of the port watch were almost on them.

He wished he had a corvus bridge to be lowered onto the enemy ships as they came alongside and acted on the idea, calling his men to lash planking together into a rough substitute.

‘Light them up!’ Brutus bellowed, hoping his voice could be heard on the other ships. He spilled the oil of his lamp across a pile of broken wood and watched flames rush along tar-covered ropes. The speed of it was appalling and Brutus hoped he had not acted too soon.

As the fire spread, he could hear angry shouts on the galleys and then his ship shuddered as they were rammed. Brutus laughed aloud at the thought of the hull being broken down below. The port watch were doing their work for them.

As the ship began to list, Brutus had his men heave the great section of planking over their heads, letting it fall onto the railing of the ramming galley. It was not solid and it shifted with the rocking motion, threatening to fall. The galley oars were already backing to pull them free. Despite the danger, the legionaries leapt onto their bridge and charged the other deck, facing the terrified crew.

It was carnage. As Brutus had hoped, the galleys were manned with only a few dozen above deck and the chained slaves below were unable to join the fight. In a few heartbeats, a slick of blood stained the dark wood and the legionaries had transferred across, letting their makeshift bridge fall back into the sea.

Behind them, the flames were roaring, making an inferno of the tilting ship. It went down fast and for a moment Brutus feared the vessel would sink so deep that the harbour would still be passable. As he watched with a pounding heart, the vessel stuck with a full third out of water. Cleopatra had been right. The harbour had not been dredged in generations and even shallow-hulled ships were sometimes caught there on a low tide.

Brutus turned back to his work, his face alive with pleasure. The other galleys were holding off after the fate of the first. He did not hesitate, seeing flames spring up on all four of the blocking ships. He sent his men down below to order the slaves to take oars once more and grinned as the galley turned into the wind. They would not have to swim.

As the ships burned, the breeze freshened, carrying hot sparks upwards. By the time Brutus had filled his galley with the last of the cohort, the heat was like a furnace and many of the men had suffered burns as they waited to be picked up. Fat cinders sizzled in the sea, while more caught in the rigging of anchored ships. Brutus laughed as he saw them burn. His own men were busy with buckets of seawater for their own safety.

In the far distance, some of the glowing ashes reached the dry roofs of buildings around the docks. They licked and flickered there, spreading.

Julius watched as the voices and order in Ptolemy’s army changed subtly. He saw runners come in from the direction of the port and guessed his men were causing chaos. Angry faces were turned towards the palace and, unseen, he smiled down at them.

In the light of their own torches, Julius saw Panek arrive from wherever he had been sleeping, pointing towards the harbour and giving orders in a frenzy. Hundreds of men began to form up and march to the east and Julius knew he would never have a better chance. Dawn was almost on them.

‘Get the men ready to move,’ he shouted down to Regulus and Octavian. ‘We’re going out.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The warriors of Alexandria wore no armour or helmets. Against the fury of the Egyptian sun, metal became too hot to bear against the skin and marching any distance would be impossible.

Julius had chosen the coolest moment of the day to attack. The sun was barely a glimmer on the horizon and the Roman legions could use their advantage. The doors to the palace were pulled open and the Tenth and Fourth came out at full speed, shields held high.

They surged through the gardens and those who had been in the extraordinarii roared in anger at the piled corpses of their mounts, already dark with flies. To see the best bloodlines of the legion lying sprawled with blackened tongues was enough to make them wild with hatred and disgust.

The centurions and optios were hard-pressed to hold their men from racing forward. The front ranks threw spears with grunts of effort, smashing the Egyptians as they tried to meet the sudden threat. Then the shield wall reached the enemy and the killing ranks slammed into them, fighting on all sides.

The Roman armour was crucial to the impetus. Where Ptolemy’s army struck, they were met with a ring of metal. The veteran legionaries used their helmets to butt, their greaves to break shins, their swords to cut limbs from the enemy. They had been confined while Ptolemy’s men jeered and sent their missiles. Now the chance had come to repay every insult.

‘Regulus! Open the line!’ Julius shouted to his general.

He saw the Fourth legion slow their headlong advance into the midst of the Egyptians and the attack widened, bringing more and more swords to bear. Julius looked back at the palace and saw they were still coming out. He marched forward as his men cleared the way and when Ptolemy’s forces tried to counterattack, Julius brought his shield up against arrows and stalked on, intent on the progress of his legions.

Near Regulus, a man went down with an arrow in the thigh and staggered back to his feet. He tried to go on, but the wound was gushing and Julius saw the man’s optio grab him and send him back through the lines.

As the sun rose, its heat seemed to seek out the Roman armour and they sweated and began to gasp. The palace grounds were behind and the Roman line was hampered by the narrow streets. Still they cut and killed and walked over the dead.

To Julius’ astonishment, he saw the citizens too had come out with daylight. Thousands of Egyptians shouted and wailed, filling the roads around the struggling armies. Many of them carried weapons and Julius began to consider a retreat back to the palace. His Tenth and Fourth were smashing Ptolemy’s warriors, but the odds were still overwhelming.

On the right, towards the docks, Julius heard warning horns sounding. One of his extraordinarii scouts ran over, so spattered with blood that his eyes and teeth seemed unnaturally white.

‘The harbour cohort is back, sir.’

Julius wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. ‘Any sign of those sent after them?’

‘No, sir.’

Julius wondered what had become of the men Ptolemy had sent to kill the Roman cohort at the docks. If the king had understood who led them, perhaps he would have ordered many more to the harbour.

‘If you can reach them, tell Brutus to hit the flank,’ Julius ordered. ‘If they see Ptolemy, they are to kill him.’

The scout saluted and vanished back into the press.

Julius found himself panting. How long had it been since they had come out and hammered into the waiting army? The sun had cleared the horizon, but he could not tell for certain. Step by step, his legions moved forward and among the bronze bodies of the Egyptians were men he knew and had fought with for years. He gritted his teeth and moved on.

Brutus cursed his weak right arm as his smoke-blackened cohort came racing along the street. He could hear the sound of battle and for the first time in his life he did not welcome it or feel the excitement that usually drew him in. The ambush they had set for the Egyptians at the harbour had shown him his weakness. Still, the Roman veterans had crushed the enemy force as if it was an exercise. In a dark, narrow street off the docks, they had fallen on the Egyptians like wolves on lambs, cutting them to pieces.

Brutus held his sword awkwardly, feeling the weight of the heavy gladius pull at his weak shoulder. Domitius glanced at him as the tumult of heaving lines came into view. He saw the frustration in Brutus’ face and understood.

‘Take this,’ Domitius shouted, tossing a dagger.

Brutus caught it in his left hand. He would rather have had a shield, or his silver armour, but at least he would be able to strike. His first blow in the ambush had turned in his hand, achieving nothing more than a scratch down a bare chest. He should have been killed then, but Ciro had hacked the man’s wrist and Brutus had been saved.

As they neared the king’s army, they formed into a rank six across, with Ciro in the centre. Ptolemy’s flank men turned to face them and all six picked their targets, calling their choices to each other.

They hit the Egyptian soldiers at almost full speed against raised shields. Ciro’s bulk knocked his man flat, but the edges held and the charge faltered. It was Ciro who broke the hole for them to follow, swinging his gladius like an iron bar and using his free fist to club men down. Whether he hit with the flat or the edge, the man’s strength was enormous and he towered over the enemy. Brutus followed him into the press, stabbing his dagger and using his gladius only to block. Even then, the shock of blows seemed to bite at him and he wondered if his bones would stand it for long.

Brutus stumbled over a fallen shield and, with a pang of regret, threw down the sword he had won in Rome to pick it up. He moved to Ciro’s right side, protecting him. Domitius appeared on his own right with another shield and the Roman line moved further into the claustrophobic heart of the battle.

It was a far cry from the open plain of Pharsalus. Brutus could see men climb gates and statues, still hacking with their swords at those who pressed them. Arrows flew without being aimed and against the screaming the Egyptians chanted in their alien language, their voices low and frightening.

It did not help them. Without armour, they were being hammered and the return of the port cohort sent a shudder through their ranks. The chanting changed into a low moan of fear that wailed and echoed through the swelling crowds at their backs. Brutus saw two of the extraordinarii defending well, before both were downed by clubs and daggers from the people of Alexandria. He ducked under a thrown spear, knocking it aside with his shield.

Somewhere nearby, Brutus could hear the tramp of feet and he groaned. He had seen enough of the Roman lines to know that Julius had committed them all.

‘Enemy reinforcements coming,’ he shouted to Domitius.

Strange horns blared to confirm his suspicions and Brutus took a numbing impact against the shield that made him cry out. His mind flashed back to the final moments of Pharsalus and he stabbed his dagger in a wild frenzy, cleansing his rage with every death.

‘There’s the boy,’ Domitius roared, pointing.

They all saw the slight figure of Ptolemy, shining in the risen sun as he sat a horse, surrounded by his courtiers. The royal party watched the battle with an aloofness that enraged the Romans. The men with Brutus forgot their weariness to push forward once more, struggling to reach the one they had seen betray them. There was hardly a man who had not exchanged a few words with the boy king in his month of imprisonment. To have him turn on them, on Caesar, after the first bonds of friendship was enough to draw the Roman killers like moths.

Ptolemy’s gold mask turned jerkily as he watched the deaths of his followers. Panek stood by him, giving orders without a sign of fear. Brutus saw messengers bow to the courtier and run to where the horns had sounded. If the reinforcements were large, he knew there was a chance none of them would survive the morning.

Ciro searched the ground as they struggled forward, then dipped to come up with a Roman spear, its length crusted in blood and dust. He took a sight on Ptolemy and cast it with a growl, sending it high. Brutus did not see it land, though when the ranks parted again, the king remained. Panek was gone from his side and Brutus did not know if he still lived. Another blow crashed against his shield arm and he yelled in pain. It felt too heavy to raise in his defence and three times Domitius saved him from a bronze blade.

Ciro cast again and again as he found spears to throw, and then Brutus saw Ptolemy’s courtiers scuttling out of range. He heard a howl of frustration from the legion lines ahead of them and, without warning, his weary cohort reached the armoured Roman flank. They had cut their way through and now both forces seemed to gain fresh strength from the contact. The Fourth were off on the wing, holding the new arrivals, but the Tenth were free to push for the king.

Missiles began to come from the crowd in greater and greater numbers. Curds of cattle dung were harmless enough, but the stones and tiles were a constant danger and distracted more than one legionary long enough to be killed.

Brutus strode through the fighting square of the Tenth to Julius, panting in reaction. They let him pass with little more than a glance.

Julius saw him and smiled at his battered appearance. ‘They can’t hold us,’ he shouted above the crash of battle. ‘I think the king’s down.’

‘What about the reinforcements?’ Brutus answered, yelling into Julius’ ear.

As he spoke, they both felt a shift in the movement of men and Julius turned to see the Fourth legion being pushed back. They did not run. Every man there had been saved by the honour of the Tenth against Pompey and they would not give way. For the lines to buckle, Julius knew the reinforcements must be large.

‘Tenth! Cohorts one to four! Saw into the Fourth! Move to support! One to Four!’

Julius kept roaring the orders until the cohorts heard him and began to move. The whole left wing was being compressed and Julius shook his head.

‘I could use a horse, if the bastards hadn’t slaughtered them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I can’t see what’s happening.’

As he turned to face Brutus, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and froze. ‘What are you doing?’ Julius whispered.

Brutus jerked around to see. Cleopatra had walked out behind the legions and both men watched in amazement as she climbed onto the base of a statue to Isis, swinging herself up with neat agility until she stood at the feet of the goddess, looking down on the armies.

‘Get her off there before the archers see her!’ Julius shouted, pointing.

She had a horn in her hand, and before he could wonder what she intended she raised it to her lips and blew.

The note was deep and low, going on and on until she had no more breath. By the end of it, heads were turning in her direction and Julius was terrified she would be torn from her perch by a cloud of shafts.

‘You will stop!’ she cried. ‘In the name of Cleopatra, your queen. I am returned to you and you will stand back!’

Julius saw Roman hands reaching up, imploring her to come down. She ignored them, calling again. Her voice reached the lines of Egyptian soldiers and the reaction was like a shock of cold water. They pointed to her and their eyes went wide with awe. They had not known of her return to the city. Julius saw their swords begin to lower and the Tenth immediately launched themselves forward, killing indiscriminately.

‘Sound the halt,’ Julius snapped to his cornicens. ‘Quickly!’

Roman horns wailed their echo to Cleopatra and an eerie silence fell over the bloody streets.

‘I am returned to you, my people. These men are my allies. You will stop the killing now.’

Her voice seemed louder than it had before, without the clash of arms to drown it. Ptolemy’s army seemed dazed by her appearance and Julius wondered if she had chosen the statue of Isis deliberately, or whether it was simply the closest. He was surrounded by gasping, bloody men and his mind was blank.

‘I wonder what she …’ Julius began, then the people of Alexandria lost their stunned expressions and dropped to their knees.

Julius looked around in astonishment as Ptolemy’s soldiers knelt with them, pressing their heads to the ground. The Roman legionaries stood stunned, looking to Julius for orders.

‘Tenth and Fourth, kneel!’ Julius bellowed instinctively.

His men glanced at each other, but they did as they were ordered, though their swords were ready. Ciro, Regulus and Domitius went down onto one knee. Brutus followed as Julius’ eyes fell on him and then only Julius and Octavian were still on their feet.

‘Don’t ask me,’ Octavian said softly.

Julius looked him in the eye and waited. Octavian grimaced and knelt.

Against the foreground of thousands of bowed heads, one other group still stood on the far side of the battleground. The courtiers of the king held their heads high, watching the development in sick horror. Julius saw one of them kick out at a soldier, clearly demanding the fight go on. The man flinched, but did not rise. To Julius’ eye, they looked like a pack of painted vultures. He relished the fear he saw in their gleaming faces.

‘Where is my brother, Ptolemy? Where is my king?’ Cleopatra called to them.

Julius saw her leap lightly down and stride long-legged through the gashed flesh and kneeling men. She walked proudly and as she passed Julius she beckoned to him.

‘Where is my brother?’ she demanded again.

Her voice struck at the courtiers like a blow and they seemed to wilt as she approached, as if her presence was more than they could bear. They parted as Cleopatra walked into their midst. Julius followed closely, his glare daring them to raise a hand against her.

Ptolemy lay pale and bloodless on a cloak of dusty gold cloth. His limbs had been placed with dignity, his right hand high on his chest where it almost covered a gaping wound. His mask had been smashed and lay in the dirt at his feet. Julius looked at the childish features as Cleopatra reached down to touch her brother and felt a pang of regret at the sight of the small gladius at his waist. As he watched, Cleopatra leaned forward to kiss her brother’s lips, before sitting back. Her eyes were wide with pain, but there were no tears.

As Cleopatra sat in silence, Julius looked around for Panek, knowing he would not be far away. He narrowed his eyes as he saw dark robes he knew. Panek was sitting in the dust, his breathing slow and loud. Julius took two quick steps as his anger rekindled, but the eyes that turned at the sound were dull and the chest was ragged. Panek was dying and Julius had no more words for him.

At his back, Cleopatra rose to her feet. Not a sound came from the crowd and the breeze could be heard.

‘The king is dead,’ she said, her voice echoing across them. ‘Carry my brother to his palace, my people. Know that you lay hands on a god when you do.’

Her voice cracked then and she hesitated. Julius touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she did not seem to feel it.

‘I who am Isis, am returned to you. My own blood has been shed this day, a death caused not by the men of Rome, but by the betrayal of my court. Rise and mourn, my people. Tear your clothes and rub ash into your skin. Honour your god with grief and tears.’

The small body of Ptolemy was lifted into the air, his cloak hanging beneath him.

For a long time, Cleopatra could not drag her eyes from the body of her brother. Then she turned to face the courtiers.

‘Was it not your task to keep my brother alive?’ she murmured, reaching up to the throat of the nearest. He struggled not to flinch from the touch of her painted nails and it was somehow obscene as she caressed the length of his jaw.

‘Caesar, I would have you bind these men for punishment. They will serve my brother in his tomb.’

The courtiers prostrated themselves at last, stunned with fear and misery. Julius signalled to Domitius to bring ropes. A tenuous drift of smoke reached them as the courtiers were trussed. Cleopatra’s head snapped up as she smelled the hot and heavy air. She rounded on Julius in sudden fury.

‘What have you done to my city?’ she asked.

It was Brutus who answered. ‘You know we fired ships in the port. The flames may have reached the dock buildings.’

‘And you let them burn?’ she snapped, facing him.

Brutus looked back calmly. ‘We were under attack,’ he said, with a shrug.

Cleopatra was speechless for a moment. She turned cold eyes on Julius. ‘Your men must stop it before it spreads.’

Julius frowned at her tone and she seemed to sense the irritation that was building in him.

‘Please, Julius,’ she said, more gently.

He nodded and signalled to his generals to attend him. ‘I will do what I can,’ he said, troubled by her flashing changes of mood. She had lost a brother and regained her throne, he thought. Much could be forgiven on such a day.

Cleopatra did not leave until royal guards had brought a shaded platform for her, lifting it onto their shoulders as she lay back. Their faces were proud, Julius saw, as they bore their queen to her palace.

‘Have trenches dug for the dead, Octavian,’ Julius ordered, watching her departure. ‘Before they spoil in the heat. The Fourth had better make their way to the docks to see to this fire.’

As he spoke, a cold cinder floated above his head, riding the breeze. He watched as it settled, still dazed by events. The boy king who had clung to his arm was dead. The battle was won.

He did not know if they would have achieved victory without the queen’s intervention. The veteran legions were growing old and could not have fought on for long against the rising sun. Perhaps Cleopatra’s slave would have brought reinforcements, or perhaps Julius would have bled his life out on Egyptian sand.

In her absence, he felt an ache start in him. He could smell her scent over the bitter taste of burnt air. He had known her as a woman. To see her as a queen had disturbed and enthralled him, from the moment the crowd and soldiers had knelt in the dirt at her word. He looked after the procession heading for the palace and wondered how the citizens of Rome would react if he brought her home.

‘We are free to leave,’ Octavian said. ‘To Rome, Julius.’

Julius looked at him and he smiled. He could not imagine leaving Cleopatra behind. ‘I have fought for more years than I can remember,’ he said. ‘Rome will wait a little longer, for me.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The great library of Alexandria burned as the sun rose, thousands of scrolls making a furnace so hot that the soldiers of Rome could not come close to it. Marble columns raised by Alexander split and shattered in the furnace of a million thoughts and words. The men of the Fourth legion formed bucket chains to the docks, struggling against the sun and exhaustion until they were numb and their blistered skin was red and black with cinders. The closest buildings had been stripped and their walls and roofs saturated, but the library could not be saved.

Julius stood with Brutus, watching as the vast skeleton of roof timbers sagged and then collapsed over the work of generations. Both men were exhausted, their faces smeared with soot. They could hear the shouted orders as fire teams ran to stamp out new flames again and again, accompanied by chanting lines of bucket carriers.

‘This is an evil thing to see,’ Julius murmured.

He seemed stunned by the destruction and Brutus glanced at him, wondering if blame would fall on his shoulders. The ships carrying catapults from Canopus had been denied entry to the port, but it was galling to know the battle had been won before they could have added their strength to the siege.

‘Some of the scrolls were brought here by Alexander himself,’ Julius said, wiping a hand across his forehead. ‘Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, hundreds of others. Scholars came thousands of miles to read the works. It was said to be the greatest collection in the world.’

‘And we burned it,’ Brutus thought wryly to himself, not quite daring to say the words aloud. ‘Their work must survive in other places,’ he managed.

Julius shook his head. ‘Nothing like this. Nothing complete.’

Brutus looked at him, unable to understand his mood. For his own part, he was quietly in awe of the sheer scale of the destruction. He was fascinated by it and had spent part of the morning simply watching as the fire raged. He cared nothing for the stunned faces of the crowds.

‘There’s nothing more you can do here,’ he said.

With a grimace, Julius nodded and walked away through the silent throng that had come to see the devastation. They were eerily silent and it was strange for the men responsible to pass through them, unrecognised.

The tomb of Alexander was a temple of white stone pillars in the centre of the city, dedicated to the founding god. The sight of stern Roman legionaries kept the curious public away as Julius stood on the threshold. He found his heart racing as he looked up at the coffin of glass and gold. It was raised above head height, with white steps on all sides for worshippers to ascend. Even from the edges, Julius could see the figure resting within it. Julius swallowed spit, uncomfortably. As a boy he had drawn the tomb from a Greek tutor’s description. He had kissed Servilia at the foot of Alexander’s statue in Spain. He had read accounts of every battle and idolised the man.

He climbed the steps to the stone plinth, breathing shallowly of the incense that hung in the air. It seemed appropriate there, in surroundings of cool death without decay. Julius placed his hands on the glass, marvelling at the artisan’s skill that had produced the panes and the bronze web to hold them. When he was ready, he looked down and held his breath.

Alexander’s skin and armour had been layered in gold leaf. As Julius watched, clouds moved above and sunlight poured in from an opening. Only Julius’ shadow remained dark and he wondered in awe at the glory of it.

‘My image is on you, Alexander,’ he whispered, committing every aspect of the moment to memory. The eyes were sunken and the nose little more than a hole, but Julius could see the bones and gold flesh like stone, and guess at how the Greek must have looked in life. It was not an old face.

At first he had thought it wrong to have Alexander treated as one of the gods of Egypt. There, in that temple, it seemed an appropriate honour. Julius glanced around him, but the entrances were blocked by the solid backs of his soldiers. He was alone.

‘I wonder what you would say to me,’ he murmured in Greek. ‘I wonder whether you would approve of a brash Roman standing in your city.’

He thought of Alexander’s children and the fact that none of them had survived to adulthood. The Greek king’s first-born son had been strangled at fourteen. Julius shook his head, looking into the distances of mortality. It was impossible not to contemplate his own death in such a place. Would another man stand over him a hundred years after he was dead? Better to be ashes. Without sons, everything he had achieved would slip away. His daughter could not command the respect of the Senate and, like Alexander’s, her son might never be allowed to survive. Julius frowned in irritation. He had named Octavian as his heir, but he could not be certain the younger man had the skill to navigate the treacheries of Rome. In truth, he could not believe anyone else had the gift to build on his achievement. He had come so far, but unless he lived to begin a male line, it would not be enough.

In the distance, he could hear the din of the city. In the silence of the temple, his age bore down heavily on him.

Ptolemy’s body lay in state in a room lined with gold. Images of Horus and Osiris were everywhere as he began the death path. His cold flesh had been washed and purified and then his left side had been split open and his organs removed. There was no judgement waiting for royalty. When the rituals ended, Ptolemy would take his place with the gods, as an equal.

When Julius was brought to see the boy king, he found the air heavy and hot. Curls of sweet smoke lifted lazily from the red hearts of enormous braziers. Ptolemy’s body had been packed with salt natron to dry the flesh, and the bitter tang mingled with the fumes and made Julius dizzy. Alexander’s tomb had been cold in comparison, but better suited to the realities of death.

Cleopatra knelt before the body of her brother and prayed. Julius stood watching, knowing he could not bring himself to honour an enemy who had caused the death of some of his most loyal men. The boy’s eyes were sewn shut and his skin gleamed with sticky oils. Julius wanted to gag at the sight of the four jars around him, knowing what they contained. He could not understand the process, or the reverence that Cleopatra displayed. She too had been threatened by her brother’s army, but she honoured him in death with rituals that would last almost two months before he was finally interred in his tomb.

In a rhythmic chant, Cleopatra prayed aloud in the language of her people and Julius saw her eyes were clear and calm. He had not seen her weep since the day Ptolemy died and he knew he still could not understand her. Her army had returned from Syria to take their places around the royal palace and there had already been incidents between the Romans and the desert-hardened warriors. Julius had been forced to have three of his men whipped for starting a drunken fracas in the city, leaving two men dead in their wake. Two more awaited punishment for using loaded dice with Cleopatra’s soldiers, relieving them of their weapons as well as all the silver in their pouches.

The waiting chafed on him, as the death rites wound through to their conclusion. Julius had thought the boy would be quickly in the ground, knowing what the summer’s heat could do, even to royal flesh. Instead, the days crept by with narcotic slowness and he was growing as restless as his men.

Octavian had made his feelings clear. He wanted to return to Rome and to the rewards they had all earned. Julius too could feel the city beckoning him over sea and land. He wanted to ride under the gates and into the forum once more. He had achieved every dream he had ever had as a boy. His enemies were dust and ashes, but still he waited.

He watched as Cleopatra began a new ritual, lighting clay pots of incense from a taper. Death was too close to life, in Alexandria. The people seemed to prepare for it all their lives and lived with the certainty of another existence. It made them fatalistic, but with a confidence that was as alien in its way as anything he had seen. Julius could not share it.

Cleopatra rose and bowed her head to the shrunken figure of Ptolemy. She took two steps backwards and knelt once more before rising.

‘You are a patient man, Julius. I understand your people move faster than we over such things.’

‘There is a dignity to death here,’ he replied, searching for the right words.

She raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused. ‘And a tactful man,’ she said. ‘Will you walk through the gardens with me? The smoke is like a drug after so long and I want to breathe.’

Relieved, Julius took her arm and they made their way out into the sun. She did not seem to notice as slaves prostrated themselves as she passed, not daring to look on the queen who mourned her brother.

The warm air outside helped to clear Julius’ thoughts and he took deep breaths of it, feeling his spirits rise. Seeing the body of the boy king had been disquieting. He felt as if a weight had lifted as he breathed the scent of living gardens. Even that pleasure was tainted as he remembered running through the same paths and arbours to capture Ptolemy in his bed. It had seemed an adventure then, without consequence. The results of it lay in the king’s tomb, and in ashes on the docks.

‘Your men have told me a great deal about you,’ Cleopatra said.

Julius shot a sharp glance at her.

‘You have been blessed to survive the battles they described,’ she continued.

Julius did not reply, instead pausing on a path of glassy stone to touch a red bloom, leaning out from green leaves.

‘They say you are a god of war, did you know that?’ she said.

‘I’ve heard it said,’ Julius replied uncomfortably. ‘They boast on my behalf.’

‘Then you did not defeat a million men in Gaul?’

Julius looked at her as she reached out to the same flower and caressed its petals. ‘I did, though it took ten years of my life,’ he replied.

She used her nails to nip through the stalk, grazing the flower over her lips as she breathed its scent. Again, he wondered how Rome would react if he brought her there. The citizens would probably adore Cleopatra, but the Senate would reject her claims to divinity. Rome had enough gods. They would not dare to object to a foreign mistress, but taking her as a wife would raise hackles right across the great houses. In addition, he was not sure if she would even want to come back with him.

‘You pardoned your general, Brutus, when he had betrayed you,’ she said, walking on. ‘That is a strange act for a ruler of men. Yet they still respect you. More, they revere you, did you know it? They would follow you anywhere and not because of your birth, but because of who you are.’

Julius tapped the fingers of one hand on the wrist of the other behind his back, unsure how to respond. ‘Whoever you have been speaking to has let his mouth run away with him,’ he said after a pause.

She laughed, tossing the flower onto the path behind them. ‘You are a strange man, Julius. I have seen you with them, remember? You can be as arrogant as a king, as arrogant as I am myself. We are well suited to one another, though I think you would not like the slow pace of existence here. My country has seen five thousand years of life and death. We have grown old and tired under this sun and your men are young in comparison. They have the energy of youth and think nothing of running through lands like a summer storm. It is a frightening thing to see, in comparison to my sleepy Alexandria, yet I love it.’

She turned to face him, her nearness intoxicating. Without thinking, he reached out and held her by her slim waist.

‘My advisers warn me daily that you are too dangerous to remain in Egypt,’ she said. ‘They see the lust and the strength and nothing else in your men. They remind me that you burned my beautiful library and your soldiers laughed and played dice in the ashes.’

‘They are fighting men,’ Julius replied. ‘You cannot expect …’

Her laughter silenced him and a slow blush appeared on his cheeks and neck.

‘You are so quick to defend them!’ she said. She reached up and kissed the underside of his jaw and laid her head against his chest.

‘My advisers do not rule here,’ she said, ‘and they have no answer when I tell them you returned Cyprus to us. That was not the act of a destroyer. It gained you great good will amongst my people. They saw it as a sign that the old glories are on the rise again. They watch us and wait to see what we will accomplish together.’

Julius did not want to spoil the mood, but he had to speak. ‘There will come a time when I have to return to my city,’ he said. ‘I will wait until the funeral is finished for your brother, but I must go back.’

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes with a troubled gaze. He could feel her distance herself from him. ‘This is what you want?’ she said, her voice revealing nothing of her thoughts.

Julius shook his head. ‘No. I want to stay here and forget the years of battle. I want you at my side.’

The tension vanished from her as if it had not been there. She reached up and brought his head down to her scented mouth.

When they broke apart, her face was as flushed as his and her eyes were bright.

‘It is not so much longer until I am free,’ she said. ‘If you will stay with me then, I will show you the great Nile. I will have grapes and fruit lowered into your mouth by the most beautiful girls in Egypt. Musicians will play for us each evening as we slip through the waters. I will be yours for every night, for every hour. Will you stay for that?’

‘I do not need the most beautiful girls in Egypt,’ he replied. ‘And your music makes my ears ache. But if you are there and mine alone, I will leave Rome to fend for herself for a while. She has survived without me this long, after all.’

Even as he said it, he knew it was true, but still it astonished him. He had always dreamed of returning in triumph to the city of his birth, to all the honours and rewards he had won over the years. Yet with a word from her, none of it mattered. Perhaps, just for a little while, he could be free of the care and worry that seemed the core of his life. Perhaps he could throw it all off and feel the sun on his face with a beautiful, enrapturing girl who was queen of Egypt.

‘I am too old for you,’ he said softly, wanting her to deny it.

Cleopatra laughed and kissed him again. ‘You have shown me you are not!’ she said, dropping her hand to his thigh and letting it rest there. He could feel the heat of her hand on his bare skin and as always, it aroused him unmercifully.

‘If we had a child,’ she said, ‘he would inherit Egypt and Rome together. He would be another Alexander.’

Julius looked off into the distance, his mind bright with dreams. ‘I would give anything to see that. I have no other sons,’ he said, smiling.

Her hand moved slightly on his thigh, making him catch his breath. ‘Then pray to your gods that the one I carry is a boy,’ she said, seriously. He reached for her, but she slipped from his grasp. ‘When the mourning is finished, I will show you the mysteries of Egypt, in me,’ she called over her shoulder.

Julius watched her go in frustration, overwhelmed by her words. He could hardly take in what he had learned and he would have called after her, but she vanished back into the palace with light steps.

The noise of celebration in Alexandria was enough to leave the ears of the Romans ringing and numb. Cymbals and horns crashed and moaned on every street and the voices of the people were raised in a great shout of joy to send Ptolemy into the arms of the gods. Julius shuddered at the memory of the final rites he had witnessed.

The boy king’s flesh had been dried like old leather when the chanting priests came for him for the last time. Cleopatra had not insisted Julius be there, but he had been drawn to the last ritual, knowing he would never again have the chance to see the secrets of Egyptian death.

He had watched as the priests took a chisel formed of meteoric iron and broke open Ptolemy’s lips with a rocking motion across the mouth. Without the translator Cleopatra had sent to him, Julius would have been lost and appalled at the apparent desecration of the body. The man’s sibilant whisper into his ear still gave him chills in memory.

‘Osiris the king, awake!’ the priest had said. ‘I split open your mouth for you with iron of the gods. Live again, rejuvenated every day, while the gods protect you as their own.’

The fumes of incense had swirled around the tiny figure of the boy king and when the last rites were complete, the priests had moved outside into the air, to give the news to the city. The tomb had been sealed behind them with bronze, gold and brass.

The horns had begun then, sounding in their thousands. The noise had built and built and every lamp and brazier was lit, making Alexandria shine under the heavens. The gods would see the light and know one of their own was ready to come to them.

Julius watched the festival of death from the high windows of the royal palace, Brutus at his side. Octavian had gone down into the city to lose himself in drink and women with many of the other officers. On the night of a king’s death, there were no taboos and Julius hoped his men would survive the feasting and debauchery without causing riots. It was probably a vain hope, but the responsibility would be on another’s shoulders for a while. Cleopatra’s barge rocked in the swell of the port, waiting to take him along the coast. They would have to survive without him until he returned. The news Cleopatra had brought overshadowed anything else.

As if he shared the thought, Brutus spoke, looking out over a city lit as brightly as day. He could sense the strange mood of excitement in Julius, though he could not guess at the reason.

‘When will you return, do you know?’

‘Before the year ends,’ Julius replied. ‘The legions have their quarters here. They have earned a rest. I have sent letters to Mark Antony in Rome. In a month or so the back pay will come. Let them take houses here, Brutus, while they wait for me. Let them grow fat and sleepy.’

‘You know them better than that,’ Brutus replied. ‘We’ve had to punish two more for looting the temples already. I’ll have to take them out into the desert after the first weeks, or anything that can be lifted will vanish from Alexandria. As it is, the markets in Rome will be glutted with artefacts when we return.’

Julius chuckled, and Brutus smiled. The darkest moments of the past seemed to have been forgotten between them, and his strength was returning. By the time the sun rose each day, Brutus had completed an hour of heavy sword practice with Domitius. He had lost some of the speed that had won tournaments, but he was no longer weak. He had not told Julius of a centurion who had sneered at him the day before. Brutus had taken him out to the training yard and beaten the man almost to death.

Perhaps Julius knew, Brutus thought, looking at him.

‘Octavian is furious with my return to rank,’ Brutus said. ‘Or because of your pleasure cruise on the Nile. It is difficult to be sure which has annoyed him more.’

Julius shook his head, exasperated. ‘He wants me to spend my final years in sleepy Senate debates.’ He snorted. ‘I suppose we seem ancient to the younger ones, fit for nothing more than patting each other on the back for past glories.’

Brutus glanced at the alert, trim figure of his general, burnt a dark brown. If anything, Julius had been invigorated by the months in Egypt, no small part of it due to the prospect of peace at last. He and Brutus had suffered decades of war and privation. Perhaps the prize was simply an end to striving. Brutus could not imagine him contemplating cruises if Pompey still lived or Sulla threatened his city.

Brutus could not love the man who had pardoned him at Pharsalus, though when Julius had given him command in Alexandria, he felt a brief, uncluttered joy.

He sighed inwardly. Rome seemed far away, but he knew he should think of the future. There were years ahead to forget the shame of his defection to Pompey. Julius had trusted him with authority and the message would not be lost on the legions. It was time to rebuild a career that should have ended at Pharsalus. After all, Rome had been built by men who had survived defeat.

Brutus looked steadily at Julius, missing the old friendship. There were precious moments when he thought they shared an understanding impossible to voice. Yet without warning, he could feel an old jealousy and a destructive pride. With time, perhaps that too would ease.

‘This is an old land,’ Julius said suddenly, interrupting Brutus’ thoughts. ‘It could be a second Rome, a twin capital of an empire. I’m not too old to dream of that. I know there is work ahead, but for a little while I want to forget it all and see the Nile with my queen.’

Brutus dropped his head an inch, wondering at the choice of words. ‘Will you take her back with you?’ he asked.

‘I think I will,’ Julius replied, smiling slowly at the thought. ‘She brings new life to my bones. With her at my side, I could make an empire to rival Alexander’s own. It would be fitting to make his city the second heart of it.’

Brutus felt himself growing cold. ‘So you will be a king? Like Ptolemy?’

Julius turned to him, his dark eyes seeming to bore into his oldest friend.

‘What else would you have me call myself? I am the first in Rome. Rome is first in the world.’

‘What of my mother, Servilia? Will you cast her off as you did Pompeia? Or your wife, Calpurnia? Will you divorce her as well?’

Julius hesitated, blind to Brutus’ growing anger. ‘It is too early to plan such things. When I am home, I will do what is necessary. Calpurnia will not resist, I know.’

‘The Senate will resist your ambition,’ Brutus said softly.

Julius laughed. ‘They would not dare to, my friend. They will honour me and they will honour the queen I bring home. Rome was built on kings. It will be reborn from my line.’

‘From your daughter?’ Brutus asked.

Julius’ eyes were bright as he looked across the city. He gripped the stone windowsill like its owner. ‘I cannot hold the news, Brutus. It is too much for me. From my son, who will be born. The queen is pregnant, and her omen-takers say it will be a boy. A son to rule two empires.’ He laughed aloud in wonder. It had to be a boy, he thought. The gods would not be so cruel.

Brutus took a step away from him, his calm shattering. What friendship could survive such a relentless ambition? Brutus saw that Julius had not sated his appetite in Egypt. He would return to Rome with greater dreams than any one of those they had destroyed. Not Sulla, not Cato, not even Pompey had reached so far.

‘The Republic …’ Brutus began, shocked into stammering.

Julius shook his head. ‘… was a glorious experiment. I honour it, but it has served its purpose. When I return to Rome, we will begin an empire.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Nile bore them south through lands made lush by its waters. Birds soared and shrieked in their thousands, rising into the air with the passing of the royal barge. White egrets stalked amongst cattle as they made their way down to the shallows in the evenings. In such a setting, Julius allowed the cares of years to fall from him. He had not suffered a fit for many months and he felt strong. Rome was far away and he lost himself in Cleopatra.

They made love as the whim took them, by day or night. He had found it difficult at first to ignore the slaves on the barge, with no more than a canopy of fine silk to protect the queen from their gaze. She who had been attended from birth had laughed at his embarrassment, prodding at his dignity until he had slipped the robe from her shoulders and kissed her skin, turning her laughter into a deeper rhythm of breath.

There were eight oars on either side of the barge to ease them through the waters. The blades had been dipped in silver and shone like sunken coins as they sliced beneath the surface. The Nile wound through valleys and vast flats and plains as if it had no end and there were times when Julius could imagine the journey continuing for ever.

In the evenings, he talked for hours with her astrologer, Sosigenes, who had predicted the birth of a son. The man had hesitated to speak to the Roman leader at first, but as the weeks slid by Julius fell naturally into conversation with him. He was hungry for confirmation of the omens Sosigenes had cast and though at first he doubted the power of augury, his hope turned slowly to belief. The Greek had a sharp mind and Julius spent many hours discussing the course of planets, the seasons and even the calendar with him. Sosigenes had struggled not to show his contempt for the Roman system and said even the Egyptian years were flawed. By his calculations, three hundred and sixty-five days was almost correct, needing only another day in every fourth spring to be perfect. Julius demanded proof of his assertions and the man rose to the challenge, covering the deck with sheets of papyrus marked in charcoal until Julius was dizzy with the flights of planets and stars. In Rome, the high priest took or added days each year, but Sosigenes’ love of simplicity and order was appealing. Julius wondered how the Senate would react if he imposed such a system on the citizens of Rome.

As Cleopatra’s pregnancy progressed, she felt the heat more fiercely and spent the afternoons in sleep behind the awnings. Julius was left to stare for hours at the sinister shapes of crocodiles amongst the bulrushes, waiting patiently for an ibis or calf to come too close. Seeing them snatch at prey was the only touch of fire to interrupt the long dream of the Nile. The silver oars rose and fell, only still when the breeze filled the purple sail above their heads. Julius had Sosigenes tell him stories when the sun was too hot to bear. He let the legends wash over him until he felt he was a part of the drifting landscape, part of its future.

In the cool of the pre-dawn, Cleopatra’s slaves bathed and dressed her, painting her eyes in black kohl that lifted up at the edges. Julius was naked and lay on one elbow, watching the ritual. He was no longer uncomfortable with the slave girls, though he had refused Cleopatra’s offer for them to entertain him more intimately. He did not think they were unwilling. In fact, the girl dressing her queen had made her interest evident as she bathed him with cloths on the deck. More of the cool water had drifted across her full breasts than down his body and she had laughed at his reaction, teasing him. Perhaps it was the heat, or the semi-naked presence of the slaves, but he felt erotically charged by the days on the Nile, refreshed by swimming where the water was clear, rubbed down with oil by skilful hands, fed as well as a breeding bull. He ran a hand lightly down his stomach, feeling the muscle there. The dreaming life was like water to a dry soul after so long at war. Yet even there, with the sun rising, he knew he could not rest for ever. The itch to act was always at the back of his mind, growing daily. Rome waited for him and it took a greater and greater effort to ignore the call.

He could see the swelling of the child she would bear. He lay entranced until it was hidden from view by a cloth so thin he could see the line of her legs through it. When she came to look down on him, she raised her eyebrows at the smile that played on his face.

‘Will you be walking naked amongst the people then?’ she asked sweetly.

Julius chuckled. ‘I was watching you and thinking that I am going to wake up suddenly and be in some tent somewhere, with the battle horns blowing and my officers roaring for one last charge.’

She did not smile at his words. She had heard him call out too many times in his sleep and woken to see his face twisted in pain and anger. He did not remember his dreams, or at least they did not seem to trouble him in the day. Her eyes travelled over the scars on his body and she shook her head.

‘Dress, Caesar, and see something new,’ she said.

He opened his mouth to ask the question, but she put a hand down to his lips and then left him alone to be dressed by her bright-eyed slaves. With a sigh, he rose and beckoned for them to bring his lightest robe.

When he came on deck he found the barge was edging towards the shore. A town like many others reached to the water’s edge, with a small wooden dock extending out into the brown waters. Red geese flew honking overhead as he saw the planking had been laid with fresh rushes in a path leading away from the river. Hundreds of people lined the shore in a blaze of coloured robes and every eye seemed to be on him. Julius stared back uncomfortably as the crew worked the steering oars to bring them in to dock. A platform wide enough for a rank of legionaries was brought up and attached to the side, resting in the clean path.

Cleopatra walked to it and the crowd knelt in the mud, pressing their heads down as she stepped onto the land. Drums sounded on the edges and when she looked back at Julius he saw the cold features that had dominated the army in Alexandria. He had fallen out of the habit of wearing a sword on the river, and his fingers twitched at empty air. He followed her, his sandals crunching on the rushes. When he reached her side, she turned to him and smiled.

‘I wanted you to see this,’ she said.

Her bodyguard of ten clattered onto the rickety dock behind them, taking up positions. She walked through the crowd with Julius and he saw that the line of kneeling men and women extended right through the town.

‘How did they know you were coming?’ he murmured.

‘It is the anniversary of the day I became queen,’ she said. ‘They know when it is time.’

The town was clean and well kept, though it seemed deserted, with every man, woman and child kneeling on the road. Cleopatra reached down to touch them at intervals, and in her wake he saw tears of gratitude.

The path of rushes ended at the entrance of a tiny square, swept meticulously clean of dust. Her guards moved ahead to search a temple of red marble that gleamed in the morning sun. The silence was eerie and Julius was reminded of a deserted village in Spain where he had once ridden with Servilia. He had seen a statue of Alexander there and it was unnerving to have the experience echoed in the very lands of the king.

He found his thoughts drifting, mourning all that had been lost since that other time and place. The last vestiges of innocence had been ground out of him in Gaul and Greece. Perhaps that was why he had shed tears at the sight of Pompey’s dead face. Julius remembered the young boy he had once been, but it was all too far away to know him well. His father, Marius, Tubruk; they were all shadows. There had been too many tragedies, too many memories closed and barred away, somewhere deep. He had dug a wolf trap for Suetonius and let him live. If this Egyptian morning had given him the chance again, he would have killed him without a second thought.

Perhaps it was age that brought the hardness, or the brutal choices of a campaign. He had pulled men back, knowing it would mean the death of other loyal soldiers. He had saved the many at the expense of the few. He had directed surgeons to those who had a chance to survive. He had even sent good men to Pompey’s camp, knowing they could not deliver his message and live. He thought such cold decisions seeped into the bone after a while, numbing the joy of life. Even the sun of Egypt could not reach him, though Cleopatra could. He found his eyes were stinging, inexplicably.

The guards returned and Julius and Cleopatra walked slowly into the gloom, their steps echoing under a domed roof, high above them. It was clearly a place of worship and Julius wondered why she had brought him there. The walls were decorated with reliefs of star patterns in yellow agate, darker lines running through the stone like veins of blood. To his astonishment, he thought he could hear the mewing of cats and as he looked for the source of the sound he saw a dozen of them padding out towards Cleopatra.

Murmuring words in Egyptian, she reached down and let them rub themselves against her hands. ‘Are they not beautiful?’ she said, kneeling in their midst.

Julius could only nod, wondering which unfortunate had the task of cleaning the marble floors after them. She saw his expression and her laughter echoed in the space.

‘They are the guardians of the temple, Julius. Can you see their claws? Who would dare to enter here against such hunters?’

As she spoke, the cats preened and purred around her, content. She stood gently and they followed her, their tails waving lazily upright.

In the far end of the temple was a statue that filled a concave wall. Julius glanced up at it and missed his step in confusion. It towered above them both, so that Cleopatra’s head came up to the knee of the white stone.

Julius could only stare from one to the other. In creamy marble, he saw the features of the queen staring down at him. The statue held a boy child in her arms and looked outwards in pride. It was an expression he knew well.

Cleopatra saw his upwards gaze and smiled. ‘This is Isis, Caesar, mother of Horus, whom she holds.’

‘With your face,’ Julius said, wonderingly.

‘The temple is a thousand years old, before Alexander came here. Yet she lives in me.’

He looked at her as the cats rubbed themselves against her legs.

‘My son will be a god, Julius; your son. Do you understand now?’

He did not say that the face of the statue was fractionally different as he studied it. The woman in stone was a little older than Cleopatra, and as the first shock faded he could see the line of the jaw was different. The eyes were wider spaced and yet … it was astonishing. She nodded, pleased with his reaction.

‘Will you pray to her, with me?’ she said.

Julius frowned. ‘If she is in you, how can you pray?’ he asked.

Her teeth showed as she grinned. ‘So very blunt, Roman. I should have expected it. It is a mystery, is it not? I carry the flame hidden in flesh, yet she is still there. When I travel the dead path, it will be a return, not a beginning. Understand that and you understand me. It would please me to have you pray to her. She will bless our son and keep him safe.’

Julius could not refuse as she gazed at him. He knelt and bowed his head, pleased there were no other eyes to see him do it.

The scribes’ quarter of the royal palace at Alexandria was almost a town in itself, with thousands of scholars working within its walls. After the destruction of the great library, the lamps were lit all night and day as the written works of masters were brought in from all over Egypt and Greece and copied with painstaking care.

One wing of the sprawling annexe had been taken over by the Roman administration and Brutus had claimed the best rooms for himself. At his order, legion craftsmen had stripped out the statuary and gold, crating and packing it where possible to be shipped home. In its place, they lined the walls in light, carved oak, building a Roman sanctuary. New barracks had been built for the Tenth and Fourth, after one too many incidents of trophy-taking in the city. Brutus had let them run a little wild at first, but it was clear that discipline was suffering after only a few weeks and he had been forced to impose the harsh order they knew best. There had been some who complained and even a petition signed by idiots who ended the day of its delivery marching out to desert postings. The city was quiet and, in the absence of Julius, Brutus was thoroughly enjoying his freedom.

Those men who had taken advantage of his weakness after Pharsalus found themselves shovelling excrement in the hot sun until they collapsed. He had taken care to remember every face and took enormous satisfaction from giving them the dirtiest tasks he could find. More than one had suffered from cuts and scratches that quickly became infected. Brutus had made a point of visiting them in the sickrooms, as any other conscientious officer would. Good Roman sewers would run under Alexandria by the time Julius returned.

In the meeting room, Brutus watched Octavian carefully, enjoying his struggle.

‘… and I am passing the problem on to you, General,’ Brutus continued. ‘Julius has summoned these new legions to Egypt and they must be fed, paid and found barracks. If you are incapable of carrying out your duty, I will …’

‘He said nothing to me about them,’ Octavian interrupted, making Brutus frown.

The tension between them had not lessened since Julius’ departure. At first, Brutus had thought Octavian would refuse the authority Julius had placed in him. He still remembered the younger man’s threats on a Greek dock and part of Brutus wanted Octavian to dare them again now that he had his strength. The confrontation had not come, though the effort of will had been perfectly visible to the other senior officers. Octavian seemed content to walk a fine line between duty and insolence and Brutus was willing to play the game for as long as Octavian could bear it. It was always easier to press down than to push up.

‘In my experience,’ Brutus said airily, ‘Julius is not in the habit of consulting his juniors on every decision. His letters have brought a garrison from Greece to Egypt. Whether they are an escort home or a force of occupation, I really do not care. Until his return, they are your responsibility.’

Malice glinted in Octavian’s face and Brutus sat up in his chair, anticipating the first crack in the calm. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to have Octavian sent home in disgrace. Regardless of circumstances, the Senate would be harsh with any man who disobeyed an order from his appointed commander. If Octavian drew his sword or raised a fist, he would be finished.

Octavian saw the eagerness and at first controlled his dislike. He was on the point of saluting when his anger surfaced uncontrollably.

‘Is it that you don’t want to see the faces of men you fought with as a traitor?’ he snapped. ‘Is that why you won’t go out to see them?’

Brutus smiled slowly in triumph. ‘Now, is that any way to speak to your superior, boy? Is it? I think you have gone a little too far today. I suppose I should demand an apology, in case Julius asks me about it afterwards.’

Octavian was not a fool. Brutus watched him weigh the difference in their ages and positions. The younger man made a decision and became calm.

‘You are not fit for your rank,’ Octavian said. ‘He should have known better than to trust you again.’

With infinite satisfaction, Brutus rose. It had been an enjoyable month of goading the younger man, but he had known the moment would come.

‘I can have Domitius come in here and do this formally, or you and I can go out to find a quiet place and I’ll teach you manners. What’s it to be?’

Octavian had come too far to back down from any threat. He tapped his fingers on his sword hilt in answer. Brutus grinned, delighted with the morning’s work.

‘I will enter it in the staff record as a training session,’ he said. He gestured to the door. ‘You go first, boy. I’ll be behind you all the way.’

Legion guards saluted automatically as the two men strode past them. Brutus followed Octavian down a flight of stairs and a corridor that still bore the marks of Roman treasure hunting. Brutus rolled his shoulders as he walked, loosening the muscles.

The training yard was busy with men, as it was every morning. Dressed in only loincloths and sandals, the sun-darkened Romans used heavy leather balls and iron weights to keep themselves trim. Others fought in pairs with the lead-weighted practice swords, the clack and clatter loud after the silence of the halls.

‘Return to your duties, gentlemen,’ Brutus said without taking his eyes from Octavian. He waited patiently as the soldiers put away their equipment and left them alone. He could feel their curiosity, but an audience would shape the manner of the lesson he intended to give. He did not want to feel restrained.

When the last man had left, Octavian turned and drew his sword in a smooth motion, stalking across the sandy ground to one of the fighting circles. Brutus watched him for weakness, reminded that he too had won silver armour in Julius’ tournament. He was fast and young, but Brutus drew his own gladius as if it were a part of his arm. He had searched for it amongst Egyptian dead, before the scavengers could bear it away. He had trained through pain to recover the skill for exactly this moment.

Brutus took position opposite Octavian and raised his sword into first position.

‘I remember you threatening to have my arm rebroken,’ he murmured, beginning to circle. ‘Would you like to try it now?’

Octavian ignored him, reversing step so quickly that it almost caught Brutus by surprise. The first blow was a test of his strength, with Octavian’s weight behind it. Brutus took it easily, with a clang of metal.

‘You mustn’t tense your hip like that, boy. It restricts your movement,’ Brutus said.

For a few moments, they fought in silence as Octavian tried a combination of cuts that ended with a lunge at his knee. Brutus batted the blade aside.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘Though I see Domitius has been working with you. He loves that little lunge.’

He saw that Octavian was circling too closely and darted at him. His sword was countered, but Brutus managed to hammer a punch into Octavian’s cheek before they broke apart. Octavian touched his face and held up the palm to show there was no blood.

‘Are you thinking this is just to the first cut, boy?’ Brutus said. ‘You’re as naive as Julius. Perhaps that’s why he likes you.’

As he spoke, he began a series of strikes that built in speed. Both men crashed together, and Octavian used his elbow to knock Brutus’ head back.

‘You’re getting old,’ Octavian said as they circled once more.

Brutus glared at him, feeling the truth of the words. He had lost the blinding speed of his youth, but he had experience enough to humble one more young dog, he was sure of it. ‘I wonder if Julius shared his plans with you for when he returns?’ he said. Both men were sweating by then. Brutus saw Octavian’s eyes narrow and he went on, watching for an attack. ‘This city is to become the second capital of his empire, did he tell you that? I doubt he bothered. You were always first in line to kiss his feet. What does it matter if you kneel to a general or an emperor?’

The response was fast and the clash of swords went on and on until the breath came hard from Brutus’ lungs. There was no weakness in his defence and Octavian could batter all day before he found a way through. The younger man sensed his confidence and backed to the edge of the circle.

‘You’re a bag of old wind,’ Octavian said. ‘A liar, a traitor, a coward.’

His eyes glittered as he waited for the attack, but Brutus only laughed, confusing him.

‘Ask him when he returns, then, boy. Ask him what he thinks about your beloved Republic. He told me …’ They met again and Brutus cut a stripe down Octavian’s leg. The blood ran like water and he continued cheerfully, knowing weakness would follow. ‘He told me the Senate’s day was over, but perhaps he will lie to you, to spare your tender pride.’

They circled more slowly and Brutus did not force the pace.

‘What did you think, that we were fighting for the Republic?’ Brutus asked, mockingly. ‘Maybe once, when we were all young, but he has a queen now and she carries his son.’

‘You liar!’ Octavian roared, leaping in.

His leg felt like it was on fire, but even through the pain he knew that Brutus was letting him tire himself. A poor stroke let Brutus gash his left hand before he could jerk it back. He clenched the fist in reflex and blood dripped between his knuckles.

‘I wonder if I wasn’t on the right side at Pharsalus, after all,’ Brutus said, switching gaits and leaving Octavian to stumble. He looked dazed, though whether it was the words or the wounds, Brutus did not know.

‘Don’t pretend to be dying, boy. I’ve seen that trick a few times before,’ he jeered.

Octavian straightened subtly and his sword lashed out in a perfect lunge that Brutus missed. It jolted against his shoulder plate, snapping the leather ties. Brutus swore, before yanking it loose with his free hand and tossing it away.

‘That beautiful girl is carrying a son. Now why would that make you angry?’ Brutus paused, breaking the rhythm. ‘It can’t be that you expected to inherit? Mind you, why not? He’s bald and ancient compared to you. Why would you not look forward to sitting in his place one day? Gods, it must eat at you to know it won’t happen. When his son is born, how much time do you think he’ll find for a distant relative?’

His laughter was cruel, and against the cry of his instinct Octavian was stung again into an attack. Brutus swayed out of its path and crashed another blow into the same cheek, splitting it.

‘You look a proper butcher’s shop, did you know?’ Brutus said. ‘You’re getting slower every moment.’

They were both panting by then and yet as they met they struck to kill. Brutus kneed upwards into Octavian’s groin as they came together, but a lucky blow opened a gash on his leg, making him cry out.

‘Hurts, does it?’ Octavian snarled at him.

‘Stings a little, yes,’ Brutus replied, coming in fast.

The swords blurred as they cracked and rang against each other, both men straining with all their strength. Blows landed and cut without being felt in the heat of the struggle. The silver armour dented and then Octavian grunted as Brutus’ sword punctured through the metal into his side. He raised a hand to it, gasping. The light in the yard seemed too bright and his legs were wet with blood. He slipped to his knees, expecting the bite of a sword at his throat.

Brutus kicked his gladius away onto the sand and stood looking down at him.

‘Nothing that can’t be stitched, boy,’ he said, resting his hands on his knees. ‘I wonder if I should break your arm?’

The oval gash in his thigh ached terribly, but he ignored it. He’d lived through worse.

Octavian looked up. ‘If he wants an empire, I’ll give it to him,’ he said.

Brutus sighed as he brought back his fist and knocked him onto his back, unconscious. ‘You really are a fool,’ he told the prone figure.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Horns blew across Alexandria as the royal barge was sighted in the last days of summer. Brutus sent a dozen trim Roman galleys to meet them and food enough for banquets was given out from the dock stores. The purple sail could be seen from a great distance and hundreds of boats joined the exodus through the mouth of the port, gathering around the queen’s ship like a flight of brightly coloured birds.

Though the shorter days were on them, the air was still heavy with heat. Cleopatra’s slaves fanned her as she stood on deck and watched the fleet come out. Her advancing pregnancy had brought an end to the peaceful days on the Nile and she could no longer find comfort in any position for long. Julius had learned to tread carefully as her temper frayed, and at the sight of Roman galleys her eyes narrowed in a flash of anger.

‘You have brought your army here?’ she said, looking at him.

‘A tiny part of it,’ he replied. ‘You would not have me leave Alexandria undefended when you come to Rome.’

‘My warriors have seen to our defence over the years,’ she replied, indignantly.

Julius chose his words with care. ‘I would not take even a small risk with Egypt,’ he murmured. ‘The galleys protect our son’s inheritance. Trust me in this. I have given you my oath.’

She felt the child move within her and she shuddered as she listened. Had she lost her throne to the Roman? Egypt had grown tired over five thousand years and she knew her enemies watched for weakness. The young strength of Rome would keep the wolves away from her lands, like a flaming torch thrust into their faces. Julius could fire her blood when he talked of twin capitals, but the sight of his legionaries swarming on her docks made her fear. He could be kind as a man, as a lover, but as a general he was a destroying storm and her city had come to his notice.

Julius saw her shiver and took a shawl from one of her slave girls. He placed it about Cleopatra’s shoulders and his tenderness brought tears to her eyes.

‘You must believe me,’ he said softly. ‘This is a beginning.’

Legion centuries stood in perfect order on the docks as the queen’s crew moored the barge. As Julius and Cleopatra stepped down, the Romans cheered the return of the consul and victor of Rome. A litter was brought for Cleopatra, removing her from the vulgar gaze behind a canopy raised on the shoulders of slaves. Julius stood on her right side, taking in the changes that had occurred in his absence.

The busy port had a sense of order that had been missing before. In the distance, he could see legionaries on patrol. New custom houses had been built or commandeered to control the wealth of trade that came through Alexandria. Brutus had clearly been busy.

As the procession made its way through the city towards the royal palace, the presence of legions became even more obvious. Soldiers stood to attention on every corner, saluting as Julius came into sight. The citizens of Alexandria who might have clustered around their queen were held back by solid barriers at every street mouth, leaving the main path clear.

Julius winced to himself at how the casual efficiency must look to Cleopatra. He had sent his orders to Greece before leaving, but the reality of seeing twenty thousand more of his countrymen descend on the city was strangely disturbing. Alexandria had been an alien place when he arrived. His men were busy turning it into an outpost of Rome.

At the palace, Cleopatra’s slaves gathered around her in a flurry of excitement. Her feet hurt and she was weary, but as she stood again on the steps, she turned to Julius before entering the cooler rooms within.

‘How can I trust you?’ she said.

‘You carry my son, Cleopatra. Even if you did not, you are more valuable to me than anything else. Let me protect you.’

She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it, compressing her lips into a thin line of disapproval.

Julius sighed. Thousands of his soldiers were in view. ‘Very well, my queen. Let me show my men, at least.’

Without another word, he knelt on the steps before her.

The tension slid away from Cleopatra as she looked down on his flushed face. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. ‘I have never known a man to kneel with such pride,’ she murmured into his ear, making him laugh.

Julius summoned his Gaul generals to him after he had eaten and bathed. The new officers from Greece would have to wait a little longer for an audience. He chose the room Brutus had been using in the scribes’ quarter and looked around him in interest at the changes as he waited for them to arrive.

Brutus and Domitius entered first, saluting and taking the chairs he offered. Regulus came behind them, his usual grim manner made lighter by Julius’ return. Octavian and Ciro took their seats as Domitius poured wine for the rest.

Julius watched them all as they accepted the goblets and raised them in his direction before drinking. They looked fit and dark from the sun, Ciro in particular. He might have passed for one of the native Egyptians. Octavian had a new scar on his cheek that stood out against his skin. Of all of them, his manner was the most reserved and Julius missed the relaxed camaraderie of their years together. He had been away for almost six months and felt uncomfortable at the distance that had grown between them.

‘Should I ask for a formal report, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘Or shall we drink and talk until the sun goes down?’

Regulus smiled, but the others were oddly wary. It was Octavian who broke the silence.

‘I’m glad to see you back, sir,’ he said.

Brutus was staring at the younger man in what could have been polite interest and Julius wondered what had gone on between them. He did not want to hear of squabbling and bad feeling. His time on the Nile made such things seem trivial.

‘The city is quiet, Julius,’ Brutus said, ‘as you might expect with the best part of thirty thousand soldiers here. We’ve had a few incidents of looting and some of the men are in desert barracks on punishment drills. Nothing that couldn’t be handled. We’ve given them a decent sewage system and brought a little order to the docks. Apart from that, it’s been a pleasant rest for some of us. How is the queen?’

Julius nodded to Brutus, pleased at the lack of fuss. ‘The birth is due in a few weeks, or even less,’ he said, his eyes softening at the thought.

‘A son and heir,’ Brutus said. Julius did not see him glance at Octavian. ‘You’ll have to make peace with Calpurnia when you return.’

Julius nodded, sipping at his wine. The thought of his latest wife weeping on his shoulder was not a pleasant one. ‘I could not have known this would happen when I married her,’ he said, musing. ‘So much has changed since I set out for Greece.’

‘Are we going home then, when the child is born?’ Octavian said suddenly.

Julius looked at him, seeing a tension he did not understand. ‘We are. I will leave two legions here to keep the peace. I’ll write to Mark Antony and have him set up the galley routes for pay and orders. By the gods, it will be good to see him again. I’ve missed the old place. Just to speak about it here makes me long to see Rome.’

He seemed to collect himself as he looked around at their earnest faces.

‘We will take Pompey’s remains back to be buried in the city, and I’ll raise a statue to him, perhaps in his own theatre. Even now the manner of his death sits poorly with me. I have written to my daughter to tell her, and I will honour him in death, for her sake at least.’

He paused, staring off into space. It was a year since Pharsalus and the memory of crossing the Rubicon seemed impossibly distant. The hiatus in his life that had come on the slow Nile had changed him, he realised. The other men in the room still had the look of lean wolves, hardened by years of conflict. He did not feel quite in step with them.

‘It will be a strange thing to have the Republic restored after so many years of conflict,’ Octavian murmured, looking into his wine. ‘The city will welcome you back as a saviour of the old ways.’ It took an effort for him to look up into Julius’ eyes as his general regarded him thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps they will,’ Julius said. ‘I will have to see how things stand when I’m back.’ He missed the glimmer of hope in Octavian’s eyes as he refilled his cup from a silver jug. ‘Things change, though,’ he went on. ‘I’ve had time to think on that slow river. I have been granted the chance to raise Rome higher than any other city. I should not waste it.’

He felt Octavian’s stare and raised his cup in salute.

‘Alexander’s dreams have fallen into my hands here. In this place, I can see further. We could bring the light of Rome to the world.’ He smiled, oblivious to Octavian’s distress. ‘Like the Pharos lighthouse,’ he said. ‘We could make an empire.’

‘Does this come from the queen?’ Octavian said softly.

Julius glanced at him in puzzlement. ‘My blood is joined in her. Egypt and I are already one. Rome will come with me.’ He gestured towards the window with his cup, feeling the wine heat his thoughts. ‘The years ahead are golden, Octavian. I have seen them.’

‘Welcome back, sir,’ Brutus said.

Julius paced up and down the hall of the palace, wincing at every cry from Cleopatra’s lips. His son was coming into the world and he could hardly remember being more nervous. Her courtiers had come to wake him in his quarters and he had dressed hurriedly in a toga and sandals, calling for Brutus to attend him.

The two men had come barrelling into the meeting hall only to be told that the queen’s privacy was not to be interrupted. To Julius’ irritation, the door to her chambers was guarded by her own men and he had been left to pace and fret, his empty stomach growling hungrily as the hours wore on. Messengers came and went at the run, carrying steaming pails of water and piles of white linen. Julius could hear the voices of women inside and at intervals Cleopatra cried out in pain. He clenched his fists in frustration and barely noticed the warm tisane that Brutus pressed into his hands.

At dawn, Sosigenes came out, snapping orders for more cloths to a waiting slave. The astrologer was flushed and busy, but a glance at Julius’ face brought him up short.

‘Your son is coming, Caesar. It is a great omen that he is to be born in the first light of day,’ Sosigenes said.

Julius gripped his arm. ‘Is she well? The birth, is it all right?’

Sosigenes smiled and nodded his head. ‘You should rest, Consul. You will be called in soon enough. My queen is young and strong, as her mother was. Rest.’

He returned the grip on his arm with a brief pressure of his hand, then he walked past the guards. A long scream could be heard then, which made Julius groan.

‘By the gods, I can’t bear it,’ he said.

‘Were you like this when Julia was born?’ Brutus asked him.

Julius shook his head. ‘I don’t remember. No, I wasn’t, I think. But I am older now. If the child dies, how many other chances will I have?’

‘What will he be called then, this son of yours?’ Brutus asked, in part to take Julius’ mind off the chanting they could hear within. He had no idea what strange rituals were being enacted and it showed the depth of Julius’ agitation that he had hardly noticed them.

The question seemed to calm Julius a little. ‘His name will be Ptolemy Caesarion,’ he said, with pride. ‘Two houses joined.’

‘You will show him in the forum,’ Brutus prompted.

Julius’ face lit up. ‘I will. As soon as he can be moved, I will take him home. The king of Syria has invited me to visit him and I will take Cleopatra there. Then Crete, perhaps, or Cyprus, Greece and home at last. We will stand in the forum in a Roman summer and I’ll hold the boy up to the crowd for them to see.’

‘There will be a struggle ahead, if you still intend a dynasty, an empire,’ Brutus murmured.

Julius shook his head. ‘Not now, Brutus. Can’t you see it? The legions are loyal to me and the Senate will be hand-picked. Whether they realise it or not, the empire is already begun. Who is left to resist my claim, after all? Pompey was the last of them.’

Brutus nodded, his eyes dark with thought.

An hour later, Sosigenes came bustling out to them, surprising the guards. The man was beaming as if personally responsible for the events of the night.

‘You have your son, Caesar, as I said you would. Will you come in?’

Julius clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him wince. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Brutus did not follow and was left alone to spread the happy news to the legions that had gathered outside in the dawn.

Cleopatra lay on her bed with the hangings tied back to give her air. She looked exhausted and dazed, with shadows under her eyes. Her skin was pale and as Julius rushed over to her a slave girl dried the perspiration from her skin, dabbing gently with a cloth.

There were many others in the room, though Julius didn’t notice them. Cleopatra’s breasts were bared and against one was the baby he had hoped for, the tiny face lost as it pressed against the yielding flesh.

Julius sat on the bed and leaned over them, ignoring the slave girl as she moved away. Cleopatra opened her eyes.

‘My beautiful queen,’ Julius murmured, smiling. ‘Sosigenes said it was a boy.’

‘The old fool is very proud of himself,’ Cleopatra said, wincing as the baby clenched her nipple in its gums. ‘You have a son, Julius.’

Gently, he reached up and smoothed a tendril of hair from her forehead.

‘I have waited all my life for you,’ he said to her.

Tears filled her eyes and she laughed at her own reaction. ‘I seem to cry at the slightest thing,’ she said, then grimaced as the baby shifted once more. For an instant, her nipple was revealed before the hungry mouth found it and clamped on, sucking busily. ‘He is strong,’ she said.

Julius looked at the tiny figure half-concealed by cloths. Fresh from the womb, the baby was wrinkled, his skin a shade of blue that faded even as Julius watched. A smear of blood lay on his head, mingled with hair as black as his mother’s.

‘He’ll have to be if he stays that ugly,’ Julius said, laughing as Cleopatra swatted at him with a free hand.

‘He is beautiful,’ she said, ‘and he is ours. He will be a great king, Sosigenes has sworn it. Greater than you or I, Julius.’

He kissed her gently and she sagged back into the pillows, her eyes closing. Julius felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to look into the stern gaze of one of the royal midwives.

‘Yes?’ he said.

Cleopatra sighed without opening her eyes. ‘She does not speak Latin, Julius.’

The woman gestured to Julius and the door, muttering under her breath.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I will return when you have had a chance to rest.’

He took her hand and squeezed it, before standing. He looked down on his family and thanked his gods for having lived long enough to see it.

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The city of Rome was awake. Galloping messengers had brought the news that Caesar had landed at the coast and he was coming home. Mark Antony had not been idle in the weeks of waiting and the preparations were all in place. Almost a million citizens had lit lamps on the great walls, prepared banquets, cleaned and scrubbed the streets until Rome seemed almost new. Corn, bread and meat had been given to every citizen and a public holiday announced. The city gleamed and temple chests were filled with coins offered in thanks for Caesar’s safety. Many were tired from their labours, but they sat up with their children and listened for the horns that would announce his arrival.

Brutus rode slowly at Julius’ side, looking at the city in the distance. The sheer size of it made Alexandria seem a provincial town. The citizens had made it glow under the heavens for Caesar. Would they have done more to welcome a king? Brutus found he could hardly bear the look of awe on Octavian’s face at the jewel of Rome on the horizon. It was an expression all those in the column seemed to share, from the soldiers of the Tenth to Julius himself. They came as victors and walked with pride they had earned. Brutus could not feel a part of their hope and their glory.

What joy could he find within those walls? He would be the man Julius forgave for a betrayal, whispered about and pointed at as he strode through his city. He would see his mother again, he thought. Perhaps when she saw Cleopatra she would understand what had driven him away from Julius. His eyes prickled and he took a deep breath, ashamed of himself. He had entered many cities. What was Rome but one more, to him? He would survive it. He would endure.

He felt as if he had been riding for years in a procession of the legions. Julius had been welcomed as a brother king in Syria, given slaves and gifts of gems and weapons. Cleopatra had rejoiced in his shadow, perhaps understanding at last how a small king would see Julius. She could not hide her delight at showing Ptolemy Caesarion, red and tiny as he was. The ruler of Syria had many children, but he had honoured the couple by bringing his first-born, Herod, into their presence, and having him bow to the leader of Rome. The little prince had been shaking with nerves, Brutus remembered.

He glanced behind him to where the queen lay hidden from sight in a carriage that was more like a comfortable room drawn by oxen. Her son was with her and the child’s irritable screams pierced the night.

In its way, the return to Rome had been like a Triumph on a grand scale. The praetor of Crete had kissed Julius’ hand and given over his own home for their stay. The soldiers ate and drank their way through the praetor’s private stores, but there was no fighting or lack of discipline. They seemed to understand the dignity of their position as escort for Caesar and his son. Their reverence made Brutus want to be ill.

It had shocked him at first, to see powerful men kneeling as Julius approached them. Brutus had seen his friend swear and spit and bicker with Cabera or Renius like an irritable old woman. He had known him as a boy, and the obsequious fawning of officials seemed obscene. They did not know Caesar. They saw only the cloak and the soldiers. They had read the reports and heard of his victories, creating a mask for the lesser man within. Brutus had seen Julius’ pleasure at their treatment of him and it ate at him like a worm.

It had been worst in Greece, where Brutus was known. Perhaps he had been shielded from the reality of his position during the year in Alexandria. He had forgotten how painful it would be to have old friends turn their backs and others sneer as they saw him at Julius’ side. Labienus had been there, his dark eyes full of private amusement at seeing Brutus back at the heel of his general.

If Pompey had won, Brutus knew he would have been rewarded. He would perhaps have stood for consul himself and the fickle citizens would have voted for a man who had put Rome before friendship, one who had saved them from a tyrant. With just one battle, at Pharsalus, he could have turned his life onto a new path. That was what hurt the most, he told himself. Not to be forgiven, but to have come so close to having it all. There were times when he was almost convinced of it.

The road into Rome was not empty. Mark Antony had sent out the city legion under Ahenobarbus to line the stones as far west as they had numbers. As Julius reached each pair of soldiers, they held a stiff salute. They too had done their work, Brutus admitted grudgingly. Rome had been safe while Julius was away. It would have been some sort of justice had the city been attacked while Julius was ignoring his duty on the Nile, but, no, the gods had granted peace to Rome, as if they too were willing to rest until Caesar took up the reins once more.

The Greeks had tried another rebellion, choosing their moment with the worst of all timing, so that the fighting began as Julius arrived. Brutus could almost feel sorry for the men who had risen against their Roman masters. Labienus could have ended it on his own, but Julius had intervened. The men said it showed he understood his responsibilities as first in Rome, that all lands were his to order and control. Brutus rather suspected it was to show Cleopatra what his legions could do.

The battle had been tiny compared to some they had known. Julius had ridden with his generals and his queen to where the Greek army had risen. Brutus could still shudder at the sight of shouting warriors rushing up a hill towards the Roman positions. Of course they were tired by the time they had reached the crest. The rebellion had been ended in only four hours, more littered flesh in the Roman wake.

The fleet made final landfall at Ostia, west of the city. Julius had knelt to kiss the ground. The legions had cheered him then and the first taste of the excitement that gripped Rome came from the villages and towns to the west. They bustled and pushed to catch a glimpse of him. They wore their best clothes and the women had braided their hair with as much attention as for the festival of Bona Dea. Children were held up as he would hold his own son high to the forum.

The horses sensed the excitement around them and tossed their heads, snorting. The cheering became louder as the legions approached Rome and saw that the heavy gates of the west stood open for them. The walls were lined with waving citizens and yet the legions did not break discipline to return the gestures. They smiled as their legs lost their weariness and gazed at the torches and walls as if they had never seen the city before.

Brutus could see the white togas of senators inside the gate. He wondered how they would feel about Julius’ plans for the future. Had they any idea of the force they were welcoming back so trustingly? If they expected age to have banked the fires in Julius, they were going to be disappointed. He was rejuvenated, as if Cleopatra and his son were new magic in his life. Rome should be trembling, Brutus thought, but Cicero was not a fool. No matter what the senator might fear, there was no one in the world who could have raised a warning voice at that moment. Sometimes it is better just to let the wave crash over you and pick up the pieces after it has passed.

Horns sounded, first at the gate, then spreading all over the city as every old bronze piece was lifted to lips and blown. Julius kicked in his heels to move slightly ahead of the first rank of his Tenth. He did not duck his head as he rode under the arch and raised his hand to acknowledge the people pressing in on all sides. He was home.

Julius stood on the steps of the senate house in front of a packed forum. He lifted his arms for silence, but it would not come. He signalled two of his men to blow the legion horns above the tumult and even then the crowd were slow to become still. He looked across at Mark Antony and the two men shared a grin.

When at last they were quiet, Julius was content merely to stand and enjoy the sight of Rome around him, drinking it in. The steps were packed with faces of men he had known for years. The temples and buildings around the forum shone in the light of late summer.

‘Nowhere else in the world is home as this city is home,’ he said at last. His voice echoed across the crowds as they watched with faces raised up to him. ‘I have seen Gaul. I have seen Asia Minor. I have seen Greece and Spain and Britain. I have walked in Alexander’s cities and seen jewels and strange gods. I have found Roman voices in all those lands, cutting the soil, trading and making a life for themselves. I have seen our laws and our honour in countries so distant as to seem like dreams. This city nourishes the world.’

He bowed his head as they cheered, and when it seemed that they would not stop, he had his soldiers crash the butts of their spears on the stones of the forum.

‘It gives me grief to bring Pompey’s remains home with me. He did not die by my hand and his passing is a black day for Rome. Those who killed him have been punished and the gods will not let them forget the price of a consul. Let them weep for ever for laying a hand on a man of Rome. In the years to come, they will remember the answer we gave them! Those of you who travel and trade will carry that protection of this city with you. If you are taken by enemies, tell them you are a Roman citizen and let them fear the storm that will answer a single drop of your blood. The storm will come in your defence. This I pledge to you all.’

He raised his hands before they could cheer again, impatient to tell them more. In his mind, he could see the reality he could make with Cleopatra, so bright and perfect as to make words base in comparison.

‘I grant an amnesty to all those who raised arms against me in this civil war. As I pardoned the men of Corfinium and Greece, I pardon all others who have followed their duty and their honour as they saw it. We are brothers and sisters of the same blood. We will begin afresh from this day, and let the past go. I am not another Sulla to be seeking enemies behind every door. I have other dreams for Rome.’

He paused, aware of the senators who strained to hear every word.

‘The gods have blessed my line with a son, of the blood of royal Egypt. I have brought him home for you to welcome him, as you have welcomed me.’

One of Cleopatra’s midwives stepped forward with the child and Julius took his son in his arms. The boy began to scream with astonishing ferocity, the sound echoing back and forth across the forum. It tore at the heart of Calpurnia as she watched the pride of the man she adored. She had lost him, and she turned away.

The citizens of Rome roared their approval as Julius turned in place to show them all. Their emotions had always been his to command and he knew they loved a show above all things. Julius laughed aloud with delight at their response, before passing his son back to the disapproving nurse. The crowd’s reaction had frightened the child and there was no comforting him as she bustled away.

‘I have dreams of a world where Roman courts judge the laws from the furthest edges of Africa to the frozen lands of the north. You will tell your children that you were here when Caesar returned. You will tell them the new world began on that day. We will make it new, and greater than that which has gone before.’

He quietened them once more, patting empty air with his hands.

‘These things do not come without a cost, or without labour. Good Roman sweat and even blood will be shed before we can make an age of gold for our children and theirs. I do not fear the price. I do not fear the work. I do not fear these things because I am a Roman citizen, of the greatest city in the world.’

He turned away from the crash of their cheers, almost glowing with pleasure. The senators at his back had lost the smiles of reflected glory. Their eyes had hardened and grown cold as the words spilled out over the forum, lighting flames in the hearts of the mob. More than one of the older men wondered whether he could be controlled at all.

After the applause and grandiloquent speeches, the senate house seemed to be filled with echoing ghosts as evening came. The celebrations would continue for days, and as Cicero stood alone in shadows he could hear muted laughter and old songs in the forum. There would be little time for peace or contemplation in the days ahead, at least until the wine had run dry. He wondered how many children would be conceived across the city and how many of them would be named for the man Rome honoured.

He sighed to himself. An amphora of good red lay at his feet, unopened. He had intended to be among the first to toast Caesar, but somehow he had forgotten it as he witnessed the new breeze blowing through the city. The Republic had died at last, and the tragedy was that no one seemed to have noticed. What men like Pompey or Sulla could not achieve with fear and force of arms, Caesar had with indifference, shattering the traditions of centuries.

Cicero had known hope at first, when Julius stood to address the members of the nobilitas. Pompey’s death had not stained him and Cicero thought the old compact with the citizens could still be remade.

That thin faith had lasted only moments. The laws of Rome were there to limit power and prestige, so that no man could rise too far above his fellows. Even in the dying days, there was strength enough to rein in Marius or Sulla. Somehow, Caesar had dragged himself above the rest, away from Rome. He had addressed the Senate as if they were supplicants, while the mob chanted his name outside.

Cicero could not find it in himself to love the people of his city. In the abstract, he took pride in the earnest voting that was the foundation of the Republic. The powers of the Senate had always been granted rather than taken. Yet in the end, those same citizens had found themselves a champion. There was no holding Caesar now, if there ever had been.

Cicero shook his head as he remembered how Julius had accepted the trite speeches of senators. He had let them talk, but when he rose the Republic fell away from him like an old skin. The scribes had been aching by the time he had finished and the senators who had welcomed him could only sit in stunned awareness.

Cicero rose slowly to his feet, wincing as his knees cracked. The noise of the city seemed to surround the senate house and he shuddered at the thought of going out through the drunken crowd. Would it have been different if they could have heard Caesar speak? He had promised to remake Rome: a new forum, great temples and roads, coins minted fresh from the gold of Gaul. His supporters would all have places in the Senate, his legions would be given the best lands and made wealthy. He planned four Triumphs over the months to come, more than any general of Rome had ever had. Gods, there was no end to it! In the midst of all the promises, Cicero had been desperate to hear some sign that Julius needed the Senate. Just a word to salve their dignity would have been enough, but it did not come. He told them the future and it never occurred to him that every word he spoke went further to cut himself free of them.

It was not how they had planned it, Cicero remembered. When Mark Antony had read the letters Julius sent from Egypt, they had discussed how they might honour the greatest general under Rome. In private, they had wondered whether he would accept the Senate at all. Cicero had voted with the others to bestow a Dictatorship of ten years, unheard of in history. The balanced scales of the Republic had been thrown down. It was all they could do.

Julius had nodded at the news as if it was no more than he had expected, and Cicero had known despair. He had not missed the significance of Julius holding his son up to the voracious mob. The man had no true peers to lay a hand on his shoulder and force him to caution. Cicero wondered if Caesar’s Triumphs would include the boy to ride with him and whisper, ‘Remember, you are mortal’ into his ear.

The bronze doors creaked and Cicero jerked around to see who dared to breach the privacy of the Senate. Surely there were guards outside? He would not have been surprised to hear they had succumbed to drink and the hysterical crowd were stumbling in to vomit in the halls of their masters.

‘Who is there?’ he called, ashamed to hear the quaver in his voice. It was the nervous tone of an old man, he thought bitterly.

‘Suetonius,’ came a reply. ‘I tried your home, but Terentia said you had not come back. She is worried about you.’

Cicero sighed aloud in a mixture of relief and irritation. ‘Can a man not find a little quiet in this city?’ he demanded.

‘You should not be sitting in the dark,’ Suetonius replied, walking out of the gloom. He could not meet Cicero’s eyes at first and the air of defeat hung heavily around him. He too had been there to hear Caesar speak.

Outside, someone began an ancient song of lost love and the crowd in the forum joined the single voice. The harmonies were rough, but beautiful nonetheless. Cicero was tempted to go out and add his broken wind to theirs, just to be part of it before the day brought back its hard realities.

Suetonius tilted his head to listen. ‘They don’t know him,’ he whispered.

Cicero glanced up, shaken from his thoughts. In the semi-darkness, Suetonius’ eyes were shadows.

‘Are we to be his servants, then?’ he asked. ‘Is that all we have achieved?’

Cicero shook his head, more for himself than for his companion. ‘You must practise patience in this city, Senator. It will remain long after we are all dead.’

Suetonius snorted in disgust. ‘What do I care for that? You heard his plans, Cicero. You nodded your head with all the others who would not dare speak up.’

‘You did not speak,’ Cicero reminded him.

‘Alone, I could not,’ Suetonius snapped.

‘Perhaps we all felt alone, even as you did.’

‘He needs us, to rule,’ Suetonius said. ‘Does he think our dominions will run themselves? Did you hear one word of thanks for the work we have done in his absence? I did not.’

Cicero found himself growing angry at the whining tone that reminded him of his children. ‘He does not need us,’ he snapped. ‘Can’t you understand? He has armies loyal only to him and he has taken the mantle of power. We are the last embers of the old Rome, fanning ourselves alive with our own breath. The great men are all dead now.’

In the forum, he heard the song reach its final poignant lines before a wave of cheering broke out.

‘What do we do then?’ Suetonius asked.

His voice was plaintive and Cicero winced to hear it. He did not answer for a long time.

‘We find some way to bind him to us,’ he said at last. ‘The people love him today and tomorrow, but after that? They will have spent the money he gives them and they will need more than dreams to fill their stomachs, more than golden promises. Perhaps they will even need us again.’

He rubbed his sandal on the polished floor as he thought. The weakness of the younger man had stung him into anger and his thoughts came faster.

‘Who else can pass the laws he wants, or grant him honours? They do not come simply because he shouts it in the forum. It is a weight of centuries that he has pushed aside. It may yet swing back with even greater force.’

‘So that is how you respond?’ Suetonius asked. Cicero could hear the sneering tone and it infuriated him. ‘We shall resist him by passing every law? By honouring him further?’

With an effort, Cicero controlled his temper. He had so few allies now. Even a man of this calibre could not be scorned.

‘If we baulk his will, we will be swept away. This senate house will fill again in hours with men more willing to bow their heads. Where is the gain in such a course?’ He paused to wipe sweat from his face. ‘We must never let him see he can walk alone. He suspects it already, but he does not know it in his stomach, where it matters. If you told him he could disband the Senate on a whim, he would be appalled. It is a dangerous line to walk, but while we stand as a body, there is hope. If we force his hand, there is none.’

‘You are frightened of him,’ Suetonius said.

‘So should you be,’ Cicero replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In gardens that had once belonged to Marius, Julius sat by a fountain, rubbing his thumb over a thick gold coin. Brutus munched on a chicken leg, enjoying the peace. The daily Senate meeting would already have resumed, but neither man felt any urgency. Unseasonable heat had come to Rome, long after the summer had ended. With the new spring only a month away, the short days should have been wet and cold, but instead the Tiber had shrunk and the city suffered in thick air and heat. While Rome baked, Julius and Brutus had eaten and slept. The cool of evening would dispel the pleasant lethargy, but for the moment they were content to lounge in the sun, each lost in his own thoughts.

Brutus saw the small movement of Julius’ fingers and reached out for the coin, grunting as Julius passed it over.

‘It makes you look a little thinner than you really are,’ he said, holding the aureus up to the sun. ‘And I notice you have more hair.’

Julius touched his head self-consciously and Brutus flipped the coin back to him.

‘It still amazes me sometimes,’ Julius said. ‘This coin will travel for thousands of miles, through the hands of strangers. Perhaps long after me, someone will hand a copy of my face over in exchange for a saddle or a plough.’

Brutus raised an eyebrow. ‘The face, of course, will give it value, not the gold,’ he said.

Julius smiled. ‘All right, but it’s still strange to think of men and women I will never meet – who will never see Rome even – but who will carry my face in their purses. I hope they do give it a glance before they exchange it.’

‘You expect too much of people. You always did,’ Brutus said seriously. ‘They’ll take the land and coin you give them and next year they’ll be back to clamour for more.’

Julius raised a hand, shutting weary eyes. ‘Is this the colonies again? I’ve heard the speeches from Suetonius. He called it corruption to give the poor of Rome their dignity. You tell me how it damages a man to give him a little land and coin to get the first crop in the ground? With my own funds I gave eighty thousand a new chance in life, and the only protests came from the pampered men of my own Senate.’ He snorted in indignation. ‘It’s been a year, Brutus, have the exiles come back yet? Have they turned up as beggars in the forum? I haven’t seen them.’ He frowned fiercely, waiting to be contradicted.

Brutus shrugged, tossing the chicken bone over his shoulder to land in the fountain. ‘For myself, I have never worried whether some peasant farmer will live or die. Some will starve or gamble away what you gave them. Others will be robbed. Perhaps a thousand will survive the first year working a trade they don’t understand. Rome has fewer beggars, though, which is pleasant. I can’t argue with you there.’

‘Suetonius described it as both “courageous and flawed”, as if it were a child’s idea.’

‘They did not try to stop you,’ Brutus said.

‘They wouldn’t dare to try!’ Julius snapped. ‘I could count the useful minds in the Senate on one hand. The rest are fawning idiots who can’t see further than their own vanity.’

Brutus looked sharply at the man he had known for so many years. ‘Can they be anything else? They are the Senate you wanted. They raise statues to you over Rome and invent new honours just for a nod of approval from you. Were you expecting passionate debate when just a word could have them dragged out by your guards? You’ve made them what they are, Julius.’ He reached over to take the coin again, reading from it. ‘They have made you “Dictator Perpetuus”, and now they are struggling to find more pretty words to gild your name. How it must sicken you.’

Julius sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I have earned anything they can think of,’ he said softly.

When his eyes opened, Brutus could not meet the cold gaze.

‘Well, have I not?’ Julius demanded. ‘Tell me where I have overreached myself, since my return. Have my promises not been made good? Ask the Tenth, or the Fourth you once commanded. They would not see any harm in my appointments.’

Brutus sensed the rising temper and cooled his own. Julius allowed him a greater freedom than anyone else, more even than Mark Antony, but he was not an equal.

‘You have done what you said you would,’ he replied, neutrally.

Julius narrowed his eyes as he looked for some hidden meaning, then his face cleared and Brutus felt sweat break out on his skin in relief.

‘It has been a good year,’ Julius said, nodding to himself. ‘My son grows and in time I think the people will accept Cleopatra.’

Brutus forced his mouth shut, knowing the subject was tender. The citizens had welcomed the new temple to Venus. On the day of its consecration, they had come in great numbers to admire the work and leave offerings. Inside, they found the goddess had the face of the Egyptian queen. To Julius’ fury, someone had defaced the statue by painting golden nipples on it. A permanent guard had to be posted and a reward offered for the names of those responsible. As yet, it had gone unclaimed.

Brutus did not dare look at Julius in case his glowering expression made him laugh. He could only be pushed so far and Brutus was adept at finding the limit whenever his bitterness needed some outlet. Pricking at Julius’ vanity was a dangerous pleasure, indulged only when he could no longer bear the constant stream of festivals and Triumphs.

Unnoticed, Brutus wound his fingers into a knot. He wondered if the citizens ever hungered for the honest tedium of normal life. The city had no routine when the Dictator could announce another great games or suddenly decide his latest Triumph would last another week. The citizens would always cheer and drink what they were given, but Brutus imagined a strained edge to their voices that matched his own dissatisfaction.

He had enjoyed the Triumph scenes of Gaul, with a lice-ridden Vercingetorix dragged in chains to a public execution. Brutus had been given the best seats to witness the death of wolves and boar. Even the Tiber had been dammed to fill a circus with water stained red by fighting ships on its surface. Wonder had followed wonder and the Senate had responded in a desperate frenzy, calling Julius ‘Imperator’ and Dictator for Life. His latest statue had a simple plaque to the ‘Unconquered God’, and when Brutus had seen it, he had drunk himself unconscious and lost two days.

There were times when he thought he should just take a horse and leave Rome. Julius had showered him with enough wealth to buy a house and live in comfort. When he was sick of it all, he dreamed of taking ship somewhere too far for Julius to reach and finding his own kind of peace there. He did not know if such a place existed any longer. He returned to Julius like a child to a festering scab, plumbing new depths of misery with a horrified fascination.

‘Are you going to the senate house?’ Brutus asked just to break the silence.

Julius blew air through his lips. ‘Back to the talking shop, where I can buy a thousand words for a bronze coin? No, I have letters to write to the kings of Parthia. I have not forgotten those who caused the death of Crassus and his son. It is an old debt, but I will answer it for those who can’t speak.’

‘I thought you were still drunk on the pleasures of Rome,’ Brutus said, softly. ‘Are you sniffing the spring wind again?’

Julius smiled at the image. ‘Perhaps. I may be an old warhorse, my friend, but an empire does not build itself from a comfortable seat in the Senate. I must be seen.’

‘The Tenth are old men now,’ Brutus replied. ‘I would never have believed it, but they went to the farms and houses you gave them without looking back.’

Julius snorted. ‘There are new men to blood, Brutus. New legions that have never heard the battle horns or marched to exhaustion as we have. What would you have me do when my last Triumph has ended, sit and smile until my son is grown? I am not a man for the quiet times. I never have been.’ He smiled. ‘But there is still the Egyptian Triumph to come. A host of scribes and architects arrive in just a few hours to plan it.’ Julius stared off into space as he contemplated bringing Rome to a standstill once more. ‘It will be the greatest in the city’s history, Brutus, I guarantee it.’

‘How can it be, after the last one? They’re still talking about the sea battle in the Campus,’ Brutus said, remembering to hide his distaste.

The vast stone bowl had been shallow enough to see the dead clustered like dark coral on the bottom. In tiny galleys, captured warriors had struggled against criminals and men condemned to death. The pale waters had become a broth and when it was drained back into the Tiber, the river itself had run red. The scent of rotting flesh crept through Rome for days afterwards.

Julius clapped him on the shoulder, rising to his feet and stretching. ‘I have something new in mind for my last Triumph.’ He seemed on the verge of revealing his plans, then he chuckled. ‘I will make sure you have a seat in the forum for the climax. You should bring this new wife of yours.’

Brutus nodded, knowing he wouldn’t. He wondered if his mother would be interested in seeing Julius parade his queen and swollen ego one more time.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he said.

When the Senate meeting ended, Mark Antony made his way up from the forum to Julius’ home. He walked with six armed lictors at his back, though he hardly noticed them, nor how the crowds parted before his tread.

In Julius’ absence, he had expected a livelier debate than usual in the Senate. He should have known better. The empty seat had more menace than the presence of the man. They all knew the meeting would be reported in full detail. Julius’ scribes recorded the most inane of conversations and even those like Cicero were made nervous by their incessant scribbling.

There had been times when the subject under discussion brought back some of the old honesty and fire Mark Antony remembered. Julius had abolished the tax system of Roman dominions, devolving the right to collect coins to local men in a dozen countries. The Greeks knew better than to let revenues fall after their last failed rebellion, but the praetor of Spain had made the trip to Rome to complain of new levels of corruption. It was the sort of thing that had been meat and drink to the Senate before the civil war. Some of the subtle restraint had slipped away as they wrangled and argued over details and proposals.

Mark Antony could still see the moment when Cassius had implied the problem was with the system itself, his glance straying to the scribe who faithfully recorded his words. The senator’s thin face had paled slightly and his fingers had begun to tap nervously on the lectern. After that, the debate had foundered and the praetor of Spain had been sent home with no new resolution to his problems.

It was not how Mark Antony had dreamed it would be, when Julius gave him command of Italy years before. While the civil war wound through to a conclusion, Rome had been peaceful. It was true that he had made no great changes, but the city had been stable and she prospered. Men who applied for trading rights knew that they would be considered on their merits. The Senate passed difficult points of law on to the courts and accepted the decisions made, whether they approved or not. Mark Antony had worked harder than at any other time in his life and had taken a quiet satisfaction from the order in the city.

That had changed when Julius returned. The courts still functioned, but no one was foolish enough to bring a charge against a favourite of Caesar. The rule of law had lost its foundation and Mark Antony found himself sickened by the new attitude of caution. He and Cicero had spent many evenings in discussion, though even then they had been forced to send their servants away. Julius had spies all over Rome and it was rare to find a man who cared so little for his life that he was willing to speak out against the Dictator, even in private.

It had been a long year, Mark Antony thought to himself as he walked up the hill. Longer than any other in Roman history. The new calendar had set the city in an uproar of misunderstandings and chaos. Julius had declared that it would last for four hundred and forty-five days, before his new months could begin. The freak summer that had hit so late seemed just a symptom of the confusion, as if the seasons themselves had been upset. With a smile, Mark Antony remembered Cicero’s complaint that even the planets and stars had to run to Caesar’s order.

In older days, the city would have employed astronomers from all over the world to test the notions Julius had brought back from Egypt. Instead, the Senate had vied with each other to acclaim the new system and have their names reach Caesar’s ears.

Mark Antony sighed as he reached the street gate to the old Marius property. The general he had known in Gaul would have scorned the attitude that had infected the august Senate. He would have allowed them their dignity, to honour the traditions if for no other reason.

Mark Antony took a deep breath and gripped the bridge of his nose in hard fingers. The man he had known would resurface, he hoped. Of course Julius had gone a little wild on his return. He had been drunk with the success of a civil war and a new son. He had been plunged from a life of struggle into a great city that hailed him as a god. It had turned his head, but Mark Antony remembered Julius when Gaul was a cauldron of war, and he still looked for a sign that the worst was over.

Julius was waiting for him inside, as Mark Antony passed through the gardens. He left his lictors on the street rather than bring armed men into the presence of the Dictator of Rome.

Julius embraced him and ordered iced drinks and food to be brought over his protests. Mark Antony saw that Julius seemed unusually nervous and his hand shook slightly as he held out a cup of wine.

‘My last Triumph is almost ready,’ Julius said, after both men had made themselves comfortable. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

Brutus lay on his stomach and groaned at the stiff fingers that worked themselves into old scars and muscles. The evening was cool and quiet and his mother’s house still employed the very best of girls. It was his habit to come and go as he pleased and his moods were well known to the women Servilia employed. The girl who used her elbows to work at a knot of muscle had not said a word since he stripped naked and lay down on the long bench, his dangling arms grazing the floor. Brutus had felt the unspoken invitation as she let her oiled hands linger, but he had not responded. His mind was too filled with despair and anger to find release in her practised embrace.

He opened his eyes as he heard light footsteps tap across the floor of the room. Servilia was there, wearing a sardonic expression as she viewed the naked flesh of her son.

‘Thank you, Talia, you may leave us,’ she said.

Brutus frowned at the interruption. Without embarrassment, he pushed himself up and sat on the bench as the girl scurried out. His mother did not speak until the door had closed and Brutus raised an eyebrow in interest. She too knew his moods and allowed him privacy when he came to the house. To have broken the routine meant something else was in the wind.

Her hair was a cloud grey, almost white now that she had abandoned her dyes and colours. It no longer hung loose, but was tied back with pinned severity. She still stood with the erect posture that had drawn men’s eyes in her youth, but age had melted the flesh from her, so that she was lean and hard. Brutus supposed he loved her, for her dignity and refusal to be broken in the life of Rome.

She had been there in the forum when Julius held up his son, but when Brutus had come to the house that first evening, she had shown him a cool reserve that demanded respect. He might have believed it, if there had not been moments when fire flashed in her eyes at the mention of Julius’ name. Then she would raise her hand to touch the great pearl that was always around her neck and look into distances too far for Brutus to follow.

‘You should dress yourself, my son. You have visitors waiting for you,’ she said. The toga he had worn lay folded and Servilia brought it to him as he stood. ‘You go naked under this?’ she asked, before he could speak.

Brutus shrugged. ‘When it is hot. What visitors do you mean? No one knows I am here.’

‘No names, Brutus, not yet,’ she said as she draped the long cloth around his shoulders. ‘I asked them here.’

Brutus regarded his mother in irritation. His gaze flickered to his dagger where it lay on a stool. ‘I do not share my movements with the city, Servilia. Are the men armed?’

She tucked and tweaked at the robe until it was ready to be clasped. ‘They are no danger to you. I told them you would listen to what they have to say. Then they will leave and Talia can finish her work, or you can join me for a meal in my rooms.’

‘What are you doing, Mother?’ Brutus asked, his voice growing hard. ‘I don’t like games or mysteries, or secrets.’

‘See these men. Listen to them,’ she said, as if he had not spoken. ‘That is all.’ She watched in silence as he tucked his dagger away and then she stood back to look at him. ‘You look strong, Brutus. Age has given you more than scars. I will send them in.’

She left and moments later the door swung open to admit two men of the Senate. Brutus knew them instantly and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Suetonius and Cassius were stiff with tension as they closed the door behind them and approached.

‘What is so important that you must come to my mother’s house?’ Brutus said. He crossed his arms carefully, leaving his right hand near the hilt of his dagger under the cloth.

Cassius spoke first. ‘Where else is private, in Rome?’ he said.

Brutus could see the sinews standing out in the man’s neck and he wondered if his mother had been foolish enough to invite assassins into her home. The senator was clearly under an enormous strain and Brutus disliked being so close to him.

‘I will hear what you have to say,’ Brutus said, slowly.

He gestured to the bench and watched closely as both men sat down. He did not join them, preferring to remain able to move quickly if the need arose. Every instinct warned him to caution, but he showed them nothing. The hilt of his knife was comforting under his fingers.

‘We will have no names, here,’ Cassius said. ‘It is dark outside and we have not been seen. We have never met, in fact.’ His taut features stretched into an unpleasant smile.

‘Go on,’ Brutus said, sharply, anger surfacing. ‘My mother has bought you a few moments. If you can say nothing of use, then leave.’

The two men exchanged glances and Cassius swallowed nervously.

Suetonius cleared his throat. ‘There are some in the city who have not forgotten the Republic,’ he said. ‘There are some who do not enjoy the Senate being treated as servants.’

Brutus took in a sharp breath as he began to understand. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Those who love Rome may be dissatisfied with too much power in one man’s hands,’ Suetonius continued. A fat bead of sweat worked its way down his cheek from his hairline. ‘They do not want a line of kings built on a corruption of foreign blood.’

The words hung in the air between them and Brutus stared, his thoughts whirling. How much had his mother guessed of their intentions? All their lives were in danger if even a single one of her girls listened at the walls.

‘Wait here,’ he said, striding to the door.

The sudden movement brought Cassius and Suetonius almost to panic. Brutus flung open the door and saw his mother seated down the corridor. She rose to her feet and walked to him.

‘Are you part of this?’ he said, his voice low.

Her eyes glittered. ‘I have brought you together. The rest is up to you.’

Brutus looked at his mother and saw her coldness was a mask.

‘Listen to them,’ she said again, as he hesitated.

‘Are we alone?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘No one knows they are here, or that they are meeting you. This is my house and I know.’

Brutus grimaced. ‘You could get us all killed,’ he said.

Her smile mocked him. ‘Just listen to them, and be quick,’ she said.

He closed the door then and turned to face the two senators. He knew what they wanted, but it was too much to take in at once. ‘Go on,’ he said again to Suetonius.

‘I speak for the good of Rome,’ Suetonius replied in the old formula. ‘We want you to join us in this.’

‘In what?’ Brutus demanded. ‘Say the words or get out.’

Suetonius took a slow breath. ‘We want you for a death. We want you to help us bring back the power of the Senate. There are weak men there who will vote in a new king if they are not restrained.’

Brutus felt cold with an unnatural fear. He could not demand they speak the name. He did not know if he could bear to hear it.

‘How many are with you?’ he said.

Suetonius and Cassius exchanged another glance of warning.

‘Perhaps it is better for you not to know at this time,’ Cassius said. ‘We have not heard your answer.’

Brutus did not speak and Cassius’ face hardened subtly.

‘You must answer. We have gone too far to let it rest now.’

Brutus looked at the two men and knew they could not let him live if he refused. There would be archers outside to cut him down as he left. It was how he would have planned it.

It did not matter. He had known from the beginning what he would say.

‘I am the right man,’ he said in a whisper. The tension began to ease from the pair. ‘There must be some trust in this, but I do not want my mother involved again,’ Brutus went on. ‘I will rent another house for us to meet.’

‘I had thought …’ Suetonius began.

Brutus silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘No. I am the right man to lead you in this. I will not risk my life on fools and secrets. If this is to be done, let it be done well.’ He paused, taking a deep breath. ‘If we are to risk our lives for the good of Rome, it must be before spring. He plans a campaign in Parthia that will take him away, perhaps for years.’

Cassius smiled in triumph. He stood and held out his hand.

‘The Republic is worth a life,’ he said as Brutus gripped his thin fingers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

From the highest rooftops, the petals of red roses filled the air by the million, drifting down on the Dictator’s procession. The citizens of Rome reached up to them like children, entranced. For weeks, they had walked to the city from their farms and homes, drawn by the lure of glory and spectacle. The price of a bed had soared, but Julius had given every family a bag of silver, a jug of sweet oil and corn to make bread. The city had been rich with the smell of baking as they rose at dawn to watch Julius sacrifice a white bull at the temple of Jupiter. The omens had been good, as he had known they would be.

He had employed hundreds in the arrangements for the Triumph, from the ex-legion adventurers charged with capturing animals in Africa, to the stonemasons given the task of recreating Alexandria in Rome. Statues of Egyptian gods lined the route through the city and by noon many were draped with climbing children, laughing and calling to one another.

The ancient streets had a festive air, with every junction festooned in bright banners fluttering gaily over the city. By nightfall, there would be many girls with Julius to thank for a wedding dress from the material. Until then, Rome was a riot of colour and noise.

The column that wound its way through the main streets at noon was more than a mile long and lined at every step by cheering citizens. Soldiers of the Tenth and Fourth had been recalled from retirement to lead Julius through the city. They walked like heroes and those who knew their history showed appreciation at the sight of the men who had taken Gaul and beaten Pompey at Pharsalus.

The gladiators of Rome marched wearing heads of falcons and jackals, while chained leopards spat and struggled to the delight of the crowd.

In the heart of the procession was its centrepiece, a huge carriage more than twenty feet high, with sphinxes to the fore and rear. Eighty white horses heaved against the traces, tossing their heads. Julius and Cleopatra sat together on a balustraded platform, flushed with the success of the spectacle. She wore cloth of blood red that showed her stomach had regained its lines from before the birth. Her eyes were painted darkly and her hair was bound in gold. For this formal occasion, she wore rubies that shone on her ears and throat. Rose petals fluttered about them both and Julius was in his element, pointing out the wonders of Rome to her as they inched through the city. His aureus coins had been thrown like rain onto outstretched hands below and free wine and food would fill every stomach in Rome to bursting.

Cleopatra herself had sent for the best temple dancers in Egypt, not trusting Julius’ agents to judge their quality. A thousand pretty girls whirled and leapt to the strange music of her home and the sight of their flashing bare legs drew smiles of appreciation from the crowds. They carried sticks of incense in their hands and their movements were followed by thin smoke trails that filled the streets in lingering pungency. It was sensuous and wild and Cleopatra laughed aloud with the pleasure of it. She had made the right choice, in Caesar. His people were noisy in their appreciation, and she found herself exhilarated by the life of the city. There was so much energy in them! These were the ones who built galleys and bridges and laid pipes for hundreds of miles. The waving crowd thought nothing of crossing chasms and oceans and the world to bring trade. From their wombs came soldiers like men of brass to carry on the work.

Her son would be safe in the care of such a people, she was certain. Egypt would be safe.

It took hours to make their way through Rome, but the crowds did not grow tired of the sights and sounds of another continent. Teams of hunters had trapped a huge male gorilla that Cleopatra knew had never seen the Nile. The beast bellowed at the citizens as they gazed in awe, pulling back in fear and laughing as it hammered its great arms against solid bars. Julius planned to have the monster fight a team of swordsmen in the circus and there could have been no better advertisement than its rage. His people loved new things and Julius had brought the strangest animals of Africa for their enjoyment.

When the forum came into sight once more, Cleopatra had retired behind the screens of the carriage, a room of silk and gold that jolted along in restful motion. Her slaves were there to bring her cool drinks and food, though her son was safely asleep in the old house of Marius. With a few quick movements, she shrugged out of her dress to stand naked, holding her arms out for a costume even richer than the last. The rubies went into a chest and great emeralds on silver clasps were fastened at her wrists and ankles. Tiny bells chimed as her slaves dressed her and touched fresh kohl to her eyes. Let them stare at the queen Julius had found, she thought. Let them envy.

As the music of her people swelled from below, Cleopatra danced a few steps of a sequence she had learned as a girl, pressing down on the wooden floor with small, firm feet. She heard Julius laugh as he saw her, and she twirled in place to please him.

‘I will toast you in the best wine of Rome when I am finished here,’ he said, his eyes tender. ‘Let them see you now, while I go down to them.’

Cleopatra bowed her head. ‘Your will, master.’

He smiled at her mock humility, stepping back into public view. The horses had been halted and the proud men of the Tenth had made a path for him to a raised platform with a single chair. Julius lingered at the top of the steps, enjoying the sight of the packed forum from such a vantage point.

Cleopatra came out and the crowd exclaimed at her new apparel, whistling and calling. Julius cast a glance up at her and wondered how many of the matrons of Rome would be sending new orders to seamstresses and tailors the following day.

As he touched the ground, the Tenth began to sing a mournful legion ballad he had not heard in years. The strings of the Egyptian musicians fell silent and the deep voices soared, recalling old battles and his youth. Julius had not planned this part of the Triumph and he found his eyes were stinging as he walked between the upright spears of men who knew him better than anyone.

As he strode over the stones, the line closed behind him and the crowd moved forward, with those who knew the words joining in. Even the cheering was drowned by the throats of thousands of old soldiers and Julius was deeply moved.

Mark Antony was already on the platform and Julius grew tense as he approached the final steps up to where he would speak. With an effort of will, he turned at the top and smiled at the people of Rome who had come to show their appreciation of his life.

The song died away with the final line repeated three times and the silence that followed was shattered by a great roar.

Julius glanced at Mark Antony, knowing it was time. He raised his hands as if to quiet them, while Mark Antony stepped forward. Julius stood very still, his heart racing fast enough to make him light-headed.

Mark Antony held a crown in his hands, a simple band of gold. Julius looked out over the crowd as it was placed on his head, listening, listening for a change in the voices of Rome.

The applause began to fail as they saw what had happened. Julius waited as long as he could, painfully sensitive to the drop in volume. With a bitter smile, he forced himself to remove the crown before the cheering failed completely. Pale with tension, he handed it back.

The change was instant as the crowd responded, waves of sound that were almost a physical force. Julius could barely think at the heart of their bellowing, though a slow fury began to kindle in his breast.

On the steps of the senate house, a group of young men exchanged guarded glances as they witnessed the event. Suetonius frowned in suspicion and Cassius gripped the arm of another. They did not applaud and yell with the rest. They were a blot of silence in the noisy forum, with eyes that were cold and hard.

Mark Antony did not seem to have understood the reaction of the crowd, and he stepped forward again, pressing the crown onto Julius’ brow. Julius raised a hand to touch the soft metal and knew they wanted him to refuse it once more. His hopes were dashed, but the play had to continue.

He pressed it back into Mark Antony’s hands.

‘No more,’ he muttered through closed teeth, though his voice was lost in ten thousand others.

Mark Antony did not hear the warning. He had feared the worst when Julius had asked to be crowned in the forum. Now that he saw it was to be a demonstration of Republican honour, he was almost hysterical with excitement, buoyed up on the spirits of the citizens. Laughing, he raised the crown for a third time, and Julius lost his temper.

‘Touch that thing to my head one more time and you’ll never see Rome again,’ he snapped, making Mark Antony fall back in confusion.

Julius’ face was stained with rage. The gods alone knew what he would say to them now. The speech he had prepared had depended on their acceptance of the crown. He could not see where he had failed, but he knew it was impossible to take the gold band again. They would think it a great game. He glanced up to where Cleopatra stood above the mob and shared a gaze of disappointment with her. She had known his hopes and to have them crushed before her eyes was more than he could stand.

Blind and ignorant to the reality before them, the crowd had quieted at last, waiting for him to speak. Julius stood as if dazed while he struggled to find something to say.

‘There will come a day when Rome accepts a king once more,’ he said at last, ‘but it will not be today.’

They battered him with noise and he hid his anger and disappointment. It was all he could trust himself to say. He stepped down without waiting for his Tenth to form a path, but the people gave way in awe and dignity after what they had seen.

As he walked stiffly through them, he burned in humiliation. The Triumph had not finished yet. The horses and cages, dancers and carriages would make their way to his new forum and end at the temple of Venus. He vowed silently to himself that if the crowd failed to show proper appreciation there, blood would be shed before the day ended.

As the crowd moved on, a figure in silver armour turned towards the senate house steps, seeing the white togas of wolves he knew. Brutus understood far better than they what Julius had tried to do and the knowledge helped to firm his resolution and his strength. Rome would be washed clean and he would find his path without the shadow of Caesar to torment him.

The new spring would take Julius away from the capital. It would have to be soon.

Servilia lay awake in darkness, unable to sleep. The days had turned cold at last and Julius’ calendar had begun as Februarius ended, bringing rain to a parched city. She could hear it pounding on the tiles overhead and sluicing through the gutters, carrying away the dust.

Her house was quiet, the final patrons having set out for their own homes hours before. Sleep should have come easily, but instead her aching joints could not rest as her thoughts raced and writhed in the dark.

She did not want to think of him, but memories stole through her, their brightness the sole consolation of weakening age. Even in the sun, she would find her thoughts drifting back to other times, but at night there was nothing to hold the flood of recollection that slid into troubled dreams.

She had loved him at the feet of Alexander and he had been hers, in flesh and spirit. She had been his. He had burned for her then, before the cruelty of experience had hardened him.

She sighed to herself, clutching blankets around her thin legs. There was no hope for rest, not on this night. Perhaps it was only right that she spend it in memory of him.

She could still see his face as he held up the son he had always wanted. If he had noticed her in the crowd, he had not recognised the white-haired old woman she had become. At the moment of his greatest joy, she had hated him with a passion her bones had almost forgotten. Brutus had known the shallowness of his love. She tasted bitterness in her throat at the thought of how she had once pleaded with her son. His betrayal had frightened her then, when Pompey had ruled Rome with iron. She had not listened to his warning that Julius would never need her as she had needed him.

She did not care about the pompous arguments of men like Suetonius and Cassius. She saw their jealousy for what it was, despite the honour they claimed. They were too small to love the Republic, or even to understand what it had once meant. Better by far to stand and say that they hated him because he did not notice them. Vanity and pride would be the strength that drove their knives. She knew it, as she had always known the hearts of men. They would play their games of passwords and whispers as they met in the shadows, but the truth did not frighten her as it did them. Her hatred was a clean thing.

She raised a hand to her face, surprised to find tears on her wrinkled skin. That was the reality of the years that stole, she thought. They took the joys and left only bitter pain and tears that came from emptiness.

How many wives had he taken to press his seed into life? Not once had he asked the whore he kept. Not once, even when there was life in her womb and her flesh was firm and strong. He had used her knowledge a hundred times against his enemies. She had kept him safe and now she had been forgotten. Her hands were claws in the cloth as she thought of his pride in his son. There was always a price to pay.

The rain increased in power as it swept across the city, and Servilia wept again. Rome would be clean by the dawn of the Ides of March. The past would no longer trouble her sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Julius walked alone through a waking city to the senate house. His son had disturbed his sleep with crying and he was red-eyed, rising as the market stalls and traders were still setting up for the business of the day.

He preferred Rome at these moments after rain, when the air smelled fresh and clean and the day stretched far ahead with promise. It was true that the wind was cold, but he wore a heavy tunic under his toga and the touch of frozen air was pleasant as he breathed deeply.

No guards were there to disturb the peace of the morning. He needed no lictors to frown at his people as they passed with their eyes downcast. They may not have accepted the crown Mark Antony had offered, but the man himself was untouchable. He did not fear them as men like Sulla and Pompey had feared. They had treated the citizens as violent children, terrified of the same force that had brought them to power. He needed no such protection. Julius sighed to himself as he strolled along the stone walkway, lost in thought.

Without Cleopatra, he might well have left Rome months before. When he was far away, he could love his city as an abstract. He could talk of his home in the same breath as Alexandria, Carthage and Athens, the centres of empires gone and still rising. The distance somehow lent a romance to the heaving ant-heap of reality. When Rome was thousands of miles to the west, he could see the glory of her scholarship, her inventions and trade. It was difficult to remember those things existed when he was suffocated amongst the petty rivalries and vanity of the Senate. There was such a chasm between the two. When he despaired, he saw only the worst face of the city of his birth. Life teemed there in filthy alleys and a few coins would have bought a woman, a man or a child. When it was hot, the city stank like an open drain and when there was frost, thousands starved and froze on a knife edge of survival. Those were the times when he could barely catch his breath. His inner vision crumbled against the hard truths and he ached to ride clear and leave it all behind.

To have the power to make changes had been intoxicating at first. Whatever he had the wit to imagine could be made, created new. It was a temporary joy, like so much else. He hungered for something he could never quite name and when fresh-faced generals had come with news of unrest in Parthia, he had not sent them away. Mark Antony would rule Rome again, or Octavian perhaps. He had earned the right to leave his mark on the city and until Julius’ son became a man, the boy would need strong protectors. It would be Octavian, Julius decided, already imagining the expression on his face when he heard the news.

Outside the city, there were legions of young men gathering to march against the Parthians. His unease vanished in the presence of so much youthful hope. They had not been made cynical. They carried more than a sword and shield for Rome, he thought, groping for the idea. When they left, they carried a distilled form of the city with them, the purest part. It took them through pain and exhaustion. It kept their discipline when they saw death coming and suddenly knew it would not pass them by. By pledging their strength, each one of them gave a value to what they left behind. They were saying ‘This is worth my life.’ And they made it so. There could be no value in a city without those young men to stand in the Campus.

Julius remembered what Brutus had said about the spring air raising his head and he smiled as he walked. It was true that the thought of another campaign had stirred his blood. His time in Rome had been everything he had wanted it to be. His Triumphs would be remembered for generations and the Senate had honoured him as no one else in history. Scipio would have given his right arm for the titles they had bestowed. Marius would have loved every moment.

Before Julius reached the bottom of the hill, he saw a lone figure in a toga so white it looked like winter frost. He frowned as the man began to walk in his direction. Could they do nothing until he had arrived? What new problem was so vexing and difficult that they must interrupt his thoughts before the day had even begun? He recognised Cassius as the man drew closer and bowed his head.

‘Caesar, the Senate are meeting in Pompey’s theatre this morning. I have stayed to let you know.’

‘Why, what has happened?’ Julius said, his calm evaporating.

‘The Ides of March fall on the anniversary of Pompey being made consul, sir,’ Cassius replied. ‘It was decided to honour his family in this way. The resolution was passed in your absence. I was worried it might not have reached you, and …’

‘All right, enough,’ Julius snapped. ‘I do not have time to read every line of the speeches.’

Cassius bowed his head again and Julius repressed his irritation at the intrusion. They fell into step together as they crossed the road on stepping stones and took a right turn that would take them over the Capitoline hill.

Without warning, Julius stopped suddenly.

‘Sir?’ Cassius asked.

‘No, it’s nothing. I was just thinking of an old man I knew, a long time ago.’

‘I see, sir,’ Cassius replied automatically.

‘You are sweating, Cassius,’ Julius observed. ‘You should walk more often, for fitness.’

‘It is a chill, sir, nothing more,’ Cassius replied, staring ahead.

Pompey’s theatre had been used as a second senate house many times since its completion. It could accommodate even the swollen numbers of new senators Julius had introduced since his return to the city. There was a certain pleasure in debating with the senators of Rome at the foot of Pompey’s statue. It loomed over them all, a matchless casting that captured the stern features of the man in his prime.

As the sun rose, Julius was surprised to find only a few senators clustered around the main doors. They saw his arrival and two broke away to walk inside. Julius frowned at the thought of the work ahead. When he had been young, he had watched their discussions in something approaching awe. He had seen great men stand and dominate their fellows, changing Rome with the force of their thoughts and words. Julius had responded to the power of their oratory, been inspired by it.

It was the tragedy of experience that heroes lost the shine they had once had. Perhaps the new men he had brought into the ranks of the nobilitas still walked with soft steps as the laws were passed. He did not know if they did, or whether it was just that the great issues of the age had been decided. Perhaps he had seen the last of the grand figures to stride through Rome. He had known the men with strength enough to challenge the restrictions of the Republic. He had learned from them, but those battles were over, whether he wore a crown or not.

He passed through the entrance with barely a nod to those who stood around in the grey light, taking his place on a bench close to the central stage. He would speak today. Perhaps he would try once more to make them understand the need to expand the lands under Rome. He would speak even though they seemed deaf to the words he used; blind to the ideas. Rome could never rest on what had been brought to her feet. How many times had he seen small rebellions take fire throughout a country, the strength of the Senate tested from outside? From the Mytilene fort to Syria, he had been witness to the hawks that waited for Rome to nod in sleep, just once.

There were a thousand small kings in the world who bent their knee and still watched for a moment of weakness. Only a fool would give it to them. If Roman generals ever reached a line and said, ‘This is far enough’, that would be the end of a million lives given to reach that point. That would be the crack that would break the glass.

Julius was so deep in his inner thoughts that he did not notice Tillius Cimber approach him, striding along the curved line of benches. Julius assumed the younger man had stumbled when he felt a hand grip the cloth of his toga, yanking it aside.

In an instant, rage spiked in him as the man held on. Cimber’s face was rigid with effort and Julius gripped his fingers with both hands, twisting at them.

‘What are you doing?’ Julius shouted at his attacker, struggling to stand.

He saw faces turn towards him from the corners of his eyes and more men rush to his aid. Through his fury, he knew he had only to wait for Cimber to be dragged away. The punishment for daring to lay a hand on him was death, and he would not be merciful.

Cimber was young and strong, but Julius had weathered like an oak on a thousand miles of march. His arms shook with the strain, yet he could not break the deathless fingers that writhed against his neck.

More men clustered around on the benches, crying out as they came closer. Julius saw Suetonius draw a dagger, his face flushed with vicious excitement. The shock strained at his heart as he understood at last what was happening. Cimber smiled as he saw the realisation come to the Dictator and he renewed his grip, holding Julius in place for Suetonius to strike.

Julius looked desperately around for anyone he could call. Where was Ciro? Brutus? Where was Octavian or Mark Antony? He bellowed as Suetonius gashed at him, the knife scoring a line of blood on his shoulder. Cimber’s hold was broken by others who swarmed in to kill and Julius struck out blindly, yelling for help. He grunted as a knife sank into his side and was withdrawn to strike again.

A man fell across him, hindering the others. Julius was able to stand for a moment and raised his arm against a dagger slashing towards his neck. It sliced his hand and he cried out in agony, shoved back in his seat by the press of snarling men.

There was blood everywhere, staining their white togas and spattering their faces. Julius thought of his son and was terrified for what they would do to him. In his agony, he shoved one of his attackers backwards with fading strength. More knives punched into his legs as he kicked out in spasm.

He did not stop calling for help, knowing he could survive even the worst of the wounds. If Octavian could be summoned, he would strike fear into the animals that screamed and yelped around him in a frenzy.

Two of them held him by shoulders slippery with blood. Hot liquid bubbled from the corner of his mouth as his strength vanished. He could only look up in despair as they panted into his face, close enough to smell their breath.

‘Wait,’ he heard a voice say, somewhere close.

The bloody hands shoved Julius against the back of his seat and he turned in an agony of hope to see who had stopped them.

Brutus walked across the central floor of the theatre, his hands clasped behind his back. Even as Julius felt relief, he saw his old friend too carried a blade in his hand and he slumped brokenly. Blood poured from his wounds and his vision seemed to sharpen as every sense screamed to live. He felt the hands of his enemies fall away, but he could not move or fight them any longer.

‘You too, Brutus?’ he said.

Brutus stepped into the line of benches and raised his knife up to Julius’ face. His eyes held a great sadness and a triumph Julius could not bear to witness.

‘Yes,’ Brutus replied softly.

‘Then kill me quickly. I cannot live and know this,’ Julius said, his voice a whisper.

The other men stood back in awe, seeing the blood they had released. Julius did not look at them. Slowly, without dropping his gaze from Brutus, he reached to the twisted folds of his toga and drew it slowly upwards.

Brutus watched in silence as Julius showed his contempt for them all. He bowed his head under the toga, folding his shaking hands into the cloth. Then he sat perfectly still and waited for death.

Brutus showed his teeth for an instant, then shoved his knife through the cloth, finding the heart. The tableau broke as the others joined him, stabbing and stabbing at the small figure until it slumped to the side and the last of life was gone.

The susurration of panting breath was the only sound in the world as Brutus looked around the men in the echoing theatre. Every eye was on the body that lay between the benches, limp and slick with blood. The dark liquid stained their faces and arms and rested in tiny droplets in their hair.

‘He’s dead at last,’ Suetonius murmured, shaking as the draining frenzy left him weak and dazed. ‘What happens now?’

The men who had come so far looked to Brutus for an answer.

‘Now we walk out,’ Brutus said. His voice shook. ‘We walk. We go to the senate house and we tell them what we have done. We have cut the tyrant out of Rome and we will not go in shame.’

He saw Suetonius begin to wipe his knife clean and Brutus reached out a hand, stopping him.

‘We will not hide the marks. Let the blood show the honour of those with courage to stand against a tyrant. This is how we have saved the Republic. Let it show. Now he is gone, Rome can begin to heal.’

His eyes glittered as he looked down at the figure of the man he had known and loved.

‘We will honour him in death,’ he said, almost too quietly to hear.

Those closest to the doors began to walk away and Brutus went with them. The rest followed, glancing back at the scene, as if to reassure themselves of its reality.

They walked red-handed on the ancient streets of Rome and they walked with pride.

HISTORICAL NOTE

Gaius Julius Caesar is remembered for much more than being an extraordinary general. It is true that there are few military leaders who could have equalled his strategic skill, or charismatic leadership, but that is only a part of the tale. Republican Rome may have eased into empire without Julius Caesar, but it could also have torn itself apart. In one of the hardest schools in history, Caesar rose to pre-eminence, finally crushing Pompey at Pharsalus. His life was the bridge between two eras of history; the catalyst for empire.

Throughout his career, he showed a fine understanding of politics, power and manipulation. I will not say he invented propaganda, but he must surely be one of its greatest and earliest exponents. Undermining Pompey through public displays of clemency was a deliberate policy. As Julius wrote in a letter, ‘Let this be a new way of gaining victory; let us secure ourselves through mercy and magnanimity!’

Pompey never understood the technique, though Cicero clearly saw through at least part of it. He referred to the policy as ‘insidious clemency’ and said that ‘Whatever evil he refrains from, arouses the same gratitude as if he had prevented another from inflicting it.’

Pompey was outmatched from the start of the civil war, when he demanded the Gaul general return to Rome without the support of his legions. Caesar spent a night of soul-searching on the river Rubicon where he debated whether the loss of life resulting from a civil war would be worth his own. With characteristic self-belief, he decided it would be and launched a lightning strike south, at such a speed that Pompey was caught completely by surprise. He could not defend the city and even forgot to empty the treasury in his haste to leave. Not that it was needed. The vast sums of gold Caesar brought back from Gaul devalued the Roman aureus by an astonishing thirty per cent.

The incident on the feast of Bona Dea was as I have described it, including the fact that Publius dressed as a woman to escape detection. Publius was actually found innocent of adultery by a court, but Caesar divorced his wife anyway, saying that ‘Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.’ Having an heir was no doubt increasingly important to him and he would have understood the need for a son’s legitimacy to be beyond question.

For reasons of plot and length, I have omitted battles in Spain and Africa as Julius and his generals crushed legions loyal to Pompey. When the time came for him to seek Pompey in Greece, he gave control of Italy to Mark Antony and, as a result, Marcus Brutus betrayed him for the first time, joining Pompey against his old friend. Julius gave orders for him to be spared if possible in what, for me, is one of the most poignant scenes in the history. Forgiving Brutus after such a betrayal shows Caesar’s greatness as nothing else.

Julius landed in Oricum on the west coast of Greece. I have not included the fact that he had to return to Italy in a small boat to fetch more men. The boat hit a storm and Caesar is reported to have told the boatmen not to fear, saying that they carried ‘Caesar and his fortune.’ He was a great believer in his own luck and this seems to have been borne out through the events of his life. He did manage to take Dyrrhachium from Pompey’s control, after an exhausting night march.

Though the centurion Decimus is fictional, one of Caesar’s officers did take his own life when captured, saying that he was used to dispensing mercy rather than receiving it. The disdain this shows can only be imagined. Another small change is that Cicero’s wife Terentia was in fact in Rome during the civil war. She did not travel to Greece.

Pompey’s failure may have been in part due to an illness, for which there is some evidence, or simply the fact that he was facing a Roman enemy with the most astonishing record of any general alive. It may have been that having the Senate with him was a greater handicap than we can know. Either way, Pompey had twice as many men and at least four times the cavalry. He should not have needed to build fortifications and fight a defensive war.

At one point, Pompey had victory for the taking. The disastrous pincer attack on Pompey’s forces is a real event. One of the sides was held up and Caesar’s cohorts were routed. Caesar grabbed the standard and tried to rally the fleeing men, but they went around him, leaving him alone. Pompey was convinced it was an ambush and did not pursue the fleeing forces, leading Julius to comment, ‘Today, victory would have gone to our opponents if they had someone who knew how to win.’ He lost nine hundred and sixty soldiers in the rout. Those who were captured were executed by Labienus. Pompey had lost the best chance he would ever have. The senators with Pompey were contemptuous of his unwillingness to close with the enemy. They demanded that he wage a more aggressive war and eventually he agreed.

At Pharsalus, Pompey commanded troops from Spain and Syria, Gaul, Germany and Macedonia as well as Roman legionaries. Caesar gives the numbers of Pompeian cavalry as 7,000, though it seems likely to have been an exaggeration.

The interesting incident of Pompey holding back his front line is well attested, though different reasons are suggested in various sources. My own feeling, based on Pompey’s ten deep lines, is that morale was appalling amongst his men and he saw nervousness in the ranks as Caesar’s army approached. Needless to say, it is a uniquely poor decision from the general who destroyed Spartacus and cleared the Mediterranean of pirates. The true state of Pompey’s mind can never now be known. His private papers were left behind after Pharsalus and Julius had them burnt without looking at them.

I have followed the main events of Pharsalus as far as they are known. Pompey used his cavalry to rout Caesar’s on the right wing. It took time for Pompey’s riders to re-form and turn and in that period Caesar’s smaller force came back and attacked them from behind, driving their own men into their lines. Caesar’s extraordinarii pushed on to destroy the archers and broke through to hit the flank and rear of Pompey’s lines. A full rout followed quickly after that.

The inescapable conclusion regarding Pharsalus is that Caesar should not have been able to win. Pompey had every advantage, but still his men folded before the veterans. Julius, it should be remembered, was a lawfully elected consul with a record of extraordinary, unprecedented shows of mercy. Corfinium is only one example in the civil war where he pardoned men who fought against him. His policy was intended to undermine Pompey in the field and it seems to have worked. I believe Pharsalus is as much a triumph of propaganda and perception as it is a military victory.

Caesar was indeed given a jar containing Pompey’s head on the docks of Alexandria. The Egyptians did not want a Roman war in their lands, though this attempt to avert one was to prove futile. Julius is recorded as having wept at the death of Pompey, though we can only guess at his reasons.

The Alexandria that Caesar would have seen is lost to the modern world. As well as the Pharos lighthouse, one of the seven ancient wonders that no longer exists, most of the streets and buildings in this book are now underwater. Modern excavations are still finding statues of Cleopatra and the son she had with Caesar, Ptolemy Caesarion.

Perhaps it is not surprising that a Roman consul who had been at war for most of his adult life should suddenly give it all up on meeting the twenty-one-year-old Cleopatra. The story of her being delivered to Caesar by her Greek attendant is well attested, though some sources say it was a long bag rather than a rolled carpet.

Cleopatra was indeed a descendant of Ptolemy, one of Alexander’s generals. She spoke five languages and was the first of her line to speak Egyptian. In her time, Alexandria was a real blend of cultures, with Greek colonnaded buildings and Egyptian statues in streets such as the Canopic Way.

The eunuch who played such a part in controlling the young Ptolemy was in fact named Pothinus, though I changed it so as not to have too similar a name to Porphiris, which I liked. Panek, in fact, means ‘snake’, which seemed appropriate. Caesar did give Cyprus back to the Egyptians as part of the negotiations after capturing the boy king. The scene where the young Ptolemy cried and refused to leave the barricaded palace is true. It is also true that on reaching his army and being dressed once again as the king, the thirteen-year-old ordered an immediate attack. He did not survive the struggle for power in Alexandria.

The body of Alexander the Great is also lost, though it rested in Alexandria in Caesar’s time, in a coffin of glass, as I have described. The body was covered in gold leaf and, given his status as a pharaoh and god, had presumably been embalmed.

I have only skated over Caesar’s marriage to Calpurnia, in 59 BC. Cleopatra too was married to another younger brother by the time she came to Rome. There was clearly a vast difference between formal alliances and real feeling.

Julius Caesar did indeed meet the son of the king of Syria on his grand tour before returning to Rome. Herod would grow to be the man who ordered the death of every first-born son in an attempt to break a prophecy predicting the birth of Christ.

The famous line ‘Veni, Vidi, Vici’, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’, comes from the four-hour battle against the son of Mithridates in Greece. If not for that line, it would be one of the forgotten moments of history.

Mark Antony tried three times to crown Julius on the feast of Lupercalia in February rather than the Egyptian Triumph. Julius is recorded as having lost his temper on the third try, perhaps because the crowd did not applaud the sight of a crown on his head.

Despite the lack of a crown, the Senate showered Caesar with unprecedented honours. As well as ‘Dictator Perpetuus’, ‘Imperator’ and ‘Father of His Country’, Julius was accorded the right to divine worship. A statue was raised to him with the words ‘To the Unconquerable God’. He was given the right to wear the regalia of the old kings.

We cannot know the full reasons for these honours now. Perhaps it was an attempt by men like Cicero to have Julius reach too far and alienate the citizens that loved him. Alternatively, such accolades could have been the only way the Senate were able to remain valuable to Caesar. Cassius is said to have brought Brutus into the conspiracy with the warning that the Senate would make Julius a king. It may even have been true.

The death of Caesar happened on the Ides (the 15th day) of March in 44 BC. The Senate were indeed meeting in Pompey’s theatre, though how many witnessed the murder is unknown. After a lot of thought, I did not include the fact that Caesar was handed a scroll warning him of the conspiracy. The man who passed it into his hands had once been employed by Brutus and the suspicion will always be there that Brutus himself was behind the warning, as complex a man as Caesar himself. It was never read and I felt this was an unnecessary complication.

Tillius Cimber held Caesar for the first blow by Casca – the first of twenty-three wounds. Only one was directly fatal, which shows the chaos of the murder. Caesar struggled until he saw Brutus was part of it, then pulled his toga over his head and sat like stone until they had completed their task. The courage of such an act defies description.

The night before, Caesar is said to have expressed a preference for a quick end rather than the agony of disease or weakness. His epilepsy may have troubled him, but a man does not welcome death and plan a campaign in Parthia at the same time. Nor does he give up the struggle for life when he has, at last, a son to follow his line. Suetonius said he was fifty-five years old, though the figure cannot be certain, as his birth date is unknown.

Julius Caesar named Octavian his heir in his will and it is one of the great tragedies that Octavian did not allow Ptolemy Caesarion to reach manhood. Though Cleopatra fled back to Egypt after the murder, it did not save her, or her young son. Perhaps it is true that those who have power do not allow future enemies to grow, but it does seem a particularly pitiless act.

History is littered with the stories of men who rose through fire and battle to positions of power – only to have their empires shattered on their deaths. Caesar achieved a position in Rome that no one else had ever managed on such a scale. He used the power to introduce a new calendar, give citizenship to all doctors and teachers, and move 80,000 of the poorest to new starts in colonies. He gave every Roman 300 sesterces, grain and oil. His legions were made rich to a man, with the centurions alone receiving 10,000 silver coins each. His Triumphs were unparalleled, including using the Tiber to flood a great basin on the Campus Martius for a violent ‘sea battle’. Tens of thousands attended his banquets. Yet perhaps his greatest good fortune was to be followed by Octavian, who took the name Gaius Julius Caesar to honour him and was only later known as Augustus. It was his steady hand that birthed the longest empire the world has ever known. Augustus was the first emperor, but Julius Caesar prepared his seat.

I have never been able to believe that Brutus took part in the murder of Julius Caesar out of a desire to restore the Republic. That was certainly the reason he gave and he had coins made that actually celebrate the events of the Ides of March. I think the complex relationship with Servilia played a part, brought to a head by the fact that Julius had at last fathered an heir. As Servilia survived Julius, she also survived her son and was brought his ashes after the battle of Philippi.

One change that I have made in these pages also has a bearing on Brutus’ motives. Caesar’s daughter Julia was originally promised to Brutus, a union that would have helped his rise through the echelons of Roman society. Always the pragmatist, Julius broke off the engagement to give her to Pompey instead. These are more human reasons for hatred, but the strongest may be the subtleties of envy and frustration in their own relationship. The final damage may simply have been that Julius publicly forgave the betrayal at Pharsalus. For Brutus, I suspect that would have been unbearable.

On a final note, I called this series ‘Emperor’ as I intended to show how the era of men such as Marius, Cato, Sulla and Julius created the empire that followed. The title ‘Imperator’ was given to any successful general. Julius may not have been crowned, but in everything but name, he was the one who brought the empire into the world.

In years to come, I may have to write the story of the aftermath of the assassination. Not a single man who stood with bloody hands in Pompey’s theatre died a natural death. In its way, it is a tale as great as any other, but it will have to wait for another day.

Conn Iggulden

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A number of people have devoted their time and energy to these books. I cannot name them all, but I must thank Fiona and Ingrid in particular for their extraordinary hard work. Thank you as well, to all those who have written to me. I have been touched by the responses to these books. Finally, I must mention the Inner Circle and Janis in Glasgow, who kept me smiling through a long afternoon.

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2006

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437153

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321780

Version: 2013-12-05

EMPEROR

THE BLOOD OF GODS

CONN IGGULDEN

To George Romanis

‘I am the most peaceable of men. All I ask is a humble cottage with a thatched roof, a good bed, good food, fresh milk and butter, flowers before my window and a few fine trees at my door; and if the dear Lord wants to make my happiness complete, he will grant me the joy of seeing some six or seven of my enemies hanging from those trees. Before their death I shall forgive them all the wrongs they did me in their lifetime. One must forgive one’s enemies – but not before they have been hanged.’

Heinrich Heine

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Three

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Not all of them were marked with blood. His body lay on cold marble, the stone proof against red lines dripping down the benches. Those who walked away looked back at least once, hardly able to believe that the tyrant would not rise. Caesar had fought, but they had been too many, too determined.

They could not see his face. In his last moments, the leader of Rome had yanked at the loose folds of his toga, pulling the cloth over his head as they gripped and stabbed at him. Its whiteness was marked with mouths. His bowels had opened as he slumped and fell to one side. The smell of it rose into the air in the theatre. There was no dignity for the broken thing they had made.

More than twenty men were spattered with the violence, some of them still panting in great heaving breaths. Around them were twice as many again, those who had not wielded blades but had stood and watched and not moved to save Caesar. Those who had taken part were still stunned at the violence and the feel of warm blood on their skins. Many had served terms with the army. They had seen death before, but in foreign lands and exotic cities. Not in Rome, not here.

Marcus Brutus touched his blade to both palms, leaving a red smear. Decimus Junius saw him do it and, after a moment of awe, he marked his own hands with fresh blood. Almost with reverence, the rest copied the action. Brutus had told them they would not walk with guilt. He had told them they had saved a nation from a tyrant. Behind him, they took the first steps towards a thick bar of light leading to the outside.

Brutus breathed deeply as he reached the sun, pausing on the threshold and letting the warmth seep into him. He was dressed as a soldier, the only man there in armour and with a gladius on his hip. In his late fifties, his bare brown legs were still strong, still rooted in the earth. There were tears in his eyes and he felt as if shadows of age and betrayal had been lifted, scars scrubbed away from his skin, so that he was made new.

He heard the men in robes gather at his back. Cassius stepped to his side, touching him lightly on the shoulder in comfort or support. Brutus did not look at him. His eyes were raised to the sun.

‘We can honour him now,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘We can heap glory on his memory until he is crushed beneath it all.’

Cassius heard and sighed, the sound like a burr to Brutus’ mood.

‘The Senate will be waiting for the news, my friend,’ Cassius murmured. ‘Let us leave the old world behind in this place.’

Brutus looked at him and the wiry senator almost recoiled from what he saw in those eyes. The moment held and none of those behind made a sound. Though they had killed, it was only then that they began to fear the city all around them. They had been swept up like leaves in a gale, casting aside reason to follow stronger men. The reality was drifting through the air, Rome remade in motes of golden dust. Without another word, Brutus walked out into the sun and they followed him.

The roads were busy at first, the trades and wares of thousands on display on every spare ledge or half blocking the stone road. A wave of silence came out of Pompey’s theatre, vanishing behind the senators, but staying with them as they turned towards the forum. The hawkers and servants and citizens of Rome froze at the sight of almost sixty men in white togas, led by one in armour whose right hand drifted to his sword hilt as he strode out.

Rome had seen processions before, by the thousand, but there was no joy in those who walked up the Capitoline hill. Whispers and nudges pointed out the red smears on their hands, the splashes of still-bright blood on their robes. Strangers shook their heads in fear and stayed well back, as if the group carried danger or disease.

Brutus strode eastwards and upward. He felt a strange anticipation, the first true emotion since he had pressed iron into his greatest friend and felt the shudder that told him he had reached the heart. He ached to lay eyes on the forum and the senate house, the stone centre of the vast Republic. He had to struggle not to quicken his step, to maintain the slow pace that was both their dignity and their protection. They would not run from what they had done. Their survival depended on showing no guilt, no fear. He would enter the forum as a liberator.

At the top of the Capitoline, Brutus paused. He could see the open space of the forum, ringed with temples. The senate house gleamed white, unsullied, the guards at its doors tiny figures in the distance. The sun was growing hot and he could feel sweat trickle inside his ornate chestplate. The senators at his back moved slowly up, not understanding why they had stopped. The line around him widened, but their authority had been spent that morning and not one of them, not even Cassius or Suetonius, dared to move down the hill without Brutus leading the way.

‘We are Liberatores,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘There are many in that place who will welcome what we have done. There are hundreds more who will breathe in relief when they hear that the tyrant is dead and Rome is safe, the Republic is safe. There will be a vote for amnesty and it will pass. All this has been decided. Until then, remember your dignity, your honour. There is no shame in what we have done.’

Around him, they stood a little taller, many of them raising bloody hands that had been clenched and hidden at their sides.

Brutus looked to Cassius once more and this time his expression was mild.

‘I have played my part, Senator. You must do the rest. Carry the small men with you and place every step with care, or we will be hunted down.’

Cassius nodded, smiling wryly.

‘I have the votes, General. It is all arranged. We will walk in free and we will be honoured.’

Brutus looked hard at the senator who carried all their futures in his hands. Cassius was a man of bone and hard flesh, with no weakness evident in him.

‘Then lead us in, Senator. I will be at your back.’

Cassius’ mouth firmed at the suspicion of a threat, but he raised his head and strode down into the heart of Rome.

As they approached the senate house, Brutus and Cassius could hear raised voices, a dim roar of undisciplined sound. The great bronze doors were open, and a voice cried out above the rest. The noise dropped away into silence.

Brutus trembled as he touched the steps, knowing that the few hours left before noon would be among the most important of his life. They had the blood of Caesar on their hands. A wrong word or rash act and their own would be spilled before the sun set. He looked over to Cassius and was reassured once more by the man’s confidence. There were no doubts in the senator. He had worked long and hard for this day.

Two legionaries came to attention as Brutus and Cassius ascended. The soldiers were out of their depth and they hesitated when the senator raised his bloody right hand, making sure they saw it before he inclined the palm to include Brutus.

‘General Brutus is my guest,’ Cassius said, his mind already on the crowd inside.

‘He’ll have to leave the gladius here, sir,’ the soldier said.

Something in the way Brutus looked at him made him drop his hand to his own hilt, but Cassius chuckled.

‘Oh, hand it over, Brutus. Don’t embarrass the man.’

With ill grace, Brutus untied the scabbard rather than pull a bare blade and frighten the soldier. He gave up his sword and strode to catch Cassius, suddenly angry, though he could not have said exactly why. Julius had never been stopped at the door of that building. It was irritating to be reminded of his lack of status at the very moment of his triumph. In the senate house, Brutus was no more than an officer of Rome, a senior man without civil rank. Well, that could be put right. Now Caesar was dead, all the failures and setbacks of his life could be put right.

More than four hundred men had crowded into the senate house that morning, their bodies warming the air, so that there was a noticeable difference inside, despite the open doors. Brutus looked for faces he recognised. He knew most of them, after many years of standing at Julius’ side, but one new face arrested his sweep. Bibilus. Years before, the man had stood with Caesar as consul, but something had happened between them and Bibilus had never appeared in the Senate again. His sudden return spoke volumes about the shift in power – and about how many already knew. Brutus saw Bibilus had aged terribly in the years of isolation. He had grown even fatter, with dark and swollen pouches under his eyes and a web of broken blood vessels on his cheeks. His jowls were scraped raw as if he had shaved for the first time in months. The man’s gaze was fever-bright and Brutus wondered if he had been drinking, already celebrating the death of an old enemy.

It did not look as if Cassius’ news would cause much shock in that chamber. Too many of the senators had smug and knowing expressions, exchanging glances and nodding to each other like virgins with a secret. Brutus despised them all, hated them for their effete manners and their pompous sense of their own worth. He had seen Egypt, Spain and Gaul. He had fought for the Republic, murdered for it, while they sat and talked the days away and understood nothing of the men who bled for them in the field.

Cassius approached the rostrum. Once it had been an artefact of Roman power, carved from the prow of a warship of Carthage. That one had been burned in riots and, like so much else in the building, it was now just a lesser copy of what it had once been. Brutus raised his eyes to the man standing behind it and grew still. He realised he had been the subject of cold scrutiny since he’d entered the chamber.

Mark Antony’s latest consular year was not yet over. Before the events of that morning, he had been little more than a figurehead for Caesar, but that had changed. The Republic had been restored and Mark Antony held the reins. He dominated the room and Brutus had to admit he looked the part. Tall and muscular, Mark Antony had the features and strong nose of old Roman bloodlines. None of the Liberatores had known how he would jump when they planned their assassination. One of their number, Gaius Trebonius, had been given the task of distracting the consul. Brutus saw the young senator on the seats nearby, looking so pleased with himself that it made Brutus’ stomach twist.

Mark Antony stared over the seated heads at him and Brutus sensed his knowledge and his shock. The consul had been told, or had heard the news as whispers went around the chamber. Caesar was dead. The tyrant was dead. They all knew, Brutus was suddenly certain. Yet the words still had to be spoken.

Cassius took his position at the base of the rostrum, standing a head lower than the consul looming over him. As Brutus watched, Cassius raised his right arm and touched the wood like a talisman. Into the silence, Cassius spoke.

‘On this day, the Ides of March, Rome was set free from an oppressor,’ he said. ‘Let the news fly from here to all nations. Caesar is dead and the Republic is restored. Let the shades of our fathers rejoice. Let the city rejoice. Caesar is dead and Rome is free.’

The words brought forth a wave of sound as the senators cheered, striving to outdo the men around them with sheer volume. They were red-faced as they roared and stamped, making the stones tremble. Mark Antony stood with his head bowed, the muscles in his jaw standing out like tumours.

Brutus thought suddenly of the Egyptian queen in the fine Roman house Caesar had given her. Cleopatra would not yet know what had happened to the father of her son. He imagined her panic when she heard. He did not doubt she would pack her jewels and get out of Rome as fast as good horses could run. The thought made him smile for the first time that morning. So many things would be made new in the months to come. Caesar had been like a weight on the city, pressing them all down. Now they would spring up, stronger and better than they had been before. Brutus could feel it in the air. This was his time at last.

The Senate had almost forgotten how things used to be. Brutus could see the little men revise their opinions of their own power. They had been mere servants. In a morning, in a raw-throated bellow, they had become men again. He had given them that. Brutus lowered his head in thought, but when he heard Mark Antony begin to speak, he looked up, suspicion flaring.

‘Senators, be still,’ Mark Antony said. ‘There is much to be done today, now that we have this news.’

Brutus frowned. The man was a famous supporter of Caesar. His time was over. The best he could do was leave the chamber with dignity and take his own life.

‘There are legions in the Campus Martius waiting for Caesar to lead them against Parthia,’ Mark Antony went on, oblivious to Brutus’ irritation. ‘They must be brought to heel, before they get the news. They were loyal to Caesar. They must be approached with care, or we will see them mutiny. Only the authority of the Senate stands between us all and anarchy in this city. Senators, be still.’ The last words were a command, deeper and louder in order to silence the last of the excited chatter.

At the door Brutus shook his head in sour amusement. Mark Antony was not a fool, but he overreached himself. Perhaps he thought he could be part of the new era, despite fawning on Caesar for so many years. It was more politics, but Brutus knew the senators were still numb, still feeling their way in the new world that had been thrust upon them. The consul might even save himself, though he would have to choose each step with care. There were old grudges to be settled yet and Antony would bear the brunt of many of them. Even so, for that morning at least, he was still consul.

‘There must be a formal vote before a single one of us leaves,’ Mark Antony continued, his strong voice rolling across the chamber. ‘If we grant amnesty to the murderers of Caesar, it will choke a rebellion before it begins. The citizens and the legions will see that we have restored justice and law, where it was once trodden down by a single man. I call that vote.’

Brutus froze, a worm of unease itching in his head. Cassius stood at the rostrum with his mouth slightly open. He should have been the one to call a vote for amnesty. It was all arranged and the Liberatores knew they would win. To have Caesar’s favourite pre-empt them with that vital step made Brutus want to bellow out in accusation. The words bubbled up in him, clear in his mind. Caesar had given Rome to Antony when he left the city to attack his enemies. Antony had been his puppet consul, the mask that let him hide tyranny beneath the old forms. What right did that man have to speak as if he now led the new Republic? Brutus took a half-step forward, but Mark Antony’s voice continued to echo over them.

‘I ask only this: that in death, Caesar be given his dignity. He was first in Rome. The legions and the people will expect to see him honoured. Will the men who brought him down deny him that? There should be no suspicion of shame, no secret burial. Let us treat the divine Julius with respect, now that he is gone from the world. Now that he is gone from Rome.’

In frustration, Cassius stepped up to the raised dais, so that he stood at Mark Antony’s side. Even then, the consul was a powerful figure beside his slight frame. Before he could speak, Mark Antony leaned close to him and murmured.

‘You have your victory, Cassius. This is not the time for small men and small vengeance. The legions will expect a funeral in the forum.’

Cassius remained still, thinking. At last, he nodded. Brutus stayed where he was, his right fist clenched over the empty space on his hip.

‘I thank Consul Mark Antony for his clear thinking,’ Cassius said. ‘And I concur. There must be order first, before law, before peace. Let this vote take place and then we will be free to manage the common citizens, with their petty emotions. We will honour Caesar in death.’

The senators looked to Cassius, and Brutus nodded fiercely at the way he had taken control. There were legal officers whose task it was to announce votes and debates in that place, but even as they rose from their seats around the rostrum, Cassius spoke again, ignoring their presence. He would not allow a delay on that morning, nor another to speak until he was done. Brutus began to relax.

‘Those in favour of complete amnesty to be granted to the liberators of Rome, rise and be counted.’

Brutus saw the sweating bulk of Bibilus leap to his feet with the energy of a younger man. The rest followed a bare moment later. Those who were already standing, like Mark Antony, raised their right hands. There was a beat of silence and Cassius nodded, tension flowing out of him.

‘Dissenters?’

The assembly sat down as one and not a single man rose. Somehow, it hurt Brutus to see. Half of them owed Caesar their lives and fortunes. Their families had been tied to his, their rise to his. He had picked them one by one over the years, men he wanted to honour in his wake. Yet they would not stand for him, even in death. Brutus found himself obscurely disappointed, for all he understood it. They were survivors, who could read the wind as well as anyone. Yet Caesar deserved better from Rome, on that day of all others.

Brutus shook his head in confusion, aware again of the blood on his hands as it dried and cracked. There was a fountain not far off in the forum and he wanted to be clean. As Cassius congratulated the Senate, Brutus slipped out into the sunshine. He collected his sword from the guards and walked stiffly down the steps and across the open ground.

There was already a crowd around the fountain, men and women of the city in colourful robes. Brutus felt their eyes on him as he approached, but he did not look at them. He knew the news would be on the wing already. They had not tried to hide it.

He rubbed his hands together in the freezing water, brought by aqueduct from distant mountains, drawn through narrowing lead pipes until it rushed out clear and sweet in the forum. Someone gasped as they saw the red stain that spread into the water from his skin, but he ignored them.

‘Is it true?’ a woman asked suddenly.

Brutus looked up, then rubbed his wet hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Her stola robe was fine, revealing a bare tanned shoulder, her elegance accented by hair piled and caught in silver pins. She was beautiful, kohl-eyed like a courtesan. He wondered how many others across the city were asking the same question at that moment.

‘Is what true?’ he asked.

‘That divine Caesar is dead, that he has been killed? Do you know?’ Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears as she stared at the man washing blood from his hands.

Brutus remembered the blow he had struck a few hours and a lifetime before.

‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, turning away.

His gaze drifted to the Capitoline hill, as if he could see through it to the vast building of Pompey’s theatre. Was the body still there, lying on the stone seats? They had left no orders for Caesar to be tended in death. For an instant, Brutus felt his eyes sting at the thought of Julius alone and forgotten. They had been friends for a long, long time.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Octavian winced as he felt the heat of the rocks burning through his thin sandals. Though Rome claimed to have finally brought civilisation to Greece, he could see little sign of it in the hill villages. Away from the coast, the people were either suspicious of strangers or openly hostile. Even a simple request to use a well was met with frowns and doors shut in their faces. All the while, the sun beat down, reddening their necks. Octavian remembered how he had smiled when the local praetor said there were places in Greece where a young Roman had about as much chance of survival as a tax gatherer. It had been an exaggeration, but not by much.

He stopped to wipe sweat from his face. The land itself was wild, with canyons that seemed to drop for ever. Octavian took a deep breath, suddenly certain he’d be walking out. Nothing would give the local boys more pleasure than seeing three footsore Romans searching for stolen mounts.

Octavian stayed alert as he climbed, looking for some sign of the group of ragged men they followed. The trail had been easy at first, until it split and split again. Octavian didn’t know if the bandits knew they would be pursued or had just taken different routes home, vanishing into the cauldron of mountains as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. He felt an itch and craned his neck to see as far as he could. It was too easy to imagine a bowman leaning over the lip of some crag and attacking before they even knew he was there.

‘Call out if you see anything,’ he said.

Maecenas snorted, waving a hand at bare rocks. ‘I’m not a tracker,’ he replied. ‘For all I know, they could have passed through here with a herd of goats just an hour ago. Why don’t we go back to the main group and take up the search from there? This is not how I expected to spend my leave. I imagined more wine and less … climbing.’ He grunted as they reached a great step in the rocks.

There was no sign of a path and each man heaved himself up, their sandals skidding and scrambling as they went. The sun was fierce above and the sky was an aching blue. All three were sweating heavily and the single flask of water was already empty.

‘At least the men from the town know these hills,’ Maecenas went on. ‘They know where to search.’

Octavian didn’t have the breath to respond. The slope grew steeper and steeper until he had to use his hands to steady each step, then really climb. He was panting lightly as he reached the top of a crag and stared, judging the best route down the other side. The maze of grey rocks stretched into the distance, empty of life beyond the lizards that skittered away with every step.

‘You’d have me stand by and watch, doing nothing to help them?’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘A rape and a murder, Maecenas. You saw her body. What honour would there be in letting a few farmers chase them down while we stand and watch, confirming everything they say about idle Romans? Come on.’

He jerked his head at a route that would take them to the floor of the canyon and began climbing down. At least the shadowed clefts were cooler, until they climbed back into the burning sun once more.

‘Why should I care what Greek peasants say?’ Maecenas muttered, though he pitched his voice too low to be heard. Maecenas was of such ancient lineage that he refused to claim descent from the twins who suckled at a she-wolf and went on to found Rome. His people, he said, had owned the wolf. When they’d first met, he’d assumed Octavian had known Caesar, so a mere Roman noble could not impress him. Over time, he’d realised Octavian took Maecenas at the value he set for himself. It was slightly galling to have to live up to his own sense of superiority. Maecenas felt that Octavian had rather missed the point of noble families. It wasn’t who you were – it was who your ancestors had been that mattered. Yet somehow that simple faith was something he could not shatter in his friend. Octavian had known poverty, with his father dying early. If he thought a true Roman noble would be brave and honourable, Maecenas didn’t want to disappoint him.

Maecenas sighed at the thought. They wore simple tunics and darker leggings. Any clothing was too hot for climbing in the noon sun, but the leggings were terrible, already dark with perspiration. He was convinced he’d rubbed himself raw under them. He could smell his own sweat as he climbed and skidded down, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The scabbard of his sword caught in a crevice and Maecenas swore as he freed it. His expression darkened as he heard Agrippa laugh behind him.

‘I am glad to provide some amusement for you, Agrippa,’ he snapped. ‘The pleasures of this day are now complete.’

Agrippa gave a tight smile without replying as he came level and then went past, using his great strength and size to take enormous steps down the crag. The fleet centurion was a head taller than his companions and the constant labour on board Roman galleys had only increased the power in his arms and legs. He made the climb look easy and was still breathing lightly by the time he reached the bottom. Octavian was a few steps behind and the pair waited for Maecenas as he clambered down after them.

‘You realise we’ll have to go back up that hill again when we turn round?’ Maecenas said as he jumped the last few feet.

Octavian groaned. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Maecenas. It would be easier if you just accepted we are doing this.’

‘Without complaining,’ Agrippa added. His deep voice echoed back from the stone all around them and Maecenas looked sourly at them both.

‘There are a thousand different paths through these cursed rocks,’ Maecenas said. ‘I should think the bandits are far away from here by now, sipping cool drinks while we die of thirst.’

Gleefully, Agrippa pointed at the dusty ground and Maecenas looked down, seeing the footprints of many men.

‘Oh,’ he said. He drew his sword in a smooth motion, as if he expected an immediate attack. ‘Probably local herders, though.’

‘Perhaps,’ Octavian replied, ‘but we’re the only ones following this path, so I would like to be sure.’ He too drew his gladius, shorter than Maecenas’ duellist’s blade by a hand’s breadth, but well oiled, so that it slid free with barely a whisper. He could feel the heat of the blade.

Agrippa freed his own sword and together the three men walked silently into the canyon ahead, placing their steps with caution. Without planning it, Octavian took the lead, with Agrippa’s bulk on his right shoulder and Maecenas on his left. Ever since they had become friends, Octavian had led the group as if there were no alternative. It was the kind of natural confidence Maecenas appreciated and recognised. Old families had to start somewhere, even when they began with a Caesar. He smiled at the thought, though the expression froze as they came round a spire of rock and saw men waiting for them in the shadows. Octavian walked on without a jerk, keeping his sword lowered. Three more steps brought him into the gloom of the chasm, with rock walls stretching up above their heads. He came to a halt, looking coldly at the men in his way.

There was another path out on the other side and Maecenas noticed laden mules waiting patiently. The men they faced did not seem surprised or afraid, perhaps because there were eight of them, staring with bright-eyed interest at the three young Romans. The biggest of the men raised a sword from another age, a great length of iron that was more like a cleaver than anything else. He sported a black beard that reached right down to his chest and Maecenas could see the bulge of heavy muscles under a ragged jerkin as he moved. The man grinned at them, revealing missing teeth.

‘You are a very long way from your friends,’ the man said in Greek.

Maecenas knew the language, though Octavian and Agrippa spoke not a word. Neither of them looked round with so many blades being pointed in their direction, but Maecenas could feel their expectation.

‘Must I translate?’ he said, dredging up the words from his memory. ‘I know the high speech, but your peasant accent is so thick, I can hardly understand you. It is like the grunting of a dying mule. Speak slowly and clearly, as if you were apologising to your master.’

The man looked at him in surprise, anger darkening his face. He was aware that the death of Romans would make him a wanted man, but the mountains had hidden bodies before and would again. He tilted his head slightly, weighing his choices.

‘We want the one who raped and strangled the woman,’ Maecenas said. ‘Hand him over to us and go back to your short and pointless lives.’

The leader of the bandits growled deep in his throat and took a step forward.

‘What are you saying to him?’ Octavian asked without taking his eyes off the man.

‘I am praising his fine beard,’ Maecenas replied. ‘I have never seen one like it.’

‘Maecenas!’ Octavian snapped. ‘It has to be them. Just find out if he knows the one we came to find.’

‘Well, beard? Do you know the one we want?’ Maecenas went on, switching languages.

‘I am the one you want, Roman,’ he replied. ‘But if you have come here alone, you have made a mistake.’

The bandit looked up the rocks to the blue sky, searching for any hint of a moving shadow that would reveal an ambush or a trap. He grunted, satisfied, then glanced at his sharp-eyed companions. One of them was dark and thin, his face dominated by a great blade of a nose. In response, the man shrugged, raising a dagger with unmistakable intent.

Octavian stepped forward without warning of any kind. With a vicious flick, he brought his sword across so that it cut the throat of the closest man to him. The man dropped his dagger to hold his neck with both hands, suddenly choking as he fell to his knees.

The leader of the bandits froze, then gave a great bellow of rage with the rest of his men. He raised his sword for a crushing blow, but Agrippa jumped in, gripping the sword arm with his left hand and stabbing his short blade up between the man’s ribs. The leader collapsed like a punctured wineskin, falling onto his back with an echoing crash.

For a heartbeat, the bandits hesitated, shocked by the explosion of violence and death. Octavian had not stopped moving. He killed another gaping bandit with a backhand stroke against his throat, chopping into flesh. He’d set his feet well and brought the whole of his strength into the blow, so that it almost decapitated the man. The gladius was made for such work and the weight felt good in his hand.

The rest might have run then, if their way hadn’t been blocked by their own mules. Forced to stand, they fought with vicious intensity for desperate moments as the three Romans lunged and darted among them. All three had been trained from a young age. They were professional soldiers and the bandits were more used to frightening villagers who would not dare to raise a blade against them. They fought hard but uselessly, seeing their blades knocked away and then unable to stop the return blows cutting them. The small canyon was filled with grunting and gasping as the bandits were cut down in short, chopping blows. None of the Romans were armoured, but they stood close to one another, protecting their left sides as the swords rose and fell, with warm blood slipping off the warmer steel.

It was over in a dozen heartbeats and Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas were alone and panting. Octavian and Agrippa were both bleeding from gashes on their arms, but they were unaware of the wounds, still grim-eyed with the violence.

‘We’ll take the heads back,’ Octavian said. ‘The woman’s husband will want to see them.’

‘All of them?’ Maecenas said. ‘One is enough, surely?’

Octavian looked at his friend, then reached out and gripped his shoulder.

‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘Thank you. But we can make a sack from their clothing. I want that village to know that Romans killed these men. They will remember – and I suspect they will break out the casks of their best wine and slaughter a couple of goats or pigs as well. You might even find a willing girl. Just take the heads.’

Maecenas grimaced. He’d spent his childhood with servants to attend to every whim, yet somehow Octavian had him working and sweating like a house slave. If his old tutors could see him, they would be standing in slack-jawed amazement.

‘The daughters have moustaches as thick as their fathers’,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps when it’s fully dark, but not before.’

With a scowl, he began the grisly work of cutting heads. Agrippa joined him, bringing his sword down in great hacking blows to break through bone.

Octavian knelt next to the body of the bandit leader, looking down into the glazed eyes for a moment. He nodded to himself, playing over the movements of the fight in his head and only then noticing the gash on his arm that was still bleeding heavily. At twenty years old, it was not the first time he’d been cut. It was just one more scar to add to the rest. He began to chop the head free, using the oily beard to hold it steady.

The horses were still there when they came back, parched and staggering, with their tongues swelling in their mouths. It was sunset by the time the three Romans reached the village, with two sopping red sacks that dribbled their contents with every step. The local men had returned angry and empty-handed, but the mood changed when Octavian opened the sacks onto the road, sending heads tumbling into the dust. The woman’s husband embraced and kissed him with tears in his eyes, breaking off only to dash the heads against the wall of his house, then crushing Octavian to him once more. There was no need to translate as they left the man and his children to their mourning.

The other villagers brought food and drinks from cool cellars, setting up rough tables in the evening air so that they could feast the young men. As Octavian had imagined, he and his friends could hardly move for good meat and a clear drink that tasted of aniseed. They drank with no thought for the morning, matching the local men cup for cup until the village swam and blurred before their eyes. Very few of the villagers could speak Roman, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Through a drunken haze, Octavian became aware that Maecenas was repeating a question to him. He listened blearily, then gave a laugh, which turned into a curse at his own clumsiness as he spilled his cup.

‘You don’t believe that,’ he told Maecenas. ‘They call it the eternal city for a reason. There will be Romans here for a thousand years, longer. Or do you think some other nation will rise up and be our masters?’ He watched his cup being refilled with beady concentration.

‘Athens, Sparta, Thebes …’ Maecenas replied, counting on his fingers. ‘Names of gold, Octavian. No doubt the men of those cities thought the same. When Alexander was wasting his life in battles abroad, do you think he would have believed Romans would one day rule their lands from coast to coast? He would have laughed like a donkey, much as you are doing.’ Maecenas smiled as he spoke, enjoying making his friend splutter into his cup with each outrageous comment.

‘Wasting his life?’ Octavian said when he had recovered from coughing. ‘You are seriously suggesting Alexander the Great could have spent his years more fruitfully? I will not rise to it. I will be a stern and noble Roman, too …’ He paused. The drink had muddled his thoughts. ‘Too stern and noble to listen to you.’

‘Alexander had the greedy fingers of a merchant,’ Maecenas said. ‘Always busy, busy, and what did it get him? All those years of fighting, but if he had known he would die young in a foreign land, don’t you think he would rather have spent it in the sun? If he were here, you could ask him. I think he would choose fine wine and beautiful women over his endless battles. But you have not answered my question, Octavian. Greece ruled the world, so why should Rome be any different? In a thousand years, some other nation will rule, after us.’ He paused to wave away a plate of sliced meat and smile at two old ladies, knowing they could not understand what he was saying.

Octavian shook his head. With exaggerated care, he put his cup down and counted on his fingers as Maecenas had done.

‘One, because we cannot be beaten in war. Two … because we are the envy of every people ruled by petty kings. They want to become us, not overthrow those they envy. Three … I cannot think of three. My argument rests on two.’

‘Two is not enough!’ Maecenas replied. ‘I might have been confounded with three, but two! The Greeks were the greatest fighting men in the world once.’ He gestured as if throwing a pinch of dust into the air. ‘That for their greatness, all gone. That for the Spartans, who terrified an army of Persians with just a few hundred. The other nations will learn from us, copy our methods and tactics. I admit I cannot imagine our soldiers losing to filthy tribes, no matter what tricks they steal, but it could happen. The other point, though – they want what we have? Yes, and we wanted the culture of the Greeks. But we did not come quietly like gentlemen and ask for it. No, Octavian! We took it and then we copied their gods and built our temples and pretended it was all our own idea. One day, someone will do the same to us and we will not know how it happened. There are your two points, in ashes under my sandals.’ He raised a foot and pointed to the ground. ‘Can you see them? Can you see your arguments?’

There was a grunt from another bench, where Agrippa was lying stretched out.

‘The ape awakes!’ Maecenas said cheerfully. ‘Has our salty friend something to add? What news from the fleet?’

Agrippa was built on a different scale from the villagers, making the bench groan and flex under his bulk. As he shifted, he overbalanced and caught himself with a muscular arm pressed against the ground. With a sigh, he sat up and glared at Maecenas, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his bare knees.

‘I could not sleep with you two clucking.’

‘Your snoring calls you a liar, though I would not,’ Maecenas replied, accepting another full cup.

Agrippa rubbed his face with his hands, scratching the curls of black beard he had grown over the previous weeks.

‘So I will say only this,’ Agrippa went on, stifling a yawn, ‘before I find a better and a quieter place to sleep. There will be no empire to follow us because we have wealth enough to withstand any new tribe or nation. We pay for men by the hundred thousand, swords and spears by the million across all our lands. Who could stand against us without the full might of Caesar falling on his neck?’

‘It is always about money with you, isn’t it, Agrippa?’ Maecenas replied, his eyes bright with amusement. He enjoyed needling the bigger man and they both knew it. ‘You still think like a merchant’s son. I am not surprised, of course. It is in your blood and you cannot help it, but while Rome is full of merchants, it is the noble classes who will decide her future, her destiny.’

Agrippa snorted. The evening had grown cold and he rubbed his bare arms

‘According to you, a noble man would spend his day in the sun, with wine and beautiful women,’ Agrippa said.

‘You were listening! I don’t know how you do it, snoring all the while. It is a rare talent.’

Agrippa smiled, showing very white teeth against his black beard.

‘Be thankful for my blood, Maecenas. Men like my father built Rome and made her strong. Men like you rode pretty horses and gave impressive speeches, just as Aristotle and Socrates once held court in the agora.’

‘I sometimes forget you have been educated, Agrippa. Something about you says illiterate peasant whenever I look at you.’

‘And something about you says that you enjoy the company of men more than most.’

Octavian groaned at the bickering. His head was swimming and he had lost all track of time.

‘Peace, you two. I think we’ve eaten and drunk an entire winter’s store for these people. Apologise and join me in another jug.’

Maecenas raised his eyebrows. ‘Still awake? Remember that you owe me a gold aureus if you fall asleep or vomit before me. I am feeling very fresh.’

Octavian held his gaze for a moment, waiting until Maecenas gave way with a grunt.

‘Very well, Octavian. I apologise for suggesting Agrippa’s skull would find its best use as a battering ram.’

‘You did not say that,’ Octavian replied.

‘I was thinking it,’ Maecenas said.

‘And you, Agrippa? Will you be as noble?’

‘I struggle to reach his level, Octavian, but as you ask, I apologise for saying he would not earn as much as he thinks, renting himself out by the hour.’

Maecenas began to laugh, but then his face grew pale and he turned aside to empty his stomach. One of the old women muttered something he did not catch.

‘That is an aureus you owe me,’ Octavian told Maecenas with satisfaction. His friend only groaned.

CHAPTER TWO

As the sun rose the following morning, Maecenas was silent and in pain, though he forced himself out of his bed to join Agrippa in the courtyard. The Greek house they had rented for the period of leave was small, though it came with a house slave to look after them. With one eye closed against the sun, Maecenas squinted at the other man, watching him limber up.

‘Where is Octavian?’ he asked. ‘Still sleeping?’

‘Here,’ Octavian said, coming out. His hair was slick with cold water and he looked pale and ill, but he raised a hand in greeting to his two friends. ‘I don’t even remember coming back. Gods, my head is cracked, I’m sure of it. Did I fall?’

‘Into a jug, perhaps. Otherwise, no,’ Agrippa replied cheerfully. Of the three, he seemed best able to shrug off vast quantities of alcohol and he enjoyed watching the other two suffer.

‘What plans for our last days of leave, Octavian?’ Maecenas asked. ‘I’m sure you are tempted to spend them educating the local children, or perhaps helping the farmers in their fields. However, I heard of a private boxing match this evening. I’m waiting for an address still, but it should be worth watching.’

Octavian shook his head.

‘The last one turned into a riot, which is no surprise as they almost always do. The same goes for the cockfights. And don’t mock; you know I was right. Those men needed killing.’

Maecenas looked away rather than argue.

‘We have two more days of leave, gentlemen,’ Agrippa said. ‘It might be a better idea to spend those days running and training. I don’t want to go back to my ship with the wind of an old man.’

‘You see, that is just a lack of imagination, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘First of all, you are already an old man …’

‘Two years older than you, at twenty-two, but go on,’ Agrippa interrupted.

‘… and you carry too much weight on your bones, like a bullock. Those of us who have not wasted years lifting heavy weights do not lose fitness so easily. We are racehorses, you see, if the metaphor is not immediately clear.’

‘Shall we test your speed against my strength?’ Agrippa asked, smiling unpleasantly.

Maecenas eyed the heavy training sword Agrippa was swishing through the air.

‘You battered me near senseless last time, which was not sporting. In a real duel, I would cut you up, my friend, but these wooden swords filled with lead? They are clubs for peasants and you swing yours with abandon. The idea is not appealing.’ His closed eye opened and he squinted against the sunlight. ‘Still, I have been giving it some thought, since your last instruction.’

‘I meant you to learn a lesson, so I am pleased,’ Agrippa replied.

There was a growing tension on the sandy yard. Maecenas did not enjoy being bested in anything and Octavian knew it had rankled with him to be knocked around like a child. For one of Agrippa’s bulk and strength, the wooden swords could be almost ignored, allowing him to land a punch or a blow that sent Maecenas reeling. He opened his mouth to distract them, but Maecenas had spotted a rack of throwing spears along a wall, long Roman weapons with iron tips and a wooden shaft. His face lit up.

‘A different weapon might allow me to demonstrate a few points to you, perhaps,’ Maecenas said.

Agrippa snorted. ‘So I should let you have three feet of reach over me?’ His eyes glinted, though whether it was anger or amusement, it was impossible to tell.

‘If you are afraid, I will understand,’ Maecenas said. ‘No? Excellent.’ He walked to the rack and removed one of the long weapons, feeling the heft of it.

Agrippa brought his wooden sword up across his body. He wore only leggings, sandals and a loose tunic and did not enjoy Maecenas gesturing with a throwing spear near him.

‘Come, Maecenas,’ Octavian said uncomfortably. ‘We will find something good to do today.’

‘I have already found something good to do,’ Maecenas replied. He closed the distance quickly, jerking his arm back to make Agrippa flinch. The big man shook his head.

‘Are you sure? That is a weapon for soldiers, not noblemen.’

‘It will do, I think,’ Maecenas replied. As he spoke, he jabbed the point at Agrippa’s broad chest, then back and again at his groin. ‘Oh yes, it will do very well indeed. Defend yourself, ape.’

Agrippa watched Maecenas closely, reading his footwork and stance as well as his eyes. They had sparred many times before and both men knew the other’s style. Octavian found himself a bench and sat down, knowing from experience that he would not be able to drag them away until they’d finished. Though they were friends, both men were used to winning and could not resist challenging each other. Octavian settled himself.

At first, Agrippa merely stepped back from the jabbing point that struck out at him. He frowned as it came close to his eyes, but slid away from it, raising his training gladius to block. Maecenas was enjoying having the big man on the defensive and began to show off a little, his feet quick on the sandy ground.

The end, when it came, was so sudden that Octavian almost missed it. Maecenas lunged fast and hard enough to score a wound. Agrippa blocked with the edge of his sword, then turned from the hip and smacked his left forearm into the spear. It snapped cleanly and Maecenas gaped at it. Agrippa laid his sword along Maecenas’ throat and grunted a laugh.

‘A victory,’ Agrippa said.

Without a word, Maecenas pushed the wooden sword away and reached down, picking up the broken half of his spear. It had been sawn almost through, the cut hidden with brown wax. His eyes widened and he strode back to the row of spears. He cursed as he examined the rest, snapping them one by one over his thigh. Agrippa began to laugh at his thunderous expression.

‘You did this?’ Maecenas demanded. ‘How long did it take you to prepare every spear? What sort of a man goes to such lengths? Gods, how did you even know I would choose one of them? You are a madman, Agrippa.’

‘I am a strategist, is what I am,’ Agrippa said, wiping tears from his right eye. ‘Oh, your face. I wish you could have seen it.’

‘This is not honourable behaviour,’ Maecenas muttered. To his irritation, Agrippa just laughed again.

‘I would rather be a peasant and win than be noble and lose. It is as simple as that, my friend.’

Octavian had risen to see the broken spears. With care, he kept any sign of amusement from his face, knowing that Maecenas would already be insufferable all day and he could only make it worse.

‘I heard there will be fresh oranges in the market this morning, packed in ice the whole way. Cold juice would help my head, I think. Can you shake hands and be friends for the day? It would please me.’

‘I am willing,’ Agrippa said. He held out his spade of a right hand. Maecenas allowed his to be enveloped.

The house slave came trotting into the yard as the two men shook with mock earnestness. Fidolus had always worked hard not to intrude on the guests and Octavian did not know him well, beyond finding him courteous and quiet.

‘Master, there is a messenger at the gate. He says he has letters from Rome for you.’

Octavian groaned. ‘I can feel them calling me back. Caesar is wondering where his favourite relative has gone, no doubt.’

Maecenas and Agrippa were looking at him, their expressions innocent. Octavian waved a hand.

‘He will wait a while longer. It’s been a year since we had the last leave, after all. Make the messenger comfortable, Fidolus. I am going to the market to buy fresh oranges.’

‘Yes, master,’ Fidolus replied.

The three young Romans did not return to the villa until just before sunset. They came in noisily, laughing and brash with three Greek women they had picked up. Maecenas had been the one to approach them in a jeweller’s, recommending pieces that would suit their colouring.

Octavian envied his friend’s talent – it was not one he had himself, despite the masterclass of watching Maecenas. There didn’t seem to be much magic to it. Maecenas had complimented the women outrageously, bantering back and forth as he made them try on various pieces. The shopkeeper had watched with patient indulgence, hoping for a sale. As far as Octavian could see, the young women had known from the outset what Maecenas was after, but his breezy confidence made a joke of it.

Octavian squeezed the slim waist of the woman he had brought home, trying hard to remember her name. He had a nasty suspicion that it was not ‘Lita’ and he was waiting for one of her friends to use her name again so he would not spoil the moment.

As they reached the gate to the house, Maecenas suddenly pressed his companion against the white-painted stone and kissed her, his hands wandering. She wore a new gold pendant at her throat, his gift. Each of the girls wore the same piece, bought with almost all the money they had pooled for the last few days of leave.

Agrippa had not been quite as lucky as the other two. It would have been extraordinary for all three women to be attractive and the one who clung to his arm was fairly heavily built herself, with a dark moustache along her upper lip. Nonetheless, Agrippa seemed pleased. It had been a while since they’d brought women back, and in a drought he could not afford to have high standards. Agrippa nuzzled at her bare shoulder with his beard, making her laugh while they waited for the gate to open.

It took only moments for the house slave Fidolus to come running and unbar the entrance. He looked flushed and his hands slipped on the bar as he heaved it up.

‘Master, thank the gods! You must see the messenger.’

Octavian stiffened in irritation. He had a beautiful Greek girl pressing her warmth into his side and the last thing he wanted was to think of Rome and the army.

‘Please, master,’ Fidolus said. He was almost shaking in the grip of some strong emotion and Octavian felt a stab of worry.

‘Is it my mother?’ he said.

Fidolus shook his head. ‘Please, he is waiting for you.’

Octavian stepped away from the woman on his arm.

‘Take me to him,’ he ordered.

Fidolus breathed in relief and Octavian followed him into the house at a fast walk, trying hard not to run.

Maecenas and Agrippa shared a glance, both men suspecting they would not be enjoying the evening in the way they had planned.

‘That does not sound good,’ Agrippa said. ‘Ladies, there is a bathing room here that has few equals. I suspect my friend Maecenas and I must attend our friend for a few hours, but if you are willing to wait …’ He saw their expressions. ‘No?’ He sighed. ‘Very well then. I will have Fidolus escort you back to the city.’

Maecenas shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it will wait for a little while longer, I’m sure,’ he said, his eyes wide as he tried to dissuade Agrippa. The woman on his arm seemed equally reluctant and Agrippa grew flushed with sudden anger.

‘Do what you want, then. I will find out what is going on.’

He strode into the house, leaving the gate open. Maecenas raised his eyebrows.

‘I wonder if all three of you would consider teaching a young Roman more about Greece?’

Agrippa’s woman gasped, turning on her heel without a word. After twenty paces, she turned and called to her friends. They looked at each other and for a moment Maecenas thought his luck was in. Some silent communication passed between them.

‘Sorry, Maecenas, another time, perhaps.’

He watched wistfully as they swayed away, young and lithe and taking three gold pendants with them. He let out a sharp curse, then went inside, anger and frustration in every step.

Octavian reached the main hall almost at a run, his nervousness growing by the moment at the blank shock he could see in the house slave. He skidded to a halt when the messenger rose to greet him, holding out a package without a word.

Octavian broke his mother’s wax seal and read quickly. He took a deep breath, then another, feeling prickles rise on his neck and down his bare legs. He shook his head and took a step to sit down on a bench, reading the lines over and over.

‘Master,’ Fidolus began. The messenger leaned close as if he was trying to read the words.

‘Get out, both of you. Fetch my friends and then get out,’ he replied.

‘I was told to wait for a reply,’ the messenger said sourly.

Octavian surged out of the seat and grabbed the messenger by the front of his tunic, shoving him in the direction of the door.

‘Get out!’

In the courtyard, Agrippa and Maecenas both heard the shout. They drew swords and ran to their friend, passing the red-faced messenger as they entered the house.

Fidolus had lit the oil lamps and Octavian paced through twin pools of light. Maecenas was a study in calm, though his face was still pale. Agrippa tapped blunt fingers on his knee, the only sign of an inner agitation.

‘I have to go back,’ Octavian said. His voice was hoarse from talking, but he burned with a brittle energy. As he strode up and down the room, his right hand clenched and opened as if he was imagining striking at his enemies. ‘I need information. Isn’t that what you always say, Agrippa? That knowledge is everything? I need to go to Rome. I have friends there.’

‘Not any more,’ Maecenas said. Octavian came to a stop and spun to face him. Maecenas looked away, embarrassed at the raw grief he saw in his friend. ‘Your protector is dead, Octavian. Has it occurred to you that you will also be in danger if you show your face in Rome? He treated you as his heir and these “Liberatores” will not want anyone who could lay claim to his possessions.’

‘He has an heir: Ptolemy Caesar,’ Octavian snapped. ‘The Egyptian queen will keep that boy safe. I …’ He broke off to curse. ‘I have to go back! It cannot go unanswered. There must be a trial. There must be punishment. They are murderers, in daylight, killing the leader of Rome and pretending they have saved the Republic. I have to speak for him. I have to speak for Caesar before they cover up the truth with lies and flattery. I know how they work, Maecenas. They will hold a lavish funeral and they will rub ashes into their skin and weep for the great man. In a month or less, they will move on to new plots, new ways to raise themselves, never seeing how petty, how venal they are, in comparison to him.’

He resumed his stiff pacing, pounding out each step on the tiled floor. He was consumed with rage, so intense that he could barely speak or breathe. Maecenas waved a hand, deferring to Agrippa as the big man cleared his throat. He spoke as calmly as he could, aware that Octavian was on the edge of violence or perhaps tears and had been for hours. The young man was exhausted, but his body jerked on, unable to stop or rest.

‘Your mother’s letter said they had been given amnesty, Octavian. The law has been passed. There can be no revenge against them now, not without turning the entire Senate against you. How long would you survive that?’

‘As long as I choose, Agrippa. Let me tell you something of Caesar. I have seen him capture a pharaoh from his own palace in Alexandria. I have been at his side when he challenged armies and governments and no one dared raise a hand or speak a word against him. The Senate have as much power as we choose to allow them; do you understand? Allow them nothing and they have nothing. What they call power is no more than shadows. Julius understood that. They pass their pompous laws and the common people bow their heads and everyone declares it is real … but it is not!’

He shook his head, lurching and staggering slightly, so that his shoulder bumped against the wall. As the other two shared a worried glance, Octavian rested there, cooling his forehead against the plaster.

‘Are you ill, Octavian? You need to sleep.’

Agrippa stood up, unsure whether he should approach. He had known madmen in his life and Octavian was at the ragged edge, driven to it by soaring emotions. His friend needed rest and Agrippa considered mixing a draught of opium for him. Dawn had come and they were all exhausted. Octavian showed no sign of relaxing from the rage that knotted and twisted his muscles. Even as he stood there, his legs and arms twitched in spasms underneath the skin.

‘Octavian?’ Agrippa asked again. There was no reply and he turned to Maecenas, raising his hands helplessly.

Maecenas approached Octavian like the horseman he was. There was something about the twitching muscles that reminded him of an unbroken colt and he made unconscious soothing noises, clicking and murmuring in his throat as he laid a hand on Octavian’s shoulder. The skin under the cloth felt burning hot, and at the touch Octavian went suddenly limp, sliding along the wall in collapse. Maecenas leaped forward to catch him, but the unexpected weight was too much and he barely managed to guide his friend to lie along the edge of the room. To Maecenas’ horror, a dark patch grew at Octavian’s groin, the bitter smell of urine filling the close air.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Agrippa asked, sinking into a crouch.

‘He’s breathing at least,’ Maecenas said. ‘I don’t know. His eyes are moving, but I don’t think he is awake. Have you seen anything like this before?’

‘Not in him. I knew a centurion once with a falling sickness. I remember he lost his bladder.’

‘What happened to him?’ Maecenas asked without looking up.

Agrippa winced in memory. ‘Killed himself. He had no authority with his men after that. You know how they can be.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Maecenas replied. ‘Perhaps it is just this once, though. No one needs to hear of it. We can clean him up, and when he wakes, it will be forgotten. The mind is a strange thing. He will believe whatever we tell him.’

‘Unless he knows about the weakness already,’ Agrippa said.

Both of them jumped up at the sound of footsteps. The house slave, Fidolus, was returning.

Maecenas was first to speak.

‘He mustn’t see this. I’ll distract Fidolus, give him something to do. You take care of Octavian.’

Agrippa scowled at the thought of removing urine-soaked clothing. Yet Maecenas was already moving and his protest remained unspoken. With a sigh, Agrippa lifted Octavian in his arms.

‘Come on. Time for a wash and clean clothes.’

The bathing room in the house was small and the water would be cold without Fidolus to heat it, but it would do. As he carried the limp body, Agrippa shook his head at swirling thoughts. Caesar was dead and only the gods knew what would happen to his friend.

CHAPTER THREE

In shadow, Mark Antony pressed his thumbs against his eyes, struggling with weariness. In his twenties, he’d thought nothing of staying awake for a night and then working through the next day. In Gaul, he’d marched through darkness and fought all morning, alongside ten thousand legionaries doing the same thing. He knew that all things pass, that time takes everything from a man. Yet somehow he had assumed his endurance was a part of him, like his wits or his height, only to find it had seeped away like water from a cracked jug.

The forum was filled with citizens and soldiers, come to honour Caesar for the last time. Rich and poor were forced to mingle and there were constant shouts of irritation and outrage as more and more pressed in from the roads around. A woman cried out somewhere for her lost child and Mark Antony sighed, wishing Julius could have been there to stand with him and watch, just watch, as Rome swirled and coalesced around the body of a god.

There could never be enough space for all those who wanted to see. The sun was a hammer on bare heads as they struggled for the best view. The heat had been building steadily from the first moments of dawn, when Caesar had been laid out and forty centurions of the Tenth legion had taken position around him. The body rested on a golden bier, the focus and the centre of the world for that day.

Mark Antony raised his head with an effort of will. He had not slept through two nights and he sweated ceaselessly. Thirst was already unpleasant, but he dared not drink and be forced to leave the forum to empty his bladder. He would have to sip a cup of wine to speak to the crowd, and a slave stood at his shoulder with a cup and cloth. Mark Antony was ready and he knew he would not fail on that day. He did not look at the face of his friend. He had stared too long already as the corpse was washed, the wounds counted and drawn in charcoal and ink by learned doctors for the Senate. It was just a gashed thing now, empty. It was not the man who had cowed the Senate, who had seen kings and pharaohs kneel. Swaying slightly in a wave of dizziness, Mark Antony closed his right hand tightly on the scrolls, making the vellum crackle and crease. He should have stolen a few hours of sleep, he knew. He must not faint or fall, or show any sign of the grief and rage that threatened to ruin him.

He could not see the Liberatores, though he knew they were all there. Twenty-three men had plunged knives into his friend, many of them after life had fled, as if they were joining a ritual. Mark Antony’s eyes grew cold, his back straightening as he thought of them. He had wasted hours wishing he could have been there, that he could have known what was going to happen, but all that was dust. He could not change the past, not a moment of it. When he wanted to cry out against them, to summon soldiers and have them torn and broken, he had been forced to smile and treat them as great men of Rome. It brought acid into his mouth to think of it. They would be watching, waiting for the days of funeral rites to end, waiting for the citizens to settle down in their grief, so they could enjoy the new posts and powers their knives had won. Mark Antony clenched his jaw at the thought. He had worn a mask from the moment the first whispers reached his ears. Caesar was dead and yapping dogs sat in the Senate. Keeping his disgust hidden had been the hardest task of his life. Yet it had been worth proposing the vote for amnesty. He had drawn their teeth with that simple act and it had not been hard to have his remaining friends support his right to give the funeral oration. The Liberatores had smirked to themselves at the idea, secure in their victory and their new status.

‘Cloth and cup,’ Mark Antony snapped suddenly.

The slave moved, wiping sweat from his master’s face as Mark Antony took the goblet and sipped to clear his throat. It was time to speak to Rome. He stood straight, allowing the slave to adjust the folds of his toga. One shoulder remained bare and he could feel sweat grow cold in the armpit. He walked out of shadow into the sun and passed through the line of centurions glaring out at the crowd. In just four steps, he was on the platform with Julius for the last time.

The crowd saw the consul and stillness spread out from that one point in all directions. They did not want to miss a word and the sudden silence was almost unnerving. Mark Antony looked at the grand buildings and temples all around. Every window was full of dark heads and he wondered again where Brutus and Cassius were. They would not miss the moment of their triumph, he was certain. He raised his voice to a bellow and began.

‘Citizens of Rome! I am but one man, a consul of our city. Yet I do not speak with one voice when I talk of Caesar. I speak with the tongue of every citizen. I speak today for our countrymen, our people. The Senate decreed honours for Caesar and when I tell all his names, you will hear not my voice but your own.’

He turned slightly on the rostrum to look at the body of his friend. The silence was perfect and unbroken across the forum of Rome. Caesar’s wounds had been covered in a white toga and undertunic, sewn so that it hid the gashes. There was no more blood in him and Mark Antony knew the toga concealed wounds that had grown pale and stiff during the days of handling and preparation. Only the band of green laurel leaves around Caesar’s head was a thing of life.

‘He was Gaius Julius Caesar, son of Gaius Julius and Aurelia, descendant of the Julii, from Aeneas of Troy, a son of Venus. He was Consul and he was Imperator of Rome. He was Father to his Country. The old month of Quintilis itself was renamed for him. More than all of those, he was granted the right to divine worship. These names and titles show how we honoured Caesar. Our august Senate decreed that his body be inviolate, on pain of death. That anyone with him would have the same immunity. By the laws of Rome, the body of Caesar was sacrosanct. He could not be touched. The temple of his flesh could not be injured, by all the authority of our laws.’

He paused, listening to a murmur of anger that rumbled through the vast crowd.

‘He did not tear these titles by force from the hands of the Senate, from our hands. He did not even ask for them, but they were granted to him in a flood, in thanks for his service to Rome. Today you honour him again by your presence. You are witnesses to Roman honour.’

One of the centurions shifted uncomfortably by his feet and Mark Antony glanced down, then up again, meeting the eyes of hundreds as he looked across the heaving crowd. There was anger and shame there and Mark Antony nodded to himself, taking a deep breath to continue.

‘By our laws, by our Roman honour, we gave oath to protect Caesar and Caesar’s person with all our strength. We gave oath that those who failed to defend him would be forever accursed.’

The crowd groaned louder as they understood and Mark Antony raised his voice to a roar.

‘O Jupiter and all the gods, forgive us our failure! Grant mercy for what we have failed to do. Forgive us all our broken oaths.’

He stepped away from the rostrum, standing over the body that lay before them. For a moment, his gaze flickered towards the senate house. The steps there were filled with white-robed figures, standing and watching. No one had a better view of the funeral oration and he wondered if they were enjoying their position as much as they’d expected. Many in the crowd turned hostile eyes on those gathered figures.

‘Caesar loved Rome. And Rome loved her favourite son, but would not save him. There will be no vengeance for his death, for all the laws and empty promises that could not hold back the knives. A law is but the wish of men, written and given a power that it does not own in itself.’

He paused to let them think and was rewarded with a surge of movement in the crowd, a sign of hearts beating faster, of blood rushing from the outer limbs. He had them all waiting for his words. Another centurion glared up in silent warning, trying to catch his eye. Mark Antony ignored him.

‘In your name, our august Senate has granted amnesty to those who call themselves “Liberatores”. In your name, a vote, a law held good by your honour. That too is sacrosanct, inviolate.’

The crowd made a sound like a low growl and Mark Antony hesitated. He was as exposed as the soldiers around the platform. If he drove them too far in guilt and anger, he could be swallowed up in the mob. He rode a knife edge, having seen before what the people of Rome could do in rage. Once again, he looked to the senators and saw their number had dwindled as they read the crowd; as they read the wind. He smiled wearily, gathering his courage and knowing what Julius would want him to do. Mark Antony had known from the moment he saw Cassius and his conspirators enter the chamber, holding their hands high to show the blood of a tyrant. He would make the people of Rome understand what had been done. He would make them see.

Mark Antony bent down to the line of polished centurions, lowering his voice to speak to the closest man.

‘You. Come up here. Stand with me,’ he said.

The centurion was the image of martial perfection for such a post, his armour gleaming in the sun and his plume trimmed to a perfect uniform length. Veteran that he undoubtedly was, he responded with the utmost reluctance. Every instinct told him to keep his eyes on the crowd pressing close all around them.

‘Consul, my post is here …’ the man began.

Mark Antony dropped to one knee, his voice low and angry.

‘As you say, I am a consul of Rome. Is the Republic now such a broken thing that even a Roman officer will not follow orders?’

The centurion dipped his plumed head in shame as he flushed. Without another word, he clambered up onto the platform and the silent rank of his companions shuffled to close the gap he left behind.

Mark Antony rose to his full height, so that his eyes were at the level of the man’s plume. He looked down sternly.

‘There is an effigy in wax below the body, Centurion. Take hold of it for me. Raise it up so that they can see.’

The man’s jaw dropped in shock and he was shaking his head even before he replied.

‘What? What game is this? Consul, please. Finish the oration and let me get you safely away.’

‘What is your name?’ Mark Antony asked.

The centurion hesitated. He had been anonymous before, hidden in a line of similar men. In an instant, he had been singled out for no good reason. He swallowed bitterly, thanking his personal gods for giving him such a run of bad luck.

‘Centurion Oppius, Consul.’

‘I see. I am going to speak slowly and clearly to you, Oppius. Obey my lawful orders. Uphold your oath to the Republic, or remove that plume and report to your legion tribune with my request that you be shown the Roman discipline you seem to have forgotten.’

The centurion’s mouth tightened into a pale line. His eyes glittered in anger, but he nodded sharply. Such a ‘request’ would see him flogged to ribbons under a weighted lash, perhaps even executed as an example. He turned stiffly, looking down at the body of Caesar for a moment.

‘He would not mind, Oppius,’ Mark Antony went on, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘He was my friend.’

‘I don’t know what you are doing, Consul, but if they rush us, I will see you again in hell,’ Oppius growled.

Mark Antony clenched his fist, perhaps to strike a blow, but the centurion bent low and jerked back the gold cloth. Below the body of Caesar lay a full-sized model of a man in white wax, dressed in a purple toga with gold trim. Oppius hesitated, repelled. Its features had been modelled after Caesar’s own. To his disgust, he saw that it too wore a band of fresh laurel leaves.

‘What is this … thing?’ he muttered.

Mark Antony only gestured and Oppius lifted it out. It was surprisingly heavy and he staggered slightly as he came upright.

The crowd had been murmuring, unable to understand the furious conversation on the platform. They gasped and cried out as they saw the effigy with its blind, white eyes.

‘Consul!’ another centurion shouted back over the noise. ‘You must stop whatever you are doing. Step down, Oppius. They won’t stand for this.’

‘Be silent!’ Mark Antony bellowed, losing his patience with the fools around him.

The crowd grew still in horror, their gazes riveted on the mockery of a man which stood before them, supported by Oppius.

‘Let me show you, citizens of Rome. Let me show you what your word is worth!’

Mark Antony stepped forward and drew a grey iron blade from his sash. He wrenched the purple robe that clothed the mannequin, baring the chest and the line of the throat. The crowd gasped, unable to look away. Many of them made the horn sign of protection with their shaking hands.

‘Tillius Cimber held Caesar, while Suetonius Prandus struck the first blow … here!’ Mark Antony said.

He pressed his left hand against the shoulder of the effigy and shoved his knife into the wax under the moulded collarbone, so that even old soldiers in the crowd winced. The senators on the steps stood rooted and Suetonius himself was there, his mouth sagging open.

‘Publius Servilius Casca sliced this wound across the first,’ Mark Antony went on. With a savage movement, he sawed at cloth and wax with his blade. He was already panting, his voice a bass roar that echoed from the buildings all around. ‘His brother, Gaius Casca, stepped in then as Caesar fought! He thrust his dagger … here.’

Over by the senate house, the Casca brothers looked at each other in horror. Without a word, both men turned away, hurrying to get out of the forum.

Sweating, Mark Antony pulled back the sleeves of the toga, so that the mannequin’s right arm was revealed. ‘Lucius Pella made a cut here, a long gash.’ With a jerk of his blade, Mark Antony sliced the wax and the crowd moaned. ‘Caesar still fought! He was left-handed, and he raised his bloody right arm to hold them off. Decimus Junius slashed at him then, cutting the muscle so that the arm fell limp. Caesar called for help on the stone benches of Pompey’s theatre. He called for vengeance, but he was alone with these men … and they would not stop.’

The crowd surged forward, driven almost to madness by what they were seeing. There was no logic in it, simply a growing, seething mass of rage. Just a few senators still stood by the senate house and Mark Antony saw Cassius turn to go.

‘Gaius Cassius Longinus stabbed the Father of Rome then, shoving his thin arms into a gap between the others.’ With a grunt, Mark Antony punched the blade into the wax side through the toga, leaving the cloth torn as the knife came out. ‘The blood poured, drenching Caesar’s toga, but still he fought! He was a soldier of Rome and his spirit was strong as they struck and struck at him!’ He punctuated his words with blows, tearing ribbons from the ruined toga.

He broke off, gasping and shaking his head.

‘Then he saw a chance to live.’

His voice had dropped and the crowd pushed even closer, driven and wild, but hanging on every word. Mark Antony looked across them all, but his eyes were seeing another day, another scene. He had listened to every detail of it from a dozen sources and it was as real to him as if he had witnessed it himself.

‘He saw Marcus Brutus step onto the floor of the theatre. The man who had fought at his side for half their lives. The man who had betrayed him once and joined an enemy of Rome. The man Julius Caesar had forgiven when anyone else would have had him butchered and his limbs scattered. Caesar saw his greatest friend and for a moment, for a heartbeat, in the midst of those stabbing, shouting men, he must have thought he was saved. He must have thought he would live.’

Tears came to his eyes then. Mark Antony brushed them away with his sleeve, feeling his exhaustion like a great weight. It was almost over.

‘He saw that Brutus carried a blade like all the rest. His heart broke and the fight went out of him at last.’

Centurion Oppius was standing stunned, barely holding the figure of wax. He flinched as Mark Antony reached over and yanked a fold of the purple toga over the figure’s head, so that the face was covered.

‘Caesar would not look at them after that. He sat as Brutus approached and they continued to stab and tear at his flesh.’

He held his dark blade poised over the heart and many in the crowd were weeping, men and women together as they waited in agony for the last blow. The moaning sound had grown so that it was almost a wail of pain.

‘Perhaps he did not feel the final blade; we cannot know.’

Mark Antony was a powerful man and he punched the blade up where the ribs would have been, sinking it to the hilt and cutting a new hole in the ragged cloth. He left the blade there, for all to see.

‘Set it down, Oppius,’ he said, panting. ‘They have seen all I wanted them to see.’

Every pair of eyes in the crowd moved to follow the torn figure as it was laid down on the platform. The common people of Rome visited no theatres with the noble classes. What they had witnessed had been one of the most powerful scenes of their lives. A sigh went around the forum, a long breath of pain and release.

Mark Antony gathered slow-moving thoughts. He had pushed the crowd and ridden them, but he had judged it well. They would go from this place in sombre mood, talking amongst themselves. They would not forget his friend, and the Liberatores would be followed by scorn all their lives.

‘To think,’ he said, his voice gentle, ‘Caesar saved the lives of many of the men who were there, in Pompey’s theatre, on the Ides of March. Many of them owed their fortunes and their positions to him. Yet they brought him down. He made himself first in Rome, first in the world, and it did not save him.’

His head came up when a voice yelled out in the crowd.

‘Why should they live?’

Mark Antony opened his mouth to reply, but a dozen other voices answered, shouting angry curses at the murderers of Caesar. He held up his hands for calm, but the lone voice had been a spark on dry wood and the noise spread and grew until there were hundreds and hundreds pointing to the senate house and roaring out their rage.

‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Mark Antony bellowed, but even his great voice was swallowed. Those further back pushed forward mindlessly and the centurions were battered by fists and heaving bodies.

‘That’s it,’ one of the centurions growled, shoving back with all his strength to give himself room to draw a gladius. ‘Time to get away. On me, lads. Surround the consul and stay calm.’

Yet the crowd were not rushing the consul’s platform. They surged towards the senate house and the now empty steps.

‘Wait! They will hear me yet. Let me speak!’ Mark Antony shouted, shoving past a centurion trying to guide him down the steps.

A stone soared from somewhere further back, hammering a dent in an ornate chestplate and sending a senior man staggering. The crowd were levering up the cobblestones of the forum. The centurion who had taken the impact was on his back, gasping for breath as his companions cut the leather ties that bound him into his armour.

‘Too late for that, Consul,’ Oppius snapped. ‘I just hope this is what you wanted. Now move, sir. Or will you stand and see us all killed?’

More of the black stones flew. Mark Antony could see movements in the crowd, swirling and shoving like patterns in water. There were thousands of angry men in that forum and many of the weaker ones would be trampled to death before their anger gave out. He swore under his breath.

‘My feelings exactly, sir,’ Oppius said grimly. ‘But it’s done now.’

‘I can’t leave the body,’ Mark Antony said desperately. He ducked as another stone came past him and he saw how quickly the chaos was spreading. There was no holding them back now and he felt a sudden fear that he would be swept away.

‘Very well. Get me clear.’

He could smell smoke on the air and he shivered. The gods alone knew what he had unleashed, but he remembered the riots of years before and the flashing memories were ugly. As he was borne away in a tight mass of soldiers, he looked back at the body of Julius, abandoned and alone, as men clambered up to the platform bearing knives and stones.

The bitter smell of wet ash was heavy in the air across Rome. Mark Antony wore a clean toga as he waited in the outer hall of the House of Virgins behind the temple of Vesta. Even so, he thought he could smell burnt wood in the cloth, hanging on him like a mist. The air of the city carried the taint and marked everything passing through it.

Suddenly impatient, he jumped up from a marble bench and began to pace. Two of the temple women were watching him idly, so secure in their status that they betrayed no tension even in the presence of a consul of Rome. The virgins could not be touched, on pain of death. They devoted their lives to worship, though there had long been rumours that they came out on the festival of Bona Dea and used aphrodisiac drugs and wine to toy with men before killing them. Mark Antony glowered at the pair, but they only smiled and spoke to each other in low tones, ignoring the man of power.

The high priestess of Vesta had judged his patience to a fine degree by the time she finally came out to him. Mark Antony had been on the point of leaving, or summoning soldiers, or anything else that would allow him to act rather than wait like a supplicant. He had sat for a time once more, staring into space and the horrors of the previous day and night.

The woman who approached was a stranger to him. Mark Antony rose and bowed only briefly, trying to control his irritation. She was tall and wore a Greek shift that left her legs and one shoulder bare. Her hair was a shining mass of dark red, curling across her throat. His gaze followed the path of the locks, pausing on what looked like a tiny splash of blood on the white cloth. He shuddered, wondering what horrible rite she had been finishing while he waited.

There were still bodies in the forum and his anger simmered, but he needed the goodwill of the priestess. He made himself smile as she spoke.

‘Consul, this is a rare pleasure. I am Quintina Fabia. I hear your men are working hard to bring order back to the streets. Such a terrible business.’

Her voice was low and educated and he reassessed his first impression. He had already known the woman was one of the Fabii, a noble family that could call on the allegiance of a dozen senators in any year. Quintina was used to authority and he let the anger seep out of him.

‘I hope there has been no trouble here?’ Mark Antony asked.

‘We have guards and other ways of protecting ourselves, Consul. Even rioters know not to trouble this temple. What man would risk a curse from the virgin goddess, to see his manhood fall limp and useless for ever?’

She smiled, but he could still smell wet ash in the air and he was not in the mood for pleasantries. It was annoying enough that he had been forced to come himself, with so much else to do. Yet his messengers had been turned away without a word.

‘I have come to take charge of Caesar’s will. I believe it is lodged here. If you will have it brought to me, I can get back to my work. The sun is almost setting and each night is worse.’

Quintina shook her head, a delicate frown appearing between dark brown eyes.

‘Consul, I would do everything in my power to help you, but not that. The last testaments of men are my charge. I cannot give them up.’

Mark Antony struggled again with rising temper.

‘Well, Caesar is dead, woman! His body was burned in the forum along with the senate house, so we can be reasonably sure of that! When will you release his will, if not today, to me? The whole city is waiting for it to be read.’

His anger washed over her with no noticeable effect. She smiled slightly at his harsh tone, looking back over her shoulder at the two women lounging on a nearby bench. Mark Antony was seized by a sudden desire to grab her and shake her out of her lethargy. Half the forum had been destroyed. The Senate were forced to meet in Pompey’s theatre while the seat of government lay in rubble and ashes, and still he was being treated like a servant! His big hands clenched and unclenched.

‘Consul, do you know why this temple was founded?’ she asked softly.

Mark Antony shook his head, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Could she not understand what he needed?

‘It was raised to house the Palladium, the statue of Athena that was once the heart of Troy. The goddess guided her likeness to Rome and we have been its guardians for centuries, do you understand? In that time, we have seen riots and unrest. We have seen the walls of Rome herself threatened. We have watched the army of Spartacus march past and seen Horatius go out to hold the bridge with just two men against an army.’

‘I don’t … What has this to do with the will of Caesar?’

‘It means that time passes slowly within these walls, Consul. Our traditions go back to the founding of the city and I will not change them because of a few dead rioters and a consul who thinks he can give orders here!’

Her voice had hardened and grown louder as she spoke and Mark Antony raised his hands, trying to placate the suddenly angry woman before him.

‘Very well, you have your traditions. Nonetheless, I must have the will. Have it brought to me.’

‘No, Consul.’ She held up a hand herself to forestall his protest. ‘But it will be read aloud in the forum on the last day of the month. You will hear it then.’

‘But …’ He hesitated under her stare and took a deep breath. ‘As you say then,’ he said through a clenched jaw. ‘I am disappointed you saw no value in gaining the support of a consul.’

‘Oh, they come and go, Mark Antony,’ she replied. ‘We remain.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Octavian woke in the late morning, feeling as if he had drunk bad red wine. His head pounded and his clenching stomach made him weak, so he had to lean against a wall and gather his strength as Fidolus brought out his horse. He wanted to vomit to clear his head, but there was nothing to bring up and he had to struggle not to heave dryly, making his head swell and hammer with the effort. He knew he needed a run to force blood back into his limbs, to force out the shame that made him burn. As the house slave went back inside for the saddle, Octavian pounded his thigh with a closed fist, harder and harder until he could see flashing lights whenever he closed his eyes. His weak flesh! He had been so careful after the first time, telling himself that he had caught some infection in a scratch, or some illness from the sour air in Egypt. His own men had found him insensible then, but they had assumed he’d drunk himself unconscious and saw nothing too odd in that, with Caesar feting the Egyptian queen along the Nile.

He could feel a bruise begin to swell the muscle of his leg. Octavian wanted to shout out his anger. To be let down by his own body! Julius had taught him it was just a tool, like any other, to be trained and brought to heel like a dog or a horse. Yet now his two friends had seen him while he was … absent. He muttered a prayer to the goddess Carna that his bladder had not released this second time. Not in front of them.

‘Please,’ he whispered to the deity of health. ‘Cast it out of me, whatever it is.’

He had woken clean and in rough blankets, but his memory ceased with the scroll from Rome. He could not take in the new reality. His mentor, his protector, had been killed in the city, his life ripped from him where he should have been safest. It was impossible.

Fidolus passed the reins into his hands, looking worriedly at the young man who stood shaking in the morning sun.

‘Are you well, master? I can fetch a doctor from the town if you are ill.’

‘Too much drink, Fidolus,’ Octavian replied.

The slave nodded, smiling in sympathy.

‘It doesn’t last long, master. The morning air will clear your head and Atreus is feeling his strength today. He will run to the horizon if you let him.’

‘Thank you. Are my friends awake?’ Octavian watched closely for a sign that the slave knew something about his collapse, but the expression remained innocent.

‘I heard someone moving about. Shall I call for them to join you?’

Octavian mounted, landing heavily and making the mount snort and skitter across the yard. Fidolus began to move to take the reins but Octavian waved him off.

‘Not now. I’ll see them when I come back.’

He dug in his heels and the horse lunged forward, clearly happy to be out of its stall with the prospect of a run. Octavian saw movement in the doorway of the house and heard Agrippa’s deep voice hail him. He didn’t turn. The clatter of hooves on stone was loud and he could not face the man, not yet.

Horse and rider surged into a canter through the gate. Agrippa came skidding into the yard behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared after Octavian for a while, then yawned.

Maecenas came out, still wearing the long shift he slept in.

‘You let him go alone?’ he said.

Agrippa grinned at seeing the Roman noble so tousled, his oiled hair sticking out at all angles.

‘Let him work up a sweat,’ he said. ‘If he’s ill, he needs it. The gods alone know what he’s going to do now.’

Maecenas noticed Fidolus, who had stayed back with his head down.

‘Get my horse ready, Fidolus – and the carthorse that suffers under my friend here.’

The slave hurried back into the stable block, greeted with whinnies of excitement from the two horses in the gloom. The Romans exchanged a glance.

‘I think I fell asleep about an hour ago,’ Maecenas said, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Have you thought what you’re going to do now?’

Agrippa cleared his throat uncomfortably.

‘Unlike you, I am a serving officer, Maecenas. I do not have the freedom to make decisions. I will return to the fleet.’

‘If you had bothered to use that fascinating mind you hide so well, you’d have realised the fleet at Brundisium no longer has a purpose. Caesar is dead, Agrippa! Your campaign won’t go ahead without him. Gods, the legions of Rome are there – who will lead them now? If you go back, you’ll be floating without orders for months while the Senate ignore you all. Believe me, I know those men. They will squabble and argue like children, snatching scraps of power and authority now that Caesar’s shadow has gone. It could be years before the legions move again, and you know it. They were loyal to Caesar, not the senators who murdered him.’

‘Octavian said there is an amnesty,’ Agrippa murmured uneasily.

Maecenas laughed, a bitter sound.

‘And if they passed a law saying we should all marry our sisters, would it happen? Honestly, I have grown to admire the discipline of the army, but there are times when the entire board is reset, Agrippa! This is one of them. If you can’t see that, perhaps you should go and sit with thousands of sailors, writing your reports and watching the water grow sour as you wait for permission to take on fresh food.’

‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Agrippa demanded angrily. ‘Retire to your estate and watch it all play out? I don’t have a patrician family to protect me. If I don’t go back, my name will be marked “Run” and someone somewhere will sign an order to have me hunted down. I sometimes think you have lived too well to understand other men. We do not all have your protection!’

Agrippa’s face had grown flushed as he spoke and Maecenas nodded thoughtfully. He sensed it was not the time to anger him further, though Agrippa’s indignation always made him want to smile.

‘You are correct,’ he said, gentling his voice deliberately. ‘I am related to enough of the great men not to fear any one of them. But I am not wrong. If you go back to Brundisium, you’ll be picking worms out of your food before you see order restored. Trust me on that at least.’

Agrippa began his reply and Maecenas knew it would be something typically decent and honourable. The man had risen through the ranks by merit and occasionally it showed. Maecenas spoke to head him off before he could vow to follow his oath, or some other foolishness.

‘The old order is dead with Caesar, Agrippa. You talk of my position – very well! Let me use it to shelter you, at least for a few months. I will write letters of permission to have you kept from your duties. It will keep the stripes off your back and your rank intact while we see this through! Think about it, big man. Octavian needs you. At least you have your fleet, your rank. What does he have now that Caesar is gone? For all we know, there are men riding here to finish the job they started in Rome …’ He broke off, his eyes widening.

‘Fidolus! Come out here, you Greek shit-pot! Move!’

The slave was already returning with both mounts. Maecenas slapped his hands off the reins and leapt on, wincing as the cold leather met his testicles.

‘Sword! Bring me a weapon. Run!’

Agrippa mounted as Fidolus raced across the yard and into the house. It was true that his horse was far stockier in build than those of the others. It was tall and powerful and shone black in the morning sun. As it took his weight, the animal blew air from its lips and pranced sideways. Agrippa patted its neck absently, thinking through what Maecenas had been saying.

‘I swear by Mars, there had better be some assassins riding around here,’ Maecenas snapped, turning his mount. ‘I’ll be black and blue after half a mile.’

A fresh clatter of hooves sounded outside the grounds, getting louder with every moment. Octavian rode back through the gate, his face pale. He looked surprised to see his friends mounted and Fidolus rushing out with swords clasped awkwardly in his arms.

Octavian’s stare snagged on Maecenas, whose shift had ridden up so that his bare buttocks were revealed.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

Maecenas tried to stare back haughtily, but he couldn’t summon his dignity in such a position.

‘Don’t you know all young Romans ride like this now? Perhaps it has not spread to the provinces yet.’

Octavian shook his head, his expression bleak.

‘I came back to tell you both to pack up your belongings. We need to get to Brundisium.’

Agrippa’s head jerked up at the word, but it was Maecenas who spoke first.

‘I was just explaining to the keen sailor why that is the last place we would want to go, at least until the city settles down. It will be chaos out there, Octavian. Believe me, every Roman family is doubling their guards right now, ready for civil war.’

‘You’re right,’ Octavian said. ‘The legions are at Brundisium as well.’

‘So tell me why that isn’t the last place in the world we should visit,’ Maecenas said.

He saw Octavian’s gaze turn inward, his eyes shadowed as he lowered his head. There was silence in the yard for a moment before he spoke again.

‘Because those men were loyal to Caesar – to my family. If there is anyone left who wants to see revenge for his murder, they will be in that camp by the sea. That’s where I must go.’

‘You realise there could also be men there who would think nothing of killing you?’ Maecenas asked softly.

Octavian’s gaze flickered to him.

‘I have to start somewhere. I can’t let them wipe their hands clean and just go on with their lives. I knew him, Maecenas. He was … a better man than the snapping dogs in Rome, every one of them. He would want me to walk into their houses and show them the mercy they showed him.’

Agrippa nodded, rubbing a hand through his beard.

‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to get back to Brundisium. Out here, we’re too far away to know anything.’

Maecenas looked from man to man and for once there was no wry humour in his expression.

‘Three men?’ he said. ‘Against the legions of Rome?’

‘No, not against them, with them,’ Octavian replied. ‘I know those men, Maecenas. I have served with hundreds, no, thousands of them. They will remember me. I know them better than the greyheads of the Senate, at least.’

‘I see. That is … a relief,’ Maecenas said.

He looked to Agrippa for some sign that he wasn’t going along with this madness, but Agrippa was watching Octavian with a fierce intensity. The young man who dropped lightly from his horse and strode across the yard had impressed him from the first time they met, two years before. It was not just that Octavian was a blood relative of Caesar, or had seen the great cities of the east. The young Roman was a man who saw through the febrile twitching of merchants, nobles and soldiers to what really mattered. Agrippa remembered watching him hold court at a party, speaking so well and fluently that even the drunks were listening to him. Octavian had offered them pride in what they could bring to the world, but Agrippa had heard the other strand woven into the words – the cost and burden that they must shoulder to represent the city. He’d listened in awe to concepts and thoughts that had never intruded upon his father’s endless quest for more wealth.

One of the drunkest nobles had laughed at Octavian. With a quick jerk, Agrippa had tossed the man over the balcony. He grinned as he remembered the amused shock on Octavian’s face as half the crowd rushed past them both. It had been enough to begin a friendship neither man had been looking for. They’d drunk and talked until dawn and Agrippa thanked his gods he’d chosen to go out that night at his father’s urging. He’d found no new deals to make, nor rich daughters to court, but the following morning he’d gone to the docks and joined his first legion galley. His father hadn’t spoken to him since that day.

Sweat patches stood out on Octavian’s tunic and his horse was already lathered in strings of spit. Yet his orders were clear and precise to Fidolus as they walked back into the house to pack.

‘You did not mention the sickness that struck him last night,’ Agrippa observed in a low voice. Maecenas glanced at him.

‘It didn’t happen. Or if it did, he’ll be the one to bring it up.’

Maecenas dismounted and flicked his reins over a post before walking inside to dress. Agrippa watched him go and, when he was finally alone, allowed a smile to spread across his face. He liked them both, a constant wonder for a man who did not make friends easily. For all his studied cynicism, Maecenas had been willing to ride out with his buttocks in the wind the moment he thought Octavian was in danger.

Agrippa took a deep breath of Greek air, deliberately filling his lungs and releasing it slowly. He was a man who valued Roman order, the stability and predictable nature of military life. His childhood had taken him to a dozen different cities, watching his father close a thousand deals. The fleet had saved him from that boredom and given him a home where he felt he was part of something that mattered at last. The talk of chaos worried him more deeply than he would ever say. He hoped Maecenas was wrong, but he knew enough to fear that his noble friend had told the future well. The divine Julius was gone and a thousand lesser men would be rushing to fill the gap he had left. Agrippa knew he might see the Republic torn to pieces as men like his father struggled for advantage. He dismounted and rolled his heavy shoulders, feeling his neck creak. At a time like that, a man should choose his friends with care, or be swept away.

He could hear Maecenas yelling orders inside the house and Agrippa grinned to himself as he tossed the reins over the holding post and followed. At least he would be swept towards Brundisium.

Brutus looked out over a city lit by speckles of fire. The flickering yellow and orange resembled a disease ruining healthy skin, spreading too fast to control. The window brought a warm breeze into the little room, but it was no comfort. The house was in the perfume district, a mile east of the forum. Three floors up from the ground, Brutus could still smell the destruction of the previous days. The odour of rich oils mingled unpleasantly with wet ash and he wanted a bath to rid himself of the scent. He was sick of smoke and the roars of distant clashes. As soon as darkness fell to hide the seething masses, they came out again, in greater and greater numbers. Those with guards had barricaded themselves to starve in their homes. The poor suffered worst, of course. They always did, easier prey to the raptores and gangs than those who could fight back.

Somewhere close by, Brutus could hear the tramp of marching soldiers, a sound as familiar to him as anything in the world. The legions in the Campus Martius had not mutinied, at least so far. The Senate had drafted rushed orders to bring them in, a thousand men at a time. Two separate legions had spread through the city, hard-pressed even so as the mobs gave ground step by bloody step. Brutus rubbed a spot on his forearm where a thrown tile had caught him a glancing blow earlier that day. He had been protected by a century of men, but as they escorted him to his house on the Quirinal hill, the roofs nearby had filled with rioters and a rain of stones and tiles had come arcing over. Had they been waiting for him, or was it just that nowhere was safe?

He clenched his fist at the memory. Even a century could be overwhelmed in the narrow streets. The Senate had reports of soldiers hemmed in on all sides, battered from above, and even one atrocity where oil pots had been thrown and set alight, burning men alive.

With tiles and stones shattering all around, he’d given the order to take a side street. They’d marched away from the location, intending to double back quickly on parallel streets to kick in doors and trap their assailants. He recalled the hooting jeers of lookouts above their heads, watching every step. The roofs had been empty by the time his men reached them, just a litter of broken tiles and scrawled messages. He’d given up on reaching his house and gone back to the safe area around the forum, where thousands of legionaries patrolled.

‘I think it’s getting worse, even with the new men in from the Campus,’ Cassius said, dragging Brutus back to the present. Like him, the senator was staring out over the city.

‘They can’t go on much longer,’ Brutus said, waving his hand in irritation.

The third man in the room stood to refill his cup with rich red wine. The two at the window turned at the sound and Lucius Pella raised his white eyebrows in silent question. Cassius shook his head, but Brutus nodded, so Pella filled a second cup.

‘They are drunk on more than wine,’ Pella said. ‘If we could have saved the senate house, I think it would be over already, but …’ He shook his head in disgust. A stone building should not have fallen just because wooden benches burned inside. Yet as the fire reached its height, one of the walls had cracked from top to bottom. The great roof had come crashing down, collapsing with such speed that it actually extinguished the fires within.

‘What would you have me do, Lucius?’ Cassius asked. ‘I have brought in legions. I have secured the permission of the Senate to kill those who ignore the curfew. Yet it goes on – no, it spreads! We have lost whole districts of the city to these cattle with their clubs and iron bars. A million citizens and slaves cannot be stopped by a few thousand soldiers.’

‘Mark Antony walked to his house today, with just a few men,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘Did you hear that? He is their champion, after his speech appealing to the mob. They don’t touch him, while my name is howled like a wolf pack. And yours, Cassius – and yours, Pella!’ He crossed the room and downed his wine in three long gulps.

‘I have to hide like a wanted criminal in my own city, while the consul acts the peacemaker. By the gods, it makes me want …’ He broke off, impotent in his anger.

‘It will pass, Brutus. You said it yourself. It has to run its course, but when they are starving, they will quieten.’

‘Will they? The gangs emptied the grain stores on the first evening. There were no guards to stop them then, were there? No, they were all in the forum, fighting fires. You know the Casca brothers have already left?’

‘I know,’ Cassius said. ‘They came to me and I had them escorted out. They have an estate a few hundred miles to the south. They’ll wait it out there.’

Brutus watched the senator closely.

‘Almost all the men who bloodied their hands with us have run with their tails between their legs. You know Decimus Junius is still writing letters to be read in the forum? Someone should tell him his messengers are beaten to death.’ He paused, sick with anger. ‘You are still here, though. Why is that, Cassius? Why haven’t you run yet to your vineyards?’

The senator smiled mirthlessly.

‘For the same reason as you, my friend. And Pella here. We are the “Liberatores”, are we not? If we all seek safety away from the city, who knows what will happen when we are gone? Should I give Mark Antony the power he wants? He will have Rome in the palm of his hand as soon as the crowds stop murdering and burning. I should be here for that. And so should you.’

‘Did he plan this, do you think?’ Pella asked, refilling his cup. ‘He inflamed the commoners with his cursed mannequin. He must have known what could happen.’

Cassius thought for a moment.

‘A year ago, I would not have believed it of him. I was sure then that Mark Antony was not a subtle man. When he proposed the vote for amnesty, I thought … I thought he was recognising the new reality. Even now, I don’t think he saw the flames that would follow his funeral oration. Yet he is not such a fool that he won’t take advantage when the opportunity is handed to him. He is a danger to us all, gentlemen.’

Pella shrugged, the flush of wine staining his cheeks.

‘Have him killed, then. What does one more body matter now? The streets are filled with them and disease will follow like night and day, be sure of it. When the plagues come, Rome will be hollowed out from within.’

His shaking hand made the cup clink against the jug and Brutus saw for the first time how terrified the man was.

‘Well, not me!’ Pella said, slurring slightly as he raised his cup in a mock toast to the other two. ‘I did not kill Caesar to die at the hands of bakers and tanners, or coughing out my lungs in some vile sickness of the dead. That is not what you promised me, Cassius! Hiding in the dark like thieves and murderers. You said we would be honoured!’

‘Be calm, Pella,’ Cassius snapped, unmoved. ‘Remember your dignity. You should not leave your wits at the bottom of a jug, not tonight. If you want to get out of the city, I will arrange it. At dawn, if you wish.’

‘And my wife? My children? My slaves? I will not leave them to be torn apart.’

Cassius showed a glint of his anger then, his voice cold.

‘You sound frightened, Pella. Of course they can travel with you. This is Rome and we are both senators. Most of the unrest is in the western half. Do not make it sound worse than it is. In a dozen days at most, there will be order again. I will send for …’

‘You said three days at the beginning,’ Pella interrupted, too dulled by wine to see the deadly stillness of Cassius.

‘Go home now, Pella. Ready your family and gather your possessions. You will be spared any further attack on your dignity.’

Pella blinked at him, his mind wandering.

‘Go home?’ he said. ‘The streets are not safe. I thought you said it was too dangerous to leave after dark.’

‘Nonetheless, you have made your point. Walk with your head held high and if someone stops you in the road, tell him you are a senator. I am sure they will let you pass.’

Pella shook his head nervously.

‘Cassius, I’m sorry. I should not have said such things. It was the wine. I would prefer to stay here with you, at least until dawn. I can …’

He broke off as Cassius crossed to the door that led out to stairs and the street. As it opened, the constant noise of shouts and crashes in the background grew louder.

‘Go home,’ Cassius said. He wore a dagger on his belt and he deliberately dropped a hand to the hilt.

Pella stared open-mouthed. He looked to Brutus but saw no pity there.

‘Please, Cassius …’

‘Get … out!’ Cassius snapped.

Pella’s shoulders drooped and he did not look at either man as he left. Cassius tried hard not to slam the door after him.

‘Do you think he will get through?’ Brutus asked, turning back to the open window.

‘It is in the hands of the gods,’ Cassius said irritably. ‘I could not bear his babbling weakness any longer.’

Brutus would have replied, but in the distance he saw a new bloom of fire spreading. He cursed under his breath and Cassius came to stand by him.

‘That’s the Quirinal, isn’t it?’ Cassius asked. He knew Brutus had property on that hill and his voice was dismayed on his behalf.

‘I think so. They never touch Caesar’s properties, did you know that?’ He rubbed the back of his neck, unutterably weary. ‘It’s hard to tell distances in the dark. I’ll know in the morning, if I can find enough men to walk with me.’ He spoke through gritted teeth at the thought of the people of Rome pawing his possessions. ‘We need those legions from Brundisium, Cassius! Another thirty thousand men could cut through these mobs. We need to smash them, to show enough force that it stops their mouths.’

‘If I could have brought them, I would have. Caesar’s officers won’t answer the messages of the Senate. When this is over, I will have them decimated, or their eagles struck down and made into cups for the poor, but for now, I cannot make them move.’

Somewhere in the streets near the house, a man screamed long and loud. Both of them started at the sound, then deliberately ignored it.

‘I could go to them,’ Brutus said after a time.

Cassius laughed in surprise. ‘To Brundisium? You’d be slaughtered as soon as they heard your name. You think I am unpopular, Brutus? Your name is the one the mobs chant loudest when they are calling for Caesar’s vengeance.’

Brutus blew air out, frustrated to the point of shaking.

‘Perhaps it is time to leave, then. To have your Senate make me governor of some city far from here. I have not seen the rewards you promised me, not yet …’ He caught himself, unwilling to beg from the hand of Cassius. Yet Brutus had no civil post and no wealth of his own. His private funds were already dwindling and he wondered if a nobleman like Cassius even understood his predicament. ‘Caesar would be laughing if he could see us hiding from his people.’

Cassius stared into the night. The fires on the Quirinal had spread at breathtaking speed. In the distance, hundreds of burning houses lit the darkness, like red cracks in the earth. There would be blackened bodies by the thousand in the morning and Pella was right, disease would follow, rising from the dead flesh and entering the lungs of healthy men. He made a sound in his throat and Brutus looked to him, trying to read his expression.

‘There are legions in Asia Minor,’ Cassius said at last. ‘I have considered going out to them as the representative of the Senate. Our eastern lands must be protected from the chaos here. Perhaps a year or two in Syria would allow us to put these bloody days behind.’

Brutus considered, but shook his head. He remembered the heat and strange passions of Egypt and had no desire to return to that part of the world.

‘Not Syria, not for me at least. I have never visited Athens, though I knew Greece well when I was young.’

Cassius waved a hand.

‘Propraetor then. It is done. I will have your command and passes drawn up, ready for use. By the gods, though, I could wish it had not turned out like this! I have not brought down one tyrant only to see Mark Antony take his place. The man is a greased snake for slipperiness.’

‘While we stay, the riots go on,’ Brutus replied, his voice hard. ‘They hunt for me, whoreson gangs of filthy slaves, kicking down doors looking for me.’

‘It will pass. I remember the last riots. The senate house was burned then, but the madness faded eventually.’

‘The leaders died, Cassius, that was why those riots came to an end. I had to move twice yesterday, just to be sure they could not box me in.’ He made a growling sound, at the end of his patience. ‘I would be happier if Mark Antony had fallen on the first day. Yet he walks where he pleases, with no more than a few guards. They do not hunt him, not the noble friend of Caesar!’

There was a crash from outside and both men jerked round, staring at the door as if it would burst open and bring the ugly mobs of Rome surging into the room. A woman screamed nearby, the sound suddenly choking off.

‘We underestimated him, it seems, or at least his ability to survive,’ Cassius replied, speaking more to break the silence than from thought. ‘I too would be happier if Mark Antony was another tragic casualty of the riots, but he is too careful – and right now, too well loved. I know a few men, but they are as likely to tell him of a plot as carry it through.’

Brutus snorted. More crashes and screams sounded from the street, though he thought they were moving on.

‘Draw up the orders then,’ he said wearily. ‘I can spend a year or two governing Athens. When the sting is drawn from Rome, I will see her again.’

Cassius pressed a hand to his shoulder.

‘Depend on it, my friend. We have come too far together to see it all lost now.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Brundisium had never been as busy. It was like an overturned beehive, with soldiers and citizens scurrying everywhere and no sign of the languor of Rome. In the port city, everyone hurried, moving supplies for the fleet and legions: wooden casks of water, iron nails, ropes, sailcloth, salted meat and a thousand other essential goods. Despite being allowed to pass by the outer fleet, it was almost noon before the ship had its turn through the massive gates across the inner harbour, winched open each morning by teams of sweating slaves.

As the merchant vessel reached the quay, the sailors threw ropes to dockers, who heaved them in the last few feet and tied them to great iron stanchions set in the stone. A wide wooden bridge was lifted up and over, forming a path from the ship to the quayside. Octavian and Agrippa were the first to step off as Maecenas settled the fee with the captain and remained to oversee the unloading of the horses. A dozen workers and two empty carts trundled over to carry crates and chests from the ship, men who had bought the right to that section of the docks and charged high fees for the privilege. By the time the horses were led out, even Maecenas was complaining about the venal nature of the port, which seemed designed to take every last coin he had.

‘There isn’t a room or a stable free for thirty miles or more,’ he reported when he joined them. ‘According to the dockers, six legions are encamped and the officers have taken every tavern in the city. That makes it easier to find one who might know you, Octavian, but it will take time to find lodgings. Give me half a day.’

Octavian nodded uneasily. His plan to get an audience with the senior officer in Brundisium had seemed a lot simpler before he’d seen the chaos of the city. Its population had quadrupled with soldiers and he needed Maecenas more than ever. His friend had already employed runners to carry messages for him, sending them sprinting off into the maze of streets away from the port. Octavian didn’t doubt he’d find somewhere to store their belongings before the sun set.

‘What is your business in Brundisium?’ a voice said behind him. ‘You can’t leave that lot here, you know, blocking the docks. Tell your captain to cast off. There are two more ships waiting already.’

Octavian turned to see a bald man in optio’s armour, short and powerful with a sword on his hip and two robed clerks in his wake.

‘We are arranging porters, sir. Right now, I need to know the name of the commander in Brundisium and to arrange a meeting with him.’

The officer smiled wryly, running a hand over the polished dome of his head and flicking away sweat.

‘I can think of at least seven men who might answer your description. But you won’t get to see them, not without a few weeks of waiting. Unless you are a senator, perhaps. Are you a senator? You look a bit young for that.’ He smiled at his own humour.

Octavian took a deep breath, already irritated. At Caesar’s side, he had never been questioned. He looked at the man’s amused expression and realised he could not bluster or threaten his way past. He could not even give his true name while there was a chance he was being hunted.

‘I … carry messages for the senior officer in the city.’

‘And yet you don’t have his name?’ the optio replied. ‘Forgive me for doubting a young gentleman such as yourself …’ He saw Octavian’s frustration and shrugged, his expression not without kindness. ‘Look, lad. Just get your goods off my dock, all right? I don’t care where, as long as I don’t have to see it. Understand? I can put you in touch with a man who has a warehouse not far from here, if you want.’

‘I need to see a general,’ Octavian went on doggedly. ‘Or a tribune.’

The optio just stared at him and Octavian raised his eyes in frustration.

‘Maecenas?’ he said.

‘Here,’ Maecenas replied. He dug in his pouch and removed two sesterces. With the smoothness of long practice, the optio accepted the coins without looking at them, rubbing them together as he made them disappear.

‘I can’t arrange a meeting with a legate, lad. They’ve shut themselves away for these last few days, ever since the news from Rome.’

He paused, but the expressions of the three young men showed they already knew.

‘You might try the tavern on fifth street, though.’ He glanced at the sun. ‘Tribune Liburnius eats there most days around noon. You could still catch him, but I warn you, he won’t enjoy being interrupted.’

‘Fat, is he?’ Maecenas said lightly. ‘A big eater?’

The optio shot him a look and shook his head.

‘I meant that he is an important man who does not suffer fools.’ He took Octavian by the arm and moved him a step to one side. ‘I wouldn’t let that one anywhere near him; just a bit of advice. Liburnius isn’t known for his patience.’

‘I understand, sir. Thank you,’ Octavian said through clenched teeth.

‘A pleasure. Now clear your belongings off my docks, or I’ll have them dropped into the sea.’

There were three taverns on fifth street and the first two wasted another hour. Agrippa, Octavian and Maecenas rode with porters, the laden cart and a dozen street urchins following them, hoping for a coin. When the owner of the third tavern saw the large group heading towards his establishment, he flicked a cloth over his shoulder and came out to the street with his hands held wide and his large head already wagging from side to side.

‘No rooms here, sorry,’ he said. ‘Try the Gull in Major, three streets over. I heard they still have space.’

‘I don’t need a room,’ Octavian snapped. He dismounted and threw his reins to Agrippa. ‘I am looking for Tribune Liburnius. Is he here?’

The man stuck out his chin at the tone from a man half his age.

‘Can’t say, sir. We’re full, though.’

He turned to go back in and Octavian lost his temper. Reaching out, he shoved the man back against the wall, leaning in close to him. The tavern-keeper’s face went red, but then he felt the coldness of a knife at his throat and stayed still.

‘I’ve been here for just one morning and I am already getting tired of this city,’ Octavian growled into his ear. ‘The tribune will want to see me. Is he in your place or not?’

‘If I shout, his guards will kill you,’ the man said.

Behind Octavian, Agrippa dismounted, dropping his hand to the gladius he wore. He was as weary as Octavian and he could smell hot food wafting from the tavern kitchen.

‘Shout then,’ Agrippa said. ‘See what you get.’

The tavern-keeper’s eyes rose slowly to take in the massive centurion. The resistance went out of him.

‘All right, there’s no need for that. But I can’t disturb the tribune. I need the custom.’

Octavian stepped away, sheathing his knife. He wrestled a gold ring from his hand. Given to him by Caesar himself, it bore the seal of the Julii family.

‘Show him this. He will see me.’

The tavern-keeper took the ring, rubbing his neck where the knife had touched. He looked at the angry young men facing him and decided not to say anything else, disappearing back into the gloom.

They waited for a long time, thirsty and hungry. The porters who accompanied them put down their burdens and sat on the cart or the sturdier chests, folding their arms and talking amongst themselves. They didn’t mind holding the horses and wasting the day if it meant more pay at the end.

The street grew busier around them as the life of Brundisium went on with no sign of a lull. Two messengers from the morning managed to find their way back to the listless group, accepting coins from Maecenas as they brought news of a friend with an empty house in the wealthy eastern half of the city.

‘I’m going in,’ Octavian said at last. ‘If only to get my ring back. By the gods, I never thought it would be this hard just to speak to someone in authority.’

Agrippa and Maecenas exchanged a quick glance. In their own way, both had more experience of the world than their friend. Agrippa’s father had taken him to the houses of many powerful men, showing him how to bribe and work his way round layers of staff. Maecenas was the opposite, a man who employed such men on his estates.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Agrippa said, rolling his head on his shoulders. ‘Maecenas can stay to watch the horses.’

In truth, neither of them wanted Maecenas anywhere near a Roman tribune. A man of his rank could order them killed at the slightest insult to his dignity. Maecenas shrugged and they went in, squinting as the light changed.

The tavern-keeper was back behind his bar. He did not speak to them and his expression was something just short of a sneer. Octavian strode up to him, but Agrippa touched him on the shoulder, inclining his head towards a table across the room, far from the dust and heat of the main door.

Two men sat there in togas dyed dark blue, almost black. They were eating from a plate of cold meats and boiled vegetables, leaning over the table with their elbows on the wood and talking earnestly. A matched pair of guards in full legionary armour stood facing the room, just far enough away to give the men the illusion of privacy, if not the reality.

Octavian took heart from the colours of mourning they wore. If they were men who showed they grieved for Caesar, perhaps he could trust them. Yet they had not returned his ring, so he was wary as he approached.

One of the men at the table had a tribune’s cloak draped over his chair. The man looked fit and tanned, his head almost bald with just a band of white hair by his ears. He wore no breastplate, just a tunic that left his arms bare and revealed white chest hairs below the open collar. Octavian took all this in before one of the guards raised a flat palm casually to stop him. The two men at the table continued their conversation without looking up.

‘I need to speak to Tribune Liburnius,’ Octavian said.

‘No you don’t,’ the legionary said, deliberately keeping his voice low as if every word could not be overheard by the men at the table. ‘You need to stop bothering your betters. Apply to the barracks of the Fourth Ferrata legion. Someone will hear you there. Off you go now.’

Octavian stood very still, simmering anger clear in every line of him. The guard was unimpressed, though he glanced at Agrippa, whose size made him worthy of a quick assessment. Even so, the legionary just smiled slightly and shook his head.

‘Where are the barracks?’ Octavian said at last. He knew his name would get him an audience, but it could equally get him arrested.

‘Three miles west of town, or thereabouts,’ the legionary replied. ‘Ask anyone on the way. You’ll find it.’

The soldier took no obvious pleasure in turning them away. He was just doing as he had been told and keeping strangers from bothering the tribune. No doubt there were many who sought to reach the man with some plea or other. Octavian controlled his temper with an effort. His plans were baulked at every turn, but getting himself killed in a seedy tavern would accomplish nothing.

‘I’ll have my ring then and be on my way,’ he said.

The legionary did not answer and Octavian repeated his words. The conversation at the table had ceased and both men were chewing food in silence, clearly waiting for him to go. Octavian clenched his fists and both guards looked straight at him. The one who had spoken shook his head again slowly, warning him off.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Octavian said curtly. He turned and stalked to where the tavern-keeper was watching with a greasy look of nervousness. Agrippa went with him, cracking his knuckles as he stood at Octavian’s side.

‘Did you hand over the ring I gave you?’ Octavian demanded of the tavern-keeper. The man’s expression was unpleasant as he wiped cups and put them back in a neat row on the bar. He glanced to where the tribune sat with his guards and decided he was safe enough.

‘What ring?’ he replied.

Octavian snapped his left arm out and cupped the back of the tavern-keeper’s head. The man stiffened against it, holding himself neatly in place as Octavian punched him in the nose with his right hand. The man went over backwards in a crash of breaking cups.

One of the tribune’s guards cursed across the room, but Octavian was around the bar and on the fallen tavern-keeper before they could move. The man’s hands flailed at him, knocking his head up with a lucky blow before Octavian landed two more solid punches. The burly man slumped then and Octavian searched the pockets of his apron, rewarded with the feel of a small lump. He drew out the ring just as the guards came storming over with swords drawn. One of them placed a palm against Agrippa’s chest, with a blade raised to strike at throat height. Agrippa could only hold up empty hands as he backed away. At a word from the tribune, they were both dead.

The other guard reached over and wrapped an arm around Octavian’s neck, heaving backwards with all his strength. With a strangled shout, Octavian was yanked over the bar and they fell back together.

Octavian struggled wildly as the arm around his throat tightened, but his air was cut off and his face began to grow purple. He clung on to the ring as his vision began to flash and fade, never hearing the dry voice of the tribune as he strolled over to them.

‘Let him go, Gracchus,’ Tribune Liburnius said, wiping his mouth with a square of fine linen.

The guard released Octavian, pausing just long enough to punch him hard in the kidneys before standing up and smoothing himself down. On the floor, Octavian groaned in pain, but he held up his hand with the ring pinched between two fingers. The tribune ignored it.

‘Twenty lashes for brawling in public, I think,’ he said. ‘Another twenty for disturbing my lunch. Do the honours, would you, Gracchus? There is a whipping post in the street you can use.’

‘It would be a pleasure, sir,’ the guard said, panting from his exertions. As he laid hands on Octavian again, the young man came to his feet, so far gone in fury that he could hardly think.

‘My ring is stolen from me and you call this Roman justice?’ he demanded. ‘Should I let some fat taverner steal a gift from Caesar himself?’

‘Show me the ring,’ the tribune said, a frown line appearing on his forehead.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Octavian said. Agrippa gaped at him, but he was practically shaking with rage. ‘You are not the man I want to see; I know that now. I will take the lashes.’

Tribune Liburnius sighed.

‘Oh, save me from young cockerels. Gracchus? If you wouldn’t mind.’

Octavian felt his arm gripped and his fingers forced open. The ring was tossed through the air and the tribune caught it easily, peering closely at it in the gloom. His eyebrows raised as he studied the seal marked in the gold.

‘Just a month ago, this would have gained you entry almost anywhere, young man. But now it only raises questions. Who are you and how did you come to have this in your possession?’

Octavian tensed his jaw defiantly and it was Agrippa who decided enough was enough.

‘His name is Gaius Octavian Thurinus, a relative of Caesar. He speaks the truth.’

The tribune digested the information with a thoughtful expression.

‘I believe I have heard that name. And you?’

‘Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, sir. Centurion Captain of the fleet, sir.’

‘I see. Well, gentlemen, a ring from Caesar has won you a place at my table, at least for an hour. Have you eaten?’

Agrippa shook his head, dumbfounded at the sudden change in manner.

‘I’ll order for you when the tavern-keeper wakes up. Gracchus? Throw a bucket of slops on him … and spend a moment or two teaching him that stealing has consequences, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll need to find a new inn tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the legionary responded. He had recovered his dignity and looked with satisfaction on the unconscious figure sprawled beneath the bar.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ the tribune said, gesturing back to his table and his still-seated companion. ‘You have my attention. I hope you don’t regret it.’

Tribune Liburnius placed the ring on the table before them as Octavian and Agrippa pulled up chairs. He did not introduce his companion and Octavian wondered if he was a client or perhaps a spy for the tribune. The man met his eyes briefly, revealing a flash of interest and intelligence before looking away.

The tribune looked up at the sound of a bucket clattering to the ground and a stifled cry from behind the bar.

‘I’m sure the wine will be here in a moment or two,’ he said. He reached out and held the ring once more, turning it in his hands. ‘This is a dangerous little thing these days. I wonder if you realise that?’

‘I’m beginning to,’ Octavian said, touching a hand to a swelling lump by his right eye.

‘Hah! Not thieves. There is far more danger in those who are struggling even now to keep a grip on the mother city. We’re out of it here in Brundisium. If I have my way, we will remain so until order is re-established. Yet Greece is further still, so perhaps this is all news to you.’

Octavian blinked. ‘How did you know I came from Greece?’

To his surprise, Liburnius chuckled, clearly delighted.

‘By the gods, you really are young! Honestly, it makes me nostalgic for my own youth. You truly think you can come into this port, throwing silver coins around and demanding to speak to senior men, without it being reported? I dare say every rumour-monger in the city has your description by now, though perhaps not your name, not yet.’

Octavian flicked a glance at the tribune’s silent companion and the man sensed it, smiling slightly without looking up.

‘Your presence is an interesting problem for me, Octavian. I could have you sent in chains to Rome, of course, for some senator to dispose of as he sees fit, but that would gain me just a favour, or a few gold coins, hardly worth my trouble.’

‘You have no loyalty then?’ Octavian demanded. ‘The Fourth Ferrata was formed by Caesar. You must have known him.’

Tribune Liburnius looked at him, biting the inside of his lower lip in thought.

‘I knew him, yes. I cannot say we were friends. Men like Caesar have few friends, I think, only followers.’ Liburnius drummed his fingers on the table as he considered, his eyes never leaving Octavian.

The drinks arrived, brought by the tavern-keeper. The man was a bedraggled mess, his face swollen and one eye half shut. There was a piece of green vegetable in his hair. He did not look at Octavian or the tribune as he placed a jug and cups carefully and departed, limping. The legionary, Gracchus, took up his position once more, facing out.

‘And yet …’ Liburnius said softly. ‘The will of Caesar has not been read. He had a boy with the Egyptian queen, but they say he loved you also like a son. Who knows what Caesar’s gift might mean to you, when we hear? It could be that you are the horse to back, at least for now. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement, something that benefits us both.’

The fingers drummed again and the tribune’s companion poured for all of them. Octavian and Agrippa exchanged glances, but there was nothing to do but remain silent.

‘I think … yes. I could have documents drawn up. A tenth of whatever you inherit, against my time and funds getting you to Rome and my support securing whatever you are owed. And leaving you alive and unflogged, of course. Shall we shake hands on it? You will need that ring to seal the agreement, so you may have it back.’

Octavian gaped at him. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and snatched up the ring, working it onto his finger.

‘It was never yours to return,’ he said. ‘A tenth! I would have to be insane to agree to such a bargain, especially before I know how much is at stake. My answer is no. I have funds enough to find my own way. I have friends enough to stand against the men who killed him.’

‘I see,’ Liburnius said, wryly amused at the young man’s anger. Drops of wine had spilled on the ancient table and he drew circles with them on the wood as he thought. He shook his head and Octavian gripped the edge of the table, ready to shove it over and run.

‘I don’t think you understand how perilous Rome has become, Octavian. How do you think the Liberatores will react if you enter the city? If you charge into the senate house, demanding and blustering, as if you had a right to be heard? I give you half a day at most, before you are found with your throat cut, perhaps not even that long. The men of power will not want some relative of Caesar inflaming the mob. They will not want a claimant on his wealth that would otherwise find its way into their hands. Are you going to tip this table over, by the way? Do you think I am blind or a fool? My guards would cut you down before you could stand up.’ He shook his head ruefully at the rashness of the young. ‘Mine is the best offer you will receive today. At least with me, you will live long enough to hear the will read.’

Octavian removed his hands from the table, sitting with his thoughts racing. The tribune was a real threat and he realised he could not get out of the tavern without losing something. He wondered what Julius would have done in his place. Tribune Liburnius watched him closely, a smile lifting the corners of his thin mouth.

‘I will not sign away my inheritance, or any part of it,’ Octavian said. Liburnius tutted to himself and raised his eyes to the guards to give an order. Octavian went on quickly, ‘But I was there when Caesar and Cleopatra bargained with the Egyptian court. I can offer more than gold in exchange for your support. You can be useful to me, I will not deny it. It is why I sought you out in the first place.’

‘Go on,’ Liburnius said. His eyes were cold, but the smile still remained.

‘I saw Caesar give favours that men valued far more than coins. I can do that. I will put his ring to an agreement that offers you a single favour, whatever you wish, at any point in my life.’

Liburnius blinked and then gave a great bark of laughter, slapping the table with his palm. When he settled, he wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling.

‘You are a joy to me, lad. I cannot fault you for the entertainment. It was looking to be such a dull day as well. You know, I have a son about your age. I wish he had a pair like yours, I really do. Instead, he reads Greek philosophy to me; can you imagine? It is all I can do not to vomit.’

Liburnius leaned forward on the table, all sign of humour vanishing.

‘But you are not Caesar. As things stand in Rome, I would not lay a silver coin on you surviving a year. What you have offered me is almost certainly worthless. As I say, I applaud your courage, but let us end this game.’

Octavian leaned forward as well, his voice clear and low.

‘I am not Caesar, but he did love me as a son and the blood of his family runs in me. Take what I have offered and one day, when your fortunes have changed for the worse, or those of your son, perhaps then my promise will be the most valuable thing you own.’

Liburnius made a fig hand quickly to avert even the suggestion of an evil fate in store for him. He shoved his thumb between the first and second fingers of his right hand and pointed it at Octavian. After a pause, he unclenched his hand and let it fall to the table.

‘With that promise and ten thousand in gold, I will have ten thousand in gold,’ he muttered.

Octavian shrugged. ‘I cannot promise what I don’t have,’ he said.

‘That is why I asked you for a tenth, boy. You cannot lose by such an arrangement.’

Octavian knew he should have agreed, but something stubborn in him still refused. He folded his arms.

‘I have said all there is to say. Accept my favour and one day it could save your life. If you remember Caesar, consider how he would want you to act.’ Octavian looked up at the ceiling of the tavern. ‘He died at the hands of men who now live well. If he can see us now, will he see you treat me with honour or disdain?’

He waited for an answer and Liburnius drummed his fingers on the wood, the only sound in the tavern. For an instant, his eyes flickered upward, as if he too was imagining Julius watching.

‘I can’t decide if you don’t understand … or you just don’t care to preserve your life,’ he said. ‘I have met a few like you in my time, young officers mostly, with no sense of their own mortality. Some rose, but most of them are long dead, victims of their own overconfidence. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’

‘I do. Gamble on me, Tribune. I will not be brought down easily.’

Liburnius blew air from his lips in a wet sound.

‘To be brought down, you have first to rise.’ He made a decision. ‘Very well. Gracchus? Fetch me a parchment, reed and ink. I will have this poor bargain sealed in front of witnesses.’

Octavian knew better than to speak again. He worked hard to hide the triumph that seared through him.

‘When that is done, I will secure your passage to Rome. The will is to be read in eight days, which gives you time to spare to get there, on good horses. I trust you will not object to Gracchus travelling with you to keep you safe? There are bandits on the road and I would like to be among the first to hear what Caesar left to his city and his clients.’

Octavian nodded. He watched Liburnius dip the hollow reed with a sharpened tip and write with a sure hand. The tavern-keeper brought a lit candle and the tribune melted wax, dripping a fat glob of it onto the dry parchment, so that oil spread beneath. Octavian pressed his ring into the soft surface and the two guards added a scrawled ‘X’ where Liburnius had written their names. It was done.

Liburnius sat back, relaxing.

‘More wine, I think, Gracchus. You know, lad, when you are my age, if you should be lucky enough to live that long, when colour and taste and even ambition have lost the brightness you think is so natural, I hope you will meet a young cockerel just like you are now – so you can see what I see. I hope you will remember me then. It is a bitter-sweet thing, believe me, but you will not understand until that day.’

A new jug arrived and Liburnius poured the cups full to brimming.

‘Drink with me, lad. Drink to Rome and glorious foolishness.’

Without looking away, Octavian raised his cup, draining it in quick swallows.

CHAPTER SIX

The first light of the sun showed over the Esquiline and Viminal hills, gilding the roofs around the forum and reaching across to the Palatine on the far side. The round temple of Vesta there gleamed with the rest, coming alive after the darkness. Neither that ancient building nor the much larger House of Virgins behind had been touched by the fires raging through the city. Their own sacred flame still burned in the hearth of the temple and the bands of rioters had steered clear of the wrath of the goddess, making the fig hand or the horned hand to ward off her curse and moving on.

Mark Antony knew he cut a fine figure as he walked across the forum. As well as six lictors, carrying the traditional axes and bound rods for scourging, two centurions accompanied him, their armour shining and long dark cloaks sweeping against their ankles. The consul of Rome had come to hear the will of Caesar and if the senate house was blackened rubble, at least in his own person Mark Antony still represented the authority of the state. He could feel eyes on him as the crowd gathered, but there was no sense of danger, not that day. He was certain many of those crowding in had been involved in the riots, perhaps just hours before, but the dawn sun was cool and there was almost a sense of truce. The whole city wanted to hear the last words of Caesar to his people.

Mark Antony reached a spot in front of the circular temple, so that he could see the eternal flame flickering along the walls inside. His men took up positions around him, feeling no threat in the quiet crowd. Mark Antony looked for the remaining Liberatores and could not see them. He had spies reporting to him each day and he knew many of them had already left, to save their skins.

He kept his expression stern, though their absence was yet another sign that he had gained most from the slaughters and riots. If powerful men like Brutus and Cassius no longer dared to show their faces, how could they ever hope to regain their authority in Rome? It was a subtle victory. No doubt they had men in the crowd to report back every word, but their absence spoke volumes and he would not be the only one to remark on it. A month before, he could not have dreamed of anything like this day. Caesar had been alive then and the world had been set in ruts of stone, unable to do more than go forward on the path. The Liberatores had changed all that with their knives, but it was Mark Antony whose fortunes were on the rise. He triumphed, step by step, as they failed.

Taller than most, Mark Antony was able to look over the heads of the crowd. The forum was not full, by any means. Heat-scorched stones lay empty behind him, but at least three thousand men and women were there and still they walked out of every side road and down every hill, dark streams of citizens and slaves coming to the heart of Rome. There was order of a sort in most of the city; he had seen to that. The gates were open again and fresh produce flowed in, commanding ridiculous prices. There was a queue outside every baker and butcher as they worked through the night to make loaves and slice meat. There was not enough for all and he had been forced to set patrols at key points to stop fights breaking out. Starvation and disease were the enemies now, the violent energy of the rioters fading almost as quickly as it had sprung up. No one knew how many bodies had been dumped in the Tiber to tumble away to the sea.

His gaze snagged on a group of four men on his right, all armed and obviously together as they talked in low voices. Two of them looked vaguely familiar to the consul, slim figures against the massive shoulders of the man next to them, yet Mark Antony could not bring the names to mind. Hundreds in the crowd would have been clients to Caesar, men who owed their estates and rise to him and had accepted a small stipend each month for their support. The number of them was said to have been in the thousands. Rich and poor, they would all want to know if their patron had remembered them in his will.

Mark Antony continued to crane his neck around, peering particularly at anyone with their head covered. He recognised senators among those, many of them travelling with guards provided from the legions or mercenaries hired for the day. Still, the crowd grew with the sunlight, until the coolness of dawn faded and he could smell sweat and spiced food in the warming air. The spring sky was clear and the city would become unpleasantly hot by noon. He eased his weight from one foot to the other, waiting impatiently for the priestess to show herself.

The crowd stilled as they heard singing coming from the House of Virgins, straining to catch the first glimpse of the Vestal virgins. Mark Antony suppressed a smile as he saw them, more aware than most of the power of pageantry in the city. They bore small cymbals on their fingers and wrists and clashed them together with every step so that the discordant sound rose above their voices. He watched as the procession formed in front of the temple and the song built to a climax followed by total silence. Disappointingly, the young women revealed almost nothing in their stola dresses and long palla robes that concealed their legs. The priestess had shown more flesh when he visited her before and he had to smile at the adolescent part of him. Each one had been chosen for physical perfection, but they had vowed thirty years of celibacy before they could leave the temple. Looking at some of the faces, Mark Antony could not help thinking it was a shocking waste.

He waited through a ritual of thanks to Minerva and Vesta, only sighing as the sun rose and the heat built. After what seemed an age, they brought a wooden platform from the temple, draping it with dark red cloth. Quintina Fabia stepped up to it and her eyes met those of Mark Antony, perhaps recalling that he too had stood and spoken to Rome not long before. The effects could still be seen around them. He saw cold amusement in her eyes, but he was interested only in the carved cedar box brought out from the temple. It was both locked and sealed, so that two of the women had to strike the binding with hammers before they could open the lid. From inside, they raised a square block of wax tablets, wrapped around in strips of lead and then marked in a great disc of wax sealed by Caesar himself. Mark Antony shuddered at the thought of his friend’s hand being the last to touch it before that day.

They handed the block up to the priestess and she used a knife to cut away the wax, showing everyone there that it remained untouched. With care, she bent back the lead strips and passed them down. What remained were five wooden tablets with a thin sheen of wax on their surfaces. Mark Antony could not see the words inscribed there, but he inched forward with everyone else, suddenly desperate to know what Caesar had written.

Untouched by the impatience of the crowd, Quintina Fabia handed four of the tablets back to her companions and read the first to herself, nodding slightly at the end. When she had finished, she looked up at the massed crowd.

‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began. She paused and Mark Antony groaned quietly at the theatrical impulse.

‘Come on,’ he muttered.

She glanced over to him as if she had heard before continuing to read.

‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’

The crowd murmured and Mark Antony saw the small group of four stiffen almost as one, looking at each other in shock and wonderment. The simple words were typical of the man who had written them, without ornament or fanciful rhetoric. Yet Caesar had written and lodged the will before his return from Egypt, perhaps even before he had left Rome to fight Pompey in Greece. He had not known then that the Egyptian queen would bear him an heir. Mark Antony breathed slowly as he thought it through. It would have been better to have some foreign whelp as the main inheritor, one who could never come to Rome and contest for what was legally his. The consul had met Octavian a few years before, but he had been little more than a boy and Mark Antony could not even recall his face. He looked up as the priestess continued.

‘“All that I have is his, beyond the sums and properties I allocate here. Of those, the first is the garden estate by the river Tiber. That is my first gift to the people of Rome, in perpetuity, that they may take their ease there as public land.”’

As the crowd muttered in wonderment, she handed down the tablet and took up two more. Her eyebrows rose as she read silently before speaking the words.

‘“As well as a place to walk in the sun, I give each citizen of Rome three hundred sesterces from my estate, to be spent as they see fit. They were my champions in life. I cannot do less for them in death.”’

This time, the reaction from the crowd was a roar of excitement. Three hundred silver coins was a huge sum, enough to feed a family for months. Mark Antony rubbed his forehead as he tried to work out the total. The last census had recorded almost a million inhabitants of the city, though only half of those would be citizens. Wryly, he acknowledged that the riots would have reduced the number, yet still they swarmed like ants and they would all demand their money from the treasure houses controlled by the Senate. Caesar could not have known, but that simple bequest was a blow against the Liberatores. They would not be able to walk the streets without the shout of ‘Murderers!’ going up, not after this. He closed his eyes briefly in memory of his friend. Even in death, Julius had struck back at his enemies.

Quintina Fabia continued, listing the individual sums left to clients. Many shouted for quiet so they could hear, but the chattering went on even so, all around them. They would have to apply to the temple to read the tablets in private if they wanted to hear those details, Mark Antony thought. Remembering his own meeting with the priestess, he wished them luck.

She worked her way through to the last of the five tablets, allocating gold and land to members of his family and all those who had supported Caesar. Mark Antony heard his name and bellowed for those around him to be silent. His voice succeeded in crushing the noise of the crowd where others had failed.

‘“… to whom I give fifty thousand aurei. I give an equal sum to Marcus Brutus. They were, and are, my friends.”’

Mark Antony felt the gaze of the crowd on him. He could not hide his shock at hearing Brutus given the same amount. Mark Antony had lavished gold on the lifestyle of a consul and his own clients. Although the legacy was generous, it would barely cover his debts. He shook his head, aware of the awe in those who looked on him and yet bitter. Fifty thousand was not so much for the man who had roused the crowd on Caesar’s behalf. It was certainly far more than Brutus deserved.

‘“The rest is the property of Gaius Octavian, adopted as my son, into the house of Julii. I leave Rome in your hands.”’

Quintina Fabia stopped speaking and handed the last tablet down to her waiting followers. Mark Antony was astonished to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. There had been no grand words, just the business of recording Caesar’s legacies and responsibilities. It was, in fact, the will of a man who did not truly believe he was going to die. He felt his own eyes prickle at the thought. If Julius had lodged the will with the temple before leaving Rome, it was the year he had made Mark Antony governor of the city, trusting him completely. It was a window to the past, to a different Rome.

As the priestess stepped down, Mark Antony turned away, his men moving smoothly with him so that the crowd was forced to part. They did not understand why he looked so angry. Behind him, a clear voice rang out. As Mark Antony heard, he stopped and turned to listen, his men facing outwards to counter any threat.

Octavian remembered Mark Antony very well. The consul had changed little over the intervening years, whereas Octavian had gone from a boy to a young man. As the consul arrived at first light, Maecenas had marked his presence first. Agrippa used the breadth of his shoulders to come between them, relying on the crowd to hide Octavian. It was their second day in the city, after a ride of three hundred miles from Brundisium. They had been forced to change horses many times, almost always losing quality in the mounts. Maecenas had arranged for their own horses to be stabled at the first stopping place, but at that point none of them knew if they would be going back to the coast.

The legionary, Gracchus, had not been a pleasant companion on that journey. Knowing he was at best tolerated, he barely spoke, but he remained doggedly in their company as they rode and planned, dropping exhausted into rough beds at the closest inn they could find as the sun set. He had his own funds from the tribune and more than once had slept in the stables to eke out his coins while Maecenas ordered the best rooms.

Octavian was not sure the fast run had been worth it. He’d come into Rome two days before the will was to be read, but the world of peace and order he had known had been torn apart. According to a friend of Maecenas who’d offered them his home, it had been even worse before and was beginning to settle down, but great sections of the city had been reduced to blackened beams and grubby citizens picking through the rubble for anything valuable. Tens of thousands were starving, roving the streets in gangs in search of food. More than once he and his friends had to draw swords just to cross neighbourhoods that had become feral even in daylight. The city looked as if it had been in a war and Octavian could hardly reconcile the reality with his memories. In a way, it suited the grief he felt for Julius, a fitting landscape for such a loss.

‘Here she is at last,’ Agrippa said under his breath.

Octavian snapped back from his reverie as the priestess of Vesta came out. He had been searching the crowd for the faces of men he knew. If Brutus had been there, he did not know what he would have done, but there was no sign of the man he wanted to see dead above all others. Two days in Rome had been enough to hear the details of the assassination and he burned with new energy at the thought of those Liberatores who sought to profit from murdering a good man. In the silence of his own thoughts, in the shadow of the temple of Vesta, he swore oaths of vengeance. The state of the city was the crop they had sown, the result of their greed and jealousy. He had not known what strength could come from hate, not before seeing Rome again.

As the priestess unbound the will of Caesar from its box and lead straps, Octavian continued to glance back at the crowd. He recognised some faces he thought might be senators, but in cloaks and mantles against the morning cold, he could not be certain. He had been away too long.

Agrippa nudged him to pay attention as the priestess scanned the first tablet, a line appearing on her forehead. When she looked up, she seemed to stare straight at Octavian. He waited, his heart thumping painfully in his chest and his mouth drying, so that he ran his tongue around the inside to free his lips.

‘“For the honour of Rome, hear the will of Gaius Julius Caesar,”’ she began.

Octavian clenched his fists, hardly able to stand the tension. He felt Gracchus look over at him, the man’s expression unreadable.

‘“Gaius Octavian is my heir. I acknowledge him as blood of my blood and, by these words, I claim and adopt him as my son.”’

Octavian felt a great shudder run through him and he would have staggered if Agrippa hadn’t put out an arm. His hearing vanished in the pounding of his pulse and when he felt an itch on his face, he scrubbed at it, leaving a red welt on his skin. It was too much to take in and he hardly heard the lines that followed, watching the priestess of Vesta hand down the tablets as she read them out. At one point, the men and women in the crowd cheered raucously and Octavian could not understand why. He was numb with emotion, overwhelmed at the hand of Caesar reaching out from death to touch him.

The face of Gracchus was the picture of sourness as he considered the fortune his patron could have had, with a tenth of Caesar’s wealth. It was almost a legend, how much gold the leader of Rome had brought back from his conquests, at one point flooding so much of it into the city that it devalued the currency by almost a third. Octavian was the heir to all of it and Gracchus decided on the instant to be a more amenable companion. He would never again stand in the presence of such wealth, he was certain. Reaching out, he was about to clap Octavian on the back, but Maecenas caught the wrist and just smiled at him.

‘Let’s not make a show, not here,’ Maecenas said in a low voice. ‘We are unknown to the crowd and that is the way it should stay until we have had a little time to think about all this.’

Gracchus forced a sickly grin and nodded, jerking back his arm from a grip of surprising strength. He had not seen Maecenas spar or train in their rush from the coast and he never noticed the short blade in the noble’s other hand as he let go, or the fact that Agrippa was behind him, ready to hammer him into the ground at the first sign of aggression.

The list of clients and individual bequests seemed to take an age. Octavian glowered in disgust when he heard the name of Brutus and the huge sum of gold left to him. There was no mention of Cleopatra and the son that she had borne. All Maecenas’ friends knew was that she had left Rome after the assassination, presumably to go home to Egypt.

‘“The rest is the property of Gaius Octavian, adopted as my son, into the house of Julii. I leave Rome in your hands.”’

Octavian felt his eyes sting. It was too easy to imagine Julius sitting in some quiet room, writing the words in wax, with the future laid out before him. Octavian began to wish he was alive for the thousandth time since hearing the news, then wrestled himself free of the thought as it formed. There was no going back, no wishing away of the new Rome.

The priestess handed down the last tablet and saw it placed with reverence back into the chest. One of her acolytes put out a hand and she stepped down, her part finished. Octavian looked around him as the crowd exhaled held breaths and began to talk. He saw Mark Antony nod to his men and begin to move.

‘Time to go, I think,’ Maecenas said softly by his ear. ‘We can use the house of Brucellus this evening. It is untouched by the riots and he promises to provide a fine meal for us. There is a lot to discuss.’

Octavian felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him away from the temple of Vesta. He resisted, suddenly sick of being made to walk in secrecy in his own city.

‘Priestess!’ he shouted, without warning.

Maecenas stiffened at his side.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed. ‘Half the Senate have spies here! Let me get you away first and then we can decide what to do.’

Octavian shook his head.

‘Priestess!’ he called again.

Quintina Fabia paused in the act of accepting a mantle of rich cloth from one of her followers. She looked around, finding him from the reaction of the crowd as they stared.

‘I am Gaius Octavian, named as heir in the will you have just read,’ he said clearly.

Maecenas groaned, keeping his dagger ready in case one of the crowd attacked them. None of them knew their enemies in the city, not yet.

‘What do you want of me?’ she said. It was rumoured that she had been an actress in her youth. Whether that was true or not, she had a performer’s instinct, ignoring the offered cloak and stepping back onto the low platform.

‘I wish to record a change of name with you, as the keeper of records.’

The priestess cocked her head slightly as she thought. The young man she faced in the crowd had just been given incredible wealth, if he could live long enough to lay hands on it. She glanced over to where Mark Antony watched the scene playing out between them. Her first instinct had been to tell Octavian to wait for an audience, but under that sulphurous gaze, the corner of her mouth quirked.

‘What name would suit the heir to Rome?’ she said.

‘Only one,’ Octavian replied. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar, that I may honour the man whose name I will bear.’

Quintina Fabia smiled wider at that, delighted at the bravado of the young Roman. His friends stood in shock around him, while she wanted to applaud.

‘You will need two witnesses of good standing to swear to your identity,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Come and see me at noon, in the House of Virgins.’ She paused again, watching Mark Antony from under her lashes. The consul was standing like a stunned ox.

‘Welcome home, Octavian,’ she said.

He nodded, mute. Away on his right, the consul began to stride off and Octavian turned to follow him.

‘Consul!’ he shouted.

Maecenas put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Octavian,’ he murmured. ‘Let him go.’

Octavian brushed off the hand and kept going.

‘He was Caesar’s friend,’ he said. ‘He will hear me.’

‘Agrippa!’ Maecenas called.

‘Here.’

The big man was already moving, pushing through the packed crowd after Octavian. With a curse, the legionary Gracchus followed in their wake.

As Mark Antony watched the priestess talk with the young man, he shook his head, feeling sweat break out on his skin. It was too much to take in. The Senate had summoned him for a meeting at noon and he wanted to bathe first, so that he could face them fresh and clean. He turned away, his lictors and centurions all around him. He heard his title called across the forum but ignored it. He had barely gone twenty paces before the bristling awareness of his men made his temper rise. The group of four were pushing closer as he reached the edge of the crowd.

‘Consul!’ Octavian called again.

Mark Antony hunched his shoulders. His lictors were tense at being approached from behind and the two centurions had drifted back to put themselves between the groups. With a raised hand, Mark Antony halted them all. He could not be seen to scurry away, as if he had something to hide.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped.

Before him he saw a young man with grey eyes and dark blond hair bound at his neck. He supposed Octavian was in his early twenties, but he looked younger, with a smooth face and no sign of a beard. Somehow the sight of the young man served only to irritate Mark Antony further. He wanted nothing to do with some distant relative of Caesar intruding on him with his demands.

Octavian drew to a sudden stop at the harsh tone, the smile dying on his lips. As the consul watched, Octavian straightened subtly, his eyes hardening.

‘Octavian …’ Agrippa muttered warningly at his side. The lictors with the consul were not just an affectation of power. With a word from Mark Antony, they would unstrap their axes and rods, driving anyone guilty of insult from the forum or killing them on the spot.

‘I thought I would greet an old friend,’ Octavian said. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’

The reply seemed to rock Mark Antony. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his dignity.

‘I am in error, Octavian. I have not congratulated you on your adoption.’

‘Thank you,’ Octavian said. ‘I am pleased to see you thriving in such sad times. That is why I came to you. The will must be formally affirmed in Senate. I need a Lex Curiata. Will you propose it for me today?’

Mark Antony smiled tightly, shaking his head.

‘You may have noticed the city is only now recovering from riots. There is more than enough business to occupy the Senate until the end of the month. Perhaps then I will ask for time for your request.’

Octavian stood very still, aware of the lictors watching him.

‘It is just a formality. I thought that, for Caesar’s memory, you might move a little faster.’

‘I see. Well, I will do what I can,’ Mark Antony replied carelessly. He turned and walked away quickly.

Octavian would have spoken again, but both Agrippa and Maecenas laid hands on him, holding him still.

‘Don’t say another word!’ Agrippa said. ‘Gods, you will get us all killed if you can’t rule your mouth. You’ve made your request; now let him go.’

Maecenas was a study in concentration as he watched the consul depart the forum. He looked over at Gracchus, standing uncomfortably as if he were not sure of his place in the small group.

‘I believe your part in this is at an end, Gracchus,’ Maecenas said. ‘I think it is time for you to report back to your master in Brundisium, is it not?’

Gracchus glowered at him.

‘That’s not for you to decide,’ he said. ‘Liburnius told me to keep your friend safe. I can send a message back along the road.’

Maecenas dropped his hand from Octavian’s shoulder and stepped right up to the legionary.

‘How can I put this, so you will understand?’ he said. ‘I would like to talk to my friend before he gets himself killed. I do not want your ears flapping while I do. You know we will be at the House of Virgins at noon – you heard the priestess yourself. So why don’t you walk over there and wait for us?’

Gracchus stared back impassively, too old a hand to be intimidated. Without another word, he stalked off, his sandals clacking on the stones of the forum. Maecenas relaxed slightly. He raised his hands and moved his two friends into a clear spot. The crowd had thinned to avoid the consul’s party of lictors, so it was not hard to find a place where they could not be overheard.

‘By all the gods, Octavian! If the consul had thought it through, he could have had your inheritance in exchange for a single order. His lictors would have cut you down and Agrippa and me as well!’

‘I thought he would help,’ Octavian said stubbornly. ‘So much has changed. I can barely take it all in.’

‘Well, put your head in a fountain or something,’ Maecenas snapped. ‘You need to be sharp now.’

Both Agrippa and Octavian looked at him in surprise. He shook his head slowly.

‘Have you any idea of the importance of that will to you, to those in power?’

Octavian shrugged. ‘I know the sums are great, but until I can lay hands on them, I …’

‘I’m not talking about the gold, Octavian! Though you are now the richest man in the richest city of the world. I’m talking about the clients! Do you understand now?’

‘Honestly, no,’ Octavian said.

Agrippa looked similarly mystified and Maecenas took a deep breath. He had grown up in a world where such things were common knowledge, but he saw that neither of his friends truly appreciated Caesar’s gift.

‘Jupiter save me from common men,’ he said. ‘Noble houses secure their power with clients, families in their pay. You must know that much.’

‘Of course,’ Octavian said. ‘But …’

‘Caesar had thousands of them. He was famous for it. And they are all yours now, Octavian. His adoption of you gave you more than just a house name. You can call on the service of half of Rome, half of the legions of Rome if you want to. For all we know, Tribune Liburnius is now sworn to your service and Gracchus with him.’

Octavian furrowed his brow.

‘I can’t inherit them like a jewel or a house.’

‘The adoption says you can,’ Maecenas insisted. ‘Oh, there will be a few malcontents who fall away – there are always honourless bastards. But you are the son of the divine Julius, Octavian. Have you realised? The oaths of service they swore will pass to you.’

‘But I don’t even know who they are!’ Octavian said. ‘What good does this talk of thousands do me? I have the clothes I am wearing and a horse somewhere back on the road to Brundisium. Until the Senate pass the Lex Curiata, it is all in the breeze anyway.’

Maecenas did not reply immediately. He looked across the forum to where the old senate house lay broken and burned, the worst of many scars they had seen in the city over the previous two days.

‘There will be lists somewhere, but they don’t know you have nothing, Octavian. From now on, you must play the game, for your life – and for the destruction of your enemies. Taking his name was brilliant. You want to see these Liberatores brought down? Then walk as the heir to a god and the richest man in Rome. Walk as one who can call down the wrath of Mars with a snap of his fingers.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It was a mistake asking for help from the consul. You may already have enough loyalty in the Senate to force a vote through without him.’

Octavian stared. ‘I can walk any way I choose, but it will not bring me the gold I need, nor the clients.’

‘You have a meeting at the House of Virgins in a couple of hours,’ Maecenas said. ‘Octavian, your favour is a token any man in Rome would want, from this day onwards. You do not need to seek them out. They will come to you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Octavian felt refreshed as he approached the House of Virgins. For a few coins, he, Agrippa and Maecenas had found a serviceable bath-house and eaten at a roadside vendor. It was true he wore a second-hand toga loaned to him by one of Maecenas’ friends, but he felt more confident. In the steam, with the bath-house slaves told to wait outside, they had made their plans. As the sun reached its height, he walked to the temple with confidence, striding past Gracchus and the guards outside as if he had every right to ignore them. They did not challenge him and in a few steps the three men were out of the heat and in cool rooms dedicated to worship. Perhaps older men would not have stared quite so openly, but the Vestals were renowned for their beauty as well as their innocence, a combination that interested even so jaded an appetite as that of Maecenas.

Quintina Fabia appeared from a stone doorway to welcome them. She had changed out of the morning’s formal robes into a fine cotton stola that revealed her figure rather than keeping it hidden.

She approached Octavian with light steps, taking his hands in hers and kissing his cheek.

‘I grieve for you and with you,’ she said. ‘I only wish Caesar’s ashes could have been gathered for a tomb, but the riots were terrible. For a time, no one dared to go out. I am so sorry.’

Octavian blinked. He had not been expecting sympathy and it threatened to reach the part of him where sorrow was still raw.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think you are the first person in the city to say that to me.’

‘You must forgive the men in power, at least for that. They have had their hands full with the unrest. Honestly, you have no idea how bad it was for a time.’

‘What of these “Liberatores”? Where are they hiding?’ Octavian said.

‘A few like Lucius Pella were killed by the mobs. The rest read the wind quickly enough after that and scattered to their estates and provinces. You will not find them here, not this year, though they have their supporters in the Senate still. In time, I do not doubt they will creep back to Rome, hiding their faces.’ She shrugged, gripping his hands tightly. ‘I am glad of it. They tried to remove the shame from what they did, but the citizens would not allow it. In all the chaos, there was at least that.’

‘Shall we go through, Quintina?’ Maecenas said.

She looked over at him.

‘I see you are still around, Maecenas. How long has it been?’

‘A few years, I suppose. You look well.’

‘I am well enough. Shall I take your greetings to your mother, or will you visit her yourself?’

‘You know each other?’ Octavian said.

‘I should do. Quintina Fabia is my aunt,’ Maecenas replied without embarrassment. ‘Not a favourite aunt or anything; just, you know, an aunt.’

‘And he is far from my favourite nephew, lazy as he is,’ she replied, though she smiled as she said it. ‘But who is this fine and silent man?’

‘Agrippa?’ Maecenas said. ‘The smell of fish should have warned you, Quin. He’s a sailor, a rough and simple man, but loyal, like a good dog.’

Agrippa ignored Maecenas as his own hands were gripped in turn and he found himself flushing under the scrutiny.

‘Maecenas thinks he is amusing, Agrippa,’ she said. ‘I have given up apologising for him.’

‘There is no need,’ he said. ‘He is just nervous. It has been … an interesting morning.’

She cocked her head slightly.

‘I am glad to see he has such friends,’ she said. ‘His mother despairs at the low company he usually keeps. Will you be the witnesses to the document of identity?’

Maecenas nodded, with a glare at Agrippa.

‘Good, then come through.’

They followed her into the maze of rooms and halls beyond the main entrance. The House of Virgins was many times larger than the round temple that faced the forum. Young women scurried past in simple white shifts, often carrying sheaves of parchments or bound scrolls.

Quintina saw their interest and smiled.

‘You assumed they would spend their days in prayer? My girls are part of the beating heart of Rome, gentlemen. Believe me when I say they know more about the laws of the city than the most august orators in the courts or the Senate. When their time in the temple is up, they have no difficulty finding good husbands, with households to run.’

‘I never doubted it,’ Maecenas said. He stumbled as he tried to watch one long-legged young woman who had just passed them. Quintina saw the interest.

‘Though, of course, until then they are children of the goddess. If their purity is, shall we say, removed, they are buried alive – and the man is impaled before the crowds.’

‘A harsh punishment,’ Maecenas said wistfully.

‘But necessary. Men can be wolves, nephew.’

‘Shocking, truly shocking.’

They reached a door of polished oak and the priestess led them in. On a large table lay piles of wax tablets and cut parchment pieces, along with ink and reed pens and all the paraphernalia of a business. Quintina seated herself behind the desk, leaving them standing.

‘This is a simple matter. I have prepared the document to be signed in front of your witnesses. I will add my name and then, Octavian, you will be Gaius Julius Caesar.’ She shuddered slightly as she said the name. ‘I had not thought to hear it again so soon. It is a name of honour. I hope you bear it well.’

‘I will,’ Octavian said. He read the single page, then each man signed his name with the reed pen Quintina handed to them.

The priestess touched a lump of wax to the small flame of an oil lamp. She wore no rings, but used an iron stick imprinted with the seal of Vesta. Octavian repeated her action with Caesar’s seal and she looked at the imprinted image with fond sadness.

‘He was loved, you know. If you are half the man he was, you will make his shade proud.’

She picked up a tiny bell and rang it, waiting as the door opened and a woman of delicate beauty came in and took it from her hands. As the woman passed Maecenas, she made a slight sound and stared angrily back at him. He looked innocent.

‘It is done, then. I hope you understand I could not allow the argentarii to enter the house. It is unusual enough to have the three of you in these rooms. They are waiting for you in the garden on the far side. The gate there leads out to the Palatine.’

‘Argentarii?’ Octavian asked.

Quintina looked taken aback.

‘The moneylenders. They have been applying to me all morning to see you. What did you expect?’

‘I don’t need a loan …’ Octavian began.

Maecenas snorted. ‘From this morning, you have the richest line of credit in Rome,’ he said. ‘So unless you intend to live on my funds, you do.’

Quintina shook her head.

‘I don’t think you understand,’ she said. ‘They are not here to offer credit. Caesar had deposits with the three largest societies of argentarii. I think they are here to ask what you want to do with the gold.’

Mark Antony felt a twinge of satisfaction at the sight of the senators facing him. Having been forced to use the theatre of Pompey for their meetings while the senate house was being rebuilt, they found that the sheer scale of the new building subtly undermined their authority. Their numbers had filled every space in the old building, but in the theatre they were surrounded by empty seats by the thousand, diminishing them in comparison. As consul, Mark Antony faced them on the stage, and there too the design favoured him. His voice boomed out as the architects had intended, while theirs sounded reedy and thin whenever they rose to speak.

The senators avoided one area of the theatre in particular. The stones had been scrubbed clean, so that it was hard to be certain of the exact place, but no one sat where Caesar had been killed.

Before the formal session, Mark Antony had waited patiently with the senators while scribes droned through a formal list of appointments, appeals and points of law that had been brought to their attention. He had been deep in conversation when his ear caught names he knew and he broke off to listen. Cassius had arranged a post for himself in Syria and Brutus had Athens. With Decimus Junius already in the north, many more had been given posts as far away as Jerusalem and Spain or Gaul, content to wait out the troubles in Rome until they could return safely. Mark Antony only wished they had all gone. Suetonius was still there, balding badly, with a sheen of thin hair brushed over the dome of his head. He was the last of the Liberatores to remain and was always in the presence of Bibilus, chief among his supporters and cronies. They made a tight group with Hirtius and Pansa, the senators already marked to succeed Mark Antony at the end of his consular year. Mark Antony could feel their dislike when they looked at him, but he did not let it ruffle his calm.

The first formal discussion concerned Caesar’s will, particularly the bequests that were to be administered by the Senate. Those few who had not already heard were shocked to whispers by the sums involved. More than a hundred million sesterces would be given out to the people of Rome, a vast undertaking that would require identification of individuals by family and hundreds of trusted men to give out the silver. Mark Antony showed nothing of his inner turmoil as he waited through tedious speeches from men like Bibilus, demanding that the Senate delay the payments. Of course they would not want Caesar’s generosity to be the talk of every street, as if that bird hadn’t already flown.

‘Senators,’ Mark Antony said at last, allowing his voice to boom over their heads and silence Suetonius even as he began to speak. ‘The citizens of Rome know very well what they have been given. In this one thing, we can only step back and allow it to go ahead. We have barely recovered from riots, gentlemen. Would you see them return? Caesar had funds in every major temple and fully six parts in ten of the Senate store of coins has his name marked against it. Let no man call us thieves when our popularity is already at such a low ebb. His bequests must be honoured and quickly.’

Suetonius rose again, his continually flushed face showing spite.

‘Such funds would be better spent rebuilding the city. Why should they be given silver when they have done ten times as much damage over the previous month? I propose we hold back the funds until such time as the city has been restored – and the old senate house must be first among those projects. Should there be no consequences for the damage they have done to our city? Let them see their precious few coins going on something worthwhile. Let them see also that we are not afraid to offend their delicate sensibilities, or we will forever live in fear of the mob.’

Hundreds of voices grumbled loud agreement and Mark Antony felt his throat tighten with irritation. He wondered if Cassius was behind the mean-spirited point. Disbursing the funds would go a long way towards repairing their status in the city and yet other senators were jumping up to support Suetonius, their voices sounding tinny and harsh in the open space.

To Mark Antony’s disgust, the vote to delay the payments passed by a huge majority and the Senate sat back on the benches, smug with the exercise of their authority. Mark Antony stepped aside temporarily while one of the Senate staff read a series of letters from legion officials in Gaul. He was fuming at the setback, more for what it revealed about his standing in the Senate than anything else. The men who ruled Rome had not missed his special treatment during the riots, it seemed. Now that he was aware of it, he could see the open animosity in many more than just those who were creatures of the Liberatores. He rubbed his chin, hiding his indignation. On one hand, the Senate were stretching their muscles, and on the other, he had a young fool naming himself Caesar, heir to half the gold in Rome. It was infuriating.

As the Senate meeting continued, Mark Antony made a decision in his private thoughts. The discussion had moved on to the legions at Brundisium, with the Senate calling for a vote of censure. Hundreds of eyes stared his way while they waited for the consul to continue with the formal structures. Mark Antony returned to the rostrum, seeing his salvation.

‘Senators, we have heard calls for the legions in Brundisium to be punished,’ he began. If he had judged them right, he could force them to go in the direction he wanted. ‘In normal times, I would agree, but these are far from normal times. Those legion commanders were Caesar’s men, almost without exception. That name is still a talisman for the citizens. You have said we should not fear them and I accept that, but should we poke and prod at their pride until they are forced to react in anger? Can the Senate stand another blow to the esteem in which we are held? I think not. Like so many others, the Brundisium legions were lost without strong leadership from Rome. However, that is in the past. Order has been restored and it ill behoves us to seek petty revenge. Some of you have talked blithely of having the legions decimated, but have you considered how Rome will react to such news? One man in ten, beaten to death by his fellows, and for what? For staying where they were while Rome was in chaos. It would be a thankless task for any man to give that order.’

His heart leapt as he saw the bulk of Bibilus come to his feet to speak. Suetonius was up as well. Mark Antony took a deep breath, knowing his own future was in play. He acknowledged Bibilus first, taking a seat while the other man spoke.

‘I am astonished and sickened to hear the authority of the Senate discussed in such a fashion,’ Bibilus began. His cronies and supporters made noises of assent, spurring him on. ‘We are discussing legions under lawful authority who refused orders at a time of national crisis – and the consul would have us forgive them without punishment? It is unconscionable. Instead, I suggest to this house that only one of consular authority can take the will of the Senate and see it carried out. I recommend that Consul Mark Antony travel to that city and decimate each of the six legions there. The public death of a few thousand common soldiers will make the point for us far better than any rhetoric or noble speeches. It will be a mark that legions will remember in the future when mutiny rears its head once more. “Remember Brundisium” they will say, and it will die still-born before it has even begun.’

There were cheers then and Bibilus patted the air for quiet.

‘Not many of us here have been quite as fortunate as the consul in the recent riots. Unlike the leader of this house, we have lost property and slaves to fire and looting. Perhaps if he had suffered with us, he would have a better understanding of the stakes involved!’

A great roar of appreciation echoed around the theatre. Mark Antony kept his face a mask. It was true his properties had remained untouched in the riots while those of other senators had been deliberately targeted. He had been a friend of Caesar, his name whispered as the one who had delivered the oration, who had inspired the crowds to revenge for the assassination. The Senate were still seen as the men who had brought Caesar down and that rankled with them.

As Bibilus sat, Mark Antony rose, judging the moment was right and preferring not to let the poisonous Suetonius speak as well.

‘I am a servant of Rome, as Senator Bibilus knows full well. If it is the will of this house that I carry your orders to Brundisium, I will do so. However, let my objections be made part of the record. Such an action achieves nothing but revenge at a time when we must be unified. I call the matter to a vote.’

The voting was over in a matter of moments, with a triumphant jeer ringing out through the theatre. Bibilus sat back with his friends patting him on the back. They had shown what they thought of Caesar’s favourite.

Mark Antony continued to play his part, hiding his satisfaction. He waited through a few minor speeches and discussions, hardly contributing, until the senators were ready to depart. He endured Bibilus’ insolent triumph as the man levered his bulk up to leave, surrounded by his favourites. Mark Antony shook his head slightly. Julius had never spoken of what passed between those two men, but Mark Antony had made a few enquiries of his own. Caesar had taken a group of child slaves from the ex-consul’s house, passing them to families without children. Bibilus had replaced them with adults and never bought a child since that day. The truth was there to be read and Mark Antony wondered if Bibilus had resumed his old cruelties now that Caesar was gone. He made a private vow to have the man watched. He had been ruined once and could be again.

As Mark Antony came out into the open air, the Campus Martius stretched into the distance, the great training field of the city. It was almost hidden from view by the loyal legions camped there and he felt a pang of doubt. If he succeeded in taking control of the army at Brundisium, it would be a challenge to the new authority of the Senate. The legions before him on the Campus might be ordered to march against him. As his lictors gathered, he firmed his jaw. He had come too far, risen too far, to sink back into the mass of men claiming to rule Rome. He had Caesar’s example to follow. Men like Bibilus and Suetonius would not be able to stop him. For the first time in years, Mark Antony thought he understood Julius a little better. He felt alive with the challenge and the tasks ahead. To rule Rome, he needed the legions at Brundisium. With them at his command, he would be immune from anything the Senate could do. That prize was surely worth the risk.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Evening was coming on in smooth shades of grey by the time Octavian reached the street on the Aventine hill where the consul had his main property. He yawned, suppressing tiredness. From the moment at dawn when he had heard his legacy from Caesar, he had hardly stopped moving. He’d visited three different homes in the city, complete with slaves and staff, all of whom were now his. It was dizzying. He had come into Rome with nothing, but it was somehow fitting that Caesar’s will had been the agent of his change in fortune. Alive, Caesar had been unpredictable, given to ignoring laws and rules as he saw the fastest way to achieve his objectives. Octavian had learned from him. If he hesitated, those who might oppose him would have time to gather their strength.

It was strange to see the consul’s property pristine and untouched. On the streets nearby, Octavian had passed through great swathes of rubble and ash, seeing views of the seven hills that had not existed for a century or more. There were already builders and sweating workmen in those places, paid by the wealthy owners. The vistas created by destruction would not last long. Yet Mark Antony’s homes remained, his reward for firing the emotions of the city.

‘Maecenas and I both think this is a terrible idea,’ Agrippa said, as they strode up the hill.

Gracchus was with the three men, in the main because he had made himself useful all day. His motive for sudden loyalty was obvious and Maecenas baited him at every opportunity, but another sword was undeniably useful and Octavian had not sent him away.

Octavian did not reply and the four of them reached the massive oak door set into the wall that ran alongside the cobbled street. There was a small iron grille and Agrippa bent down to peer through it, raising his eyebrows at the courtyard within. It was chaotic, with more than a dozen slaves running to and fro, loading a carriage and bringing draught horses into position.

‘It seems we have chosen a busy time for the consul,’ he said. ‘There is no need to do this, Octavian.’

‘I say there is. And you will have to get used to the new name. I have the right to it, by blood and adoption.’

Agrippa shrugged.

‘I will try to remember, Julius. Gods, it doesn’t sit well to call you that.’

‘It will get easier. Use makes master, my friend.’

In the courtyard, one of the scurrying slaves had noticed the big man peering in and approached them, making waving motions with his hands.

‘Whatever you want, the consul is not available,’ he said. ‘If it is official business, see your senator.’

‘Tell him Caesar is here,’ Octavian said. ‘I think he will come out for me.’

The slave’s eyes widened.

‘Yes, sir. I will let him know.’ The man trotted away, looking back over his shoulder every few paces until he had disappeared into the main house.

‘There’s nothing to be gained here; you do know that?’ Maecenas said. ‘Even your excited new dog knows it, don’t you, Gracchus?’ Gracchus merely glared at him, saying nothing. ‘At best, you will anger a powerful man.’

Mark Antony came out into the courtyard, looking harassed and flushed. He gave orders as he went and more men and women scurried around him, staggering under chests and bales tied with leather.

The consul made a gesture to a man they had not yet seen, presumably guarding the door on the inside. They heard the rattle of iron as a bar was lifted and bolts drawn. It opened smoothly and Mark Antony stopped a pace within his property, regarding them with impatience in every feature. His gaze took in the fact that they were armed and his mouth firmed.

‘What is so important that you must trouble me in my home? Do you think the name of Caesar has such power still?’

‘It brought you out,’ Octavian replied.

Mark Antony waited a beat. Following the letter of the Senate’s orders, he could have gone to Brundisium with just a few servants. The reality was that he was moving his household, including his wife and children. He did not know when he would return and his mind was on the labyrinthine politics of the Senate, not the young man who called himself Caesar.

‘It must have escaped your notice that I am busy. See me when I return to Rome.’

‘Consul, men speak of you as one who was Caesar’s friend. I have read the text of your oration and it was … noble, no matter what came next. Yet the terms of his will have not been ratified in Senate and will not be, without your support. What of the legacy to the people of Rome?’

‘I’m sorry. The Senate have already voted. They will pay the legacy only when the damage to the city is restored. I will be away from Rome for a time, on orders from the Senate. There is nothing more I can do.’

Octavian stared at him, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. ‘I came to you in peace, because I thought you, of all men, would support me.’

‘What you thought is no concern of mine,’ Mark Antony snapped. He turned to the unseen figure on his right. ‘Close the door now.’

It began to creak shut and Octavian put out a hand to the wood.

‘Consul! I will have justice, with you or not. I will see Caesar’s assassins brought down, no matter what they call themselves or where they hide! Will you stand with them, against the honour of your friend?’

He heard Mark Antony snort in disgust as he walked away and the pressure on the door increased as the man inside threw his weight against it. It slammed shut in his face. Octavian hammered on it, enraged.

‘Consul! Choose a side! If you stand with them, I will …’

‘By the gods, grab hold of him, would you?’ Maecenas said.

He and Agrippa took Octavian by the shoulders and pulled him away from pounding on the consul’s door.

‘That may have been the worst idea you ever had,’ Maecenas said grimly as they walked Octavian down the hill. ‘Why not shout out all your plans to the Senate, perhaps?’

Octavian shook him off, walking in stiff rage and looking back at the consul’s door as if he could force it open with anger alone.

‘He had to be told. If he has the sense to see it, I am his natural ally. If he wasn’t such a blind fool.’

‘Did you think he would welcome you with open arms?’ Maecenas said. ‘He is a consul of Rome!’

‘And I am Caesar’s son and heir. That is the key to all locks, with or without Mark Antony.’

Maecenas looked away, unsettled by his friend’s intensity.

‘It’s late,’ Agrippa said. ‘What do you say to going back to the house on the Esquiline?’

Octavian smothered a yawn at the very thought of sleep. The house was one of five he had inherited that morning, the deeds presented to him by the argentarii.

‘Without a law passed in Senate, I am not yet the official heir to Caesar,’ he said. A thought struck him, so that he stopped, bringing the small group to a halt. ‘But thousands heard the priestess read the will. That was enough for the argentarii. What does it matter if the law isn’t passed? The people know.’

‘The people have no power,’ Agrippa said. ‘No matter how they riot, they are still helpless.’

‘That is true,’ Octavian replied. ‘But there were soldiers there as well. The legions in the Campus know that I am Caesar. And they do have power, enough for anything.’

By the time night fell, the consul and his retinue were barely three miles out of Rome, trundling along the flat roads east. Mark Antony had called a brief halt at the walls of the city, dismounting to burn a brazier of incense to Janus. The god of beginnings and gates was a suitable patron for everything he hoped to achieve.

Over a hundred men and women travelled with him. His wife Fulvia was at the heart of it, with their two sons, Antyllus and Paulus, and her daughter Claudia from her first marriage. Around them, dozens of scribes, guards and slaves marched or rode. The reins of his horse were tied to a flat-sided carriage where his wife lounged on cushions, shaded from the vulgar gaze. He could hear his boys bickering through the wooden walls, still annoyed that he had refused their demands to ride ahead with him. Only Fulvia knew all his plans and she was far from a prattler. He jumped down to the road and strode along, stretching his legs for the ride ahead.

The legions at Brundisium had been loyal to Julius, loyal enough to refuse the orders of a Senate they saw as tainted by the Liberatores. That was the revelation that had come to him while Bibilus spoke in spite. Mark Antony had not planned to be the champion of those who had loved Caesar, but he could take the role. The legions of Brundisium would surely follow him if he asked in Caesar’s name.

As he walked alongside the carriage, the face of Octavian came to mind and Mark Antony grunted in exasperation. The young man was no more than a distraction, at a time when he could not afford to be distracted. Six legions waited at the coast, no doubt in fear of the Senate’s anger. They had not yet mutinied, at least not formally. If he found the words to call them, they would be his to command. It was exactly the sort of grand stroke Julius would have attempted and the thought warmed him.

With the energy of a younger man, Mark Antony put his foot on the step and leapt up onto the carriage, clambering in through the narrow door to where his wife and children were eating. Fulvia and her daughter were playing a game with a long string wound about their fingers. They were in mid-laughter as he appeared among them, the sound cut short. Mark Antony nodded to his two sons and stepdaughter, ruffling the hair of Antyllus as he stepped over him.

In her thirties, Fulvia had broadened across the hips and waist, though her skin and black hair were still lustrous. Claudia moved to give him space and Fulvia held out her arms to her husband. The consul almost fell into them in the low space, landing with a gasp on the bench as his feet tangled in cloth. Paulus yelped and Claudia smacked his leg, making the younger boy glare. Mark Antony leaned close to Fulvia, speaking into her ear.

‘I think I have waited my whole life for a chance like this,’ he said, smiling.

She kissed him on the neck, looking up at him in adoration.

‘The omens are good, husband. My soothsayer was amazed at the signs this morning.’

Mark Antony’s high spirits dampened slightly, but he nodded, pleased that she was happy. If he had learned one thing from the years at Caesar’s side, it was that omens and entrails were not as important as quick wits and strength.

‘I’m going ahead. You’ll see me in Brundisium and I hope with more than just a few guards at my back.’

She winked at him, smiling even as their sons demanded to know what he meant. Mark Antony cuffed their heads affectionately, kissed Claudia and Fulvia goodbye, then opened the door and vaulted down to the road, leaving his wife to deal with the endless questions.

In just moments, he had gained the saddle of his gelding and untied the reins. His personal guards were mounted and ready, keen to be off. On a Roman road, they had no fear of bad ground in the moonlight. They would be twenty miles clear by dawn.

The rising sun brought pale light through the blown-glass windows high in the walls. Maecenas sat back, enjoying the sense of utter relaxation that came from a private bath-house. Steam filled his lungs with every breath and he could barely see his companions.

Caesar’s town house had been in a state of half-life when they entered it, with most of the furniture covered in great sheets of dusty, brown cloth. In just a few hours, the staff had lit the fires and the floors were already warm enough to walk on in bare feet. In the presence of a new owner, they had scavenged fresh fruit from one of the markets and begun to prepare a cold meal. Maecenas thought idly that he was sitting where Caesar himself had sat. Where Caesar still sat, he corrected himself with a smile, looking through the mist at Octavian. Dripping with sweat and steam, his friend stared into some private vision, his muscles as tight as ropes in his arms and shoulders. Looking at him, Maecenas remembered his friend collapsing, sightless and pale. He did not want to see that again.

‘Are you ready yet for the cold bath or the massage?’ he said. ‘It will relax you.’

At least Gracchus was not present. Maecenas had given him the task of bringing life back to the house. The legionary was still working hard to remain and Octavian had not objected. Despite his misgivings, it was almost pleasant to deal with one whose greed for gold made him transparent.

‘Agrippa?’ Maecenas asked again. ‘What about you?’

‘Not yet,’ Agrippa rumbled, his voice echoing oddly in the steam.

‘Oct … Caesar?’ Maecenas said, catching himself.

Octavian opened his eyes, smiling tiredly.

‘Thank you. I must get used to the new name. But we are private here and I do not want to be overheard. Stay.’

Maecenas shrugged slightly, letting the warm air flow out of his lungs and then sucking in a deep breath.

‘I hope today will not be as busy as yesterday, that’s all I am saying,’ Maecenas said. ‘I seem to have gone from a relaxed holiday with friends to the most unpleasant levels of excitement. I have suffered through sea voyages and galloping horses, as well as arguments and threats from sad little men like that tribune. I think perhaps we should relax here for a few days. That would be a tonic for us all. At least I slept well enough. Caesar kept a fine house; I’ll give him that.’

‘I don’t have time to waste,’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘The murderers of Caesar have gone to ground and it is my task to dig them out and kill them with a spade. If you were in my place, you would do the same.’

‘Well, I am in your place, or at least in the same bath-house. I am not certain of that at all,’ Maecenas replied. He scratched his testicles as he spoke, then leaned back against the cooler tiles, enjoying the heat. Of the three of them, he sat closest to the simmering copper trough that thickened the steam in the room, delighting in the weakness that deep warmth brings.

‘I need information, Maecenas. You say I have thousands of clients sworn to support me, but I don’t know who they are. I must have all Caesar’s properties searched and catalogued and his informers contacted, to see if they will continue their work for me. I imagine I need to pay the stipend for thousands more, so I will need educated men by the hundred to arrange such things.’

Maecenas smirked. ‘I can tell that you have not grown up with servants. You do not manage so many yourself, or you would end up doing nothing else. There will be estate managers on the staff; give the job to them. The sun is barely up, but they’ll have what you need by noon, just to please the new master. Give them the chance to run themselves ragged for you. They love it, believe me. It gives their lives purpose and frees the noble owner from tedious details.’

Agrippa rubbed a hand down his face, gasping in the heat.

‘Listening to you is always an education, Maecenas,’ he said wryly. ‘How your slaves must love you, to have their lives given meaning in such a way.’

‘They do,’ Maecenas replied complacently. ‘I am like the rising sun to them, the first name they think as they wake and the last before they sleep. When Caesar here allows us a few days of relaxation, I will show you my estate in the hills near Mantua. It will take your breath away, for sheer beauty.’

‘I look forward to it,’ Agrippa replied. ‘For now, though, I have had enough of sipping my breath. I’m for the cold and the massage table.’

‘Wait just a little longer, my friend,’ Octavian said as Maecenas began to stand up. ‘Wait and tell me if I have thought it through well enough.’ Both men settled back and he went on. ‘The Senate are seasoned with Liberatores, or at least their supporters. The rest have fled, but we can depend on the Senate to protect them even so, if only to secure their own interests. That much we have learned. They cannot support me, and Mark Antony is my natural ally, if he would but realise it. Still, wherever they’ve sent him, he is away from the city for the present, removed from the board. Those who are left are my enemies almost to a man.’

‘I don’t see how that is cause for celebration,’ Maecenas said. ‘They are the ones who make the laws, in case you had forgotten.’

‘But they enforce them with the legions,’ Octavian said. ‘Legions that Caesar gathered in the Campus for a campaign. Legions that were either formed by him or sworn to him. As I see it, I can claim that loyalty, just as I can with his clients.’

Maecenas sat straight, his languor vanishing.

‘That is what you meant last night? The legions have spent the last month walking the streets of the city, killing rioters and enforcing a curfew. They are the Senate’s men now, no matter what Caesar intended for them. You cannot seriously be thinking they will mutiny for you.’

‘Why not?’ Octavian said angrily. ‘With Mark Antony out of the city, they are ruled by the same toothless traitors who granted amnesty to Caesar’s murderers. No one has answered for that, not yet. I have seen their loyalty, Maecenas. I have seen it in Gaul and in Egypt. They will not have forgotten him. And I am his son, a Caesar.’

Maecenas stood up and opened the door to the outer rooms. A fire crackled in the grate and two male slaves came over immediately to do his bidding. With a sharp gesture, Maecenas sent them outside, so that he could not be overheard. The steam had grown too thick and his senses swam just as he needed to be sharp. In the colder air, he drew deep breaths.

‘Join me in the plunge pool, Caesar. It will clear your head before you commit us to a course which can only see us all crucified for treachery.’

Octavian glared at him but rose with Agrippa and crossed the room to where a deep pool sat dark and undisturbed. The water was near freezing, but Maecenas stepped down into it without hesitation, his skin prickling in goosebumps as it tightened. Agrippa joined him with a hiss of breath and Octavian slid over the edge, bending his knees so that the chill water reached his neck. When he spoke again, his teeth chattered so much that he could barely be understood.

‘You think I should live in the sun, M-Maecenas? As you said Alexander would choose, if he could see his whole life laid out before him? I d-did not believe it then and I don’t now. I cannot rest until the Liberatores are all dead. Do you understand? I will risk your life and mine a thousand times until that is true. Life is risk! I feel the shade of Caesar watching me and who else will bring him justice? Not Mark Antony. It falls to me and I will not waste a single day.’

The cold bit to the heart of him and his arms were almost too numb to heave himself out and sit on the stone edge. Agrippa was just a moment behind, while Maecenas remained, his brown arms and legs in sharp contrast to the pale skin of the rest of his body. The cold had numbed him, but his heart raced even so.

‘All right,’ he said, putting out an arm. ‘Pull me up.’ Agrippa gripped his hand and lifted him out. ‘I do not desert my friends just because they have decided to infuriate the Senate and the legions of Rome.’

CHAPTER NINE

The group that mounted horses outside Caesar’s town house on the Esquiline was considerably larger than the four weary men who had entered the night before. Octavian had followed Maecenas’ advice and given orders to the most senior slaves to act as factors for him. They were visibly determined to do well for the new master. Bringing in legion-trained mounts from one of the other properties was just the first of a thousand tasks. A dozen other men had gone out from the house on errands to all the holdings of Caesar, including the garden estate on the Tiber, as it had not yet been passed to the people of Rome. What records and accounts existed would be found and made ready.

Maecenas had insisted Gracchus also bathe before accompanying them. The soldier was still damp-haired and flushed from his hurried wash, but they all felt better for being clean. It was as if they could put the mistakes and trials of the past behind them, scraped away like the black muck that came off with the brass strigils and oil.

Turning west down the hill, the wary group drew the attention of a few street boys. Octavian assumed they were after stray coins, but there were no outstretched hands and they kept their distance. He wondered if they had been sent by someone to keep an eye on his progress, the cheapest spies Rome had to offer. Yet every street they crossed added more to the crowd and the newcomers were not mere urchins. Men and women pointed him out in hushed tones, their eyes swivelling in interest as friends hissed the name of Octavian or, more often, Caesar. They too walked with him, until there were dozens then hundreds in the wake of the horses, all heading to the Campus Martius.

Octavian sat his mount stiff-backed, in a set of armour that had been fitted to him by the house staff. Maecenas was resplendent in armour and cloak, though as far as Octavian knew, he held no formal rank. For himself, he had considered a toga, but unlike Maecenas, he had commanded Roman soldiers, and the officer’s cloak sent a signal to those who watched for such things.

As they came to an open market square, the busy crowd fell silent and again he could hear the name of Caesar like a breeze through them. His group swelled again, doubling and redoubling in size until it felt as if he led a procession through the heart of the city. By the time he reached the foot of the Capitoline, he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women, all craning for a glimpse of the single man at the centre. His new name was called and shouted from groups and always the numbers swelled. Octavian kept his gaze stern as he walked the horses onward.

‘Don’t look now,’ Maecenas said, bringing his horse in close, ‘but I think we’re being followed.’

Octavian gave a snort, the break of tension almost reducing him to undignified laughter. He went on up the Capitoline hill and did not pause when the horses reached the crest. Pompey’s theatre lay below on the other side, a vast building three times the size of the old senate house in pale stone. There were no flags flying on the roof as the crowd streamed down the hill. The Senate were not in session that day, though Octavian did not doubt they would have heard of his progress across the city. He smiled grimly to himself. Let them hear, he thought. Let them wonder.

At a crossroads, Agrippa nudged him at the sight of Roman legionaries standing guard. Those men looked on in sheer astonishment at the undisciplined rabble coming out of the city. Octavian could see the soldiers arguing as he passed and he did not look back to see if they had joined the rest. They would find out soon enough what he intended.

Beyond Pompey’s theatre, the vast space of the Campus Martius opened up, though it was far from empty. For centuries, it had been the place where Romans exercised and came to vote, but the field of war was also the muster spot for legions about to march. Those who had gathered at Julius Caesar’s orders for the campaign against Parthia had been there for much longer than they had planned or expected and the marks were everywhere, from toilet pits and trenches to thousands of oiled leather tents and even small buildings dotted around the plain. Octavian led his column towards the centre of them.

The Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions were in a twin camp laid out to specifications created long before by Caesar’s uncle, the consul Marius. Nothing had changed in almost half a century and Octavian felt a wave of nostalgia as he reached the outer boundary. Only respect for the ancient Roman plain had prevented the legions from raising a great barrier of earth as set down in the regulations. Instead, the camp was marked with massive wicker baskets, tall as a man and filled with stone and earth, a symbolic structure rather than a true obstacle.

As he approached the line, Octavian glanced back and blinked in surprise as he saw how many had come from the city. At least a thousand walked with him, their faces bright as if they were on a public holiday. He shook his head in silent amazement, then took heart from it. This was the power of the name he had been given. It was also a reminder that they supported Caesar rather than the Senate that had killed him.

The afternoon sun was hot on his back as he halted. Two legionaries stood at the entrance to the encampment, staring forward without looking at the man facing them. Octavian sat his mount patiently, patting the animal on its broad neck. He had seen soldiers entering the camp ahead of him, racing to carry the news. He was content to wait for the officers to come to him, accepting the advantage it gave him as his due.

As if echoing his thoughts, Maecenas leaned in close to speak in a low voice.

‘No doubts now, my friend. Show them a little noble arrogance.’

Octavian nodded stiffly.

Four horsemen came trotting through the camp, visible over the boundary from some way off as they moved down the wide avenue. From the distance of a few hundred paces, Octavian could see that two were cloaked, wearing ornate armour in silver, with markings of brass that spread down onto layered leather tiles over their bare thighs. Their companions wore simple togas, with a large purple stripe running along the edge.

Agrippa looked at Octavian in satisfaction. It had not been that long ago that they had struggled to get a meeting with a single military tribune in Brundisium. Yet here were two legates and two military tribunes, riding out to meet a man who had not even asked for them.

‘It seems the name of Caesar still has currency,’ Agrippa murmured.

Octavian did not reply, his expression set in stern lines.

The Roman officers reined in facing the crowd from the city, fixing their collective gaze on Octavian. The citizens fell silent and tension grew in the still air. It was a matter of delicacy, as the man with the lower rank should greet the other, but no one knew for certain what rank Octavian held. After an uncomfortable pause, the senior legate cleared his throat.

‘How should I address you?’ he asked.

Octavian looked him over, seeing a man in his late forties with grey temples and a world-weary air. The legate’s face was lined and weathered by a dozen campaigns, but his eyes were bright with interest, almost youthful.

‘Why, address me as Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Octavian replied, as if puzzled. ‘Son of the man who formed your legion and commanded your utter loyalty. You are Legate Marcus Flavius Silva of the Seventh Victrix. My father spoke well of you.’

The older man rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, staring.

‘I am honoured to hear that, Caesar,’ he said. ‘My companion legate …’

‘… is Titus Paulinius of the Eighth Gemina,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘We have met before, in Gaul.’

‘It’s him,’ the other legate muttered. The tribunes might have introduced themselves then, but Flavius Silva nodded and spoke first.

‘In honour of Caesar, you are welcome in the camp. Might I enquire what business has brought such a crowd from Rome? I have had nervous reports for the last hour. The riots are not yet forgotten here, not by my legion.’

He looked with distaste at the crowd behind Octavian, but they only stared back, unafraid and fascinated. Octavian chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. He suspected the legates would be easier to handle if every move and word was not witnessed. He had not planned on having such an audience.

He turned his horse on a tight rein and addressed the crowd.

‘Go to your homes now,’ he ordered. ‘You will know when I have remade Rome. It will be all around you.’

Legate Silva gaped at his words, exchanging a worried glance with his colleagues. Octavian continued to glare at the crowd, waiting. At the back, more than one child was held aloft to see the new Caesar, but the rest were already turning. They were not sure what they had witnessed, but the lure had been inescapable and they were not displeased. Octavian watched them go, shaking his head in wonderment.

‘They just wanted to see me,’ he said, under his breath.

Agrippa clapped him on the shoulder, his voice a low rumble.

‘Of course they did. They loved Caesar. Remember that when you are dealing with the Senate.’

When Octavian looked back, it was to see the legion officers watching him closely.

‘Well?’ he said, remembering Maecenas’ words on Roman arrogance. ‘Lead me in, gentlemen. I have a great deal to do.’

The two legates and their tribunes turned their horses into the camp, with Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas riding together on the wide road. Gracchus brought up the rear, praying to his household god that he would not be killed that day. He had hardly been able to believe the presence of four such senior men coming out to meet Octavian. He decided to send another message to Tribune Liburnius back at the port as soon as he had a moment to himself.

The command tent of the Seventh Victrix legion was as large as a single-floored house in some respects, supported by wooden beams and a lattice above their heads that would withstand even a gale. The horses were taken by experienced grooms and led away to be watered and fed. Octavian entered to find a long table laid with thick vellum maps piled at one end. Legate Silva saw his glance.

‘Routes and plans for Parthia, months of work,’ he explained. ‘All wasted now, of course. I have not offered my condolences, Caesar. I can hardly tell you the grief felt among the men for your loss. The riots went some way to keeping our minds off the assassination, but it is still keen, still sharp.’

As one, they drew up chairs and took places around the table. Octavian inclined his head in thanks.

‘You broach the very matter that brought me here,’ he said.

A legionary chose that moment to bring in wine and water on a tray. Octavian waited for the drinks to be served and raised his cup.

‘To Caesar, then,’ he said. The legion men were already echoing the toast as he added, ‘And to revenge on his killers.’

Flavius Silva sputtered into his wine cup, almost choking. He was red-faced by the time he could breathe clearly again.

‘You don’t waste words, do you?’ he said, still coughing into his fist. ‘Is that your purpose in coming here? Caesar, I …’

‘You have failed in your duty, your sworn oath,’ Octavian snapped. He hammered his fist on the table with a crash. ‘Both of you! The Father of Rome is murdered in daylight, while you drink wine on the Campus and what? What happens? Do his loyal soldiers enter Rome and demand the trial and execution of his killers? Do you march on the senate house? No, none of these things. The Senate declare an amnesty for murdering filth and you accept it meekly, reduced to keeping order in the city while those who do care for justice and honour take to the streets! How sickening, that those without power must do what you will not – and then see you draw swords on them, serving the very masters responsible for the crime! You asked me why I came here, Legate Silva? It was to call you to account for your failures!’

The legionary with the wine jugs had fled. Both legates and tribunes were leaning away from the table as Octavian rose from his seat and harangued them. They reacted as if his words were the lashes of a whip, staring down at the table in horrified humiliation.

‘How dare you sit there while the dogs who killed your master, your friend, still sit in the Senate and congratulate each other on their success? Caesar trusted you, legates. He knew that you would stand for him when all the world was against him. Where is that honour now? Where is that trust?’

‘The Senate …’ Titus Paulinius began.

Octavian rounded on him, leaning over the table in his fury.

‘The Senate did not command your legions until you meekly handed them over. You are Caesar’s right hand, not the servants of those old men. You have forgotten yourselves.’

Legate Flavius Silva stood slowly, his face ashen.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I cannot speak for Titus, but when we had the news, I did not know what to do. The world changed in a day and the senators were quick to send new orders. Perhaps I should not have accepted them.’ He took a deep, slow breath. ‘It does not matter now. With your permission, I will see to my affairs.’

Octavian froze, struck by the precise phrasing Flavius Silva had used. It was too late to take back what he had said and he thought furiously as the legate waited for permission to leave. Octavian had accused him of vast and irretrievable dishonour. He knew with sudden clarity that Flavius Silva would take his own life, the only choice Octavian had left him.

He had depended on a show of Roman arrogance to bring him to this point. He could not retreat from it. He firmed his mouth, resting his fists on the table.

‘Sit down, Legate,’ he said. ‘Your responsibilities cannot be so easily evaded. You will live, so that you can put right every stain on the honour of the Seventh Victrix.’

Outside the tent, he could hear the sound of marching men. The two legates were instantly aware of it, as a ship’s captain might notice a change of course almost before it had begun. Flavius Silva lost some of the wintry look in his eyes, dragged back by Octavian’s scorn and the noise of his men moving. He resumed his seat, though his gaze flickered to the great flap of the door and the dust-speckled light that shone into the darker tent.

‘I am at your command, Caesar,’ he said. The words brought colour back to his pale cheeks and Octavian allowed himself to relax a fraction.

‘Yes, you are,’ he replied. ‘And I need you, Flavius Silva. I need men like you – and you, Titus. Men who remember Caesar the Imperator and everything he achieved. The Senate will not shelter murderers from us. We will root them out, one by one.’

The noise beyond the tent had grown and Octavian frowned at the interruption, just when he needed to weigh every word. He gestured to the door without looking.

‘Maecenas, see what is going on, would you?’

His friend rose and Octavian was unaware of the look of awe in his eyes. Maecenas nodded slowly and walked to the door. He was gone only a few moments.

‘Caesar, you should see this,’ he said.

Octavian looked up at the formal use of the new name, raising his eyebrows. Maecenas would not waste his time at such a moment, not after what he had just witnessed. Of all of them, he knew the knife edge Octavian walked with every word and step. Octavian glanced back at Flavius Silva, but he looked blank, still in shock from his reprieve.

‘Very well,’ Octavian replied. He went to the door and the legates rose behind him.

As he threw back the leather flap, Octavian stood still. The tent was surrounded by legionaries in lorica armour. They bore shields and swords and the standard-bearers of the Seventh Victrix had taken position on either side of the command tent, so that Octavian looked up at fluttering standards and a legion eagle. Once more he was reminded of the legacy of his family. Marius had made the eagle the symbol of Roman might, from Egypt to Gaul, replacing a host of banners with just one. It gleamed in the sun.

Octavian forced a semblance of calm. He had survived meeting the legates, but the reality was that he was powerless. The sight of the ranks stretching into the distance on all sides made his heart sink. He raised his head, suddenly stubborn, and glared round at them. They would not see him afraid, no matter what happened. He owed Caesar that much.

They saw him come out, a young man in armour with hair almost gold in the sunlight. They saw him look up at the eagle standard of the Seventh Victrix and they began to cheer him and thump their fists against their shields in a crashing thunder that rolled across the Campus Martius as far as the city beyond. It spread from the first ranks to those so far behind they could not even make out Caesar, come to inspect his legion.

Octavian struggled to keep his astonishment hidden. He saw Legate Flavius Silva come out, with Titus Paulinius close behind. Maecenas, Agrippa and Gracchus stepped to the side so that they could see what he saw. The sound built and built until it was a physical force, making the air shake and thumping in Octavian’s ears.

‘We have not forgotten Caesar,’ Flavius Silva shouted at his side. ‘Give us the chance to prove to you we have honour still. We will not let you down again, I swear it.’

Octavian looked to Titus Paulinius and was astonished to see the brightness of tears in the other man’s eyes. Paulinius nodded, saluting.

‘The Eighth Gemina is yours to command, Caesar,’ he said above the thunder.

Octavian raised his hands for quiet. It took a long time, spreading out from the point where he stood until even those a hundred ranks back grew quiet. In the delay, he had found words.

‘Yesterday, I believed Roman honour was dead, lost in the murder of a good man. But I see I was wrong, that it survives here, in you. Be still now. Let me tell you the days to come. I am Gaius Julius Caesar, I am the divi filius – son of a god of Rome. I am the man who will show the Senate they are not above the law, that the law rests in the least of those among you. That you are the lifeblood of the city and that you will stand against all enemies of the state – in foreign lands and within. Let yesterday be forgotten. Let that be your new oath today.’

The hammering clamour began again as they heard and understood. Spears jabbed into the air as his words were shouted into a thousand ears down the ranks.

‘Prepare them to march, legates. Today, we will occupy the forum. When we stand in the heart of the city as its guardians, we will wipe out the stain of what went before.’

He looked towards the walls of Rome. He could see Pompey’s theatre there and he inclined his head to the memory of Caesar, hoping the old man could see him just this once. There too lay the Senate, and he showed his teeth at the thought of those arrogant noblemen waiting for him. He had found his path. He would show them arrogance and power.

The two legates gave the order and the machinery of the legion began to act, commands echoing across the camp as each layer of officers took charge of actions as familiar to them as breathing. The legionaries jogged to collect their kit for a march, laughing and talking among themselves as they went.

Legate Paulinius cleared his throat and Octavian looked at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Caesar, we were wondering what you wanted done with the war chest. The men have not been paid for a month and there has been no word from the Senate about using the funds.’

Octavian stood very still as the older man shifted from foot to foot, waiting for an answer. Julius Caesar had been preparing to leave Rome for years. Octavian had not even considered the gold and silver he would have gathered for the campaign.

‘Show me,’ Octavian said at last.

The legates led his small group across the camp to a heavily guarded tent. The legionaries there had not deserted their posts to see him and Octavian could see their pleasure. He smiled at them as he ducked inside.

There was more than just one chest. The centre of the tent was stacked with boxes of wood and iron, all locked. Flavius Silva produced a key, matched by another in the hands of Paulinius. Together, they opened a chest and heaved back the lid. Octavian nodded, as if the shining mass of gold and silver coins was no more than he had expected. In theory, the funds belonged to the Senate, but if they had not asked for them to be returned by then, there was a chance they did not even know of their existence.

‘How much is there?’ Octavian asked.

Flavius Silva did not have to check the amounts. Being in charge of such a sum in the chaos Rome had endured must have ruined his sleep for a month.

‘Forty million, in all.’

‘That is … good,’ Octavian said. He exchanged a brief glance with Agrippa, who was glassy-eyed at the sum. ‘Very well. Give the men what they are owed … and a bonus of six months’ pay. You are familiar with the bequest made by Caesar to the people of Rome?’

‘Of course. Half the city is still talking about it.’

‘I will ask for the funds from the Senate when we are in the forum. If they refuse, I will pay it from these chests and my own funds.’

Flavius Silva smiled as he closed the chest and locked it once more. Simply having such a fortune in his possession had gnawed at him like a broken tooth he could not leave alone. He felt a weight lift at being able to pass the responsibility to another.

‘With your permission, sir, I will see to the camp.’

‘But not your affairs, Legate.’

The older man flushed.

‘No, Caesar. Not my affairs. Not today.’

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN

Mark Antony arrived at Brundisium after sunset, seeing the gleam of thousands of lamps and watchfires against the black horizon. He had known the numbers of men waiting there. Caesar had discussed the plans with him the previous winter, as they prepared the campaign against Parthia. The horsemen of that eastern empire had been a thorn in Roman skin for many years and Caesar had not forgotten the old enemy. There were debts to be paid, but that massive undertaking had been ruined by assassins’ blades, like so much else.

That forewarning had not prepared Mark Antony for the reality of six full legions of veterans camped around the city – and the navigation lamps of the fleet like fireflies on the dark sea. As the consul and his guards reached the outskirts of one Roman camp, they were challenged by alert legionaries. His consular ring allowed him to pass, though he was stopped and questioned again and again as they crossed the territory of the different legions. Any hope of travelling incognito was lost, so that by the time the sun rose, the entire city had been told the consul was coming and the wrath of the Senate was finally at hand. They had waited for a long time to know what would follow the chaos in Rome and the usual bustle of the city scraped to a halt in the face of potential disaster.

Mark Antony found lodgings in the town by the simple expedient of ordering every other patron out of their rooms. Some of them were senior officers in the legions, but not a word was raised in complaint and they hurried back to the main camps as fast and as unobtrusively as possible.

The consul ate a silent breakfast of porridge sweetened with honey and some fresh melon and slices of orange. Mark Antony had ridden hard for three nights and was weary enough to call for a tisane of heated wine and herbs to restore him. The tavern-keeper was nervously obsequious as he brought the tall cups, bowing and retreating at the same time. The consul had the power to order thousands of men dead by the end of the day and the people of Brundisium whispered of nothing else as he finished his food and sat back.

On impulse, Mark Antony rose and walked out to the seafront, taking a path to the rocky crags that overlooked the deep waters. He took pleasure in the sharp air, away from the smell of too many people crammed into too small a space. It cleared his head to stare out across the sea.

The sight of the fleet and the rising sun improved his spirits, a floating symbol of Roman power. He only wished he had somewhere to send them, but his objectives lay with the soldiers of the legions. For the time being, he was the Senate in transit, their plenipotentiary, with all their authority lodged in him. He made a mental note to tell his wife Fulvia how it felt when she arrived.

As he walked back into the streets, Mark Antony spotted two of his men dogtrotting along the road towards him. They drew up and saluted.

‘Where are the legates?’ he demanded.

‘They have gathered in the main square to wait for you, sir.’

‘Very well,’ he said, striding on. ‘Lead the way, I haven’t been here for years.’

He could hear the noise and voices filtering back through the side roads long before he reached the central square. It was the Roman forum in miniature, with too many soldiers in it for comfort. The consul had an unpleasant memory of the last crowd he’d addressed.

A shout went up when he was spotted and centurions with vine sticks cleared a path for him, shoving men back with curses and oaths so that the consul could walk forward. Mark Antony did not have to feign a grim countenance. He had expected to find soldiers terrified of senatorial justice. Instead, he saw only anger as he walked through them. Any commander knew he occasionally had to be deaf when he walked through his men, but this was more than cheerful mockery from the safety of a crowd. The legions heaved and struggled against their officers and the insults were obscene.

It was customary for a consul to be greeted with cheers and applause as he stepped up to a platform to address a legion. Mark Antony left his guards at the base, but as he climbed the steps, the noise fell away, leaving only the six legates clapping him on. In such a packed space, it was a pitiful sound, followed quickly by hard laughter. The legates were sweating as he stood at the oak rostrum. Mark Antony had a fine voice and he drew himself up to make it echo back from the buildings around the square.

‘I am consul of Rome, the Senate-in-transit. In my person the authority of Rome resides, that I may judge others for their offences against the state.’

The laughter and calls died away. He let the silence stretch, choosing how he would proceed. He had intended to show mercy and so win them to his side, but somehow they had been turned against him.

‘What of your offences?’ a voice yelled suddenly from somewhere in the crowd. ‘What of Caesar?’

Mark Antony gripped the rostrum with his big hands, leaning forward. He realised they saw him only as a representative of the Senate. He was lucky they had not rushed the platform where he stood.

‘You talk of Caesar?’ he snapped. ‘I am the man who gave his funeral oration, who stood with his body as it was consumed in fire. I was his friend. When Rome called on me, I did not hesitate. I followed the lawful path. None of you can say the same.’

He was about to continue, but more and more voices shouted out angrily against him, individual complaints lost in the raucous bawling. When it did not die down, he saw some of them were actually leaving, walking off in all directions from the square as if he could say nothing they wanted to hear. He turned in frustration to the legates at his back.

‘Bring out the troublemakers, gentlemen. I will make an example of them to the rest.’

The closest legate blanched.

‘Consul, we have the men ready, as you ordered, but the legions know that you proposed the Senate amnesty. If I give that command, they could tear us apart.’

Mark Antony’s chest swelled as he took a step towards the man, looming over him.

‘I am weary of being told the dangers of crowds. Is this a mob? No, I see Roman legionaries, who will remember their discipline.’ He spoke more for the benefit of those listening than the legate himself. ‘Take pride in that discipline. I tell you, it is all you have left.’

The legate gave the order and a line of bound men were brought out from a nearby building. Centurions forced their way through the packed crowd, dragging the men into position so that they faced the rest. In any legion, there were always a few offenders who fell asleep on watch, or raped local women, or stole from their tent-mates. Optios and centurions kicked and cuffed the chosen hundred to their knees.

Mark Antony could feel the rage sweeping through the rest. As the grumbling roar swelled, the legate appealed to him once again, keeping his voice low.

‘Consul, if they mutiny now, we are all dead. Let me dismiss them.’

‘Step away from me,’ Mark Antony said in disgust. ‘Whoever you are, resign your commission and return to Rome. I have no place for cowards.’

He stepped back to the rostrum and his voice was a harsh roar.

‘Rome has moved on while you sat here and mourned the death of a great man,’ he bellowed. ‘Has grief stolen your honour? Has it torn away your ranks and traditions? Remember you are men of Rome, no, soldiers of Rome. Men of iron will, who know the value of life and death. Men who can go on, even in the face of disaster.’

He looked down at the miserable legionaries on their knees. It had not been hard for them to guess their fate when they were rounded up and left in darkness to await the consul’s punishment. Many of them struggled against their ropes, but if they tried to stand, they were kicked back down by the watchful centurions.

‘It was mutiny when you refused orders,’ Mark Antony told them all. ‘Mutiny must be washed in blood. You have known that, from the first moments the orders came from Rome. This is the stone that began to fall that day. Centurions! Carry out your duty.’

With grim faces, the centurions removed hatchets from their packs, smacking the blunt ends into their palms over the heads of the kneeling soldiers. In swift, cracking blows, they broke skulls, raising their arms high again and again, then moving on to the next.

Spatters of blood and brains were flung up with the raised weapons, reaching the faces of the closest ranks. The legionaries there began to growl and their officers roared at them. They stood, with chests heaving and expressions feral, repelled yet fascinated as the men died.

As the last body was released to spill the pale contents of its skull onto the ground, Mark Antony breathed hard, facing them again. Slowly the dipped heads came up. The gazes were still hostile, but no longer filled with his imminent destruction. They had held. Most of them realised the worst was past.

‘And the stone has fallen. There is an end,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Now I will tell you something of Caesar.’ If he had promised them gold, he could not have achieved a more perfect silence as the noise fell away.

‘It is true that there has been no vengeance for the Ides of March. I called the amnesty myself, knowing that if I did, his killers would see no danger from me. I wanted to speak to the people of Rome and not have myself exiled or slaughtered in turn as a friend of Caesar. That is the nest of snakes that politics has become in Rome.’

They were no longer drifting away at the edges. Instead, they were pressing back in, thirsty for news from a man who had been present. Brundisium was far away from Rome, Mark Antony reminded himself. At best, they would have only third-hand gossip about what had gone on there. No doubt the Senate had its spies to report his words, but by the time they did, he would have moved again. He had made his choice when he left Rome with his wife and children. There was no taking it back.

‘Some of those responsible have fled the country already. Men like Cassius and Brutus are beyond our reach, at least for now. Yet one of the men who murdered Caesar on the steps of Pompey’s theatre is still in Italy, in the north. Decimus Junius believes he has moved far enough from Rome to be safe from any vengeance.’

He paused, watching the expressions change as they began to believe in him.

‘I see the men of six legions before me. Decimus Junius has a region near the Alps with barely a few thousand soldiers to keep the peace. Is he safe from us? No, he is not.’ He showed his teeth as his voice grew in strength. ‘You called for vengeance for Caesar. I am here to give it to you.’

They responded with cheering as wild as their anger had been only moments before. Mark Antony stood back, satisfied. The Senate had intended him to lose face in decimating the legions. Instead, for the lives of a hundred criminals, he had won them to him. He smiled at the thought of Bibilus and Suetonius hearing the news.

He turned to the legates, his expression changing to a frown at the sight of the man he had ordered to resign, still present and pale as wax.

‘What legion do you lead?’ Mark Antony demanded.

‘Fourth Ferrata, sir.’ For an instant, desperate hope of a reprieve shone in the legate’s eyes.

‘And who is your second in command?’

The man’s expression was sickly with fear, his career in ruins.

‘Tribune Liburnius, Consul.’

‘Tell him to see me, that I may judge his fitness for command.’

The legate chewed his lip, summoning his dignity.

‘I believe that is a Senate appointment, sir,’ he said.

‘And I have told you. Today, I am the Senate, with all their powers to appoint or dismiss. Now leave. If I see you again, I will have you killed.’

The man could only stand back and salute with a shaking right hand before walking away. Mark Antony transferred his attention to the other legates.

‘All of you, with me. We have a campaign to plan.’ A thought stopped him as he was on the steps down to the square. ‘Where is the war chest for Parthia?’

‘In Rome, sir. We had it here, but Caesar gave orders for it to be sent to the Campus Martius and Seventh Victrix.’

Mark Antony closed his eyes for a moment. The riches of Caesar had been within his grasp and he had let them slip. The gods gave him legions and then took away his ability to pay them in the same breath.

‘Never mind. Come, gentlemen, walk with me.’

Agrippa rubbed weariness and sweat from his eyes. He had found a spot to take the weight off his feet, against a pile of oat bags under a temporary wooden shelter. He needed just a few moments, then he would go on, he told himself. Octavian was like a winter gale blowing through the Campus Martius. Before his arrival, the legions had been adrift. To an observer, they might have seemed the same as before, with guards exchanging watchwords, and food lines and the forges of smiths working all hours to keep the legion in a high state of readiness. Agrippa tried to stifle a yawn and his jaw cracked painfully.

He had once seen a sailor struck on the head with a falling mast in a storm. The rain had washed the blood away and the man continued to work, fastening down sails and tying off loose ropes while the wind howled. Some hours later, when the storm had passed, the sailor was walking back from the prow when he gave a great cry and fell unconscious to the deck. He had never woken and they had put his body over the side a day later. In a similar way, the legions had been stunned by the death of Caesar. They had continued with their duty but had been just as glassy-eyed and mute as the sailor. Octavian’s arrival had changed all that, Agrippa thought. He had given them a purpose once more. Agrippa saw it in the cheerful greetings of strangers as they recognised him as one of Caesar’s friends. He saw it in the bustle that revealed what had gone before as listlessness and despair.

He smiled at the sight of Maecenas jogging through the camp with two horses on long leads behind him. The Roman noble was flushed and sweating and they exchanged an amused look of mutual suffering as they passed.

‘Resting those heavy bones, are we?’ Maecenas called over his shoulder.

Agrippa chuckled, though he did not move from the spot. He had never appreciated his choice of a naval life as much as he did then. A centurion captain was master of his vessel and he rarely had to walk far or move the mountains of supplies and equipment that these men took everywhere with them. There had been no news of fresh orders for the fleet. Maecenas had been right about that. Yet he too had been swept up in Octavian’s progress, dragged along despite his misgivings. There had hardly been time to reflect on what they had achieved before Octavian was off again, driven by some source of manic energy Agrippa could only envy.

Even a fleet officer like Agrippa had to admit to being slightly impressed at the way the legion formed up to march. The routines and lines of command were so deeply entrenched that they could go from apparent chaos to shining ranks of sword and shield in no time at all. Yet this was more than a sudden rush to battle formations. Octavian had given orders for the entire camp to be packed up, and as the morning progressed, the soldiers finished their tasks and stood in silence, facing the city. Agrippa looked into the distance, his eyesight sharp for detail after years of peering at horizons. Like Maecenas, he had been staggered at Octavian’s ambitions. It felt like madness and treachery to consider a march into the centre of the city in the teeth of the will of the Senate. He shook his head, smiling wryly to himself. Yet he did not follow Octavian. He followed Caesar. If Caesar sent his men into Hades, they would follow without hesitation.

Agrippa moved when a dozen workmen came to shift the sacks onto carts. The Campus was bare as far as he could see in all directions: toilets filled in and raked, wooden buildings taken down beam by beam and packed. He walked to the front, where a legion servant waited patiently with a helmet and horse.

Maecenas and Octavian were already there, with the constant shadow of Gracchus watching everything with bright eyes. Legates Silva and Paulinius were splendid in the sunshine, their armour burnished to a fine glow. They looked almost younger since the first moments he had seen them. Agrippa mounted up, ignoring the protest from his sore muscles.

As the sun reached its highest point, noon-bells began to sound across the city, rung in temples and markets and workshops to mark the change of shift. Agrippa looked back at ten thousand legionaries and another four thousand camp followers in their wake. They shone, the greatest fighting men of the greatest nation. It was not often that he recognised a moment as important in his life. As a rule, the decisions that mattered could only be understood months or even years later. Yet for once he knew. He took slow breaths as he savoured the sight of so many. The name of Caesar would not have been enough on its own. Octavian had found the words to call them. Agrippa pulled down his helmet and tied the leather strap under his chin.

Octavian looked left and right at Agrippa and Maecenas, his eyes bright with humour and possibility.

‘Will you ride with me, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘Why not, Caesar?’ Maecenas said. He shook his head in wonder. ‘I would not miss a moment.’

Octavian smiled. ‘Give the signal to march, Legate Silva. Let us remind the Senate they are not the only force in Rome.’

Horns blared across the Campus Martius and behind them the Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions began to march in step towards the city.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The gates of Rome were open to the legions as they came in from the Campus Martius. Beyond the shadow of the walls, citizens were gathering, the news spreading across the city far faster than men could march. The name of Caesar flew before them and the people came out in droves to see the heir to Rome and the world.

At first, Octavian and the legates rode with stiff backs and hands tight on the reins, but they were greeted with cheering and the crowds only grew with each street. There had been many processions before in the city. Marius had demanded a Triumph from the Senate of his day and Julius Caesar had enjoyed no fewer than four of them, celebrating his victories and scattering coins as he went.

For those with eyes to see, the citizens were thinner than they had been before the riots. Much of the city still lay in ruins or charred beams, but they had pride even so and they roared their appreciation. Octavian felt their excitement like a jug of wine in his blood, raising him. All that was missing was the slave at his shoulder to whisper ‘Remember thou art mortal.’

All the previous Triumphs had ended in the great forum and the crowds seemed to understand that, running ahead of the legions so that the roads grew more and more choked. Citizens and slaves began to chant the name of Caesar, and Octavian felt his face redden, overwhelmed. On his horse, he and his friends were at the level of the lowest windows overhanging the street and he saw women and men leaning out as far as they could, just a few feet from his head.

At three separate street corners, other men shouted furious insults and were shouted down in turn by those around them. One of the agitators fell senseless after a crack round the head from a middle-aged tradesman. The legions moved on towards the heart and Octavian knew he would never forget the experience. The Senate may have turned on his family, but the people themselves showed their adoration without shame.

They came over the Capitoline hill, walking the same route the assassins had taken. Octavian clenched his jaw at the thought of those who called themselves Liberatores holding out their red hands in pride. Of all things, that brought him fastest to rage. Murder was an old thing for the Republic, but masking the crime in dignity and honour was not. He hated the Liberatores for that, as much as for their jealousy and greed.

He did not doubt the Senate were sending feverish messages to their houses, calling each other in for the emergency. Octavian smiled bitterly at the thought. Without the might of the legions, they were just a few hundred ageing men. He had revealed that, throwing back the curtain that concealed how weak they truly were. He hoped all those who had voted for amnesty could hear the noise of the crowd as they welcomed Caesar. He hoped the sound chilled them.

Even the vast open space of the forum could not hold two legions at full strength. The first few thousand marched right across, allowing the rest to enter the heart of Rome. Legates Silva and Paulinius began to send runners back down the column, ordering their men out in all directions rather than have the crush increase. Every temple would house a few hundred. Every noble mansion would be the billet for as many men as it could take. When those were full, the legions would make their camps in the streets themselves, closing all the roads leading to the forum. Cooking fires would be lit in stone gutters for the first time and the centre of Rome would be theirs.

It took time to halt and organise the column, with both the legates and their officers working hard. The clot of men at the centre spread out in every direction, legionaries walking in and sitting down wherever there was space. They closed off the forum, allowing the crowds to filter out as the day wore on. Only the House of Virgins was untouched, as Octavian had ordered. Apart from the debt he owed to Quintina Fabia, the presence of legionaries among those young women could only result in disgrace or tragedy. He began to appreciate the difficulties Caesar had faced with any large movement of soldiers, but the legion structure was designed to respond to the commands of one man and he did not have to think of everything, only to trust that his officers would work hard and well for him.

The evening light was still soft as horns called across the forum, across the heads of thousands of men. They could not raise tents on the stones, even if there had been room. They would sleep out in the sun and rain, to sweat and freeze in turn. Those same soldiers had cheered him on the Campus and they did not complain at being led by a Caesar into Rome.

The site of the old senate house had been cleared of rubble, ready to be rebuilt. Its foundations lay exposed, rough brick and stone still heat-scorched and dark yellow against the grey cobbles. It made a sort of sense to have the legates construct a rough building there, their legionaries hammering in spikes to bind the beams, then heaving great leather sheets over to form a roof. Before it was fully dark, the shelter was snug and proof against rain, with couches, tables and low beds laid out inside like any command post on campaign. As if to make them prove their competence, dark clouds came in as the sun set. A light drizzle dampened the holiday atmosphere of the legions as they cooked a meal and found whatever shelter they could.

Octavian stood looking out on the darkening forum, with one shoulder resting against an oak beam, much marked and holed from previous use. Around him, legionaries moved with lamps and oil, refilling and trimming wicks so that the legates would have light. He had gambled everything on this one action and for that night at least he was the power in Rome. All he had to do was keep it.

He yawned, pressing a hand to his mouth.

‘You should eat, sir,’ Gracchus said. The legionary held a wooden plate covered in strips of various meats, sliced thin. Octavian smiled wearily.

‘I will, in a while.’ On impulse, he decided to speak again, addressing a problem he had ignored for days. ‘I am surprised to see you still here, Gracchus. Is it not time for you to return to Tribune Liburnius?’

The legionary just stared dully at him.

‘Are you even on my side?’ Octavian continued. ‘How can I tell? It wasn’t so long ago that you were thinking of flogging me in the street for disturbing your tribune.’

Gracchus looked away, his face shadowed against the warm light from the lamps.

‘You were not Caesar then, sir,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Send him home to Brundisium,’ Maecenas called from behind them. His friend was already seated with Agrippa and the two legates, enjoying a spread of cold food and warm wine.

‘You are not a client of mine, Gracchus, nor your family. I have seen the lists now. You owe me nothing, so why do you stay?’ Octavian sighed. ‘Is it the thought of gold?’

The legionary considered for a moment.

‘Mainly, yes,’ he said.

His honesty surprised Octavian into laughing.

‘You’ve never been poor, sir, or you would not laugh,’ Gracchus said, his mouth a thin line.

‘Oh, you’re wrong, Gracchus, and I’m not laughing at you. I have been poor – and starving. My father died when I was very young and if it hadn’t been for Caesar, I suppose I could very well be standing where you are now.’ He became serious, studying the man who had almost strangled him in a tavern.

‘Gracchus, I need men around me who are loyal, who will take the risks with me and not think of the rewards. I am not playing a game. I will see these Liberatores destroyed and I don’t care if I have to spend all Caesar’s fortunes to do it. I will throw away the years of my youth for the chance to break those men. Yet if gold is your only ambition, you can be bought by my enemies.’

Gracchus looked at his feet, frustration making him grim. In truth, it was not just the thought of gold that kept him there. He had lived with these men for some of the most extraordinary days of his life.

‘I am not a man who speaks well,’ he said slowly. ‘You cannot trust me, I know that. But I’ve lived with the fear of senators, no … I’m not making it clear. You are taking them on. It’s not just about coins …’ He waved a hand, almost dropping the plate. ‘I’d like to stay. I’ll earn your trust in time, I promise.’

The rest of them were quiet at the table, hardly bothering to pretend they were not all listening. Octavian leaned away from the beam, intending to invite Gracchus to join them for the meal. As he moved, he felt the weight of a pouch at his waist. On impulse, he untied the leather thongs that bound it to his belt and held it up.

‘Put the plate down and hold out your hands, Gracchus,’ he said.

The legionary went to the table and returned.

‘Hold them out, go on,’ Octavian prompted.

He emptied the pouch into Gracchus’ hands, a stream of heavy gold coins. The legionary’s eyes widened at the sight of a small fortune.

‘Twenty … two, twenty-three aurei, Gracchus. Each one worth around a hundred silver sesterces. What is that? Five or six years’ pay for your rank? At least that much, I should think.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Gracchus said warily. He could hardly drag his eyes away from the yellow coins, but when he did, Octavian was still watching him.

‘You can take that and go now, if you want, without censure. You have finished your work for me and for Tribune Liburnius. It’s yours.’

‘But …’ Gracchus shook his head in confusion.

‘Or you can give it back to me and remain.’ Octavian gripped his shoulder suddenly, passing by the legionary and moving to the table. ‘It’s your choice, Gracchus, but I must know, one way or the other. You are either with me to the death, or you are not.’

Octavian sat down and deliberately ignored the dumbfounded soldier standing with his hands full of gold. He called for the wine jug and Agrippa passed it to him. Maecenas was smiling wryly as they shared the food, each man at the table trying not to look over their shoulders at the figure in the lamplight.

‘What do you think the senators are doing tonight?’ Octavian asked the others as he ate.

Flavius Silva was relieved to be able to reply and spoke quickly through a mouthful of roasted pork.

‘They will bluster at first, I have no doubt,’ he said, chewing. ‘I have dealt with many of the senators over the last month and they will not react well to this challenge. I might advise you to ignore whatever they say for a day or two until they have had time to consider their position, with two legions camped in the centre of Rome.’

‘Whatever they threaten, they have no way of enforcing it,’ Octavian replied, taking a deep gulp of wine and wincing slightly.

Flavius Silva saw his reaction and chuckled. ‘Not so good, I agree. I will find some Falernian tomorrow.’

‘I’ve never tasted it,’ Octavian said.

Maecenas tutted to himself. ‘This is horse piss in comparison, believe me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I have a few amphorae of it at my estate, laid down three years ago. It should be ready to drink this year, or perhaps next. You’ll see when you come.’

‘Leaving aside the qualities of the wine for a moment,’ Agrippa said, ‘the Senate will ask you what you want, eventually. What do you want from them?’

‘The Lex Curiata, first of all,’ Octavian said. ‘I need the law passed so that no one can ever say I am not the legitimate heir to Caesar. In normal times, it is just a formality, but they must still vote and lodge the record. They must also honour the will with Caesar’s funds, or I will pay the legacies myself and shame them. After that, I want only a reversal of the amnesty they granted.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘That small thing.’

‘They will not agree to making criminals of the Liberatores,’ Maecenas muttered into his wine cup. When he felt the eyes of the table on him, he looked up. ‘Men like Cassius have too much support still.’

‘You know these men,’ Octavian said. ‘What would you do?’

‘I would march the centurions in there and whip the Senate out of Rome,’ Maecenas said. ‘You have caught them for a brief moment without power, but there are other legions, Caesar. You can’t stop the senators sending messages out of the city and then their supporters will march. How many men are passing information to you now? The Senate have their own clients and I would imagine there is someone on the road to Brundisium as we speak. If Mark Antony moves quickly, he could have legions here in just a few days.’ He looked around the table. ‘Well, you did ask. Either you follow this through to the end and seize your moment, or we will shortly be defending this city from Roman soldiers.’

‘I won’t remove the Senate,’ Octavian said, frowning. ‘Even Julius Caesar kept them on, with all his influence and power. The people won’t welcome us so readily if we set about dismantling the Republic in front of them. If I make myself a dictator, it will force them together to act against me.’

‘You should consider it even so,’ Maecenas said. ‘Take command of the legions one by one as they come in. You have the name and the right to do it.’ He refilled their cups and almost as one they all drank the sour wine. Maecenas saw the two legates exchange a worried glance and spoke again.

‘The Senate will know they only have to hold on for a few weeks before you are faced with loyal legions at the walls. If you don’t execute some of them, they will be deciding your fate before the end of the month. You said you wanted to see the Liberatores brought down? It may not be possible to lay hands on them within the law, not when the Senate have made those laws. Perhaps you could demand the least of them to be turned over into your custody. Hold a trial for them in the forum and let the Senate see that you understand dignity and tradition.’

‘There’s only Gaius Trebonius and Suetonius left in Rome, I think,’ Octavian said slowly. ‘Trebonius did not even wield a blade with the rest. I could take them both by force. But that will not bring me the others, especially those who have been given powerful posts. It will not bring me Cassius or Brutus. All I need is a renunciation of the amnesty and then they can all be brought to trial.’

Maecenas shook his head. ‘Then you must be willing to cut a few throats, or at least threaten to do so without bluffing.’

Octavian brought his knuckles up to his eyes, pressing out the weariness.

‘I will find a way, when I have slept.’

He rose from the table, stifling another yawn that spread quickly around the table. Almost as an afterthought, Octavian looked towards the doorway where he had left Gracchus. It was empty. The lamplight lit only the gentle drizzle coming down through the air of the forum.

Pompey’s theatre was at its best at night. The huge semicircles of stone seats were lit by hundreds of lamps swinging high above. Servants had climbed ladders to reach the larger bowls of oil that flickered above the stage itself, creating conflicting shadows that moved in gold and black.

In the absence of Mark Antony, four men stood to face the others and direct the debate. Bibilus and Suetonius had the least right to do so, though Bibilus had been a consul years before. Senators Hirtius and Pansa were not due to take up their consular posts until the new year, but the emergency required the most senior men to put aside differences and they had the attention of the Senate that night. All four had discovered that the position facing the benches gave their voices a new power and resonance and they relished being able to quell discussion with just a sharp word.

‘Consul Mark Antony is not the issue,’ Hirtius said for the second time. ‘Fast messengers are on their way to him and there is nothing more we can do until he has returned. There is no point debating whether he will be successful in punishing the mutinous behaviour at Brundisium. If he has sense, he will have them marching without delay and leave their decimation as a condition of their success in relieving us here.’

Several senators stood up and Hirtius picked a man that he knew would at least add something useful instead of raging pointlessly about factors they could not influence.

‘Senator Calvus has the floor,’ Hirtius said, gesturing to him. The others sat down on the curving benches, though many of them talked among themselves.

‘Thank you,’ Senator Calvus said, staring grimly at two men talking close to him until they broke off in embarrassment. ‘I wished only to remind the Senate that Ostia is closer than the legions at Brundisium. Are there forces there which can be brought in?’

It was Bibilus who cleared his throat to reply. Senator Hirtius nodded to him out of courtesy.

‘In normal times there would be at least a full legion at Ostia. Until two months ago, that legion was the Eighth Gemina, one of the two currently infesting the forum. Caesar’s campaign against Parthia brought in legions from as far away as Macedonia, ready to join the fleet. Ostia has no more than a few hundred soldiers and administrators at the port, perhaps as many again in retired men. It is not enough to scrape these invaders out of the city, even if we could be certain they would remain loyal to us.’

Angry voices answered him and Bibilus wiped sweat from his brow. He had not sat a single day in the Senate until Caesar’s death and he was still not accustomed to the sheer noise and energy of the debates.

Senator Calvus had remained on his feet and Bibilus gave way to him, sitting down with a thump on a heavy bench dragged to the front for that purpose.

‘The question of loyalty lies at the heart of the problem facing us tonight,’ Calvus said. ‘Our main hopes rest with the legions of Brundisium. Yet the consul has gone not to forgive them, but to exact punishment. If he has not suppressed their treachery, we have no other way to bring them back to Rome. It is possible that this adopted son of Caesar knows full well that there will be no help coming from the east. His tactic has all the marks of a wild gamble, unless he knows the Brundisium legions will not come.’ The noise around him had risen and he spoke louder. ‘Please, gentlemen, point out the flaws in what I have said, if they are clearer to you than to me.’

Three more senators rose immediately to reply and Calvus ignored them rather than be forced to sit through the interruptions.

‘It is my feeling that it would be unwise to rest all our hopes on consul Mark Antony. I propose we send messages to legions in Gaul to come south. Decimus Junius has a few thousand men close by the Alps …’

From the stage, Suetonius broke in, speaking easily over Calvus.

‘They would take weeks to get to Rome. However this is resolved, Senator, it will be over long before they could arrive. Is there nothing closer? Given months, we could bring in legions from half the world, but who knows what will have happened by then?’

‘Thank you, Senator Suetonius,’ Hirtius said, his voice cold enough for Suetonius to glance at him and subside. ‘Senator Calvus has raised a valid point. Though there are no other legions within a day’s march of the city, there are two in Sicily, two more in Sardinia that could be ordered home by ship. If the Senate agree, I will send riders to Ostia to bring them in. In two or three weeks at most, there can be four legions here at full strength.’

A rumble of agreement echoed around the theatre and the vote was passed quickly and without dissent. Senator Hirtius summoned a runner while the debate went on and pressed his ring to orders that would be carried west. When he was finished, he listened for a time and then addressed them all.

‘It is almost dawn, senators. I suggest you return to your homes and guards to get some sleep. We will meet again … at noon? Noon it is. No doubt by then we will have heard more from this new Caesar.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mark Antony was in a foul mood as his legions marched north, snapping at anyone foolish enough to address him. The Via Appia was a wonder: six paces wide and well drained for hundreds of miles. Only on such a smooth surface could the legions make twenty to thirty miles a day, the legionaries counting off each milestone as they reached it. The problem was that he had not intended to go anywhere near Rome. One dusty and exhausted messenger from the Senate had changed all his plans.

Mark Antony stared into the distance, as if he could see the Senate waiting for his triumphant return. He felt them there, like a nest of spiders twitching threads that ran under his feet. He shook his head free of the image, still struggling with sheer disbelief. Octavian had to be insane to have attempted such a rash move! What was the boy thinking? The anger he had caused was there to be read in the Senate orders. Bibilus, Hirtius and Pansa had sealed it with the Senate symbol, the visible sign of their authority over all legions. Mark Antony was ordered back with all speed and one purpose – to destroy the upstart in the forum.

The men ahead began to cheer and Mark Antony dug in his heels and trotted forward to see what had pleased them. The road had been rising gently for most of the morning, cutting through chalk hills in great clefts that represented years of labour. He knew before he saw it, catching a hint of salt on the cool breeze. The Mare Tyrrhenum came into sight at the head of the column, a dark blue vastness on his left shoulder. It meant Rome was no more than a hundred miles further along the road and he would have to decide soon where to rest the men and let the camp followers catch up.

The cheering rippled oddly down the lines of marching men, as each century caught the same view and hollered out for good luck, proud of the pace they had set. Mark Antony drew his mount aside for a time, watching them pass and nodding with stern satisfaction to anyone who sought out his gaze. He had not told them yet that they were going home.

Mark Antony thought in frowning silence, weighing the problems before him. Two full legions had broken their oaths and mutinied for a boy who called himself Caesar. If the name had that sort of effect, he could not trust that the Senate would be able to contain him. All Mark Antony’s instincts told him to strike north, to continue with his original plans against Decimus Junius. The legions of Brundisium had refused to answer orders once already. They’d come close to cutting Mark Antony to pieces when they thought he was one of those who had sanctioned Caesar’s murder. What would they do when they discovered he had been ordered to attack the man’s heir? Gods, it was impossible! The far north under Decimus Junius was ripe for plucking and he had the forces to do it. Yet he dared not leave Octavian with two legions answering to him. The real Caesar had achieved much with fewer men.

He looked back down the marching ranks, taking solace from the sight of thirty thousand soldiers. If they kept discipline, he knew he could force Octavian to surrender. Let the Senate worry about what to do with him after that, he thought. While men like Bibilus debated his fate, there would be no one watching Mark Antony. He could still take the legions north.

The walls of Rome were not as high as many of the buildings they contained. Even at night, looking inward, the dark masses of tenement blocks rose above the three men standing on the stone walkway above a gate. The poorest families lived as high as six or even seven storeys up, without running water and in the unhappy knowledge that they could not possibly escape a fire. To Octavian, the gleam of oil lamps at their open windows seemed like low stars in the distance, too high to be part of the city at his feet.

Agrippa and Maecenas leaned against the inner part of the wall. The city itself had not been threatened since the slave army of Spartacus, but the defences were still maintained, with an entire network of support buildings and access steps. In more normal times, it would be one of the duties of city guards to walk the walls, more often to remove gangs of children or pairs of young lovers than because of any threat to the city. Yet such mundane tasks had been ignored since the legions occupied the forum and the entire city waited in fear for the tension to break. The three friends were alone, with the empty walkway stretching in both directions. Even so, they kept their voices low, constantly aware that the Senate would love to overhear what they planned.

‘You don’t need to worry about Silva and Paulinius,’ Agrippa said. ‘They won’t change their loyalties again, no matter what the senators promise or threaten. It would cost them too much – the gods alone know what sort of punishment the Senate would impose. Execution of the senior ranks at the very least. Their lives are bound up with ours, as things stand.’

Octavian looked at him, nodding. The moon was approaching full and the stars were bright enough to wash the city in pale light. He felt exposed on the wall, but he had to admit it was more private than anywhere else. Idly, he kicked a small stone off the sandy surface, watching it vanish into the darkness below.

‘I’m not worried about their loyalty. What worries me is what we are going to do when the consul comes back from Brundisium with six legions.’

Agrippa looked away, reluctant to say what he had been thinking during the days of negotiation with the Senate. There had been a sense of progress before that afternoon, when the messenger to Mark Antony made it back to Rome. In just an hour, the Senate had regained some of their wavering confidence and the news of returning legions had spread across an already fearful city. Agrippa kicked irritably at a loose stone. The meeting on the wall was not to discuss how to turn the negotiations into a triumph, but how to prevent destruction and dishonour.

Maecenas cleared his throat, leaning back against the wall as he regarded both men.

‘So, gentlemen, we are in a difficult spot. Tell me if I have it wrong, won’t you? If we do nothing, we have the Senate’s legions just a few days’ march away. We don’t have enough men to hold the walls, not for long. If we use the time left to execute Gaius Trebonius, Suetonius, perhaps Bibilus and a few others, we will only anger the consul further and make him even less willing to keep us alive. You will not abandon the legions here and run for the hills …?’

‘No,’ Octavian muttered.

Maecenas blew out air, disappointed.

‘Then I think we are going to be killed in a few days and our heads put on this wall as a warning to others. At least, well, at least there is a view.’

‘There has to be a way out of this!’ Octavian said. ‘If I could make those whoreson senators grant me just one concession, I could withdraw the legions in something that would not be utter defeat.’

‘As soon as they understood you weren’t going to have them dragged out and slaughtered, they knew they had won,’ Maecenas went on. ‘There is still time for that, at least. You’ll get your concession – your Lex Curiata, say – then we can withdraw to somewhere Mark Antony won’t feel stung into attacking. Remaining in the forum is the problem. He has to respond to that!’

Octavian shook his head without reply. They had discussed it many times, but it was a line he would not cross. In his desperation, he had considered a few judicious murders, but such an action would destroy how he was seen in the city. If he ever faced the Liberatores in the field, it would be very different, but his entire position rested on him being a champion for the old Republic and the rule of law. Even Caesar had kept the Senate benches filled and refused to call himself a king. Octavian hawked phlegm into his throat and spat out his irritation. The amnesty could be overturned, he was certain, but he had not yet found the lever he needed to do it.

‘You haven’t tried bribery yet,’ Agrippa said, making them both turn towards him. In the moonlight, he shrugged. ‘What? You said you’d listen to anything.’

‘They think they have only to wait to see us crumple and fail,’ Octavian said, bitterness flooding his voice. ‘There’s nothing I can offer them that they won’t think they can have anyway when I am dead.’

Maecenas moved off the wall, looking up at the bright moon. After a time, he nodded.

‘Then we’re done. You can’t stay for a pointless gesture that will see us all killed and two legions destroyed. All you can do is march the men out of Rome and put this down to experience. It’s a loss, but you’ll learn from it if you survive.’

Octavian opened his mouth, but despair stole away any words. He could not shake the feeling that Caesar would see a way through. It was partly an echo of that man that had pushed him into occupying the forum in the first place, but since that day, nothing had worked out the way he’d hoped.

Agrippa saw the desolation in his friend and spoke, his deep voice rumbling.

‘You know, Caesar lost his first battle in the civil war. He was captured not too far from this gate and held for torture. He lost everything, his uncle, his position, his wealth, everything. It is not the end to fail and move on, is it? As long as you are alive, you can begin again.’

‘I have two legions in the centre of Rome and for the next few days, no one is close enough to stop me,’ Octavian snapped suddenly. ‘There must be some choices left. There must be!’

‘Only the ones you won’t consider,’ Maecenas replied. ‘At least let me send a century to take Suetonius. I could do it tonight, Octavian, while the pompous little shit is asleep. What does it matter now to talk of trials and formal execution? You don’t have the power for such things, not today. But you can do that much.’

Octavian looked south, to where the Via Appia stretched into the distance. It would not be too long before the consul’s legions came marching up that wide road. He could see them in his mind’s eye, bringing an end to all his hopes.

‘No,’ he said, his fists clenched. ‘I’ve told you. They are the ones who plotted and moved in secret. They are the murderers. If I am not the defender of the Republic, if I show so little respect for the law that I can butcher a senator in his house, I have no standing at all, no call on the people of Rome.’ He made a bitter decision, weighed down by impossible choices. ‘Get the legions ready to march. We have a few days still. Perhaps I can wring something from those theatre fools by then.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the Via Appia, entire villages had sprung up to service and care for travellers. All along its length, it was possible to purchase anything from glass, jewellery and woven cloth, to hot food and even horses.

The Brundisium legions marched past all the usual stopping places, pushed to their best possible pace by the strange urgency that had obsessed Mark Antony. On a good road, they could manage thirty miles if the need was great, though he began to lose men to sprains and exhaustion. For once, those with obviously bloody feet or swollen knees and ankles were not punished further. One or two lucky members of their century remained to watch over groups of ten or a dozen at whichever roadhouse was closest. With Rome almost in sight, they would catch up quickly, or lose skin off their backs.

Mark Antony gave the order to halt the column only when he was certain they were in range of the city for the following day. On grain-fed mounts, he and the legates were relatively fresh compared to the marching men, but still he ached.

With the sun setting, he dismounted in the courtyard of an inn that looked as if it had been there from the time the first stones were laid for the road. Servants, or perhaps the children of the owner, ran to take his horse and accepted the coins he tossed to them. He went inside, ducking his head under a low lintel and seeking out the table where the legates would be eating.

They stood watchfully as he approached. With Rome in range, he knew he had to tell them why he had been pushing so hard. It would leave only the morning for the men to hear and digest the news. With just a little luck, they’d be in the forum before they had a chance to consider rebelling against their new orders.

‘Where is Liburnius?’ Mark Antony asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be the first one here.’

No one answered, though they looked at each other or at the serving girl bringing jugs of fish sauce to the table.

‘Well?’ Mark Antony demanded. He pulled out a chair for himself.

‘The Fourth Ferrata has not halted, sir,’ Legate Buccio said. ‘I … we assumed it was on your orders.’

Mark Antony’s hand dropped from the back of the chair.

‘What do you mean “has not halted”? I gave no such order. Send a rider out and get him back.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Buccio replied.

He left to pass on the errand to some unlucky soldier and Mark Antony settled, allowing the others to sit down. He poured pungent fish sauce onto his plate, smelling it with satisfaction before reaching for bread to dip into it. As he took his first mouthful, he became aware that the remaining men were still stiff and uncomfortable in his presence. He smothered a sigh.

Buccio returned, his glance flickering around the other men of his rank. Mark Antony looked up as the legate took his seat and poured his own sauce. The man was an ancient compared to some, with deep wrinkles like the lines of a map in his neck and shaven head. His brown eyes were unaccountably worried as they met those of the consul.

‘I’ve sent the runner, sir.’

‘I believe you were going to discuss the … difficulties we’ve been having, Buccio,’ one of the other legates said, toying with his food and not looking up.

Buccio glared at the speaker, but Mark Antony was looking at him by then and he nodded, making the best of it.

‘I have had some … comments, Consul. I have trusted men in my legion, men who know I will not hold them responsible if they pass on the gossip of the barracks.’

Mark Antony’s mouth firmed.

‘The men have given their oaths, Legate. To spy on them after that undermines their honour and yours. You will cease the practice immediately.’

Buccio nodded hurriedly.

‘Very well, sir. But what I have learned is serious enough for me to bring it to you, no matter the source.’

Mark Antony stared at him, chewing slowly.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I will be the judge of that.’

‘They have heard about the new Caesar, Consul. Not just my men, by any means. Legate Liburnius was saying the same thing to me only yesterday. Can you confirm it, sir?’

Mark Antony stiffened, the sinews standing out on his neck. He should have guessed the legionaries would have heard the news. They marched together all day and the slightest rumour spread like a rash. He cursed under his breath. He should have burned the Senate orders, but it was too late for that. Folding his hands in front of him, Mark Antony tried to conceal his irritation.

‘Whatever Octavian calls himself now,’ he said, ‘I will deal with him when I return to the city. If that is all you have heard …’

‘I wish it was, Consul.’ Buccio took a deep breath, steeling himself for the reaction. ‘They are saying they will not fight against Caesar.’

The hush that followed was unbroken as every man there suddenly found his food fascinating.

‘You are talking about mutiny, Legate Buccio,’ Mark Antony said grimly. ‘Are you saying your men have not yet learned that particular lesson?’

‘I … I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was something you should hear.’

‘And you were correct in that, though I cannot help doubt your ability to lead if this is how you deal with it. Internal legion matters should be kept internal, Buccio! I would have thought nothing of a few floggings in the morning. A commander does not have to hear everything that goes on; you know that! Why bring idle gossip to my attention?’

‘Consul, I … I could handle a few fools rousing the others, but I understand that half the men are saying they will not fight, not against Caesar. Not in Rome, sir.’

Mark Antony leaned back. He waited while steaming chickens were brought to the table and torn apart by the hungry men.

‘You are all senior officers,’ he said when the serving staff had moved away to give them privacy. ‘I will say this to you. Rome gives your soldiers everything: a salary, status, a sense of brotherhood. But they endure the discipline because they are men of Rome.’

He waved a hand in frustration, trying to find words that would make it clear to the mystified faces around the table. Before he could go on, another of them cleared his throat to speak. Mark Antony rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. Legate Saturnius had not impressed him in their deliberations to that point. The man had no shame when it came to seeking his favour.

‘You have something to add?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Saturnius replied, leaning forward onto the table. ‘More often than not they come from impure lines, sir. I believe that is the problem. How can we expect the sons of prostitutes and merchants to understand our beliefs? They are prey to every new fashion, every wild speaker in the Republic. A few years ago, I had to have an agitator strangled because he was copying out the words of some Greek politician. The very few who could read were whispering his dangerous ideas to the ones that couldn’t. That one man was very nearly the rot that broke a legion!’

Saturnius looked to Mark Antony for approval, but found him gazing stonily back. Oblivious, Saturnius wiped his mouth of grease and went on.

‘The common soldiers are like unruly children, and in the same way, they must be disciplined.’ He began to sense the others were not with him and looked around the table. ‘It is all they understand, as the consul said.’

There was a moment of silence as some of the other men cringed internally. Saturnius looked from face to face in confusion.

‘Is that not so?’ he said, growing red.

‘It does you no credit to say so,’ Mark Antony replied, ‘or to put words in my mouth that I have not said. I do not know where you have served, Saturnius, but I have seen those sons of prostitutes and merchants risk their lives to save me, when my life could be measured in heartbeats. I said they were men of Rome. The least of them is worth something.’

Saturnius rubbed his face with both hands to make himself more alert. His voice took on a wheedling tone as he replied.

‘I thought, sir, after the executions in Brundisium, that you shared the same outlook. I apologise if that is not the case.’

Mark Antony glowered.

‘In Brundisium, they understood that punishment must come. Do you think it gave me pleasure to order a hundred criminals to their deaths? I was within my rights to order the decimation of every legion – the deaths of three thousand men, Saturnius. What I did was a gesture of strength – a demonstration that I would not be cowed by their anger. For those with the wit to see, I saved more than I killed. More importantly, I brought the rest into the fold. I gave them back their dignity and honour.’

He turned from Saturnius, ending the conversation as he addressed Buccio once more.

‘This Octavian claims a name that rings out to our men. It is not surprising, when Julius Caesar himself created many of the legions represented at this table. Of course they are saying they will not fight against his adopted son! It would be a surprise if they did not.’

He paused, knowing he had to have these men on his side.

‘There are limits to our authority, limits to what we can make the men do. The legions can be pushed only so far – beyond that, they must be led. I have seen it, gentlemen. I have seen Caesar himself talk to mutinous legions, risking his own life.’ He glanced back at Saturnius, his expression scornful. ‘If you treat them as children or wild dogs, they will eventually turn on you. Discipline is the core of what we do, but they are not Greeks or painted Gauls. They are Roman men, who understand something of the Republic, even if they do not always have the words to say it. Well, you must give them the words they need, Buccio, Saturnius. You must remind them that Caesar may be gone but the Republic can still be revived. I will not allow some blond boy to pretend to the authority of my friend, no matter what an old will said about his adoption. There is no new Caesar. Tell them that.’

Buccio had grown thoughtful as the consul spoke, his hands splayed firmly on the table before him, to hide his tension. He had, if anything, understated the position. Some of his most senior officers had dared to come to him and the consul did not seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. Yet with Mark Antony watching him, he could only nod and attack his food in bitter silence.

Mark Antony sat through another two courses before anyone said another word beyond the most strained comments on the food. He was content to spend the time thinking about the Senate and what they would demand from him when he returned. He hoped Octavian would surrender, rather than force him to test his men further. He could not ignore the warnings of the legates, for all he was angry at Buccio for handling things so badly. If ‘Caesar’ could be captured quickly, it would end all the talk Buccio had discovered.

The evening had grown late by the time the meal came to an end. Mark Antony was heavy with weariness, desiring nothing more than a room with a fire to sleep. As he rose from the table, his action copied instantly by the legates, they all heard the clatter of hooves on the stone yard outside. The messenger Buccio had sent entered the tavern and went straight to the consul’s table.

‘Report then,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Have they halted? I am beginning to think I was too quick to promote Liburnius.’

‘They have not halted, sir,’ the messenger said nervously. ‘I rode to the front rank and tried to approach the legate, but three of his officers drew swords as soon as they saw me. As I rode away, they shouted to tell you …’

His voice died away as he realised the enormity of repeating an insult to a consul in the company of legates. Mark Antony had the same sense of foreboding and raised a hand.

‘Just give me the idea,’ he said.

‘They are not coming back, sir. They are going to fight for Caesar.’

Mark Antony swore loudly, cursing the name of Liburnius. His gaze fell on Buccio, who was standing in sick awareness that he had become the target of a consul’s wrath.

‘Get back to your legions. If Liburnius can march through the night, so can we. I’ll run him down, I swear it. Go!’

Mark Antony crushed a yawn as it began, furious with himself and his men. If the legions had been rebellious before, a night muttering to each other about the consul would not improve things. As he called for the horses to be resaddled, Mark Antony decided Octavian had to be killed. The young man had chosen a name that made him too dangerous to be left alive.

The exterior of Pompey’s theatre was as impressive as its long-dead sponsor had intended. Though Gnaeus Pompey had died in Egypt years before, his name was preserved in the sheer grandeur of the building that dominated the once pristine grass of the Campus. Not even Caesar could have paid for solid marble, but the walls were sheathed in the milky stone, lightly veined and glittering slightly in the sunshine. Limestone paving had been laid all around the main building, ending at the great pillars that held up the portico, itself carved in white marble.

The Senate had come out to Octavian as he approached. They were dressed in white and purple-trimmed togas to a man and they made an impressive sight, standing in a group and waiting for him. They had rejected all his demands and their confidence had grown.

Octavian had chosen to wear armour, knowing he would be seen in contrast to the civil powers. He rode down the Capitoline hill with three centuries of men, one of them composed entirely of centurions. Together, they represented his claim to authority in the city and if the senators were in clean colours, at least his men shone.

As the sound of his mount’s hooves changed to a clatter on stone, Octavian swept his gaze across the crowd of senators. He could see Bibilus, with Suetonius at his side as always. They had both known Caesar, Suetonius in particular. The passing years had been kind to neither of them, almost as if their cruelty was written in sagging flesh. Octavian could not help compare himself with those old men and he straightened his back at the thought. He brought his centuries right up to them, not needing to give new orders. They spread out in perfect ranks against the hundreds in togas, standing still so that there was no sound at all beyond the calls of birds floating high above their heads. Not one of the senators would speak first, he was certain. Octavian and Maecenas had discussed the protocol and he smiled at them all.

‘I have summoned you here to announce that I will pay the legacies of Caesar myself, beginning with the three hundred sesterces to each citizen of Rome.’ He was pleased at the angry mutter that went through them at his choice of words. ‘I assume you will waive the right to your part of it. Are senators not citizens? Yet if you wish, I will have your share sent to your homes in the city.’

He hoped they would register the subtle threat before he went on with his main demand. He knew where they lived. The implications would surely not be lost on most of them.

Bibilus stepped forward through the crowd facing Octavian. The man’s bulk was well-disguised in the folds of his toga. He stood with his right hand gathering up the folds of cloth, his fleshy features already bright with perspiration.

‘Once more, then. We will not bargain or negotiate while legions camp in the sacred forum, Octavian. If you have nothing new to add, I suggest you return to the city and wait for justice to descend on you.’

Octavian controlled a spasm of anger. To have such a man speak to him of justice was calculated to enrage, so he showed them nothing.

‘You have refused every demand, senators,’ he said, making his voice ring across them all, ‘certain that I would not draw swords on the representatives of the city of my birth. What I asked was just, but you continued to protect murderers. That is at an end. I see Senator Suetonius there among you. I will take him today, for trial in the forum. Step aside and let him walk out to me. I have shown my respect for the law by my patience, though I have legions at my back. You need not fear that he will receive anything but justice at my hand. But he will receive justice at my hand.’

As he had ordered the night before, ten of his most senior centurions stepped forward from the ranks, moving towards Suetonius before the senators had time to react. At the first steps, Bibilus shouted out.

‘We are immune! You may not lay hands on a member of this august Senate. The gods themselves will curse whichever of you defies their will.’

With those few words, a ripple of anger spread through the gathered senators and they stepped out, holding up their hands against the armoured soldiers. With sheer numbers, they blocked a path to Suetonius as he cowered at the centre of four hundred men.

One of the centurions looked back at Octavian, unsure what to do, while the others pressed on. The senators had not dared to draw the daggers they all carried. Yet they clustered and shifted, standing in a clot of men that could not be breached without violence. Octavian seethed, knowing that he could give a single order and they would fall back in bloody rags. Maecenas had predicted they would refuse, but Octavian had not expected to see any kind of courage from those men, certainly not to withstand the terror of hardened legionaries coming at them.

‘Stand down, centurions,’ he ordered, furious with them all as well as himself.

The line of legionaries disengaged, leaving red-faced senators in their wake, their togas in crumpled disarray. Octavian could only glare at them, his hand twitching to draw the sword that lay at his hip. He held his honour like iron bands around him, but he could hardly bear the poisonous triumph he saw on the faces of Bibilus and Suetonius.

Silence spread again, broken only by panting men. One of the centurions turned to Octavian and, in doing so, saw movement on the Capitoline hill. A rider was coming down to the Campus at a gallop. Octavian turned to see what had arrested the man’s attention and his heart sank. They had been dreading the news for days and there was only one thing that would send a rider charging out to him that morning. The senators still waited for him to speak and when he did, his voice was low and cold.

‘As I bear the name of Caesar, I will not shed more blood onto these stones. Yet my patience has its limits, gentlemen. I tell you solemnly – do not depend on it again.’

It was not enough to wipe the smirk from Bibilus’ face, but Octavian knew he was out of time. Sick with rage, he turned his horse and trotted out to meet the rider. His centurions formed up and marched with him, leaving the senators behind.

Octavian reined in as he reached the young extraordinarii soldier, breathing hard from his ride through the city. The man saluted and Octavian stared back at Rome. He did not know when he would see it again.

‘Legions sighted, sir. On the Via Appia.’

Octavian nodded and thanked him.

‘Go back and tell Legate Silva to bring the men out at their best pace. I am finished here. I will await them on the Campus.’

It was not long before the first marching ranks appeared over the brow of the Capitoline. They came out of the city without any of the cheering or fanfare that had announced their arrival. They marched in sombre mood, knowing that Mark Antony was approaching Rome with three times as many men.

Maecenas and Agrippa reached him first. Maecenas nodded to him, glancing over to where the Senate still stood watching.

‘They refused?’ he asked, though he had already guessed.

Octavian nodded. ‘I should have killed them,’ he said.

Maecenas looked at his friend and shook his head.

‘You are a better man than I am. It will be remembered that you did not, with legions at your back. They will not be able to accuse you of running wild, at least. That counts for something.’

Octavian looked past him at the gleaming ranks of men marching away from Rome. If all else failed, he had agreed with the legates to head north along the Via Cassia.

‘Does it?’ he said bitterly.

‘Probably not,’ Maecenas replied with a grin. Agrippa snorted, though both men were pleased to see Octavian smile in response. ‘But it might. You still have two legions and we’ll be far enough away in Arretium. I have a small house there and it’s pleasant enough.’

‘Did you recommend a winter at Arretium because you have a home there?’ Agrippa asked in disbelief.

Maecenas cleared his throat and looked away.

‘Not … entirely. It is not as grand as my estate in Mantua, you know. But Arretium is a quiet town and off the main routes.’

Octavian shook his head, his friend’s irrepressible nature cheering him. He had gambled and lost, but Maecenas seemed untroubled. Octavian grinned suddenly, letting his mood lighten.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘The Senate are watching. Let’s ride with a little dignity.’

He dug in his heels, despair and anger tearing into wisps on the breeze.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Exhausted, the Fourth Ferrata called a halt in sight of the walls of Rome, with Legate Liburnius sending riders ahead to take his urgent messages. Before the murder of Caesar, the idea of mutiny of any kind would have been unthinkable. Liburnius rubbed his horse’s ears as he reflected on the previous months. He had been a leading voice when they decided to ignore the original Senate summons. It was difficult to express the sense of chaos that had ripped through the legions at Brundisium. Many of them had fought at Caesar’s side in Greece and Egypt and Gaul, and there were few who could not remember seeing the Father of Rome or hearing him speak over the years. Some even recalled words he had said to them individually with great pride. They were bound by oaths that were as much a part of them as their armour and traditions, but an unspoken loyalty ran even deeper. They were Caesar’s men. To be called to the command of the senators who had murdered him had not been an order they could obey.

Liburnius bit the inside of his lip as he looked at the city ahead, surprised at the strength of his pleasure in simply coming home. He had not seen Rome for years and yet somehow he found himself returning at the head of a freshly mutinous legion, no doubt with an enraged consul coming up fast behind. After his promotion to legate, it was not exactly how he had seen his career going and he smiled wryly at the thought. Yet when he looked for doubts, there were none. His men did not know about the favour he carried in his packs, or even the fact that he had met the new Caesar. They knew only the name and the adoption, the mark of family that linked Octavian to the very man who had formed them. It was enough.

When Liburnius had told them his decision to head north and join Caesar’s rebellion, they had been too cautious to cheer, but their delight had been obvious. He shook his head, amused at himself. In all his years as tribune, he had not known one hundredth part of the popularity he had gained then. It was frankly surprising how much he appreciated it, a man who had always assumed he was above seeking the adoration of those under his command. Liburnius knew he was no lion of Rome, like Marius, Sulla or Caesar himself. He had been content with his rank and that the men obeyed out of simple discipline. The murder of Caesar had rocked his foundations as much as any of them, altering the way he saw the world.

He breathed in relief as he saw the first of his messengers come galloping back to his position. Mark Antony could not be too far behind. The last thing Liburnius wanted was to be caught against the walls of the city before he could even join Octavian. His men were footsore and weary, but they had pushed on all night, making the best pace possible and not daring to leave any man behind. Whether the decision to mutiny was right or wrong, there was no going back from that point and they all knew it.

The extraordinarii rider was flushed and sweating. His horse skidded on damp stones as he pulled up, making the animal’s haunches bunch with a heave on the reins.

‘Caesar’s legions have left the city, sir, heading north.’

‘Shit!’ Liburnius said in disbelief. ‘How long ago? What forces remain in the city?’ He fired more questions at the hapless rider, who could only hold his hands up.

‘I don’t know, sir. I asked a temple priest. As soon as I heard the news, I swung round and came back.’

Liburnius felt his mood crumble into bitterness. He would not be entering Rome that day, not alone. The consul and five other legions would be hammering up the road at him while he sat there.

‘Well, which road did they take?’ he snapped.

The young rider only shook his head, but he turned the mount on the spot.

‘I’ll find out, sir.’

He galloped back the way he came and Liburnius could see worry and fear on the faces of all those who had heard, the news spreading fast through the ranks of waiting men.

‘Why would Caesar have waited for us?’ he asked them. ‘He didn’t know we were coming to join him. Centurions! Take the Fourth Ferrata around the city walls to the Campus Martius. We have a chase on our hands.’

To his satisfaction, the closest men grinned, setting off in matched step despite their exhaustion.

Mark Antony drew up angrily, his personal guard holding a tight formation around him. He could smell his own sweat and his face was rough with stubble. He was in no mood to be challenged by Legate Buccio that morning.

‘Why have you countermanded my orders and called a halt?’ he demanded. ‘You can rest when we reach the city.’

Four legions continued to march doggedly down the last miles of the Via Appia, while Buccio’s legion stood with their heads down in ranks, looking shattered. They had marched all night, passing another twenty-two of the milestones after the thirty they had managed the day before.

The legate saluted properly, though his eyes were red with exhaustion.

‘I did try to warn you, sir. I did not want to go sneaking off in the night.’ He took a deep breath. ‘My legion will not go further with you, sir.’

Mark Antony gaped at him, unable to understand at first what the legate was saying so calmly. When he took it in, the consul’s jaw firmed and he dropped his hand to the sword hilt sticking up by his right thigh.

‘I have four legions I can call back, Legate Buccio. Obey my orders or I will see you strung up.’

‘I regret, Consul, that I cannot obey that order,’ Buccio replied. To Mark Antony’s shock, the man smiled as he went on. ‘The Ninth Macedonia will not take arms against a Caesar.’

Mark Antony became aware that their conversation was being closely watched by Buccio’s men. As his gaze drifted over them, he saw they were standing like dogs on a rope, ready to lunge forward. Their fingers moved on the hafts of spears and they did not look away. He could not order his guards to take Buccio into custody. The barely checked aggression of the legionaries made clear what would happen if he tried.

Mark Antony leaned down from his saddle, dropping his voice so that it would not carry to the waiting men.

‘No matter how this turns out, Buccio, no matter what happens at the city, there is no force in Rome that does not punish mutiny and treason. You will not be trusted again. The Ninth Macedonia will be struck from the Senate rolls and disbanded, whether by me or by the Senate themselves. Will you have your men become brigands, homeless traitors unable to sleep anywhere without the fear of attack? Think about that before you go too far along the path and I can no longer save you from your own foolishness.’

The words struck Buccio like blows, but his mouth tightened to a pale line.

‘They and I are of one mind, Consul. They can be pushed only so far and then they must be led, just as you told me.’

Mark Antony glared to have his own words repeated to him.

‘Then I hope we meet again,’ he said, ‘in better times.’

The consul turned his horse and jerked his head for the guards to follow him. He had lost two legions and he could read the wind well enough. He clenched his jaw as he rode after the ones he still had left.

By the time Buccio’s legion marched up the Via Appia, some hours later, Mark Antony had left the road to head north, taking a wide line around the city. The legate halted briefly at the signs of their passing, a great swathe of trampled and muddy grass showing the tracks of twenty thousand men disappearing into the distance. Buccio nodded to himself, then summoned his own extraordinarii rider.

‘Ride ahead, to Caesar. Let him know the Ninth Macedonia are with him. Tell him Consul Mark Antony no longer comes to Rome. And if you see Legate Liburnius, tell him he owes me a drink.’

As the rider galloped off on the stone road, Buccio’s tribune came up. Patroclus was a young noble, barely twenty years of age, and from one of the better families in Rome. He watched the rider dwindling into the distance.

‘I hope Caesar appreciates what we’ve risked in his name,’ Patroclus said. The man had a pink lump with a white head on his eyelid that had swelled his eye almost closed. He scratched irritably at it as he spoke.

‘You can have that steamed out in Rome, Patroclus,’ Buccio said.

‘I am not worried about my eye, sir, just the rest of me. My mother will collapse when she hears I’ve mutinied.’

‘You have mutinied for Caesar,’ Buccio said softly. ‘You have placed your faith in him, for the man and his adopted son, over the Senate that murdered him. That is not the same thing at all.’

The atmosphere in Pompey’s theatre was sulphurous, filled with panicky anger as groups of opposing senators tried to shout over each other. The fragile truce that had existed while Octavian and the legions remained in the forum had cracked apart the moment they marched north. Without properly appointed consuls to keep order, the debates had deteriorated quickly and Bibilus had been challenged as speaker by a powerful group of senators that morning. Forced to give up his position, he sat back on the marble benches with Suetonius and his clique of supporters, watching and waiting for a weakness.

Hirtius and Pansa stood before the other senators. Every passing day brought their consular year closer and together they had bluffed that position into something like authority. It was Hirtius who picked speakers as it pleased him. He waited through the latest round of recrimination and argument before deciding to speak once again.

‘Senators, this clamour has no place here! We have all the facts we need to make a decision, brought in by men risking their lives. It is enough! Rome lies vulnerable until the legions from Ostia arrive. They have landed safely, but will we waste the day in pointless argument? Senators, be silent!’

Under his furious glare, they quietened in patches and then as a whole. It was the third meeting in as many days and the news had only worsened with each one. Every man there was aware of the ugly mood in the city. Without legions to keep order, crimes against citizens and property had risen tenfold and there were few present who did not have some story of theft or rape or murder to recount. They were frustrated and angry, but the lack of a clear path through only added to the chaos. Outside the theatre, almost a thousand mercenary guards waited for their employers to come out. Only in their presence could the senators return to their homes and even then crowds gathered quickly to shout and jeer and violence was constantly in the air. In all its centuries, Rome had never felt as close to a complete breakdown of order as it did then and Hirtius saw fear as much as anger in the ranks of robed men. It did not trouble him particularly. In such an atmosphere, he considered he might win far greater authority and advantages than any other year.

‘I have reports from a dozen men observing the movement of legions around this city,’ Hirtius said loudly. ‘I’m sure you can confirm it all from your own clients and informers. The situation is perilous, no doubt, but not beyond salvage, not if we act quickly.’ He waited through a sudden tirade by one of the more elderly senators, staring the man down until he subsided and took his seat once more.

‘Thank you for your courtesy, Senator,’ Hirtius said with as much acid as he could manage. ‘But the facts are simple enough. Mark Antony has taken four legions north. I had to waste a man who had been my client for a dozen years to bring me his destination. We know the consul’s intention to attack a loyal member of this Senate: Decimus Junius.’

Cries went up from the senators and Hirtius shouted over them.

‘Yes, Mark Antony flouts our authority! There is no point going over the same ground. Our response is the issue, not the crimes of the consul. Decimus Junius has no more than three thousand legionaries assigned as staff and guards for the region. He will fall and we will have another small king established there to scorn all we do. However, gentlemen, it may not come to that. I have discussed it with Senator Pansa and we have a potential solution.’

For the first time that morning, the men on the benches were properly silent and Hirtius smiled tightly. He was a stern man, with many years as tribune and legate of legions behind him.

‘I ask only that you hear me out before you begin baying once more. You do yourselves no service with this howling and gnashing of teeth.’

There was some muttering at being lectured in such a way, but he ignored it.

‘Four fresh legions are gathering at Ostia, drawn from Sicily and Sardinia. They will be here in two days. Apart from those, there is only one army of sufficient strength in range of the consul. There is only one other force capable of heading off the attack on Decimus Junius.’ He paused, expecting some sort of protest as they realised his drift, but to his surprise it did not come. The senators were truly afraid and for once they were listening.

‘Octavian, or Caesar as I suppose we must call him now, has four legions at full strength. Both the Fourth Ferrata and Ninth Macedonia have followed him north. We do not yet know his destination. With the four from Ostia coming here, those are all the legions on the mainland, senators. The question we must ask is how best to use them to sanction our rogue consul.’

He paused again, catching the eye of Senator Pansa at his side, who nodded.

‘I remind you that this new Caesar refrained from violence against this Senate when he had every opportunity to do so. It is my feeling that we have not lost the argument with him, if we were to grant at least some of his requests.’ He saw Suetonius and Bibilus rise to their feet and talked over them as they began to reply. ‘I have not forgotten his illegal occupation, senators, only that he carried it out without bloodshed or loss of honestas – integrity. Even so, I would not turn to him if he did not command the only force capable of taking on Mark Antony!

‘The choices come down to one, senators. Give me your authority. Confirm Senator Pansa and myself as consuls ahead of time. We will take four legions to Caesar and assume command of a unified army capable of bringing Mark Antony to heel. The consul has mutinied and must be stripped of his rank. Who else but consuls have the right to take the field against him – and the authority of the Senate to do it?’

Bibilus had been caught in mid-argument by the suggestion and he sat down to think it through. It was not lost on him that removing Hirtius and Pansa from the Senate would leave very few capable of challenging his own position. A thousand men from the legions at Ostia would be enough to keep Rome quiet for a little while longer. He began to think he could vote for such a course.

Suetonius felt the sudden space at his shoulder as Bibilus sat, but he did not resume his own seat.

‘What concessions will you give Octavian in exchange for his service?’ he called, then repeated himself even louder as the men around him told him to be quiet.

‘I do not intend to renounce the amnesty, Suetonius,’ Hirtius said dryly. ‘You don’t need to worry on that point.’ A chuckle went around the benches and Suetonius flushed as Hirtius continued. ‘This young Caesar has asked for a Lex Curiata, which we can grant. It is nothing more than his right and such a gesture costs us nothing. In addition, we will also win over good Romans who depend on that vote to take control of their own properties. I have entreaties from them every day. Finally, I propose to offer him the rank of propraetor, to welcome him back into society, where we can make use of him. He has no formal rank at present and I do not think his change of name will take him much further.’

Suetonius sat down, apparently satisfied. Hirtius breathed in relief. It was beginning to look as if he might get his way. The thought of a campaign against Mark Antony worried him not at all, not with the forces that would be at his disposal. He looked over the benches to where Bibilus was watching him. Hirtius smiled at the man’s obvious satisfaction. Men like Bibilus thought they ruled the city, but they could never lead a legion, or appreciate anything beyond their own sense of importance. When he returned with Pansa as consuls, he would deal with Bibilus as Caesar had once dealt with him. Hirtius smiled openly at the thought, nodding to the fat senator as if to an equal.

For once, no one rose to oppose or add to the debate. Hirtius waited, but when they remained in their seats, he cleared his throat.

‘If there is no dissent, I will call for a vote to bring our consular year in early and take our legions to command Caesar in the field.’

‘What if he refuses, even so?’ Suetonius called from the benches.

‘Then I will have him killed, though I do not think it will come to that. For all his faults, this new Caesar is a practical man. He will see his best chance lies with us.’

The vote passed quickly and with very few opposed. It would have to be confirmed by the citizens of Rome, but if the new consuls returned victorious, it would be a formality. Hirtius turned to Pansa and raised his eyebrows.

‘It seems you and I are in for a long ride, Consul.’

Pansa grinned at the new title. Just the thought of getting away from the endless bickering of the Senate brought contentment. The prospect was invigorating. Pansa scrubbed a hand through the white bristle of his hair, wondering whether his armour would need polishing when he had it brought out of storage.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Arretium was a military town, barely a hundred miles north of Rome. Whatever Maecenas’ reasons for recommending it, it had the benefit of being within swift range of the capital, while far enough away to give the Senate the sense that they were not immediately threatened.

The Fabii property Maecenas owned was indeed a delight, a low complex of buildings and gardens that stretched up a hill on various levels, each host to a bewildering display of imported fruit trees and statues in white stone. It felt like a place to rest and enjoy the end of summer, with the struggle safely behind them. A banqueting hall led out onto the gardens and Maecenas had agreed to host the legates of four legions in rooms on the estate. Twenty thousand legionaries had descended on the town itself and doubled its population, so that prices went up and those who could not afford rooms camped in fields.

Legates Silva and Paulinius had welcomed Liburnius and Buccio like old friends. In fact, the four men had met before on campaigns, but they could all take comfort in knowing they had not risked the wrath of the Senate alone.

Octavian said a brief prayer to Ceres as he sat at the table, thanking the goddess for producing the meal that lay before them. Maecenas had produced the Falernian and Octavian had to admit it was superior to the sour wine Silva had served before.

‘So are you going to tell us?’ Maecenas asked, pulling a cooked goose apart with his fingers. He saw Octavian frown. ‘There are no surprises with twenty thousand men camped all around the town, Caesar. A messenger from Rome cannot be kept secret. Are we to be branded traitors, then? Have they sent a demand for our heads?’

‘I would know how to react to that,’ Octavian replied.

He looked around the table at the six men who had risked everything for him. Agrippa was watching every change of expression on his face, as if trying to read his thoughts. Liburnius kept his gaze on the food, still very aware of the change in their respective statuses since their last meeting. Yet he too had done what mattered and marched men north to follow Caesar. Octavian had welcomed the newly promoted legate with only a dry comment on the rising value of the favour he still carried. Presumably, Gracchus would catch up with him eventually, though Octavian was amused at the thought of the dour legionary still searching for his lost commander.

From his tunic, Octavian withdrew a scroll and unrolled it, ignoring the spots of grease his fingers left on the dry surface.

‘I have orders here,’ he said, ‘orders to report to consuls Hirtius and Pansa and to put myself under their authority.’ His eyes scanned the page yet again. ‘They are coming north with four legions and it seems I have been made a propraetor, by will of the Senate.’

The men around the table gaped at him in rising excitement. In just a few words, they had gone from standing outside the law to being welcomed back. Liburnius and Buccio looked up together, the same thought striking them both. It was Buccio who managed to speak first.

‘If they have appointed consuls before the year is up, it can only mean Mark Antony is out.’

Liburnius nodded as he speared a piece of slow-cooked lamb with his knife and chewed slowly.

‘Will you do it?’ Agrippa asked for all of them. ‘Will you accept Senate authority after all that has happened? Can you even trust them, Caesar? For all we know, this is some ruse to get close enough to attack.’

Octavian waved a hand, almost overturning his cup of wine and then gripping it to keep it steady.

‘How many legions could they have summoned at such short notice? Even if it is a trap, they would just smash themselves against our men. I am inclined to believe them, gentlemen, but that does not solve my problem, does it? Why would they make such an offer? Why would they even want my legions, if not to punish Mark Antony? Yet he should be fighting with me, not against me! He goes north to attack Decimus Junius, one of those who wielded knives on the Ides of March. Should I join the Senate and prevent him achieving exactly what I would like to see happen? By the gods, how can I join my enemies, to fight against my only ally?’

As he spoke, the sense of excitement drained from the men at the table. For just an instant, they had seen a way through the fear and chaos of their position, but Octavian’s anger snuffed out their hopes.

‘So you will not join the new consuls, Caesar?’ Legate Silva said.

‘No, I’ll join them. I’ll even march north against Mark Antony with them.’ Octavian hesitated, considering how much he could tell them. He had already made his decision. ‘Why would I resist marching north? Mark Antony is right – Decimus Junius is away from Rome, but still in reach. I would be following the same path before too long. Let these new consuls think whatever they like. Let them believe whatever they like. They are bringing me reinforcements.’

Maecenas rubbed his forehead, feeling the tension that would lead to a headache. To avert it, he drank a full cup of the Falernian, smacking his lips.

‘The men around this table came to follow Caesar,’ he said. ‘Heir to the divine Julius. Will you now tell them they must also accept orders from the Senate? From the very senators who voted an amnesty for his killers? They’ve mutinied before for less.’

His words prompted a furious response from Buccio and Paulinius, both men shouting over the other at the insult to their honour. Maecenas looked at them, his own anger simmering.

‘So we march to attack Mark Antony, to save that whore’s whelp Decimus Junius?’ Maecenas continued. ‘Have you all gone deaf, or can you hear me say that?’

Octavian glared at his friend, rising from the table and leaning on his knuckles. His eyes were cold as he stared and Maecenas had to look away as the silence swelled and became uncomfortable.

‘Ever since I came back from Greece,’ Octavian said, ‘my path has been strewn with rocks. I have suffered through fools and greedy men.’ His gaze fell on Liburnius then, who suddenly looked away. ‘I have had my rightful demands scorned by fat senators. I have seen plans turned on their head and ruined in front of my eyes – and yet, despite all that, I find myself here, with four legions sworn to me alone and another four on the way. Would you have me tell you all my plans, Maecenas? For friendship, I will, though it will make the task a thousand times harder. So I ask you this. Put aside the demands of friendship and act, for once, as an officer under my command. I will accept the rank of propraetor and if any man asks how I can put myself under Senate authority, tell that man that Caesar does not share his plans with every soldier under his command!’

Maecenas opened his mouth to reply, but Agrippa shoved his wooden trencher across the table, butting him in the chest.

‘Enough, Maecenas. You heard what he said.’

Maecenas nodded, rubbing his temples where an ache still throbbed.

‘I have no choice,’ Octavian said to them all, ‘but to be the very model of Roman humility and discipline. I will accept the command of Hirtius and Pansa because it suits my aims.’ His voice was hard as he went on. ‘I will have to show these new consuls more than just words and promises. We should expect to be sent first into battle, or any other situation where our loyalty can be tested. They are not fools, gentlemen. If we are to survive the coming year, we have to be sharper and faster than the consuls of Rome.’

Hirtius and Pansa rode on well-groomed geldings in the third rank of their new legions. Both men were in fine form as they trotted along the wide stone route of the Via Cassia. Hirtius looked back over his shoulder at the trudging ranks, reliving old memories and seeing no flaw in the men he had been given. Their very solidity was a balm after the raving chaos they left behind. There were no arguments on the road, no riots. He and Pansa were of one mind, delighted that Mark Antony’s mistakes had raised them to the highest post in Rome six months early. It was clear to both of them that the man should have been quietly executed on the Ides of March, but there was no point in regrets. If Caesar had lived, Hirtius and Pansa both knew they would have become puppet consuls for the Father of Rome, able to act only at his bidding. Instead, they were free and in command of legions. There were worse fates.

‘Do you really think he will fall in line?’ Pansa asked suddenly. Hirtius did not have to ask whom he meant. The subject had come up at some point every day out of Rome.

‘It is a perfect solution, Pansa, as I’ve said. Octavian is just a youth. He reached too far and had his fingers burned. All he wants now is to salvage a little dignity.’ He patted his saddlebag, where the Senate orders rested in their pouch. ‘Making him propraetor gives him recognition, though you will notice it makes him governor in name, but without a place to govern. What a gift, that is worth so much and yet costs us nothing!’ Hirtius smiled modestly, hoping his colleague would remember who had suggested it.

‘He is too young, Pansa, and much too inexperienced to rule Rome. The ridiculous fiasco at the forum showed that. I suspect he will fall on our necks with gratitude, but if he doesn’t, we have both the rank and the men to enforce the Senate will. His men are not fanatics, remember, for all their talk of a new Caesar. They did not offer to fight to the death when they thought Mark Antony was returning to Rome. Not them! Instead, they charged away in the opposite direction. Legionaries are practical men, Pansa – and so am I.’

Arretium had grown up on the Via Cassia, a town made prosperous by the ease with which trade goods could reach it and travel from it to other regions. Neither Hirtius nor Pansa knew the area well, but their extraordinarii riders kept a wide ring around them as they went north, reporting back in a chain so that they were informed of all that lay ahead. Before the sun reached the western hills on their flank, their riders came back accompanied by strangers, seeking out the consuls and reporting with all the formality they might require. Hirtius accepted the messages of welcome and safe passage as if they had been expected all along, though he could not resist a smug glance at his co-consul.

‘It is too early to stop for the night,’ Hirtius said in an aside to his colleague. ‘I would rather take the legions into Arretium and make sure the Senate orders have been properly … understood.’

Pansa nodded immediately, already cheerful at the thought of a return to civilisation. Hirtius seemed to thrive on sleeping out, but at sixty years of age, Pansa’s bones ached each morning.

The legions had not stopped for their consuls to receive messages. They marched on without expression as the orders came down the line. It mattered little to them whether they slept in tents by the road or in tents by a Roman town. At the end of the day, they were the same tents.

Manoeuvring such large numbers required a fair level of skill and both consuls were happy to leave the deployment to their subordinates. As they came within a mile of the walled town, a dozen extraordinarii and three of Octavian’s tribunes came out to help them organise the halt without adding to the problems of the legions already in the vicinity. The best places were all taken, of course, but Hirtius and Pansa cared nothing for that. They accepted the invitation to meet Caesar in a fine provincial home outside the walls. Both men rode in with their lictors and personal guards, so that they made an impressive group. They had been offered a truce to approach and Hirtius did not expect treachery, but he still had enough men to fight his way out if necessary. In any case, his new rank demanded such a following and he enjoyed the sight of stern lictors watching for the slightest insult to his person.

The estate was small compared with those around Rome, but Hirtius approved of the taste and wealth that had gone into its creation. The main house was reached through open gates and a wide courtyard, where servants scurried to take their horses. Hirtius looked to the pillared entrance and saw Octavian waiting there. He stood with no sign of tension and Hirtius realised with prickling irritation that the young man was handsome, with broad shoulders and long hair tied into a club at his neck. It was the first time they had ever met, but there was no mistaking the confidence in the grey eyes watching the consuls.

Hirtius and Pansa walked up the steps together. The evening was soft and warm and the air smelled of cut hay. Hirtius took a deep breath of it, feeling some of his tension ease.

‘This is a splendid house, Caesar,’ Hirtius said. ‘Is it yours?’

‘It belongs to a friend, Consul,’ Octavian said. ‘You will meet him tonight and you can tell him then, though he is already too proud. You are welcome here. I give you my oath and my protection while you remain in Arretium. There are rooms for your lictors and followers if you wish. If you’ll follow me inside, I have had food laid out for you.’

Pansa stepped forward immediately at the thought of a meal. Hirtius looked askance at his companion but walked in behind, sending the waiting lictors away with a flick of his fingers. There were times when a man had to trust his host and constant suspicion insulted them both. He reminded himself that Octavian could have slaughtered the Senate but had not.

The legates had gathered in the banqueting hall to greet the consuls from Rome. When Hirtius and Pansa entered, all the men rose, including Maecenas and Agrippa. They stood like soldiers in the presence of senior officers and Hirtius nodded to them, accepting Octavian’s invitation to sit at their table. He and Pansa had been placed together at the head and he wasted no time in taking his seat. As nobody had been sure when the consuls would arrive, the meal was cold, but it was still much better than they had eaten on the road north.

‘Sit, sit, gentlemen,’ Hirtius said. ‘Your manners do you credit, but we have much to discuss.’ He hesitated at the sight of Pansa already heaping thin slices of cured ham onto his plate, but the other consul was oblivious.

A slave approached with a jug of wine and Hirtius noticed the delicate glass vessels on the table. He raised his eyebrows slightly, aware that he was being treated as an honoured guest. He sipped the wine and his eyebrows went further up.

‘Excellent,’ he pronounced. ‘I prefer the table to couches. It feels … delightfully barbaric. I take it, then, you have received the missive from the Senate?’

‘Yes, Consul,’ Octavian replied. ‘I can tell you it was something of a relief to be offered formal rank.’

Consul Pansa nodded, smacking his lips and draining his cup of wine.

‘I imagine it was, Caesar. Whatever our differences in the past, I’m sure the news of a true mutiny, by no less a name than Mark Antony, was as shocking to you as it was to the senators.’

‘As you say, Consul,’ Octavian replied, inclining his head to Pansa in agreement as the man began to work his way through a plate of melon slices sprinkled with ginger.

Hirtius spent a moment cleaning a fingernail with one of the others. He would have preferred outright command, of course, but Pansa was theoretically his equal and not easily dismissed. Either way, the young rebel seemed to bear no animosity towards his guests. Hirtius nodded stiffly, choosing dignity over rubbing Octavian’s face in his failures. He cleared his throat as Pansa dug in to the main dishes, spearing the carcasses of some small birds fried in olive oil.

‘Very well, then. To the task at hand. Mark Antony is perhaps a week on the march ahead of us. We know his path and his destination. We know his strengths very well – I believe some of you were with him in Brundisium?’ Buccio and Liburnius nodded uncomfortably. ‘Then you may have some insight worth hearing. I will send men to record your thoughts, though I doubt there is anything new to say. I have known Mark Antony for many years. He is an impressive speaker, but if you remember, Caesar did not trust him with many men in Gaul. He is more suited to governing a city. I do not expect his four legions to cause us too much difficulty.’ Hirtius looked around the table as he spoke, drawing them all into his confidence.

‘Do we know what forces Decimus Junius has at his disposal?’ Flavius Silva asked.

Hirtius smiled at his contribution, sensing they were trying hard to work in the new structure his presence had created.

‘The region by the Alps is hardly bristling with soldiers. There are a dozen legions in Gaul, but up in the north, no more than a few thousand men. It is not an impossible obstacle for Mark Antony, if we were not here to oppose him. However, I think he will be unpleasantly surprised to see eight legions and new consuls to bring him to justice.’

Hirtius leaned forward, tapping a single knuckle on the table as if he did not already have their full attention.

‘My orders are simple enough, gentlemen. For a short time, you have all found yourself outside the law. This is your chance to wipe the slate clean. From this moment, this is a lawful assembly, under command of the Roman Senate.’ He paused, but when there was no reply from the men at the table, he nodded, satisfied. ‘We will march at dawn and make the best speed possible north. When we are in range of Mark Antony, we will engage and either force an immediate surrender or destroy his legions with superior numbers. I would prefer him to be brought back to Rome for trial and execution, but I will not complain if he fails to survive the fighting. Is all that understood?’

The men around the table nodded and Hirtius glanced at Octavian.

‘I hope it is as clear that Decimus Junius is our ally. His life is under the protection of Senate authority and he will not be touched. Those are my terms.’

‘I understand, Consul,’ Octavian said. ‘Though you have not said what part I will play in this. I accept my rank of propraetor, but it is a civil position. My legions will expect to see me command.’ His grey eyes glinted dangerously and Hirtius raised his palms, fending off the objection.

‘I am here to bring you back into the Roman fold. It would not serve to reduce a Caesar to the ranks. However, you will appreciate the perils of a split command. Pansa and I will give joint orders to the eight legions. You will be praefectus of two legions in the vanguard. You will march under our orders, in good formation, until you have met the enemy.’ His voice hardened subtly then. ‘You will give no orders of your own, not against Mark Antony. Your men have a history of independent thinking and I cannot afford to indulge their taste for it.’

Being first into the line of battle was an honourable position, but Octavian could not help the suspicion that the older man would be happy to see him fall. Even so, it was as much as he had hoped. There had never been a chance that the consuls would leave him in charge of half the army they commanded.

‘Very well,’ Octavian said. ‘And after the battle is won?’

Hirtius laughed. He had not yet touched his food, but he sipped his wine again, sucking it over his tongue with a hissing sound.

‘I appreciate your confidence, Caesar! Very well, when the battle is won, we will have order restored. Pansa and I will return to Rome, of course, with the legions. I do not doubt you will be honoured in some way by the Senate. They will give you your Lex Curiata, and if you are a man of sense, you will stand for election as senator in the new year. I imagine you will have a long and successful career. Between you and me, I would enjoy seeing a little younger blood in the Senate.’

Octavian smiled tightly in response, forcing himself to eat a few mouthfuls. The consul was working to be charming, but Octavian could see the hardness in him, the personification of Roman authority. He reminded himself that the consuls had denied him everything when they thought he was powerless. Four legions had bought him a place at the table, but they were not true allies.

‘I will consider it, Consul …’ he said. Octavian saw Hirtius frown and decided he was offering too little resistance and making the man suspicious. ‘Although you will appreciate how difficult it is for me to imagine sitting at peace with men like the Liberatores.’

‘Ah, I understand your reluctance, Caesar. The name says it all. Yet we are practical men, are we not? I would not waste my youth railing against enemies beyond my reach.’

Hirtius sensed the sentiment was not echoed in the cold-eyed young man across from him. The meeting had gone better than he had hoped and he struggled to find something else to smooth over the moment of ill-feeling.

‘If I have learned anything, Caesar, it is that nothing is certain in politics. Enemies become friends and vice versa, over time. Those who sit around this table are proof enough of that. However, it is also true that men rise and fall. Who knows where we shall find ourselves in a few years? It may be that when enough time has passed, once powerful men will find their stars have set and others are on the rise.’

He snapped his mouth shut then, rather than make promises he could not possibly keep. He had intended to raise a little hope in the young Roman. Hirtius had lived long enough to know that a brief and careless mention of promotion would keep some men working for years without reward. Yet words were just wind until they were written down and sealed. He was pleased to see Octavian’s expression ease and Hirtius raised a cup of the Falernian in a toast, the gesture quickly copied around the table.

‘To victory, gentlemen.’

‘To victory,’ Octavian repeated with the rest. He had learned a great deal over the previous months and no trace of his thoughts showed on his face. Yet it was strange to drink a toast with dead men.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mark Antony shivered in a wind which came straight from the mountains looming over him. The cloak that had seemed so thick in the south felt threadbare, no matter how he wrapped and folded it. He could see his own breath and the ground itself was covered in a constant dusting of frost. Even his horse was shod with leather on each hoof to protect its feet.

From first light, he had set men to constructing catapults and scorpion bows, assembling the massive weapons of wood and iron from the train of carts he had brought with him. The cold made injuries unavoidable and he already had two men with crushed fingers being tended by healers.

His sons, Antyllus and Paulus, were in the thick of it, of course, tolerated by the legionaries as they ran and carried tools and nails, hardly feeling the cold at all. Mark Antony had been tempted to have Fulvia and Claudia round them up before they got themselves hurt, but the instinct had been forgotten in the face of a thousand other tasks. They had made good time on the coastal road north, arriving a week after him and with his wife exhausted and irritable. It would suit her to have them run free for a day.

Decimus Junius had not been idle, despite the shock he must have felt at seeing four legions marching into the fields around his fortresses. Mark Antony had surrounded and disarmed two thousand legionaries three days before, forcing the remainder of Junius’ forces to abandon them and run. The captured men were under guard at the permanent camp of Taurinorum, huddled in misery, though warmer than he was.

Mark Antony was not yet certain where Decimus Junius had placed himself in the chain of forts, but some guiding hand had withdrawn most of the remaining soldiers into the largest one, a massive wooden structure that squatted over the entrance to the pass. There were two other strongholds further away, but they could be broken or starved at leisure. Beyond the pass and the main fort lay Gaul, with all its wealth and vast green land. It seemed almost a dream while icy air bit at his exposed skin, but Mark Antony wanted at least one route to Gaul open and unopposed.

He did not intend to cross the mountains, not that year. Decimus Junius had been given a rich plum here in the north for his part in the assassination. Away from the peculiar climate of the mountains, it was rich land, producing vast quantities of grain and meat for Roman cities. If Mark Antony could secure it for himself, he would have both wealth and power over the Senate, no matter how they raged at him. In just a few years, when his sons had grown, he would have restored his position. He let the thought cheer him as the wind increased and his face went completely numb. One of his Brundisium legates was standing by for orders, the man’s nose and cheeks pink with cold.

‘Send a demand for surrender to the fort,’ Mark Antony said. ‘At least we might confirm if Decimus Junius is inside. If they don’t respond, wait for my signal and then smash the thing down around his ears.’

The legate saluted and hurried back to the waiting catapult teams, pleased to be moving. Mark Antony turned his horse, viewing the waiting legions with a stern eye. They were ready to rush in once the gates were broken and he found no fault with them. There had been no hint of disloyalty facing this particular enemy. He recalled that Caesar had once warned him never to give an order the legions would not obey. There was insight there, but he did not enjoy it. He knew there would be times when he sent his men against enemies they did not approve of and he could not risk them failing, as Buccio and Liburnius had failed. As the wind moaned past him from the mountains, Mark Antony licked his chapped lips and wondered how he could restore their discipline to unthinking obedience.

No formal response came from the fortress, not that he had really expected one. Mark Antony waited as the pale sun moved behind clouds in the sky. By then the chill had numbed him so deeply that he could not feel his hands or feet.

‘Enough of this,’ he said to a cornicen, his teeth chattering. ‘Blow two short notes.’

The sound rang out and the response came quickly. Small rocks launched from torsion weapons, driven by twisted ropes of horsehair three times the thickness of a man’s leg. Mark Antony could hear the teams roar as they beat the larger catapult to the first shot, but when it launched, the echoing thump of the beam silenced them. Twenty thousand men watched the huge stone fly on a shallow arc, soaring towards the fortress gates. With no resistance from within, they had been able to take their time placing the weapons. All the shots flew true, hitting the central gate one after the other. There was an explosion of splinters and dust and Mark Antony knew from the cheering that a gap had appeared in the defences. He squinted through the biting wind, his vision far better over distance than it was reading messages. The torsion weapons were wound once again by the teams, the only ones warm that morning on the plain. The catapult too began to come up, drawn peg by peg against the massive strength of the beam itself and great iron spars that bent like a bow. Mark Antony gripped his cloak tighter around his throat, twitching the folds of red cloth with his free hand so it covered his thighs and part of the horse’s flank. The animal snorted at the contact and he patted it, waiting.

He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye even as the heavy machines punched rocks into the air once more. His men shouted in excitement, but his own pleasure turned to bitter worry as he saw one of his riders come galloping across the white plain. Mark Antony had them out in two rings, ten and twenty miles from his position. He was not surprised to see the man panting after such a ride.

‘Legions sighted, Consul,’ the rider said.

‘You know how to report!’ Mark Antony snapped.

The young rider looked stricken, but he collected himself quickly.

‘Discens Petronius reporting, Consul!’

‘Report,’ Mark Antony went on, glowering at him.

‘Legions sighted, Consul, marching north. A large force, with auxiliaries and extraordinarii.’

Mark Antony tapped his fingers on the saddle horn, considering his choices.

‘Very well, Discens Petronius,’ he said. ‘Return to your position.’

He watched the young man ride away, his mind whirling like the frost the wind kept flinging against his skin. It could only be Octavian. All the plans Mark Antony had made were collapsing into dust. He could not hold the north for a single winter, not against a force at least equal to his own. That was if his men would fight at all, once they learned who they faced.

He paused for a moment, reflecting. His hand came up and patted his chest, where a crumpled letter lay in a pocket. He’d read it many times, in disbelief and dread. With a muttered curse, he realised his choices had narrowed to just one. No matter what else happened, he had to open the pass to Gaul. He looked up, his eyes as cold as the mountains as he stared at the fortress in his way.

Mark Antony raised his arm and dropped it, the signal for which his legions had been waiting. They surged forward, heading to the broken gates past catapult teams who lounged on their weapons, their work done.

As they poured in, he heard the first clashes and screams echoing back from the hills above. He looked to his left, though the wind made him narrow his eyes to slits. Somewhere out there, a young Roman held Mark Antony’s future in his hands. He looked across the fort, to where the pass wandered up through the mountains before disappearing into the whiteness above.

‘Mars protect me,’ he murmured. Every instinct told him that fleeing would see him destroyed. Gnaeus Pompey had run the length of the world, but Caesar still caught him. Mark Antony knew he could send the auxiliaries and camp followers through the pass and win them time to get clear. At least his wife and children would be safe for a while longer.

‘Julius protect me,’ he whispered into the wind. ‘If you can see me now, old friend, I could use a little help.’

Octavian seethed as he rode, matching the pace of the legions. With so many men around him, he could not speak to Agrippa or Maecenas, but simply had to carry out the orders he had been given. Hirtius had placed him on the left wing, in the first of two lines of four legions. Legates Silva and Liburnius rode with him, the fairest choice he could make, while Buccio and Paulinius held station in the second line. Yet the formation ignored their superior numbers. The consuls had made the sort of Roman hammer that had failed so spectacularly against Hannibal three hundred years before. Octavian looked right to where the consuls rode in splendid cloaks and armour in the third rank. He could see them as distant spots of white and red, their lictors mounted to keep up with them. It was also the sort of deep formation that showed little trust in the men they commanded, which would hardly be lost on veteran legions. Those in the front ranks would feel their colleagues breathing down their necks the whole way, with everything that implied.

Octavian made a tunnel with his hands to focus his vision far away, an old scout trick. Through the moving circle he could see the mountains and Mark Antony’s legions like busy ants at their foot. They were forming lines as well, though less deep, so they could command a wider stretch of ground. Octavian glanced at the cornicen, but he could not give orders. Hirtius and Pansa were in command and the consuls had made themselves very clear. Octavian’s formal rank of praefectus was just an empty honour, at least for that battle. Octavian clenched his teeth until they ached.

The legions tramped on and as the sun reached the noon point, they were less than a mile from the ranks waiting for them. Octavian could see the remains of a fort across the pass, reduced to broken beams and rubble by thousands of willing hands. He had studied the maps Hirtius and Pansa carried and he knew the pass led through to southern Gaul, where the summer was still warm. When he was close enough to make out individual figures, he spotted a trail of carts winding into the mountains, away from the plain. Once more, he looked right to where Hirtius and Pansa sat in their ornate armour. It was possible they wanted Mark Antony to keep an escape route open, but if so, they had not shared it with their subordinates.

For the first time in his life, Octavian understood the terrifying reality of facing standing legions on a flat plain. Mark Antony had been given time to assemble his scorpion bows, weapons the size of carts that could send an iron bolt right through half a dozen legionaries. Octavian had made his plans, but they took him only so far. A single spear-thrust could put an end to all his hopes.

The temperature of the air had dropped in the wind coming off the hills and he shivered as he rode with his rank. All around him, legionaries were readying the heavy spears that would land the first blow. They would not draw swords until the first three waves had been heaved into the air, but unstrapping the wooden shafts with their iron tips brought that moment closer. The pace increased unconsciously and the centurions had to bellow to hold them steady. They strained forward as they marched and still Octavian could give no orders. He leaned in his saddle, wanting the clash to come rather than suffer any longer through a tension that built with every step.

Maecenas unsheathed a spatha sword on his left, longer than the usual gladius so he could cut down from the height of a horse. The Roman noble wore a breastplate that was perfectly smooth and polished to a high gleam. When Agrippa had mocked him for the way it caught the sun, Maecenas had only smiled. The gorgeous filigree and decoration favoured by senior officers made it easier for a sword tip to snag and then punch through. Agrippa had found himself a set of lorica armour, so that he clanked as he rode. They stayed close to Octavian and both men understood their role in the fighting to come. They knew Hirtius had hamstrung him, forcing him to accept the man’s consular authority. They would protect him, above all else.

Octavian looked for Mark Antony in the lines across the plain but could not see him. The man would be back in the third rank on his right wing, just as Hirtius and Pansa had chosen. It meant Octavian would be riding straight at his position. He did not yet know what he would do if he saw Mark Antony hard-pressed. Plans and stratagems swirled in his mind, but too much depended on the actions of others and Mark Antony in particular. The man had to trust him.

Octavian clenched his fists on the hilt of his own spatha sword, taking comfort from the weight and swinging it lightly through the air to warm his shoulder. He felt strong as he tied the reins to the high saddle pommel and drew up a long shield from where it bumped along behind his leg. From four hundred and forty paces, he would guide his horse with his knees alone.

At three hundred paces or less, the legions with Mark Antony remained still. By then, both sides could read the symbols held high by signifers next to the Roman eagles. Octavian wondered how they would react to the sight of the Fourth Ferrata coming at them, men they had known well in Brundisium. How many of them would realise they were facing Caesar in battle? With legions bearing down on them, Mark Antony’s men had no choice but to fight. On his own, he might have halted and let them see, perhaps even sent a messenger across to demand their surrender.

Octavian looked right to see if the consuls were reacting in any way, but no new orders came down the line. He bit his lip, feeling his bladder grow tight. Mark Antony did not want his men to rush ahead of the opening to the pass. He had positioned them with a clear line of retreat. That was useful information and if Octavian had been free, he knew he would have detached a thousand to threaten a block across the pass, forcing Mark Antony to respond. Yet the consuls only came on, closing the gap step by step.

At a hundred paces, horns sounded on both sides and the scorpion bows lurched on their stands, their bolts snapping out too fast for the eye to see. They ripped into the lines of legionaries, punching down files of men who never knew what had killed them. The only response was to move in fast before the teams could reload. Octavian kicked his horse into a trot to match the sudden lurch in pace. As well as Maecenas and Agrippa, a diamond formation of heavily armoured men jogged with him, their task to protect the senior officer at the heart. His horse would mark him as a target from the first moments, but like the legates and tribunes of the eight legions, he needed the height to see. The legionaries in the ranks jogged smoothly, holding heavy spears low and ready for the first cast along a line that stretched for more than a mile.

When it came, Octavian had to struggle not to flinch. On both sides, thousands of men let out an explosive grunt as they heaved the spears up and immediately passed another from left hand to right. There were few among them who could guide the path, but they counted on speed and force over accuracy to smash an opponent’s charge even as it began. Some fell on the scorpion teams, spearing them and then plunging into the ground so that the helpless, screaming men were held upright as they died.

Octavian raised his shield, staring as the air before him seemed to fill with whirring black stripes. The desire to crouch low in the saddle and hide behind his shield was almost unbearable, but he knew his men would despise him if he did. He had to stay upright and keep watching to fend off the spears and protect his horse. The animal’s chest was partially covered by a bronze plate but was still vulnerable. If the fighting reached his rank, standing men could choose their spot to thrust from below.

All along the lines, legionaries raised their shields against the storm of wood and iron. The rushing hiss became a thumping clatter, with men yelling in shock and pain on both sides.

Octavian knocked a spear aside as it came down almost from above. It spun crazily as he deflected it, tripping a marching legionary, who looked up with a curse. Octavian could not respond as he threw himself forward to smack the shield into another spear coming down at his horse’s neck. That too fell away and by then the second wave was in the air.

For a long time, the spears seemed to come only at him. Octavian was sweating as he battered and swung at them. One passed between his shield and his bare calf, striking the man behind him, who fell to his knees unseen. All the time, they marched forward and both sides drew swords at the same moment, when the third spear had been sent. They were men who took satisfaction in their tools and the armies met at a run, using the shields like a ram and thrusting swords forward with savage strength.

Octavian rushed in with the others, unable to stop even if he had wanted to. The first two ranks on both sides were veterans. They protected the man on their left with their shields, while jabbing swords out at anything they could see. Octavian saw two of those guarding him go down, their bodies shuddering as blades punched through their armour. More of his diamond rotated up to the front, but he found himself pressed forward into the enemy. His horse snorted and tossed its head, panicky as it kicked out.

The ranks facing him were vulnerable to horsemen. Their shields could not be raised high without leaving them open to attack from below. When they shoved forward to reach him, Octavian swung instantly, feeling the shock up his arm as he cut through the softer metal of a helmet. The sight of a mounted officer drove the enemy soldiers to press in eagerly. As they were spotted, Octavian, Maecenas and Agrippa became the targets for those further back who had yet to throw their spears.

Octavian roared, forcing out his fear as spears came buzzing towards him. He had to split his attention between those trying to hack at his horse’s legs and the ones further back who were still striving to hit an officer with anything they could throw. The men at the front of his diamond had fallen again, trying to protect him, and the crush was too great to allow the others to move up ahead. For a time, Octavian fought in the front rank. Maecenas and Agrippa worked well on either side, killing the men who went low with swift cuts and using their shields to protect each other when spears came soaring in.

Octavian heard his horse scream and the animal lurched. He felt a hot stripe across his face and he cried out as his horse fell into the gloom between his friends’ mounts. Both sides saw him go down and his own men bellowed in anger, pressing forward in a rush. Sickened, Octavian wiped warm blood from his eyes. He could hear his horse screaming behind him for a moment, then the sound was cut off as someone killed it to stop the wild kicking.

Maecenas and Agrippa moved on with him as he staggered up, so that he walked at the level of their knees. The rush had forced a hole in the enemy line, though new, fresh soldiers were coming in fast to support the breach. A legionary with no helmet and bloody teeth opened his eyes wide as he saw who faced him. For an instant, Octavian thought he was holding up his sword to surrender rather than attack, but then Agrippa swung at the man from above, slicing an ear free and hacking into the joint between head and shoulder. The soldier fell to his knees and Octavian kicked him in the chest to knock him backwards before walking over the body. Through the horses, he could see milling men fighting and shouting in a red-faced combination of terror and rage.

He wiped blood from his face, wondering where his shield had gone. The horses on either side made a strange corridor, where enemies could come only one at a time. His arms felt leaden already, his hearing half gone with the constant crashing on all sides. Gods, he could not see Mark Antony! The men behind still roared and pushed, so that he was buffeted forward and the two horsemen cursed. He heard Maecenas yell, either in fury or pain, he could not tell which. The light seemed too bright and Octavian found himself wet with sweat. He began to fear he would collapse, his heart racing so hard that it made him dizzy. His foot turned on a body and he staggered into Agrippa’s mount, feeling the heat from the horse’s skin. The men behind would not stop if he fell. They did not like walking over the fallen, as many of them could still stab in their last breaths. Each rank would be likely to plunge a sword into him until he was just a bloody, ragged thing, lost somewhere on the field of battle.

‘Agrippa! Pull me up, you big sod. I have to see!’ he shouted.

His friend heard and reached down with his shield strapped to his forearm. Octavian scrambled up behind him, hiding his relief. He had come close to panic on the ground and yet his heart was settling and the light had dimmed enough for him to make out the forces he faced.

The sun had moved. Somehow, his moments down by the snorting, stamping horses and men had taken longer than he had thought. He shook his head to clear it. The lines he faced had thinned to no more than four ranks deep, while the main force battered the right wing. In that first glimpse, Octavian had a sense that the ranks ahead were only holding, jamming their shields into the earth and linking them in an unbroken wall.

‘Slow advance! Slow there!’ Octavian ordered.

Gods, Hirtius could hardly object to marching orders. The command was echoed by centurions and optios back down the line, so that the press from behind eased. Still the first two ranks clashed, stabbing and cursing as they jammed their own shields into the churned mud and fought on around them.

Octavian caught sight of Mark Antony on his horse, shouting and pointing to send in different units and shore up the lines. Octavian knew he had to support the right flank. He formed the order in his head to have two or three cohorts cut across to protect the consuls, but he did not give it. A moment passed, then another, as his own advance slowed and came to a stop. The lines of linked shields ahead presented a solid obstacle, but he knew he could flank them. He had entire legions at his command to swing out and cut in from the sides, enveloping the soldiers of Mark Antony. He kept his mouth shut.

Maecenas looked over to him, a brief glance away from the danger of spears and sudden thrusts. Mark Antony was risking everything to attack the right wing of eight legions. It was an insane gamble and it meant his entire force could be turned on the other side, rolled up until he was surrounded. His destruction lay in a few orders, but Octavian only stared and waited.

‘Caesar?’ Maecenas shouted. ‘We can flank them here!’

Octavian tensed his jaw.

‘Send to consul Hirtius for new orders,’ he snapped.

Maecenas stared, but he turned quickly, whistling to a runner then leaning low in the saddle to give quick instructions. The man hared off between the ranks.

Octavian leaned past Agrippa’s shoulder to observe the locked battle ahead. The plain was open to his left and, even without orders, his legion had begun to swell past the fighting front, driven by the press from behind. Octavian nodded, making his decision. He could not let Mark Antony win the day.

‘Seventh Victrix! Seventh Victrix!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Cohorts One to Four saw left and flank! Double speed! Flank!’

Men who had wondered at his silence cheered raucously. Their cramped ranks eased as two thousand men marched left and out of the main press, widening their line and coming around the heaving battle at the front.

The effect could be felt immediately as Octavian’s men jogged in, striking the exposed sides of soldiers still pressing forward. Octavian felt the block waver ahead of him as his cohorts slaughtered enemy legionaries behind the fighting front, driving them into their own ranks so they could not maintain the line of shields. He grunted in satisfaction as his men began to march forward once more, going faster.

Octavian almost killed the runner who touched him on the leg. He jerked his sword down and held the blow just in time. He cursed the unfortunate messenger for his foolishness.

‘What orders?’

‘Consul Hirtius has been killed, Praefectus. Consul Pansa is badly injured and is being withdrawn to the rear. You have command.’

Over the noise of thousands of men, Octavian could not be sure he had heard correctly.

‘What?’

The messenger repeated himself, shouting the words. Many of the soldiers around them heard, raising their heads.

Octavian looked up sharply. He could end it all. He had the men and the position to swing round and destroy Mark Antony’s legions. For an instant, he considered it, but the man had dealt fairly with him. Mark Antony had trusted him and he was not an enemy.

‘Sound the disengage!’ Octavian roared at the closest cornicens. They began to blow the single long note, the sound echoing down the lines. He waited, nodding as his horns were matched on the other side by the order to withdraw.

A space appeared between the two armies, though dying men fell into it. It widened, leaving a red line on the grassy plain. Hundreds of voices bellowed orders in Mark Antony’s legions as they too backed away, panting and desperate, unable to believe they would not be rushed.

‘Dismount, Agrippa. I need to be seen now,’ Octavian said.

His friend swung his leg up over the horse’s head and dropped to the ground, landing easily.

‘Form and dress ranks! Square formation!’ Octavian ordered, making his voice ring across the lines of his men. His men. Without Hirtius and Pansa, he was in sole command and Mark Antony’s battered forces looked small in comparison. He watched as eight legions completed the disengage, putting a hundred clear paces between the opposing ranks. By then, four of the legates had ridden across to him, their faces flushed and angry.

Octavian was pleased to see that none of his own generals had thought to question the order he had given. He turned to face the group as the closest man spoke.

‘Caesar, the enemy are in disarray. We have them!’ the man said.

Octavian looked at him coldly, seeing the legate’s barely hidden outrage.

‘These are legions of Rome, Legate,’ Octavian said. ‘My orders are to form squares in close formation. They will be allowed to march clear. Repeat your orders.’

The legate gaped at him, but he dipped his head.

‘Form square. Close formation. They will be allowed to retreat, Praefectus,’ he said.

‘Well done. Now, return to your legions and await further orders.’

The four legates were not used to being dismissed in such a way, but Octavian had given the clearest of commands. Stiffly formal, they could only salute and ride away, taking different paths to their own positions.

Octavian turned back, watching Mark Antony’s legions withdraw to the broken fortress and the pass that led into Gaul. He saw the man himself ride along the marching lines and then stop, looking back to where Octavian sat on Agrippa’s horse. For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, then Mark Antony turned his mount and moved on.

Mark Antony was no longer cold. The previous hour had been one of the worst of his life and he could still hardly believe he was being allowed to leave the battlefield. His legions were in a state of shock, unable to understand what they had witnessed. They knew they had lost the battle. It made no sense for an overwhelming force simply to watch them march clear. They knew by then that they had faced Caesar in battle and the talk was that he had showed them mercy.

As Mark Antony rode down the line, he reined in and stared back at the eight legions that had come north, still mostly intact. He could not see the bodies of the dead. They had not moved more than half a mile since the first barrage of spears and bolts and the corpses were hidden by the standing ranks. Mark Antony looked for Octavian among the mounted men. There was one in particular who might have been him, but he could not be certain. The letter crackled under his breastplate and Mark Antony almost reached for it and read it again, though he had done so a hundred times before. It was a simple message, brought to him by an extraordinarii rider three days before.

If we meet in battle, the consuls will stand on the right. If they fall, the battle is over, on my honour. Keep the messenger.

It was sealed with a symbol Mark Antony knew well. He had not wanted to gamble with the lives of his men. Until he had seen the size of the army come to face him, he had intended to ignore the message. His heart had been in his mouth for the entire attack, spending the lives of loyal soldiers in a wild surge against the right wing, without defence or a second plan. Yet it had worked. His veterans had overwhelmed legionaries, lictors and guards, smashing through the first two ranks with massive numbers brought to bear on a single point. Mark Antony had lost hundreds of men in that single attack. It should have been suicide and he had not been able to shake the sense that Octavian had manoeuvred him to his own destruction. Yet when the consuls fell, the battle came to a shuddering halt.

His men re-formed in squares, moving steadily towards the broken fort and the pass that led to Gaul and freedom. Mark Antony smiled suddenly as a thought struck him. He was the only consul of Rome once again and it would be weeks before the Senate even heard of the reverse in their fortunes. He had thrown the coin Octavian had given him, but it had come down on the right side.

As his legions began to march up the pass, Mark Antony summoned the closest extraordinarii rider.

‘Petronius, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Consul,’ the young man replied.

‘Go back and find … Caesar,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Tell him I am in his debt.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Octavian felt his head dipping again as tiredness overwhelmed him. It was true that fighting wearied a man more than any other activity, and he was not alone, the yawns going back and forth among the legates who had gathered in the command tent on the plain. The wind still howled outside, but iron braziers gave some semblance of warmth and wine kept the rest of the chill away. The legionaries did not have the luxury of rest, as he had ordered a rampart built around their massive camp before dark. It had gone up quickly, thousands of men making short work of the stony ground with their spades. Even so, Octavian was determined to move the legions south the following day, away from the mountain chill and back to the soft breezes of a northern summer.

The mood among the men was also warm and Octavian smiled to himself as he heard Maecenas laughing at something one of the legates had said. He lay on piled blankets, with more rolled under his head to form a cushion. A platter of cold food was at his elbow and camp servants stood close by to refill his cup whenever it was empty. Octavian ached in every bone and muscle, but it was a good ache and nothing like the threat of collapse he had feared in the battle.

From half-closed eyes, Octavian watched the group of four legates Hirtius and Pansa had brought north. They stood together uncomfortably, though he had told the rest to make them welcome. He had congratulated them on the victory, but there was more to do before they realised they were now a part of his army and not simply on loan from the Senate. He rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up rather than drift off to sleep in the warmth. Their men had fought with Caesar, whether the legates realised the significance of that or not. They were his to command after that day. The continuing power of the name still astounded him, but he had learned to accept its magic. Rome may once have belonged to the Senate and the great orators, but Julius Caesar had made the legions his own.

As he stood, Maecenas and Agrippa cheered him and Octavian grinned at them.

‘He rises!’ Maecenas said, passing him another cup. ‘I was just telling Paulinius here that we could do more with archers. Did you see the arrows fly today? Mark Antony has a unit of Syrian bowmen who made a fine showing.’

Octavian had not seen that particular action and he only shook his head. He realised they were all watching him closely, waiting for him to speak.

‘I do not take too much pride in a battle against an army half the size of our own, but it is better than losing, gentlemen. To victory!’

He raised his cup and they drank. He looked over at the new legates and decided to spend the evening in their company, to learn their strengths and weaknesses. He recognised the most senior of them, who had spoken to him at the end of the battle. Justinius did not look as if he had fought that day. His formal toga was fresh from his baggage and the man himself watched and listened politely as if he were at a Senate banquet rather than a field camp.

Octavian was in the process of crossing the low tent to speak to the man when one of the legionary guards entered and saluted.

‘Decimus Junius has arrived, sir,’ he said to Octavian. ‘He is asking to speak to consuls Hirtius and Pansa.’

‘No easy task,’ Maecenas muttered.

Octavian shot a warning glance at him. Pansa still lingered in the healer tents, his delirium and fever beyond anything they could do for him. Yet Octavian could not be seen to take delight in the way fortune had apparently favoured him.

‘Send him in,’ he said. His tiredness had vanished at the name and he faced the tent flap with bitter anticipation, wondering what he would do.

The man who entered was a stranger to Octavian. Decimus Junius had a round, fleshy face that gave him a look of youth. Yet he was trim enough in the toga of a Roman senator and he looked sternly around the command tent, finally saluting with stiff formality.

‘I am told Consul Hirtius has been killed,’ he said. ‘Who commands now, that I may lay my complaint before him? Who allowed Mark Antony to escape to Gaul when he was in our grasp?’

Eyes turned to Octavian, who said nothing at first. He savoured the moment while Decimus Junius looked around from face to face, confused by the silence.

‘I believe my ranks of propraetor and praefectus entitle me to command,’ Octavian said at last. ‘Either way, I am Gaius Julius Caesar and this army is mine.’

He spoke as much for the benefit of the new legates as Decimus Junius, but the name was not lost on the man, who went pale and stammered as he tried to continue.

‘I … Propraetor Caesar …’ he began, struggling to find words. Decimus Junius took a deep breath and went on, though his eyes were sick with worry. ‘Two thousand of my legionaries are still held at the Castra Taurinorum, guarded by some of Mark Antony’s men. I seek your permission to free them and rebuild the fortresses. I was fortunate that the consul passed me by as he went for the pass, but my supplies are low. If I am to keep my position here, I must ask for food and materials …’ He trailed off under Octavian’s cold stare.

‘Your position, Decimus Junius?’ Octavian asked. ‘It is simple enough. You were one of those who murdered the Father of Rome. As his adopted son, it falls to me to demand justice.’

Decimus Junius paled further, his skin bright with sweat.

‘I … I was granted amnesty by the Senate of Rome, Propraetor,’ he said, his voice shaking.

‘An amnesty I revoke,’ Octavian said.

‘By what authority? The Senate …’

‘Are not here,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘I am the commander in the field and you will find my authority is absolute, at least so far as it relates to you. Guard! Place this man under arrest and hold him for trial. You may choose anyone you like to speak for you, Decimus Junius. I suggest you find someone of uncommon skill.’

The guard laid a hand on Decimus Junius’ shoulder, causing him to jerk.

‘You can’t do this!’ he shouted. ‘I was granted amnesty for bringing down a tyrant. Will you make yourself another? Where is the rule of law in this? I am immune!’

‘Not from me,’ Octavian said. ‘I will convene a court of senior officers for tomorrow morning. Take him away now.’

Decimus Junius slumped, his expression appalled as he was led away. Octavian faced the other men in the tent, focusing on the new legates in particular.

‘Will you criticise me for this?’ he asked them softly.

Justinius was the only one of the new men who met his gaze. The legate shook his head.

‘No, Caesar,’ he said.

The sun was barely above the eastern horizon when the trial began. Eight legions were encamped around a single laurel tree, so that the small space was at the centre of a vast host of men. The cold had deepened overnight, though the sky was clear and once again the wind whipped particles of frost against the exposed skin of the men as they waited for the judgement.

Decimus Junius had chosen to defend himself and he spoke for almost an hour while the legions waited and watched. In the end, he ground to a halt and Octavian stood up.

‘I have listened to your words, Decimus Junius. I find your arguments empty. There was no amnesty when you were one of Caesar’s murderers. That it was applied later is irrelevant. The Senate cannot order the sun to set after it has risen. In giving you some sense that you were absolved of your crime, they stepped beyond the bounds of their authority. As Caesar, I revoke that amnesty in the field and will do so formally when I am next in Rome. You are the first of the Liberatores to receive justice for your crimes. You will be one of many when you meet again across the river.’

Decimus Junius only stared at him, his eyes resigned. He had not doubted the result of the trial for a moment and he raised his head, refusing to show fear.

‘I pronounce you guilty of murder and blasphemy against the divine Julius,’ Octavian said. ‘The sentence is death. Hang him.’

Octavian watched without expression as two legionaries took hold of Decimus Junius, leading him over to the tree. They threw a rope over a branch and tied a loop around his neck while he stood, his chest heaving. Decimus Junius swore at them then, cursing them by all the gods. Octavian nodded to the legionaries, who joined together to pull the rope.

Decimus Junius’ voice was strangled into silence at the first jerk. One of his hands raised to touch the rope, the fingers scrabbling at the rough line tightening around his throat. As the soldiers continued to heave, he was raised to the tips of his toes and then, with a lurch, he left the ground. His legs kicked out and both hands were at his throat. On instinct, he gripped the rope above his head and pulled himself up. The soldiers exchanged a brief communication and one of them braced himself to take the weight, while the other approached the kicking figure and knocked his arms away.

Decimus Junius jerked and sagged in spasms, his bladder emptying as he choked. It was not a quick death, but the legionaries waited patiently, only having to remove his hands once more before he was still, turning gently in the breeze. When it was over, they heaved on the legs until the neck snapped, then lowered the body down and took back the rope. One of the legionaries used his sword to hack the head from the corpse. It took three blows before it came free and the soldier held it up to the crowd as a prize. They cheered the sight of it, fascinated by the white upturned eyes as it was turned to show all those who crowded close.

Octavian let out a long breath, shuddering in release. He hoped the news would spread to the ears of more powerful men, such as Brutus and Cassius, or the ones who still scrambled in Rome as Suetonius did. They would hear, eventually, and they would consider what it meant for them. He had only begun to collect the debt they owed.

‘Legates, attend me,’ he ordered.

The eight men came to him, hushed and calm after what they had witnessed. They saw Octavian in spotless armour, his face unlined and youthful energy in every part of him.

‘The men have seen my purpose, my intentions,’ he said to them. ‘I would have their voices behind me before I move on. I recall that Caesar would sometimes summon a soldiers’ assembly when he was in the field, to take the feeling of the men. I will do that here, to know I have their support.’

His gaze fell on the legates who had come north with Hirtius and Pansa and they did not misunderstand. He had demonstrated his authority and they knew better than to refuse.

‘Summon all officers, down to tesserarius. I will speak to them and ask what they would have me do.’

The legates saluted without hesitation, walking back to their horses in disciplined silence. As the sun rose, the main body of the legions pulled back from the command tent, while two thousand officers walked in to hear Octavian speak. He waited for them, drinking only a little water and thinking back over the death of Decimus Junius. He had hoped for some feeling of satisfaction, but he had never met the man before and it was not there in him. Even so, he offered up a short prayer to Julius that he would bring the same justice to the rest of the Liberatores, one by one.

When the assembly of officers had gathered, he went out to stand before them.

‘You know why I am here now,’ he said, making his voice carry. ‘If you did not understand before, you know why I let Mark Antony leave the field yesterday. My enemies are those who murdered my father Caesar, divine Imperator of Rome. I have moved rashly before and made decisions I cannot take back. I stand here with you because I remember Caesar and he knew the wisdom of the legions he commanded.’ He paused to let the compliment sink in before going on. ‘With you, I am the right hand of Rome. I am the sword that will cut out traitors like Decimus Junius. Without you, I am no more than one man and the legacy of my father ends with me.’

‘What do you ask of us, Caesar?’ someone shouted back at him.

Octavian looked over to the massed officers.

‘Talk to each other. Talk to your men. We have eight legions and that is enough for any task. Caesar told me you could be wise, so show me. Let me know what I should do.’

He stepped deliberately away from his position, so that the officers did not feel bound to remain. To his satisfaction, he heard conversations begin among them and after a time he walked to his tent and lay in the gloom, listening to the murmurs and shouts and laughter of the men as they discussed what to do.

Barely three summer hours had passed when Justinius came to find him, the legate staring as if he could see Octavian’s heart with eyes alone.

‘The men have decided,’ Justinius said.

Octavian nodded, walking with him back to the same spot. They had gathered once more to answer him and he saw many were smiling.

‘Which of you will speak for the rest?’ Octavian called to them.

Hands went up and he picked one at random. A burly centurion rose to his feet.

‘Caesar, we are honoured to have been asked.’

A great bellow went up and Octavian had to raise his arms and pat the air for silence.

‘There are some who think you should take over from Decimus Junius in the north,’ the centurion said.

A few men cheered, but the majority remained silent as he went on.

‘The rest – most of us – have considered that Rome has at least one consular post fallen vacant,’ he said. They laughed at that and Octavian smiled with them. ‘You are too young, it’s true. No man can be consul before the age of forty-two in normal times. But exceptions have been made in the past, not least for the divine Caesar himself. We think the presence of eight legions at your back will be enough to persuade the Senate that your age is not a barrier to election as consul.’

They roared to show their support and Octavian laughed aloud. Standing at his side, Maecenas bent close to his ear.

‘I’m sure it is just a coincidence that they are suggesting exactly what you wanted to hear,’ he murmured, smiling. ‘You are getting better at this.’

Octavian looked across at him, his eyes bright. As they quietened to hear his response, he took a deep breath.

‘You have spoken and I have heard. Yet if I go south to stand for consul, it will not be as the head of an invading army. I will ask the citizens of Rome for their vote, but I will not take legions into Rome, not again. If the people see fit to make me consul, I will gain the justice that has been denied to me – and to you – for too long. Is it your wish that we return?’

The response was never in doubt, but still Octavian was pleased at the battering roar that came back to him, quickly echoed instinctively by the mass of legionaries further out. They would hear the news in time. They were going home to elect a new Caesar as consul.

In the tents of the healers, Consul Pansa heard the roar and sucked in a molten breath. In his weakness, his tongue slipped back into his throat, the fat length of flesh cutting off his air. Bitter vomit rose, spilling from his open mouth and broken nose as he clawed at his face. He grunted and waved his hands as he strangled, but the soldiers were all outside, listening to their officers cheer Caesar. By the time they returned to tend him, he was dead, his eyes bulging.

The Senate watched each change of expression in the young man before them. He had answered every question and they had been impressed. His lineage was beyond reproach. Only his youth held them back from outright endorsement. Yet he did not look abashed and when he spoke, it was with the fluency of an honest and an older man.

Bibilus couldn’t take his eyes off Sextus Pompey. It was as if a Greek athlete stood there for their judgement, slim of shoulder and hip, with the sort of fine musculature that only came from an active life. Bibilus wiped his brow with a square of cloth, moving it down to take the wet shine off his lips. At the end of three hours in the theatre, they were all weary, but the subject of the emergency meeting still looked fresh. More than anything, Pompey’s unruffled calm helped to persuade the older members. In years alone, he was far too young for such a serious appointment, but the life he had led gave him a maturity and seriousness of which they could approve.

Suetonius was the last one still prepared to question the youth. When he rose from his bench, Pompey’s steady gaze fastened on him, so that he hesitated and forgot what he was about to ask.

‘You, um … you have described the death of your father in Egypt,’ Suetonius began, aware as he spoke of the sighs and grunts of irritation all around him. The rest of the senators wanted to move to a vote and then go home. Suetonius tensed his mouth and ran a hand over the hair he had plastered so carefully across the dome of his head.

‘You have also provided details of your brother, murdered by forces of Caesar in Spain. You say your sister yet survives … Lavinia. Yet, um … most of your experience has been on land, yet you are asking for command of the fleet? Tell this house why we should grant such authority to a young fellow of your age.’

Sextus Pompey looked up and around before he answered. The gesture was not lost on many of the men there and they chuckled as he smiled.

‘My father built this theatre, Senator, though I have never seen it before today. I am glad it is being used for more than even he intended. I am also glad his name is not forgotten, despite the best efforts of the Caesarian faction that has proved such a poison in the politics of this city. Is the line of Caesar not a dagger at your throats once again? The markets in the city are full of such chatter, with talk of him occupying even the forum.’

He paused with the natural gift of an orator, letting his audience soak in each point while he planned the next.

‘In me, you have more than a father’s son, though I do not fear to rest my honour on that of Gnaeus Pompey. I have fought against the armies of Caesar in Spain for almost as long as I can remember. Before that, I saw my father stabbed to death by foreign slaves in Alexandria, just to please Caesar. In my opposition to Octavian, you need never fear for my loyalty. I am perhaps the only man in Rome whose enmity is as set as the path of the stars.’

He paused again, knowing Suetonius would prompt him on the subject of the fleet. As the senator opened his mouth, Sextus Pompey went on.

‘I have fought on board ships, Senator. As I said, I have three galleys of my own, each one captured from Caesar’s forces and used to attack more. While he led Rome, I could be nothing more than a pirate with my name and my blood, but you have changed that. This new Caesar who undermines the authority of the Senate, who dares to flout the rule of Rome, will always be my enemy. But if the rumours are true …’ he smiled wryly, certain that he had not misjudged the panicky news flying through the city over the previous few days, ‘then he has an army too great to oppose in Roman lands, at least for this year. When he reaches Rome, he will dig himself under the skin and it will take a hot knife to get him out once more.’

Suetonius was nodding at the summary of all his own fears as Pompey went on.

‘But he does not have the fleet at Brundisium. Not yet, at least. It is the last remaining power at your disposal, at your command and in your gift. I ask only that you seal orders putting me in charge of it. I will use it to bring terror and destruction to this new Caesar, in the name of this Senate. At the very least, I will take it out of his grasp. My name tells you I can be trusted, senators, as you sit in my father’s house.’

‘I am satisfied,’ Suetonius said weakly, resuming his seat.

The ballot passed quickly, with no more than a few abstentions and votes against. Sextus Pompey would command the fleet, an authority almost absolute in its lack of oversight and control. Even those who remembered his father knew it was a great risk, but they knew also that Caesar was marching south to Rome and this time he had eight legions with him. They could not let him have the fleet as well, or the entire Roman world would be at his mercy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The gates of Rome were closed and sealed as the sun rose. The male voting population of the city had come out in darkness to the Campus Martius. Every free citizen was there, arranged in centuries of class and wealth, while the city filled with the odour of tens of thousands of meals being prepared for their return.

In times past, the voting days would have had an air of festival, with street performers and food sellers making more money in a day than they could in a normal month. Yet across the Tiber, eight legions camped, a great sea of shining armour waiting for the result. The sight of such a force within range of Rome dampened the spirits of the citizens considerably.

The representatives of each voting century came to cast their votes in huge baskets, filling them slowly with wooden tokens. Octavian stood close by, wearing a simple white toga. He was aware of the awe in the crowds that milled around him and he smiled at anyone who approached, exchanging a few words and thanking them for their support. There were many of those. He looked across to where Bibilus stood and sweated, despite a slave fanning him and another holding a sunshade above his head. Years before, Bibilus had stood with Caesar as consul and Octavian knew the memories would be sharp in him that day. He had heard the stories and it was hard not to glance across to the Janiculum hill, where a flag was raised high. While it fluttered, the election continued, but if the men at the peak saw an army approach, it would drop and the entire city would be made ready to defend itself. When Bibilus had stood before, his friend Suetonius had arranged for the flag to fall when the results went against them. Caesar had planned for the treachery and his men had kept the signal high, long enough to make their master consul. Octavian smiled at the thought.

‘Forty-two Caesar and Pedius; forty-eight Bibilus and Suetonius!’ the diribitores called.

The Senate had used a lot of favours to get so many votes from the first voting centuries. Octavian smiled, unworried. They had less influence with the poorer classes, he knew, while the name of Caesar rang like a bell for all those who had been paid their silver legacy.

‘I had hoped for more by now,’ Pedius said at his side.

Octavian wondered again if he had made the right choice for his co-consul. Pedius was his senior by thirty years, a man with a deeply seamed face and a narrow chin that came almost to a point. Everything about him looked sharp, but Pedius was a nervous little man who chewed his inner lips when he was worried. It was true that he had once been a client and a friend of Caesar. That friendship had not been enough for Pedius to vote against the amnesty, but he was at least a man who had not sided too openly with the Liberatores. Octavian studied him, seeing Pedius as those who came to vote would and sighing to himself. He had been forced to flatter and bribe Pedius with little subtlety to get him to stand. They both knew it was only to keep Bibilus or Suetonius from the second consular post, but still Pedius had debated the proposition as if it might have been his destiny. Octavian looked away from the watery-eyed senator, staring out over the vast Campus with a hundred thousand free men moving across it. Once again, he wished Maecenas had wanted the post. Yet Maecenas would hear none of it and only laughed at him when he asked.

‘Fifty Caesar and Pedius; fifty-three Bibilus and Suetonius!’ the diribitores chanted, bringing a cheer from some of those still waiting to vote. They could not enter the city until the seals were struck from the gates and there was impatience there from some, while others were enjoying a day of enforced leisure away from work and their families.

Octavian clapped Pedius on the back, making him jump.

‘The noble centuries have voted now,’ he said. ‘The merchant classes will support us over Bibilus and Suetonius, I think.’

Pedius moved his mouth as if he were manoeuvring a difficult bit of gristle from his teeth.

‘I hope you are correct, Caesar. I do not need to tell you the danger of losing this particular election.’

Octavian looked west to where forty thousand legionaries waited. He had halted them beyond the Tiber and waited a full day before coming to the senate house and announcing his name for consul. He had done everything he could to remove the sting of an armed threat to the city, but still, there they were. Heads in the crowd turned constantly to see them.Octavian did not think Rome would vote against a man holding a knife to its throat, for all his efforts to hide the blade.

Octavian smiled as the voting tokens began to pile up. He could see Bibilus seething as the tally for Caesar and Pedius grew, but the votes kept coming, a trend becoming a flood as the merchant centuries took their chance to show what they thought of the men they perceived as having murdered Caesar. It helped that the count was public, so that each man approaching the baskets with his token knew already that he was part of the general mood.

Octavian saw their satisfaction and many of the voters bowed their heads to him as they dropped the wooden tokens, hundred after hundred of the citizens of Rome, showing him he had their support. It was intoxicating, he realised. He had wanted the consular role for the power and security it would win for him, but the reality was far greater. The people of Rome had been denied a voice and the riots had been put down with savage force. This was their revenge on the Senate, and Octavian savoured every moment of it.

In the early afternoon, a point was reached where the mass of poorer classes could no longer affect the result. The diribitores conferred, then signalled to the legion cornicens to blow. The notes soared across the Campus Martius and beyond the Tiber, the waiting legions roared like the distant ocean.

The noise spread, from those who had voted to the tens of thousands who would not get their chance. They too wanted to show their approval and the sound crashed at Octavian. He sagged, breathing hard and feeling the sweat that made his toga stick to his skin. He had told himself it was never in doubt, but he became aware of a painful tension that held every muscle tight. The flag on the Janiculum hill was lowered under the formal gaze of the citizens and as the horns sounded, the seals of bronze and wax were hammered into pieces and the city gates opened. Women, children and slaves came out by the thousand to join their husbands, brothers and sons and the festival air grew as they heard the news and celebrated in turn.

Octavian had brought only a pair of guards, all he was allowed for the formal voting. They were unable to stop the thousands who came to speak to him, to touch him and clap him on the back. It was too many and he had to start walking before they clustered too deeply around him, or knocked him down in their enthusiasm. The movement brought some relief, but they still cheered and followed as he strode across the field to where six guards held a white bull in a pen built for the sacrifice. Agrippa and Maecenas were there, looking proud. Octavian nodded to them, knowing they understood what he had gone through to stand in that place. The new consuls would take the omens and almost a hundred priests and officials and scribes had gathered there to record the event. More soldiers created a clear space for the ritual and the omen-takers prepared the bellowing animal.

Quintina Fabia was dressed in blinding white, her face painted so well that it was almost a mask of youth. She bowed to Octavian and Pedius as they approached, holding out an iron sickle with a keen edge. Octavian took it and tested the implement on the hairs of his forearm as he looked over at the massive bulk of the bull.

‘I do not doubt Julius can see you now,’ the high priestess said warmly. ‘He would be proud of his son.’

Octavian dipped his head to show his appreciation. The guards drew ropes on the bull, heaving it over to the edge of the enclosure. It had been drugged with a mixture of opium and other herbs in its feed, so that it was dazed and sluggish. The omens would not be good if they had to chase a wounded animal across the Campus. Octavian fought not to smile at the image in his mind. He knew it was just giddiness, after the election, but he was required to be solemn and dignified until it was done.

The chanting began as the omen-takers and soothsayers implored the gods to send a sign and give their blessing to the consular year to come. Octavian stood mute and Quintina finally had to jog his shoulder to tell him it was time.

He approached the tethered bull, close enough to see its lashes and smell the clean scent of its skin. He placed a hand on the top of its head and saw the animal was chewing idly, unaware of what was going to happen. The image reminded him of Pedius and again he had to struggle not to laugh.

With a jerk, he reached under the powerful neck and drew the blade across in one swift slash. Blood spattered like rain onto bronze dishes held below. The animal grunted and did not seem to feel pain at first. The bowls filled and were replaced, passed to the omen-takers, who stared into the red liquid for patterns into the future.

The bull began to moan and struggle, but its lifeblood still poured. It collapsed slowly onto its knees and the dark brown eyes grew wild. It moaned louder and the ropes grew tight as it tried to struggle up. Octavian watched, waiting for it to die and thinking of Decimus Junius. He was woken from his reverie by a shout from one of the haruspices, pointing at the sky with a shaking hand. Octavian looked up with the rest of the crowd and was in time to see a flight of dark birds cross the city in the distance. He smiled, delighted at the sight of vultures in the air. The history of the city said that there had been twelve as Romulus founded Rome. With thousands of citizens, he counted the dark birds in his head, struggling to be certain as they overlapped and dwindled.

‘I saw twelve,’ Quintina Fabia said loudly and clearly.

Octavian blinked. The birds were passing into the setting sun and he could not be sure. The number was echoed around him and he laughed at last.

‘It is a good omen,’ he said. He had Caesar’s luck, for all he was sure there had been only nine birds. They had gone into the sun, but it was enough. The sighting of twelve would send a message of rebirth to the people of Rome.

When the bull’s liver was cut out, the end of it was folded over and Quintina Fabia beamed. She held up the bloody organ, spattering her white robe with red life that ran down her arms. The omen-takers cheered and the scribes wrote down every detail on wax tablets, to be entered into the city records later that evening. The omens were superb and Octavian could only shake his head in pleasure and send a silent prayer of thanks to his mentor and namesake.

The bulk of the crowd had followed the new consuls to watch the sacrifice. As the omens were read and proclaimed across the Campus, Bibilus and his coterie of supporters remained by the voting baskets. Bibilus swept his hand through the polished wooden tokens, letting them fall back one by one. With a sour expression, he looked at Suetonius and Gaius Trebonius.

‘I have ordered horses brought for you,’ he said, ‘and arranged a ship. You will find it at the docks in Ostia. Go with my blessing.’

His tone was grim with dissatisfaction, but he could feel the tide turning as well as anyone. Octavian had won the highest post of the city and the Caesarians were rising with him. Clients in the Senate would no longer withhold their votes. Bibilus thanked his personal gods that the fleet was not in their grasp. There was at least that, slim straw though it was to ease his disgust.

Suetonius looked over the city and around at the Janiculum hill. He remembered a different election and another Caesar, but he had been younger then and more able to withstand the reverses of capricious fate. He shook his head, wiping a hand over the thinning hair that the breeze picked up and flicked over to reveal his baldness.

‘I will go to Cassius,’ he announced. ‘This is just a single day, Bibilus. Sextus Pompey has the fleet in the west. Cassius and Brutus hold the east. Rome will starve without grain by sea and this city will suffer, held on both sides until it is strangled. This vote, this obscenity today, is one small failure, nothing more. I will see this place again, I swear it.’

He turned to Gaius Trebonius, the one who had distracted Mark Antony during the assassination of Caesar. The younger man had been so proud to be named as one of the Liberatores, even though he had not wielded a blade. Now, the legacy of that decision haunted him and he looked ill.

‘This is not right,’ Trebonius said, his voice shaking. He had never left Rome before and the thought of foreign cities filled him with unease. ‘He had Decimus Junius hanged without a proper trial! How does he remain immune while we must run? We removed a tyrant, an enemy of the state. Why do they not see that?’

‘Because they are blinded by gold and names and foolish dreams,’ Suetonius snapped. ‘Believe me, I have seen more of it than I could ever tell you. Good men work in silence and what of their dignity, their honour? It is ignored for those who shout and prance and pander to the unwashed crowds.’

He reached out to grip Trebonius by the shoulder, but the younger man pulled away by instinct, his face flushing. For an instant, Suetonius clawed the empty air, then let his hand fall.

‘I have lived with Caesars. I have even killed one,’ he said. ‘But men like Cassius will not let this rest, believe me. There will be a price in blood and I will be there to see it paid.’

For the first time in many years, the new consuls would not enter the city proper. The senate house was still nothing more than a scorched foundation and Octavian and Pedius walked instead to the open doors of Pompey’s theatre. The crowd followed them right to the point where they passed behind a line of soldiers, there to guard the dignity of the Senate.

Octavian paused at the enormous pillars of white marble, looking at the flecks of bull’s blood on his hands as the senators streamed in around him. Many congratulated them both as they passed and he acknowledged them, knowing that he should begin the subtle web of alliances that he needed to pass even a simple vote. Yet the omens had given him a momentum that the senators would not resist.

Pedius stayed at his side, his mouth working constantly as if he tried to consume himself from within. He alone seemed to take no joy in the omens or the appointment, though it would place his name in the history of the city. Octavian stifled a grin at the older man’s nervousness. He had not chosen Pedius for ideals or a fiery intelligence, far from it. Pedius had been the best choice simply because he was not strong. Octavian had learned from his mistakes, particularly from the disaster of entering the forum with armed legionaries earlier that year. He knew by then that he could not ignore the importance of how he was seen. The people and the Senate would resist a crude grab for power in any form. Even as consul, he would tread warily. Pedius was his shield.

‘Consul,’ Octavian said to him. The older man started at the title, a tentative smile playing around his chewing mouth. ‘I am happy to propose the Lex Curiata myself. It would honour me if you would call the vote to overturn the amnesty.’

Pedius nodded immediately. Octavian had agreed to fund a new home for him in the sea town of Herculaneum, a place where only the richest men of Rome dwelled. Pedius appreciated the delicacy and politeness, but he knew his support had been bought and was nothing more than a formality. Yet he had known divine Caesar and admired him for years. The shame of failing to vote against the original amnesty still stung in him. Though Octavian did not know it, the house by the sea was just froth compared to that.

‘It would be a pleasure, Caesar,’ he said.

Octavian smiled. Rome was his. In the weeks of preparation, one man had never doubted he would become consul on a wave of public acclaim. Mark Antony had written to him, asking for a meeting in a neutral place where they might plan a campaign against the Liberatores. It would begin today.

PART THREE

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The river Lavinius wandered across the north. Near Mutina, it had formed a dozen small islands in the water, ranging from rocky outcrops with a single tree to patches of dense woodland surrounded by the current and cut off from the world.

Octavian looked across the flowing waters to where Mark Antony waited for him. Neither man trusted the other completely, which made the island a perfect meeting place. On the other bank, two Gaul legions stood patiently in square formation, but they were helpless to intervene if Octavian planned treachery, just as the Seventh Victrix and Ninth Macedonia would not be able to help, if Mark Antony planned to kill him.

Simply reaching that point had been like an elaborate dance, with the two sides exchanging messages and promises as they came together. Both had guaranteed safe passage for the other, but the reality always involved a final gamble. Octavian looked at Agrippa and Maecenas. They had crossed once before to search the island for hidden soldiers or traps of any kind. It was impossible to be too cautious, Octavian thought. He took a deep breath, looking dubiously at the rocking boat.

‘I think, if we have missed something, if this does not go well, I would like to go to my death with the certain knowledge that Mark Antony will not be long behind me,’ he said. ‘Those are my orders. If I am killed, he is not to leave that island alive.’

He judged the distances, seeing that Mark Antony had picked a spot out of reach of legion spear-throwers.

‘Bring up the scorpion bows and have the teams aim out over the river,’ Octavian said.

His legions had been able to assemble the massive weapons over the previous day and it gave him some relief to watch them dragged up by teams of oxen and aimed at the island. On the far bank, he saw the same thing happening and wondered what it would be like to stand on that small isle and hear the snap of the bows as they sent iron bolts streaking across the water.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked his friends.

Agrippa answered by clambering down into the boat and checking ropes with a tug. Maecenas shrugged, still staring out at the figures waiting for them.

‘You’ve done all you can. If it’s a plot, he won’t live through it, I can promise that much.’

‘Unless he isn’t even there,’ Agrippa said as he settled himself. ‘The big man with the armour could be just an officer to draw us in to a place he can strike with his own catapults and bows.’

‘Always the optimist, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said.

Even so, Maecenas climbed into the boat and took a grip on the tall prow, preferring to stand. There were four rowers already in place in the skiff, all veteran swordsmen with weapons at their feet that they could grab at a moment’s notice. As one, they looked up at Octavian and he nodded to them.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what he wants.’ He climbed in and sat against the wooden rail of the skiff, his gaze already focused on their destination. ‘Cast off, or row, or whatever the command is,’ he said.

Agrippa looked pained, but the rowers pushed away from the bank and the boat turned into the current. With four oars stroking through the water, it accelerated quickly towards the island. Octavian was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. Agrippa saw his expression change and smiled.

‘There is a magic to small boats,’ he said. ‘But galleys are better still.’

Octavian’s smile slipped at the reminder of the massive fleet that had vanished from Brundisium. His co-consul Pedius had pushed through a vote to remove the authority of Sextus Pompey, but that did not bring the ships back.

‘When I am finished here,’ Octavian said, ‘I will need my own fleet.’

‘You’re in your fleet at the moment,’ Maecenas replied blithely.

Octavian snorted. ‘I have been thinking about that. Sooner or later, I must take Sextus Pompey on. Without control of the seas, we will never be able to take legions against Cassius and Brutus.’

Agrippa rubbed his chin, nodding.

‘It will cost fortunes,’ he replied. ‘Sextus has, what, two hundred galleys? To build even half that number would cost tens of millions of sesterces – and the time to retrain legionaries.’

‘What good is a deal with Mark Antony if I can’t leave Rome for fear of pirates?’ Octavian said. ‘I will find the money – and the men. You have a free hand, Agrippa. Build me a fleet.’

When they reached the island, the three passengers climbed out. Without a word, the rowers began to pull on legionary armour that could have drowned them before. Octavian waited impatiently, his fingers rubbing the hilt of his gladius.

Mark Antony himself strolled down to the sandy landing place, watching their preparations with something like amusement. He looked healthy and strong, standing almost as tall as Agrippa and with the trim frame of a soldier despite his years.

‘Welcome, Consul,’ he said. ‘You’ve come a long way since I held the title you bear now. As I wrote to you, my honour guarantees your safety here. We meet under truce. I would like to introduce you to my companions, so will you walk with me?’

The man Octavian had last seen riding hard for Gaul seemed to have no fear of the armed soldiers with Octavian. He looked as relaxed as any noble Roman enjoying an afternoon on the river. Octavian smiled at his manner, playing along.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said. ‘We have a great deal to discuss.’

‘Now that he’s decided to listen,’ Maecenas muttered.

The group of six accompanied Mark Antony to where a tent and tables had been laid out on the grass. From that side of the island, Octavian could see the Gaul legions on the opposing bank much more clearly. It was almost certainly no accident that the river was narrower on that side. A dozen scorpion bows and two centuries of archers watched him in turn, ready for the first hint of treachery. Strangely, it pleased Octavian that he too was considered a threat. He did not want to be the only one tying himself into knots with worry.

Mark Antony was in an ebullient mood as host. He saw Octavian looking at the standing legionaries.

‘These are difficult days, Caesar, are they not? Lepidus here thought so, when I arrived in Gaul. I give thanks that he saw no conflict in handing over command to a consul of Rome.’

‘An ex-consul of Rome,’ Octavian said automatically. He saw Mark Antony begin to frown and went on quickly. ‘But still a man Julius Caesar called a friend and, I hope, an ally in these times.’

‘As you say. I find the more legions I have, the easier it is to find allies,’ Mark Antony replied with a booming laugh. ‘Lepidus? Let me introduce the new Caesar and the latest consul.’

The man he brought forward with a hand to his shoulder looked awestruck and out of place in that gathering. Octavian did not know Lepidus personally, only that he had been prefect of Gaul and appointed by Caesar after the Imperator’s return from the east. Lepidus was not an impressive figure at first glance. He had a slight stoop that made him look like a scholar rather than a senior officer, though his nose had been broken many times and one of his ears had been battered badly in some old conflict. It was little more than a flap of gristle, pink and without the usual curves. His hair was full but completely white. Against them, Octavian felt his youth as a strength rather than a weakness.

‘I am honoured to meet you, Caesar,’ Lepidus said. His voice was low and firm and gave some sense of the man behind the ageing exterior.

Octavian took his outstretched arm and gripped it.

‘As I am honoured to meet you both, gentlemen. As consul of Rome, I suppose I have the most senior rank. Shall we sit?’

He gestured to the long table, deliberately moving towards it rather than letting Mark Antony set the pace. Maecenas and Agrippa came smoothly with him, taking positions at his back as he chose a chair at the head of the table.

Mark Antony looked irritated, but he gave way with good grace and seated himself opposite Octavian, with Lepidus at his side. Four more of their men stood far enough back not to present an obvious threat, though their purpose was clear. Octavian glanced behind him to his rowers, who had taken position automatically, facing the others. They made two clear groups across from each other and the tension was suddenly present once more as Mark Antony rested his arms on the wood.

‘Shall I begin?’ Mark Antony said. He went on before anyone could reply. ‘My proposal is simple. I have fifteen legions at my command in Gaul, with Lepidus. You have eight, Caesar, as well as a consular year to come. You want the forces to bring down the Liberatores and I want rank and power in Rome, rather than as an outsider in Gaul. We should be able to come to an agreement, don’t you think?’

Octavian gave silent thanks for Roman bluntness. In that at least, he and Mark Antony shared a similar dislike for the games of the Senate.

‘Where does Prefect Lepidus stand in this?’ he asked, giving no sign of a reaction.

‘Lepidus and I speak as one,’ Mark Antony said before the man could reply. ‘Rome has known a triumvirate before. I propose that we share power between us, with the aim of breaking the Liberatores in the east. I do not think you can accomplish that without my legions, Caesar.’

Octavian felt his mind whirling. It was a good offer, if he could trust it. With Crassus and Pompey, Caesar himself had created the first triumvirate. He hardly had to mention how badly it had ended for two of them. He looked deeply into Mark Antony’s eyes, seeing the tension there. The ex-consul seemed to have a strong position, but there was something bothering him and Octavian searched for the right words to reveal it.

‘It would have to be recognised in the Senate, for it to be legal,’ he said. ‘I can offer that much, at least. I have enough clients there now to win any vote.’

As Mark Antony began to relax, Octavian looked past him to the legions encamped on the river bank.

‘Yet it strikes me that I gain very little from this. I am consul, with a Senate who do not dare to cross me. Yes, there are enemies to be faced, but I can raise new legions.’

Mark Antony shook his head. ‘I have reports from Syria and Greece that tell me you don’t have that kind of time, Caesar. If you wait much longer, Brutus and Cassius will be too strong. What I offer is the strength to break them before they reach that point.’

Octavian thought deeply as both men stared at him, waiting. Consuls were limited in authority, for all the semblance of power they wielded. Like a temporary dictatorship, what Mark Antony proposed would put him above the law, beyond its reach for crucial years while he built his fleet and his army. Yet he thought he had not yet found the weakness that had brought Mark Antony to negotiate and it nagged at him. He looked again past those at the table, to the legions on the river bank.

‘How are you paying your men?’ he asked idly.

To his surprise, Mark Antony flushed with something like embarrassment.

‘I’m not,’ he said, the words dragged out of him. ‘Part of our agreement must include funds to pay the legions I command.’

Octavian whistled softly to himself. Fifteen legions amounted to seventy-five thousand men, with perhaps another twenty thousand camp followers. Octavian wondered how long they had gone without silver. Poverty was a harsh mistress and Mark Antony needed him, or at least the funds in Rome and from Caesar’s will.

Octavian smiled more warmly at the two men he faced.

‘I think I understand the main arguments, gentlemen. But what sort of a fool would I be to accept battle against Cassius and Brutus and lose Gaul for lack of soldiers there?’

Mark Antony dismissed the point with a gesture.

‘Gaul has been peaceful for years. Caesar broke the back of their tribes and killed their leaders. There is no High King to follow Vercingetorix, not any more. They have fallen back into a thousand squabbling families and will remain so for generations. Yet I will not take every Roman. I can leave two or three legions to man the forts for a few seasons. If the Gauls rebel, I will hear very quickly. They know what to expect if they do.’

Octavian looked dubiously at the older man, wondering if he overreached himself. The last thing Octavian wanted was a battle on two fronts. Mark Antony played a dangerous game in stripping Gaul, for all it had brought him to the negotiating table.

After a long, tense moment while the others watched him, he nodded.

‘Very well, gentlemen. I can see you have had time to consider how such a triumvirate might work. Tell me how you see it and I will consider what is best for Rome.’

Three days of negotiations had left Mark Antony exhausted, while Octavian seemed as fresh as the first moment he had sat at the table. He returned each dawn to the same spot, once the island had been checked for hidden men by Maecenas and Lepidus. There was no treachery and Octavian was filled with a sense that the agreement might actually work. Even so, he argued and discussed every point with great energy, while the two older men wilted.

Octavian offered the passage of a law making their arrangement legitimate. In return, Mark Antony promised him complete control of Sicily, Sardinia and all of Africa, including Egypt. It was a barbed gift, with the fleet of Sextus Pompey controlling the western sea, but Octavian accepted. Mark Antony was to keep Gaul as his personal fiefdom, while Lepidus would gain the region in the north where Decimus Junius had ruled for such a short time. Spain and the rest of Italy would be their joint domain. Octavian arranged for three million sesterces to be sent over the river in boats and had the pleasure of seeing Mark Antony relax and look young for a while, before they lost themselves in the details once more.

On the third day, the agreement was written to be sealed by all three men. Together, they would form ‘A Commission of Three for the Ordering of the State’, an ugly and unwieldy title that went some way to hide what it really was – a temporary truce between men of power to gain what they truly wanted. Octavian had no false hopes on that score, but Mark Antony had never been his enemy, for all the man’s Roman arrogance. His true enemies grew stronger by the day and he needed legions and power to take them on.

The final part of the agreement caused more argument than the rest of it. When Cornelius Sulla had been Dictator of Rome, he had allowed what he called ‘proscriptions’ – a list of men condemned by the state. To be named on such a list was a sentence of death, as any citizen could carry out the charge, handing over the head of the named man for the reward of part of his estate, while the rest was sold for Senate coffers. It was a dangerous power to wield and Octavian felt the lure of it from the beginning and struggled to resist. The only names he allowed on his behalf were the nineteen remaining men who had taken part in the assassination of Caesar in Pompey’s theatre. Lepidus and Mark Antony added their own choices and Octavian swallowed nervously as he read the names of senators he knew well. His colleagues were settling old scores as their price for the agreement.

For another two days, they wrangled over inclusions, vetoing each other’s choices for personal reasons and negotiating them back onto the list one by one. In the end, it was done. The proscriptions would create chaos in Rome, but when those men had their estates put up for auction, he would have the funds he needed to build a fleet and fight a war. He shuddered at the thought, reading the list yet again. Brutus and Cassius were the first ones on it. The eastern half of Roman lands were not mentioned anywhere in the agreements. It would have been a fantasy to parcel them out while they were still held by those men. Still, it was a mark, a line drawn. Cassius and Brutus would be declared enemies of the state, where once they had been protected by law and amnesty. It was not a small thing to see them heading the list.

Six days after he had first landed on the tiny island, Octavian was there again. Mark Antony and Lepidus were glowing with their achievement, brought back into the fold by the only man with the power to do it. There was still little trust between them, but they had developed a grudging respect for each other in the days of argument. Mark Antony breathed slowly and calmly as he watched Octavian seal the triumvirate agreement and readied his own ring to add his family’s crest.

‘Five years is enough to put right the mistakes of the past,’ Mark Antony said. ‘May the gods smile on us for that long at least.’

‘Will you come back with me to Rome now, to see this made law?’ Octavian asked him, smiling curiously.

‘I would not miss it,’ Mark Antony said.

The coast of Sicily was a perfect location for a fleet of raptores. The high hills close to the coast allowed Sextus Pompey to read flag signals, then send out his galleys in quick dashes, the oar-slaves straining until the prows cut white through the sea. He squinted against the glare to read the flags as the sun came up, showing his teeth as he saw the red cloth like a distant drop of blood against the mountain peak. It was almost hidden behind the pall of smoke from the volcano on the massive island, the grumbling monster that shook the earth and caused dead fish to float to the surface, where his delighted men could spear them and find them already cooked. At night, they could sometimes see a dim glow from the peak, as molten rock bubbled and spat.

It was a landscape that suited his hatred and it was a heady thing to have both the authority and the ships to enforce his will. No longer did he have to risk the wrath of the Roman fleet whenever he sent out his crews to attack merchant vessels. The Roman fleet was his to command, with orders on waxed parchment, sealed in a great disc of wax and ribbon. The senior officers could only salute and place themselves under his authority when they saw that seal. From that moment, he had possessed a weapon as powerful as anything wielded by Rome. More so, given his stranglehold on the coast. Grain ships from Africa and Sicily itself no longer sailed to the peninsula. Rome was cut off from half the food and supplies they needed and he could do still more.

Sextus Pompey turned to his new second in command, Vedius. It would perhaps have been more conciliatory to appoint one of the senior legion captains, but Vedius had been with him for years as a pirate and Sextus trusted him. Vedius was in his twenties, but he didn’t have the sharp eyes needed to read the flags and he waited to hear the news, almost quivering with excitement. The man had been a tavern wolf when Sextus had found him, making a rough living fighting for coin, most of which he lost in gambling or drink. They had recognised something in each other the first time Sextus had knocked him down, breaking his jaw. Vedius had attacked him three times in the months after that, but each time had been worse and eventually he had given up on revenge and taken an interest in the Roman noble who talked and acted like a commoner. Sextus grinned at the man, who had never known regular food until he joined the galley crews that preyed on Roman shipping. Even a wolf could be tamed with cooked meals, it seemed.

‘The red flag is up. There is some brave soul out there, risking his life to get trinkets through to his mistress.’

In the old days, a second flag would have been vital to know the number of ships. One or two made a target, but more than that was too great a risk and his men stayed hidden in the bays and coves along the coast.

Sextus felt his heart beat faster, an old pleasure. He was standing on the deck of a fine Roman galley, with legionaries and slaves ready to send it surging out. In the small bay where he had spent the night, another five galleys were sheltering at anchor, waiting for his orders. He shouted to the signaller, watching as his own flag ran up to the tip of the mast and the rowers were woken from sleep with a whip cracking by their ears. The other galleys reacted with the sort of discipline he had come to love, heaving up anchors from the seabed and readying their oars in just moments. He wanted to laugh aloud as he felt his ship move through the dark water towards the open sea. The others leapt forward, like hunting hawks. His raptores, just half a dozen of the deadly vessels he had been given. The coast sheltered two hundred of the galleys from prying eyes, all waiting on his orders.

The movement brought his sister up from her tiny cabin, introducing a new note of tension into her brother’s frame. He did not enjoy the way Vedius looked at her. At eighteen, Sextus was father as well as brother to her and he kept her close rather than leave her among the coarse men in his inland camps.

‘No cause for alarm, Lavinia. I am doing the noble work of the Senate, keeping the coast clear. You can stay unless there is fighting. Then I want you safe below, all right?’

Her eyes flashed in irritation, but she nodded. Though she had the same blonde hair as he did, it framed a face that seemed years younger, still very much a child. Sextus looked fondly at her as she tied her hair back and stared out to sea, enjoying the wind and spray. He was very aware that Vedius followed her every movement with his own dull stare.

‘Keep watch for enemy ships,’ he told Vedius, his voice curt.

The man was ugly, there was no other word for it. Vedius had been so battered about the face that his nose, lips and ears were a mass of scarring and his eyebrows were just thick pink lines from being ripped too many times by iron gloves. Their first fight had begun when Sextus had told him he had a face like a testicle, but without that lucky blow against his open mouth, Sextus knew he could have been killed by the fighter. Still, no one does well once their jaw has been broken and he had introduced Vedius to the reality of swords after that. He would certainly not allow the man to court his sister. For all her youth, she was of noble blood and Sextus would have to find her some wealthy senator or praetor very soon. He saw Lavinia squinting at seabirds on the high ropes and he smiled in affection.

The galleys came out at half-speed, their slave rowers warming up as they moved into the sun. Sextus exulted at the sight of them forming into an arrowhead formation without fresh orders. His original crews had simply rushed upon target ships, lunging at them with raucous cries. The fleet galleys were disciplined and deadly, and as he often did, he raced to the prow to lean out over it and stare into the distance as his ship crashed through the waves.

Two ships lay ahead, mere specks against the glare of the sun. Even as he watched, they spotted his galleys and began to turn back for the mainland. It was already too late. Unless they made it to a proper port, all they could do was run their craft onto a beach and vanish to save their lives. Sextus chuckled as he was sprayed with salt water, holding on with only one arm against the gleaming bronze eye that looked over the waves. That part of the coast offered no sanctuary, only rocky cliffs that would smash the merchants to kindling faster than he could. He bellowed back to the legion officers and the drumbeat grew faster, the great oars dipping in and out of the sea. Their speed increased and the ships around him matched the acceleration smoothly, soaring over the waters as the merchants realised their mistake and tried to tack back out to sea.

Sextus was close enough by then to see the single sail, while the other ship was a galley under full strain, easily outpacing its charge. He was surprised to see the galley turn away and head straight for him, as if its captain thought he had a chance against six. Sextus had expected to chase them up the west coast for thirty miles or so before he could board them.

Vedius appeared at his shoulder.

‘He wants a quick end, maybe,’ he said.

Sextus nodded, unconvinced. The actions of the galley captain made no sense at all and he could see the oars dipping and rising like sun-whitened wings as they pushed on towards him.

‘Put up flags “one” and “two” and “attack”, with the “minor” signal,’ he said.

He loved the legion systems and he had mastered them quickly, delighting in the complex orders he could give. Two of his galleys would chase down the merchant while he dealt with this stranger who thought he could race right down his throat. Sextus watched as two of his group veered off, keeping the same speed, as he called for his remaining four ships to ease back to half.

Still the enemy galley came on, unafraid.

‘If we hit him from both sides, he’ll go down, quick as spitting,’ Vedius said, leering at the incoming vessel.

‘There are easier ways to commit suicide,’ Sextus said, shaking his head. ‘He’s risked it all to reach us. We have the numbers to take him easily, no matter what he does now.’

The galley coming at them was far from shore and the rowers would be tiring. Even if they turned and ran at their best pace, Sextus knew he could catch and ram them before the galley reached the coast. In the distance, he could see his pair of ships overhauling the hapless trader. Its sails were coming down in surrender and his men would strip the ship of anything useful before setting fires. He turned back to see the plunging oars of the single galley come up out of the water and shorten as the slaves inside pulled the gleaming lengths across themselves. Deprived of speed and over deep water, the galley bobbed like a piece of driftwood in the swell, suddenly helpless.

‘Quarter-speed!’ Sextus yelled. ‘Lavinia, go down now.’

He risked a glance back to her, but she didn’t move, holding on to the mast and staring out with her dark eyes, taking it all in. Gods, he sometimes thought the girl was a fool. She seemed to understand nothing about danger. He could not order Vedius to take her below, so he turned back, fuming. There would be words later.

His galley inched closer and closer, until he could make out the faces of men on the heaving deck. He was ready to order backed-oars at the first sign of a trick, but there were no catapults on deck and no sign of archers or spear-throwers.

‘Take me in close,’ he called to Vedius, who passed on the orders.

The vessels crept together, with the rest of his galleys forming up around them. Sextus was ready for the sudden appearance of archers as he leaned over the prow and yelled to the men waiting on the galley’s deck.

‘That ship is a fine gift!’ he shouted. ‘You have my thanks. Surrender now and we’ll kill only a few of you.’

There was no reply and he saw a team of slaves manhandling a small boat to the edge, heaving on ropes and pulleys to suspend it over the deck and then pushing it out so that it could be lowered into the water. Two men climbed down the side of the galley past the dripping oar-blades, then took up smaller oars in the boat and began rowing over to him. Sextus raised his eyebrows as he looked back at Vedius.

‘This is new,’ he said, though he felt a spasm of worry. Caesar had been made consul and it was not beyond possibility that the men in the small boat were bringing orders to relieve him of his authority. Not that it would matter. He had the sealed orders and his captains had not been allowed to read the contents. As far as they were concerned, he had command and could not be relieved unless he allowed it.

Sextus called a full halt and his stomach lurched as the galley swung and bobbed in the waves. He watched as the two men rowed right up to him.

‘Who are you then?’ he said, hardly having to raise his voice.

‘Publius and Gaius Casca,’ one of the men replied. He was gasping, unaccustomed to the hard work of rowing through the swell. ‘Free men and Liberatores, in search of sanctuary.’

Sextus considered leaving them to drown for a moment, but at the very least they would have more current news of Rome. He heard Vedius stropping a short dagger at his back and shook his head reluctantly.

‘Bring them on board and secure that galley. I know those names. I would like to hear about the assassination from men who were there.’

In the distance, he could see the merchant ship burning. He smiled at the sight of the dark plume rising into the sky like a flag.

‘Lavinia! Go below, now!’ he snapped suddenly.

‘I want to see! And to hear what they have to say!’ she replied.

Sextus looked around him. It was not as if the two brothers were a danger.

‘Very well, this once,’ he said reluctantly. He could refuse her nothing.

Vedius smiled at her, revealing broken teeth and withered gums. She ignored him completely and his expression soured.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The sun was still warm on Agrippa’s back, though the seasons had begun to turn and every tree had taken on rich hues of red and gold. He stood on the edge of Lake Avernus, looking out over half a mile of deep water. Where once the lake had supported only a small village on the shore, it had now become an outpost of Rome, with tens of thousands of men working hard from dawn to dusk. On one edge, twelve galley hulls were under construction in immense cradles. Even from the far side, he could see men swarming over the beams and the sound of hammering carried to him in the still air. Three completed ships surged across the surface of the lake, darting around each other as they trained.

‘All right, I am impressed,’ Maecenas said at his shoulder. ‘You’ve done wonders in just a few months. But I can see one small problem with your plans, Agrippa.’

‘There is no problem. Octavian gave me two legions and every carpenter and shipbuilder left in Italy. Two days ago, I signed an order to strip the woodland from a senator’s estate and the man did not even dare object. I can build the ships, Maecenas.’

Maecenas stared across the lake, watching as the galleys lunged and feinted at each other.

‘I don’t doubt it, my friend, though even a few dozen galleys won’t be enough to take on the fleet. However …’

‘With forty galleys, I will take him on,’ Agrippa interrupted. ‘I’ve been on these ships for years, Maecenas! I know every inch of them and I can improve them. Walk to the new ones with me. I’ve had an idea for a weapon that will surprise Sextus Pompey.’

The two men began to walk along the lake’s edge. Maecenas could hear the shouted orders to the rowers on the glassy surface. His friend had taken the idea of unlimited funds to heart, so much so that Octavian had sent Maecenas south to see what was costing so many millions each month. From what Maecenas could see, that sum would only increase.

‘I have spotted a flaw in your plan, Agrippa,’ he said, grinning to himself. ‘You have your secret fleet and I can see you are training legionaries to use them. Yet there will be a small difficulty when it comes time to take them out to sea.’

Agrippa glowered at him. ‘I am not an idiot, Maecenas. I know the lake has no access to the coast.’

‘Some men would consider that a problem for an ocean fleet,’ Maecenas observed.

‘Yes, I can see it amuses you. But the coast is only a mile away and I chose this lake carefully. I have unlimited numbers of labourers. They will build me a canal to the sea and we will float the ships out.’

Maecenas looked at him in amazement.

‘You think it can be done?’

‘Why not? The Egyptians built pyramids with thousands of slaves. I have surveyors out preparing the route. One mile, Maecenas! That is not too far for men who have laid a thousand miles of road.’

The noise of hammering grew as they approached the construction site. Men carrying bags of tools trotted everywhere, pouring with sweat as they worked in the sun. Maecenas whistled softly as he looked up at the closest galley. He had never realised how big they were before. Eleven more in various stages of completion stretched into the distance. He reached up to the oak beams that held the main length of a galley keel. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood and he could see hundreds of carpenters on the ladders and platforms that allowed them to reach any part of the ship’s structure. As he watched, a team of eight men held a beam in place, the ends slotting together so that one of their number could use a hammer to knock in a massive wooden peg as wide as his arm.

‘What are you paying the men?’ he asked.

Agrippa snorted. ‘Twice what they could earn anywhere else. The master carpenters are on three times their usual wage. Octavian told me I had a free hand and the most important thing was speed. That does not come cheaply. I can build his fleet, but the costs are high if he wants them quickly.’

Maecenas looked at his friend, seeing the weariness but also the pride. Agrippa had wood shavings in his hair and his cheek was white with sawdust, but his eyes gleamed and he was sun-browned and healthy.

‘You are enjoying the work,’ Maecenas said, smiling.

Before Agrippa could reply, they both heard a carriage approach, rattling down the road that led the ten miles to Neapolis.

‘Who’s that?’ Agrippa said suspiciously.

‘Just a friend. He wanted to see the ships.’

‘Maecenas! How can I keep this site secret if you invite your friends to see what I’m doing? How did he even get past the guards on the road?’

Maecenas flushed slightly.

‘I gave him a pass. Look, Virgil is a poet and he knows how to keep secrets. I just thought he could write a few verses about this place.’

‘You think I have time for poets? Will you be bringing painters and sculptors out here? This is a secret fleet, Maecenas! Send him back. He’s already seen too much just by being here. I see he has a driver. Well, I’m keeping him now. I’ll put him on the payroll with the others, but no one leaves until spring.’

‘I’ll take Virgil back myself then,’ Maecenas replied.

They both watched the poet step down, staring around him at the massive structures. There was dust in the air and Virgil sneezed explosively, wiping his nose with a square of expensive silk.

‘Over here,’ Maecenas called to him. His friend saw the two men and waved briefly, walking towards them. ‘Look,’ Maecenas murmured to Agrippa. ‘He really is good, and Octavian likes him. He’s already famous in the cities. It will not hurt to be pleasant to such a man. He’ll make you immortal.’

‘I don’t want to be immortal,’ Agrippa snapped. ‘I want to get this fleet built before Sextus Pompey starves the country to death.’

The man who approached was portly and short, his face framed in black curls. As he came close, he sneezed again and moaned softly to himself.

‘I swear, Maecenas, I thought the air here would be good for me, but the dust is very unpleasant. You must be Agrippa, the genius shipbuilder. I … am Virgil.’ He paused, visibly disappointed when Agrippa just stared blankly at him. ‘Ah. I see my small fame does not precede me out here. Never mind. Maecenas has told me you have some sort of new design for the galleys?’

‘Maecenas!’ Agrippa said in disbelief. ‘How many more have you told? At this rate I’ll have Pompey’s fleet waiting for me when I come out.’

Maecenas looked embarrassed, but he held up his hands.

‘I told him a few details to catch his interest, that’s all. Virgil understands not to say a single word to anyone else, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Virgil replied immediately. ‘Poets know many secrets. In any case, I suspect I am not long for this world. I grow weaker every day.’

He blew his nose with great energy and Agrippa looked irritably at him.

‘Well, I’m keeping your driver,’ he said curtly. ‘Maecenas will take the horse team back to the city with you.’

Virgil blinked. ‘He’s exactly as you said, Maecenas. Stern and Roman, but built like a young Hercules. I like him.’ He turned to Agrippa. ‘So, given that I have already seen your fleet in the making, will I be trusted with a tour?’

‘No,’ Agrippa replied, barely holding his temper in check. ‘I am busy.’

‘Caesar said I should look over the detailed plans, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘I choose to have Virgil with me to make notes. You have my word he is trustworthy.’

Agrippa raised his eyes in frustration and guided Maecenas a dozen paces further off, too far for Virgil to overhear.

‘He does not strike me as a … manly sort, Maecenas. I have heard those kinds of men cannot be trusted. They gossip like women.’

‘What men do you mean?’ Maecenas asked innocently.

Agrippa blushed, looking away.

‘You know what I mean. At least tell me he is, you know …’ his throat seemed to choke him as he forced the words out, ‘… a giver, not a taker.’

‘You’ve lost me now,’ Maecenas said, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. Agrippa would not look at him.

‘A sword, not a scabbard! Gods, I don’t know how you say such things. You know what I mean!’

‘Yes, I do,’ Maecenas replied, laughing. ‘I just wanted to see how you would phrase it. Virgil! My friend here wants to know if you are a sword or a scabbard?’

‘What? Oh, a sword, definitely. Good Roman steel, me.’

Agrippa groaned. He glowered at both of them for a long moment, but he was proud of what he had created by the lake and part of him wanted to show them.

‘Walk with me then,’ he said.

He stalked off immediately and Virgil shared a grin with Maecenas as they followed him. Agrippa reached a ladder and climbed up it, stepping from platform to platform with the ease of practice. Maecenas and Virgil came after him at slower speed, until they were looking down on an unfinished deck. Parts of it were still bare of planking, so that they could see right down to the rowing benches below.

‘I tried four corvus bridges rather than the usual one at first. The result is at the bottom of the lake – it made the galleys top-heavy. I’ll still adapt a few, as it allows me to pour men on board an enemy ship, but if the waters are choppy, they’re just not stable enough. I still have to find a way to make the numbers tell.’ He glanced at Maecenas for understanding, but his noble friend just looked bewildered.

‘The rowers will not be slaves, not on these ships. Each one will be a swordsman, chosen by competition from Octavian’s legions. I’m offering twice the normal pay to anyone who can win his place. In terms of fighting men, we should outnumber any of Sextus Pompey’s crews by three to one at least.’

‘That is an edge,’ Maecenas admitted. ‘But Pompey has two hundred galleys at his command. You’ll need something more than that.’

‘I do have more than that,’ Agrippa said sourly, looking at Virgil. ‘If I show you this, I want your oath you will die before speaking of it to anyone. It’s been hard enough keeping my workers from vanishing back to the city and spilling details to every listening ear.’

‘Once more, you have my word, on my honour,’ Maecenas said. Virgil repeated the words seriously.

Agrippa nodded and whistled to one of the men working on the deck.

‘Bring the catapult up,’ he called.

‘Catapults are nothing new,’ Virgil said a little nervously. ‘All the fleet galleys have them.’

‘To shoot stones, which miss more often than they hit,’ Agrippa growled. ‘Accuracy was the problem, so I worked around it. They have nothing like this.’

Under the orders of the carpenter Agrippa had called, six more men brought up spars and ropes from below. As Maecenas and Virgil watched, they began to assemble a machine on the deck, hammering a circular platform into holes in the oak planks, so that it would be steady even in a storm. Onto that, they slotted cast bronze balls with pegs of the metal that fitted into slots cut for them. When another wooden circle was attached, they had a platform six feet across that could rotate easily, even under weight. The rest of the catapult was built on that foundation with the speed of long practice.

‘I see a grapnel there …’ Maecenas began.

‘Just watch,’ Agrippa said.

The catapult was wound back against bending iron spars, a miniature version of the scorpion bows legions used. Yet there was no cup to hold a heavy stone. A huge iron grapnel with four bent spikes was slotted into place and tied to a mound of coiled rope. The men below looked up for his signal and Agrippa dropped his hand. All three of them jerked as the weapon leapt and the grapnel shot into the air, trailing a snake of rope with a whirring sound. It soared up for a hundred paces before dipping down and striking the soft earth below.

Agrippa looked pleased as he turned to the two men.

‘A stone can miss or skip over the deck and drop into the sea. The grapnels will fly right over the enemy ships and catch on the wood. They’ll try to cut the ropes, of course, but I have copper wire laced into the cords. There will be three of these on each deck and when they fly, the men will drag the galleys quickly together. The corvus bridges will go down and we’ll be on board before they can organise a defence.’

Maecenas and Virgil were nodding, but they did not seem impressed.

‘You’ll see,’ Agrippa said. ‘The ships on the lake have the new weapons fitted already. I was going to test them today before you arrived to waste my morning.’

He turned and yelled an order over the lake to the nearest galley as it practised fast manoeuvres. His voice carried easily and the captain acknowledged with a raised hand. The rowers backed oars, bringing the galley into range of the one pursuing it. Maecenas and Virgil both turned in time to see three ropes and grapnels soar out from the deck, right over the other galley, so that they stuck fast and held. Teams of legionaries took hold of spars on a capstan, reeling the ropes back like a fishing line as they shoved against footholds on the wooden deck.

‘Now you will see,’ Agrippa said.

The ropes had caught the opposing galley at an odd angle. As they grew taut, the opposing crew rushed over to the side where they expected the attack. It unbalanced their ship, which tipped suddenly and violently so that the deck became a slope. More men slid to the lower side, yelling in panic. The oars on one side raised out of the water and on the other the rowers thrashed in panic as the lake came pouring in. Before Agrippa could roar another order, the galley turned right over with a huge crash of water, revealing the shining curve of its hull.

Maecenas swallowed nervously, knowing he had just witnessed the drowning of two hundred men or more. Even those few who could swim would be hard-pressed to escape as the cold waters poured in. Down on the lake, the first galley crew sat still and stunned at what they had done.

He looked at Agrippa and saw his friend caught between horror and delight.

‘By the gods, I thought …’ He shouted for the galley crew to seek out anyone in the water and wiped sweat from his face.

‘Did you know that was going to happen?’ Virgil asked, his eyes wide in shock.

Agrippa shook his head. ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘But this was never a game. I will use anything, take any advantage I can get.’

On the lake, the galley was surrounded by hissing bubbles and they could hear the faint cries of drowning men, still trapped with dwindling air in the rowing deck. Against the odds, some of those inside had struggled out. They bobbed up to the surface, thrashing and yelling, trying desperately to stay afloat long enough to be rescued.

‘I need another twenty million sesterces to build the canal to the sea,’ Agrippa said. ‘I will get Caesar the galleys he needs and I will destroy Sextus Pompey, whatever it costs.’

‘I’ll see it reaches you,’ Maecenas said, his usual cheer absent as he watched men drown.

Octavian raised his hand and the other bids stopped instantly.

‘Four million sesterces,’ he said.

The auctioneer nodded and put aside the sealed ownership papers for him to pick up after the sale was finished. No other bidder would risk the displeasure of a consul and triumvir, though the Suetonius estate was a good one, with river access and a fine house on a hill near to Rome. It adjoined another property Octavian had inherited from Caesar and he could not pass up the chance to increase his holdings. Still, it felt a little odd to bid on properties he had caused to come onto the market. Ten per cent of the final price went to whichever citizen had handed over the proscribed owner and there had been appalling scenes since the lists were published, with mobs breaking down the doors of named men and dragging them out into the street. On more than one occasion, only the head of the man had been used to claim the reward.

The Suetonius estate was unfortunately not one of those. The senator had vanished immediately after the consular elections and Octavian had every spy and client in his employ searching for news of him, as well as the other Liberatores still alive. In his absence, the Suetonius estate had been confiscated and the bulk of the proceeds would go to training and preparing new legions.

‘The next lot is a country villa by Neapolis, originally owned by Publius Casca.’

Octavian knew that name, one of two brothers who had managed to elude those hunting them. He had heard a rumour that the Cascas had thrown themselves on the dubious mercy of Sextus Pompey, but he could not be certain. He had no desire to bid on their property at that time, but he waited even so, to see how much silver would be coming into the war coffers.

The bidding began weakly as wealthy men in the room tried to guess whether the consul and triumvir would take it from them at the last moment. Octavian felt their eyes on him and shook his head, turning slightly away. The bidding increased to a rapid tempo then, as the estate in the south was renowned for its vineyards and farmland. There was still money in Rome, Octavian thought. His task was to gather as much of it as he could for a campaign that would need an even greater war chest than the one Caesar had collected for Parthia.

He rubbed his eyes wearily as the price reached four million sesterces and most of the bidders dropped out. Agrippa’s secret fleet was proving to be an appalling drain on the state finances, but he could see no other choice but to pour more silver and gold into the ships. Without a fleet, the legions he controlled with Mark Antony were effectively useless. The price of bread had already tripled and though many of the citizens still hoarded much of the silver Caesar had given them, he knew it would not last much longer before they were rioting again, just to eat. Octavian shook his head at the thought.

The bidding came to an end at six million, four hundred thousand. He made a gesture to the auctioneer, who paled when he saw it, thinking it was a late bid. Octavian shook his head again and gestured to the batch of sealed papers that represented the estate he had bought. They would be sent on to one of his city houses, the funds disbursed by one of the hundreds of factors and servants working directly for him. The men in the room relaxed visibly as he left.

The auction house was high on the Quirinal hill and Octavian barely noticed the lictors who fell into step with him as he walked down towards the forum. The new senate house was almost complete and he had agreed to meet his co-consul Pedius at the temple of Vesta to oversee the laying of the final stone. Rome bustled around him as he made his way down the hill and his mouth quirked as he recalled previous times when he could hardly move for cheering crowds. They did not cheer him that day. He shivered as he walked. The air in Rome was growing colder as the year came to an end. In all ways, the new spring seemed very far away.

As he reached the forum, the sense of the energetic city all around him increased. The open space was filled with thousands of men and women on the business of Rome, from the administration of a thousand trading houses, to senators and specialists in law discussing every topic, many of them with crowds listening. Rome had been made and remade on words and ideas before swords and it still felt young, just as he did. The senators were not isolated from the citizens, at least at certain times each month. They walked among the crowds in the forum and listened to requests and appeals from those they represented. Anything from a problem with a neighbour to a murder charge could be brought to them, and as Octavian walked, he saw Bibilus deep in conversation with a group of wealthy merchants only slightly slimmer than himself. Like Octavian, Bibilus had increased his holdings during the proscription auctions. There was no doubt he had men in the room Octavian had just left, bidding on his behalf for the choicer properties.

Bibilus saw the stern lictors passing by and his cold eyes sought out Octavian walking in the centre of them. Despite his gains, Octavian knew there was no truce there, not from him. It was because of Octavian that Mark Antony had returned to the Senate with more power and fewer restraints than he had enjoyed before. Octavian could feel Bibilus’ dislike from a distance and he let it warm him. Bibilus did not call a greeting, preferring to pretend he had not seen him pass by.

Pedius was standing in the entrance to the temple of Vesta, in conversation with Quintina Fabia. Octavian brightened at the sight of the older woman, whose company he enjoyed. He had hardly spoken to her since becoming consul, but she was one of those he had begun to assume were among his supporters, at least for the sake of her nephew Maecenas.

To his surprise, Quintina Fabia came forward to him with open arms.

‘Caesar, I hear I should congratulate you,’ she said.

Octavian glanced at Pedius, who shrugged. He allowed himself to be embraced with surprising strength.

‘On what?’ he asked when she released him.

‘Your betrothal, of course,’ she said.

‘Ah. I do not take much joy from the prospect of a twelve-year-old wife, Quintina.’

He had met Mark Antony’s daughter only once since returning to Rome and the marriage to come was little more than a bargaining piece in their negotiations. He felt sorry for Claudia, if anything, but marriages were a currency of Rome and a statement of their mutual support. It would not interfere with his current popularity among the noble mistresses of the city. Octavian was slim and young and in power, a powerful cocktail that led to a different partner every night, if he chose. He suspected Quintina knew that very well and was teasing him, so he tried to take it with good grace.

‘I have other things on my mind at the moment, Quintina; I apologise.’

‘Of course. Young men are always in love,’ she replied.

‘Perhaps, I cannot say. I dream of new legions, trained and hardened over a winter.’

He looked to Pedius, who seemed embarrassed by the exchange and somewhat flustered by the attentions of the priestess.

‘Report, Pedius. I have not come here to talk of love, not today.’

The older man cleared his throat.

‘With regret, Lady Fabia, I must leave our conversation to another time.’

‘Oh very well, though I know a few Roman widows who would be thrilled to meet a mature man as well, Pedius. They are deeper pools than these young girls Caesar favours. Their rivers have not run dry in the years without a man. In fact, the opposite is true. Think on that while you talk away a fine morning.’

She strolled back into the temple then, leaving the two of them staring after her. Pedius shook his head, caught between the suspicion he was being mocked and genuine interest.

‘We’ve raised six new legions and placed their names on the Senate rolls. At the moment, they are little more than farmers and shop boys. They are training around Arretium, but they have to share swords and shields on a rota.’

‘So buy more,’ Octavian said.

Pedius blew air out, exasperated.

‘I would if I had the gold to do it! Have you any idea what it costs to make equipment for five thousand men, never mind thirty? The swords must come overland from Spain while Sextus blockades the western coast. A thousand miles, Caesar! Instead of a month at sea, it takes four times as long, but until then, they must train with sticks and mismatched weapons more than a century old. Yet wherever I look for funds, I am told Caesar has been there before me and the chests are all empty.’

Octavian hardly needed another reminder that Sextus Pompey was harassing the coasts. With Cassius and Brutus growing stronger all the time in Greece and Macedonia, he was only too aware of the strangling grip cutting the life’s blood from the country.

‘I have gold coming by land as well, from mines in Spain – and I am working on a solution to the fleet with Sextus Pompey. It is draining the treasury, but I have to be able to protect legions as they cross.’

‘I would prefer it if you’d share more of your planning with me,’ Pedius said. ‘Though the proscriptions have silenced some of your enemies, the main problems persist. We cannot begin a campaign without more legions to keep Rome safe and of course ships to carry them. Until we have those, we are trapped on our own mainland.’

‘All right, Consul. There is no point in labouring over our difficulties. I have been in worse positions, believe me.’

To his surprise, Pedius smiled, chewing at the insides of his lips as he looked up.

‘Yes you have, haven’t you? And you have come through them. The city still looks to you to make everything right, Caesar, as if you can bring cheap grain once more with just a wave of your hand.’ He leaned a little closer, so the ever present lictors could not overhear. ‘But everything you have won can be taken away, if men like Brutus, Cassius and Sextus Pompey can find another ally in Rome.’

Octavian looked sharply at the older man, watching his moving jaw.

‘Are you seeking to warn me? Mark Antony has cast his lot with me, Pedius. He would not be such a fool as to risk an alliance with men like those.’

‘Perhaps,’ Pedius replied. ‘I hope you are right. Perhaps I am just a suspicious old man, but it is sometimes a good idea to be suspicious. You are very young, Caesar. The future is longer for you than it is for me. It might be an idea to think of those years as you make your choices.’

Octavian considered for a moment. He knew Caesar had been warned many times about assassins and always ignored the threat.

‘I will be ready for anything, Pedius. You have my word on it.’

‘Good.’ Pedius smiled. ‘I have come to enjoy being consul with you, young man. I don’t want it to come to an end too soon.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Brutus smothered his anger, which was more at his own failing stamina than the Greek who danced around him with the training sword. There had been a time when he could have humiliated the younger man with ease, but a large part of his speed had vanished over the years. Only his daily routine of sparring kept his fitness from disappearing completely.

He knew his face and bare chest were red as he heated up. Each breath felt as if it came from an oven and sweat poured off him while his opponent still looked fresh. It was galling and ultimately pointless, but he wished for just a moment of his youth to return so he could batter the Greek into quick submission.

Cleanthes was still wary of the Roman governor who had challenged him to a sparring bout. For all the difference of thirty years in their ages, he had not been able to land a crippling blow, only to stripe the man’s arms with the red ink daubed on his wooden blade. Even so, he felt the bout turning in his favour and it did not hurt to have his friends calling their encouragement from the side of the training ground. Athens may have been ruled by Rome, but the crowd were open in their support for the young Greek.

Driven on by their cheering, Cleanthes blocked an attack with his buckler shield and lunged at the Roman’s throat. It was a dangerous blow, one of the few that could be fatal with the wooden weapons. Brutus tensed with anger as he knocked it aside, launching a series of strikes that forced Cleanthes back step by step. He had once been very, very good and his form was still impressive, though he was panting and sweat spattered from his wet hair.

Cleanthes hesitated rather than press back. Everything he had learned in the sparring classes had failed to break through the man’s guard. Yet he did not want to win by virtue of exhausting his opponent. He faced Brutus squarely and brought his sword back to the scabbard position on his hip. They wore only leggings and there was no strap to hold the weapon, but his intention was clear. Brutus curled his lip, yet he too had been arrogant once. He accepted the threat and stepped in close, watching Cleanthes carefully as he brought his own sword back to his hip, ready for a single strike. It was the sort of thing that appealed to young men, a test of draw speed alone. Brutus watched the eyes of the younger man, relaxing himself completely.

The attack came without warning, a blow that Cleanthes had practised a thousand times in his young life. He made the decision to move and his hand whipped the sword up fast. To his shock, Cleanthes felt a line sear across the side of his throat, leaving a red stain that mingled with his sweat and dripped down his bare chest. Brutus followed it with two more quick strikes, one to the inner thigh, where a man would bleed to death quickly, and another to the Greek’s side. It happened in a heartbeat and Brutus grinned unpleasantly at him as he stepped back.

‘The second man to move is often faster; did they not teach you that?’ Brutus said. ‘If he is trained, his reaction is swifter than a planned blow.’

Cleanthes reached up to his throat and the red stain that came away on his fingers. He looked down to see the ink dripping down his right leg. The crowd had fallen silent and he bowed stiffly to the Roman governor.

‘I will remember the lesson,’ Cleanthes said. ‘Once more?’

Heads jerked round at the sound of clapping hands echoing in the training yard. Brutus saw Cassius at the rail, looking fresh and fit. He recognised Suetonius and Gaius Trebonius with him and tensed his jaw. With a quick gesture, Brutus tossed the training sword to Cleanthes, who was forced to catch it.

‘Not today,’ Brutus called over his shoulder. ‘It seems I have guests.’

He walked over to the group of three waiting for him.

‘Will you join me in the baths? I need to wash the sweat off.’

Cassius nodded, though Suetonius looked uncomfortable and wiped a hand across his hair. Gaius Trebonius was staring around him with unabashed interest. They followed Brutus to the training house baths and all four men stripped, handing their clothes to slaves to be brushed and steamed clean. Brutus ignored the others, knowing they would wait on him, whatever it was they wanted. He stood stoically as buckets of water were emptied over him, then headed into the hottest steam room to sweat out the dirt from his skin. Surrounded by strangers, Cassius could hardly discuss their plans and as a group the men sat in silence as the steam billowed around them, then followed Brutus through the cold plunge and finally onto the tables, where other slaves worked oil into their skins and scraped them clean with lengths of ivory, wiping black muck onto their waistcloths.

A good hour passed before they were left alone. Some men preferred to doze for a while afterwards, while many more wished to discuss their business in private. The slaves left discreetly, though they would be waiting at the outer door in the hope of a few extra coins when the customers went out to the street.

Suetonius was not aware that his hair had become thin snake tails in the steam and oil, doing nothing to hide his baldness. He lifted his head from the table where he lay and saw the others resting with their eyes closed.

‘As pleasant as it is to find a competent Roman house in Athens, there is much to discuss,’ he said.

Brutus made a sound close to a groan, but he sat up even so. The others did the same, though Suetonius rested his hands over his sagging paunch and wrinkled thighs. The baths stripped away dignity and he wished for his toga to be returned.

‘So what has brought you to me here?’ Brutus said. ‘I was hoping to catch the orator Thenes when he speaks in the agora.’

‘Is he worth hearing?’ Cassius asked.

Brutus shrugged, waving a hand.

‘You know the Greeks. They see only chaos in the world and offer no solutions. It’s all froth and wind, compared to Roman thinkers. At least we are practical. When we see chaos, we stamp on its head.’

‘They are an arrogant people, I’ve always found,’ Cassius replied. ‘I remember one of them telling me they had invented everything, from gods to sex. I pointed out that Romans took their ideas and improved on them. Ares became Mars, Zeus became Jupiter. And of course, although we could not improve on sex, we are the ones who thought of trying it with women.’

Brutus laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘I don’t like to interrupt your discussion of philosophy,’ Suetonius said, breaking in. ‘But we do have more pressing concerns.’

Cassius and Brutus shared an amused glance that Suetonius noticed, his mouth becoming a thin line of disapproval. Gaius Trebonius just watched them all, not confident enough to join the conversation.

‘Tell me, then,’ Brutus said with a sigh. He was feeling wonderfully relaxed. ‘What or who has brought you out of Syria, Cassius?’

‘Who else but Caesar?’ Cassius replied. ‘You know he has formed a triumvirate?’

‘With Mark Antony and some Gaul general named Lepidus, yes. I am not so far from Rome that I don’t hear such things.’

‘He has taken the power of an emperor to himself!’ Suetonius snapped, tired of the mellow tone of the conversation. ‘He acts as a dictator, selling our properties and making a mockery of the law. You know about the proscriptions?’

Brutus smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’m on the list, I know that much. What of it? I’d do the same in his place.’

‘You are not so resigned to another Caesar rising above us all, no matter what you pretend,’ Suetonius said waspishly.

Brutus stared coldly at him until he was forced to look away.

‘Watch yourself, Suetonius, at least around me. I am governor of Athens, after all. I don’t know exactly … what you are.’

Suetonius gaped at him as Cassius grinned and turned away to hide it.

‘I am dispossessed! That’s what I am. I am one of the Liberatores! I saved Rome from an insane tyrant who made a mockery of the Republic, who destroyed centuries of civilisation by being too powerful to check or balance. That is who I am, Brutus. Who are you?’

Brutus treated the outburst like noise from a yapping dog, though his smile grew tight. Suetonius waited only a beat before going on, the words flooding out of him after too long held inside.

‘Yet despite what I have done for the Republic, my family home is taken from me, my legal amnesty is revoked and my life threatened. Even here in Greece, I am in danger from any Roman who sees a chance to take my head and earn himself a fortune. You think you are immune, Brutus? We have come too far to lose everything because of some bastard relative trying to steal power he has not earned. He will bring us all down unless we stop him.’

‘You sound like a frightened old woman, Senator,’ Brutus replied. ‘Try to remember your dignity.’

‘My dignity?’ Suetonius said, his voice rising.

Brutus turned away from him, leaving him open-mouthed in astonishment.

‘I have not been idle, Cassius,’ Brutus said. ‘I have been working with the legions and councils here, securing their loyalty. I’ve raised taxes to pay for two more legions, mostly Greco-Roman stock, but fit. They train every day and they are mine alone, sworn to me. Can you say the same?’

Cassius smiled. ‘I have seven legions in Syria and four more from Egypt. I can field eleven at full strength, well supplied and equipped. They value the Republic, and without the poison of Caesarians whispering in their ears, they are utterly loyal to those who liberated Rome. I have not wasted my time. You know me better than that.’

Brutus was pleased at the numbers and he inclined his head to acknowledge it before glancing at Suetonius.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘You see, Suetonius, Cassius and I have been working together. We have built an army while you were preening yourself and talking the months away in Rome.’

Naked as Suetonius was, they could all see the mottled flush that spread down from his outraged face to his groin.

‘It was I who secured all our futures by handing over the fleet to Sextus Pompey!’ Suetonius replied. ‘If Bibilus and I hadn’t achieved that much, you would be looking at an armed invasion this year, Brutus. That is what all my “preening” bought you – the time we need!’

‘I’m sure we all agree that was a fine decision,’ Cassius said, trying to ease the tension between them. ‘Sextus Pompey is young, but his enmity for Caesar’s faction is well known. Are you in contact with him?’

‘I am,’ Brutus said. He saw Suetonius look up and shrugged. ‘He has the only fleet in the west and my name is not a disadvantage in that camp, not to him. Of course I am in contact. You know the Casca brothers reached him?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Cassius replied. ‘Good. Though their estates have been sold for the state coffers.’

‘All the more motive to keep them on our side,’ Brutus said. ‘I do not want any surprises at this point. We can use the fleet to land on Roman territory or wait for them here. Yes, Suetonius, I know they will come. Octavian and Mark Antony cannot ignore us while the grain runs out in Rome. They must come. They will cross to land in Greece, just as Julius Caesar did against Pompey. This time, though, I think they will lose half their men when Sextus sends them to the bottom of the sea. Do I have it right, Cassius?’

‘It is my hope, yes,’ the thin senator replied. ‘It is our best hope to end it all.’

As they left the bathing complex, Brutus reached inside a pouch to find a few bronze coins for the staff. He paused as he drew out a silver sesterce and flicked it through the air to Cassius. The older man examined it with a frown, then laughed.

‘“Saviour of the Republic”? Really, Brutus? It seems, well, a little immodest.’

Brutus smiled wryly, tossing another one to Suetonius, who caught it and peered at the face printed on the metal.

‘I could hardly fit your names as well. It is a good likeness, don’t you think? As governor, I’m responsible for the Athens mint, so it wasn’t much trouble. It does not hurt our cause to remind the citizens why we murdered a man in Rome.’ He nodded to Suetonius. ‘On that we can agree, I hope.’

Cassius had pursed his lips at the word ‘murdered’, but he handed back the coin with something like satisfaction on his face.

‘Indeed. Image is everything. That is something I’ve learned over the years. The people know very little, just what they are told. I have discovered they will believe almost anything I tell them.’

Brutus grunted and tossed the silver coin to the bath attendant. The slave bowed his head, delighted at the windfall.

‘I never denied having personal reasons for my part in it, Cassius. Everything I have done, everything I achieved, was as nothing in his shadow. Well, I shone a light into the dark places and cast him off. The coins are true in their way. We did save the Republic, unless we lose it now to this boy Octavian.’

‘We will not lose,’ Cassius said. ‘He will come to us, and when he does, he must come by sea.’

‘Unless they march round the north of Italy and strike south by land,’ Suetonius said grimly. Brutus and Cassius looked at him, but he was long past courting their admiration. ‘Well? It is no further than Syria. You cannot simply ignore the threat of a land attack. What is a thousand miles or so to legions?’

‘Senator,’ Brutus said scornfully, ‘if they move so many men that far north, we will be told. We have the fleet, remember? If the Caesarians take their army north, we will be safe in Rome for months before they can make it back. I’d be happy for them to try it! It would solve all our problems at once.’

Suetonius grunted unintelligibly, his face red as they left the bath-house. The Romans stood out in the Greek crowd, if only for their short-cropped hair and military bearing. As he reached the street, Brutus gestured to a group of soldiers waiting for him and they saluted smartly, forming up on all sides.

‘I have to say you did well in choosing Athens, Brutus,’ Cassius observed, looking around him as they walked. ‘This is pleasant, a home away from home. I’m afraid Syria is too hot in summer and much too cold in winter. It is a harsh place, but then the legions there are harder still.’

‘How many ships do you have to bring them over?’ Brutus asked.

‘Ships? None at all. The ones I had I sent to Sextus Pompey. I don’t need them, with land all the way from here to Beroea. There are ferry boats to take them across the Bosphorus strait, by Byzantium. You should see that place one day, Brutus, if you do not know the area. In some ways it is as Greek as Athens, older even than Rome.’

‘Yes, when my neck is not on the line one day, perhaps I will waste my time with old maps and cities. How long to march your legions into Macedonia?’

‘They are already marching. Come the spring, you and I will have an army to face anything the triumvirate has left after the crossing. We can put nineteen legions into battle, Brutus – more than ninety thousand men and most of them veterans. Whatever half-drowned rabble lands in Greece when Sextus is finished with them will not last long against such a host.’

‘I will command, of course,’ Brutus said.

Cassius came to a sudden stop in the street and the others paused with him, so that the crowd was forced to go around them, like a rock in a river. There were curses thrown their way in Greek, but the Romans ignored them.

‘I believe I have the greater number of legions, Brutus. We do not want to lose the war before it has even begun by squabbling over this.’

Brutus weighed the determination in the sinewy man who faced him.

‘I have more experience than you or any five of your legates,’ he said. ‘I fought in Gaul and Spain and Egypt, for years on end. I do not dispute their loyalty to you, Cassius, but I have been wasted before by Caesar. I will not be wasted here.’

In turn, Cassius judged how far he could resist and gave up.

‘Joint command then,’ he said. ‘The numbers are too great for just one man to give orders. Will that satisfy you? Each to his own legions?’

‘I’ll have eight to your eleven, Cassius, but, yes, I think I can make them dance when the time comes. I’ll want the horsemen, though, under my own command. I know how to use extraordinarii.’

‘Very well,’ Cassius replied. ‘I have eight thousand. As a gesture of friendship, they are yours.’

As they walked on, Suetonius shook his head, his irritation growing as they discussed the future with no acknowledgement of the part he and Bibilus had played.

‘You think this is all about a war?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Or a few coins, with boastful words on them?’

Brutus and Cassius stopped again as he spoke. Both men glared at him, but he continued, refusing to be cowed.

‘So which of you will be emperor when this is over? Which of you will rule Rome as king?’

‘Suetonius, I don’t think you …’ Cassius began. To his surprise, Suetonius held up a flat palm, cutting him off.

‘I knew you when you were just a boy, Brutus; do you remember?’

‘Oh, I remember,’ Brutus said.

A warning had crept into his tone, but Suetonius ignored it. The crowd continued to flow around them.

‘You and I believed in the Republic then, not just as a fantasy but as something real, something worth dying for. Julius never did. The Republic is worth a life, remember? It was also worth a death. That is what we were trying to save, but the way you talk, it’s almost as if you have forgotten it. Do you recall how you once hated men like Pompey and Cornelius Sulla? Generals like Marius who would do anything if it brought them power? Caesar was one of those, part of the same miserable illness – and his adopted son is another. If Octavian is killed, if he is defeated, it must not be just to put another like him in his place. The old Republic depends on the goodwill of those strong enough to tear it apart, but it is worth more than a few men. I have given my life to this cause and I will die for it if I have to. Those are the stakes – more than a war, or a fleet, or another dictator. After this, we will either have emperors or we will have free men. That is why we resist Octavian: not for revenge, or to protect ourselves, but because we believe in the Republic – and he does not.’

Brutus had been going to speak for a time, but he closed his mouth. Cassius looked at him in surprise.

‘I think you have silenced our general, Senator!’ He chuckled to lighten the moment, but no one joined him.

‘I think at least one of us should think about what happens when we win, Cassius, don’t you?’ Suetonius replied coldly. ‘This is a chance to restore the old liberties, the compact between free citizens and the state, the great freedom. Or we can be just another branch of the vine that has been strangling Rome for fifty years.’

He reached into his pouch and brought out the coin Brutus had given him, holding it up.

‘“Saviour of the Republic,”’ he read aloud. ‘Well, why not, Brutus? Why not?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The heel of Italy was lost in the mist and gloom as the fleet of galleys struggled around it in rough, grey seas. Sextus wiped salt water from his eyes as it sprayed over him. He knew better than most how poorly his crews handled a storm. So that they could skip across shallow waters, the galleys had no deep keels, but that great speed brought instability and in rough seas the oars had to be used to prevent the galleys from turning over.

Sextus could see the storm coming in fast on the horizon, a bank of dark cloud with distant threads of rainfall spilling from it. The entire cloud flashed and the sea seemed to respond, the swell surging and showing white foam.

His legion captain was vomiting over the side and Sextus shuddered as he felt flecks of it blown back on the wind, striking his face and neck.

‘By Mars, go downwind, would you?’ he shouted angrily.

The miserable man shuffled to the stern without taking his hands from the rail. Sextus walked up the rolling deck to the prow, staring out over the grey vastness. All around him, he could see dozens of galleys plunging through the waves. They were at their most vulnerable when the oars had to be brought in, the openings sealed with tar-cloth so that the rowing decks didn’t become swamped. Some of his galleys had already given the order and raised a tiny storm sail, while many more laboured on with the oars out and freezing water pouring through the gaps in the wooden walls. The men inside would be baling for their lives, but at least the galleys could be controlled. For the others, only a scrap of cloth, steering oars and rare glimpses of the southern coast guided them around the mainland.

Sextus swallowed nervously, waiting for the crash that would tell him one of them had struck a rock, or perhaps each other. There was always danger, but galleys were safe enough when they could head for shore and beach themselves. It was only when a madman like him ordered them into deep water that they became vulnerable.

A wave rushed over the bow, drenching him and making him shiver. Rain began to pound the flat deck, reducing visibility even further. Sextus peered out to the distant coast, just a dim line in the grey. He needed to reach shelter before the full storm struck, but the way it looked, his crews would have to endure a battering before they were around the point. When he caught glimpses of the other ships, he saw more and more of them had been forced to pull the oars in or sink. Only the huge double steering oars at the stern could guide them then. Through the spray and mist, he could see galleys wandering away over the sea, soldiers climbing the masts to shout sightings to those below. He groaned, knowing he’d be lucky not to lose a few crews. He wished Vedius were there, but his second in command had been the only man he could trust with the other half of his fleet. Vedius would not betray him, he was certain. He had also left instructions with two others for him to be quietly murdered if he did.

Sextus felt an itch at the back of his neck and when he turned, he was not surprised to see Lavinia there, holding on to the main mast. One hand shaded her eyes as she stared into the distance and he thought she looked like a ghost, with her cloak whipping around her in the wind and her features unnaturally pale. He left his place on the prow and walked back to her, staggering slightly on the heaving deck.

‘I can’t be worrying about you as well as the ship,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with your cabin?’

Lavinia raised her eyes to him.

‘I needed to breathe, that’s all. There’s no air down below and the ship is rolling and jumping about like a mad thing.’

Despite his concern, he smiled at her martyred tone. He reached out with his free hand to push back a lock of her sodden hair where it had fallen over her face.

‘It won’t last much longer, I promise. We’ll be round the point soon and the sea will be calmer after that.’

He glanced again at the storm clouds and she read the worry in his expression, her nervousness increasing.

‘It’s going to get worse?’ she said.

He grinned to reassure her. ‘We are the lucky ones, remember? We’ll come through.’

It was an old and bitter joke between them. Their family had suffered far more than its fair share of misfortune. If any luck still clung to the Pompey name, it would surely fall on Sextus and Lavinia. She rolled her eyes at the feeble attempt to cheer her up. Her brother saw her shivering and realised her cloak was wet through with spray.

‘You’ll freeze if you stay up here,’ he said.

‘No more than you will,’ she retorted. ‘At least I am away from the smell of sweat and vomit. It is … unpleasant down below.’

‘You’ll survive,’ he said, without sympathy. ‘Don’t we always? I told you I’d look after you and here I have a fine fleet at my command.’

As he spoke, the galley gave a great lurch as it missed the peak of a wave and crashed down into the trough. Lavinia yelped and he wrapped his arm around his sister and the mast, holding on to them both.

‘I think I preferred it when you were a pirate,’ she said. ‘At least you brought me jewels then.’

‘Which you sold and invested! I gave you those to enjoy, not to be sensible.’

‘One of us has to be,’ she said. ‘When this is over, I’ll need a dowry. And you’ll need funds for a house if you’re ever to have a family of your own.’

He hugged her tighter then, recalling a thousand conversations in harder times. As children, they had lost everything but their father’s name and a few loyal servants who still honoured Gnaeus Pompey. At the darkest moments, they had talked of the lives they would have one day, with a house and servants and peace: just silence and peace, with no one threatening them or hunting them down.

‘I’m glad to know you are still looking out for me,’ he said. ‘But it would please me more if you’d go down and find a good cloak I can wear – as well as a dry one for you.’

She could not resist such an appeal and it was true that he shivered just as violently as she did.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But I’m coming back.’

He guided her to the hatch and held it open long enough for Lavinia to climb down the ladder before closing it. He was still smiling as he walked back to the prow and looked over the grey ocean, taking in everything he had missed.

At least the captains from Syria knew what they were doing, Sextus had to admit, as his ship followed them. The group of ten weatherbeaten galleys held their positions well in regard to each other, a flotilla moving with something like skill. To reach him from Syria they’d crossed open ocean, the wear showing on their galleys and men. Sextus told himself he’d made the right decision letting Cassius’ captains lead the way east around the heel.

Sextus jerked as he heard a great crash somewhere on his left. He squinted out through the pouring rain, but he couldn’t see what had caused it. The southern coast of Italy was faintly visible and he took heart from that. It would not be long before they were round the point and back into more sheltered waters. He only wished he could take the fleet in closer, but even if they could see his flags, the rocks would rip the bottom right out of a galley.

The wind began to howl around the mast and the prow seemed to dive under another enormous wave, so that Sextus had to grip the prow in a lurch or be swept away. He gasped and coughed as freezing seawater entered his lungs. As the green bronze ram came up once more, Sextus felt exhausted, but the storm was still coming and they were only at the edge of it. With a glance behind him, he saw the Roman captain was still there, bent over. The man looked like a corpse, but he still hung on, swearing weakly. Sextus grinned at the sight, reminding himself to mention it if they both survived.

Ahead of him, the Syrian galleys were still forcing their way through. There was no safe place to wait out the storm. All he could do was continue the insane dash around the heel of Italy and turn for Brundisium once more. He told himself over and over that Cassius was right. He had enough ships to blockade the entire country if he used them in two fleets, like the jaws of a pair of blacksmith’s pincers. No one else had a hundred galleys, never mind the two hundred and twelve at his command. He had the forces to squeeze Rome into starvation.

His mood darkened with the storm and he felt a coldness inside to match his half-frozen flesh. His father could have ruled the Republic. Sextus and Lavinia would have grown up with every comfort. All of that had been stolen away from him on an Egyptian dock, his father murdered by foreign slaves just to please Julius Caesar.

For years, Sextus knew he had been no more than a biting fly on the flank of Roman power. Men loyal to his father still sent him reports from the city and he’d seen his chance and risked execution by returning there to make a personal appeal. Vedius had argued against it, telling him never to trust the noble old men of the Senate. The tavern wolf had not understood that Sextus knew those men well. His father had been one of them. Even then, he had been afraid they would look first at his piracy and his youth, but somehow, with the threat of Octavian and his legions, it had worked. Sextus had been given a fleet unmatched in those waters and the moment when the Senate had voted had eased a pain that had been with him ever since his father died.

Now Cassius had called him and he had answered. His fleet was a weapon to bring the Caesarians to a battle they could not win. Sextus wiped salt from his eyes once more, showing his teeth as the wind bit at him. He had learned from a young age that there was no such thing as justice. It was not justice that his father had been taken from him. It was not justice that a man like Caesar had been given Rome to rule as a king. Sextus had lived with despair and bitterness for years, surviving by being more ruthless and more ready to kill than any of his men. It had been a brutal school and he knew he would never be able to go back to the innocent child he had once been with Lavinia. His smile widened into the gale, showing his canines as his lips pulled back. None of that mattered. Cassius and Brutus had killed the tyrant and at last he had a chance to ravage and burn Octavian’s forces. One day he would restore everything the family of Caesar had taken from him and that was all he cared about, all he needed to know. His father’s shade watched him. The old man’s honour was worth a run through a storm.

Driven by some strange joy he did not understand, Sextus began to sing into the wind, a sailor’s work tune. He sang badly but with great volume and it was loud enough to cause the captain to look up from his misery, staring in disbelief. Others in the crew grinned at the sight and sound of their young leader roaring and stamping his feet at the prow.

He felt the weight of the cloak as Lavinia came back, looking at him as if he had gone mad as she draped it over his wet shoulders.

‘They are saying some sea monster is wailing up here,’ she said. ‘Shall I tell them it’s just your singing?’

He grinned at her, pulling the cloak around him. The storm was tossing the sea into froth and vicious spray that stung his face as the galley crashed on.

‘Hold on to the prow with me,’ he shouted back. ‘The ship needs a little of our luck.’

They stayed there together, arm in arm, until the fleet rounded the point and the storm was left to grumble and flash behind them.

Agrippa scratched at a smear of mud on his forehead as it dried and itched. He could hardly remember when he had managed to snatch more than a few hours’ sleep and he was exhausted. It was done. Two thousand men with shovels and wheeled carts had dug a trench just over a mile long and only the final section waited to be breached. He had more than thirty surveyors working with them, checking the depth with long rods as the men toiled. It had to be twenty-four feet wide to accommodate the narrow galleys, even with the oars pulled right in and stacked on the decks, but the width had not caused as many problems as the depth. Agrippa had spent a day having the surveyors go over their figures again and again, but the shallow galleys had to float free or the entire enterprise would be worthless. He looked at the huge gates that held the lake waters back. They had been a tale in themselves, with expert builders driving wooden beams into the clay with enormous weights suspended above them, lifted and dropped a hundred times by teams of sweating labourers. They’d dug out foundations a short distance from the lake, sinking a trench back to the water. His carpenters had worked day and night and when the first short length breached and filled, the massive gates held, forming a short spur. None of the trench men had enjoyed standing close to them as they dug away from the gates towards the sea. The wood groaned occasionally and water sprayed from tiny holes, dribbling along the trench and making the earth sticky and wet. It had been hard, but as the surveyors had promised him, two thousand men could build almost anything and the thing was done at last.

On the lake, his galleys still flitted and lunged at each other, each new crew building the stamina they needed while they practised boarding. He’d had archery targets set up all along the shore of the lake for them to use and one of the top-heavy corvus ships anchored on the water, which now resembled a porcupine for the number of shafts sticking out of its timbers. He scowled at the sight of it, wondering who had failed to give the order to collect the arrows. Every one was precious, though entire industries had grown up around Neapolis to supply him. He had all his carts sent north as obviously as possible for a hundred miles before cutting west and back south, but even so Agrippa suspected his secrecy was a complete farce. His men had to chase local boys away almost every day as they crept along the shore and stole tools or simply gaped at the darting galleys. A city’s worth of men had descended on Lake Avernus and Agrippa had been forced to hang two of his carpenters for murdering a local during a botched theft. He had guards on the only road east, yet there were constant attempts by Neapolis officials to come out and demand things from him, either justice or compensation for something his people had done. If it hadn’t been for the sight of new galleys growing by the day, he thought he would have despaired, but Octavian’s silver poured out and ships were made and rested. The green wood would warp and twist over the winter, needing constant care and repair, but he had teams for that work as well.

The surveyors were waiting for him to give the signal and Agrippa only stared wearily, checking a thousand things in his mind to be sure he had not missed some crucial aspect of the canal that could not be redone once he had opened it. He looked along its length, seeing the smooth lime concrete that covered the clay beneath. It would hold water as well as any bridge pile, he had been assured, but still he worried that the entire length would drain away, leaving him with a lake that was suddenly too low to bring his galleys out.

Agrippa took a deep breath and prayed to Minerva. The goddess of artisans would surely look kindly on such a project as a canal to the sea. That thought brought another prayer to Neptune and finally Agrippa made the horned hand to ward off ill-luck. He could not think of another god or goddess worth asking, so he raised his arm and dropped it.

‘Come on,’ he murmured. ‘Go well.’

The gates had been made with immense beams of wood standing out from each side and locked in place with iron bars set into stone. As the bars were pulled out, he had a dozen men on each one, but the pressure from behind would be with them. He watched as one brave builder climbed down into the trench and used a hammer to knock out a main strut. The teams took the strain, holding the waters back while the builder rushed out again. As soon as he stepped clear, they reversed their pull and water began to roar through, the noise indescribable. The teams were forced back step by step, despite their best efforts. The line of rushing water became a cataract, spraying water high into the air.

The gates came right back into their slots against the walls of the canal and the teams stood panting, their job done. Agrippa began to jog, then ran along the length as fast as he could go. The waters outpaced him and he saw a great wave rise above the final blocking gate, lifting twenty feet or more into the air, so that all the men there were drenched and laughing. He arrived as the water settled back into a placid surface, with mud and torn plants swirling. The sea was on his left shoulder and he only wished he could have driven the canal right out to it in one go. Barely fifty feet of sandy soil remained, but his surveyors had insisted on another gate before the final breakthrough, in case something went wrong with the levels or, worse, they were seen from the sea and attacked before they were ready. Sextus Pompey had ships somewhere out there on the dark water and he could land ten thousand men if he saw something interesting on the coast.

A great cheer went up as the labourers saw the canal fill and hold, the level equalising with the lake. Agrippa grinned at last, wishing Maecenas and Octavian were there to see it. Pride swelled his chest and he laughed aloud, enjoying the smell of salt and seaweed that was strong in the air. When they finished the last section, they’d have the same routine to do again, but he’d have the new galleys waiting in line for a mile, backing up onto the lake. They’d come out in a rush of brown water and Octavian would have his fleet to hunt down the galleys of Sextus Pompey.

Mark Antony was walking the cliffs with Lepidus, looking down on the port city. When he had last been to Brundisium, six mutinous legions waited for him to take command and pronounce punishment. Now that vast assemblage looked small in memory. Twelve legions had camped on every piece of spare ground for miles around the central town, a gathering large enough to ruin the economy for years as they commandeered everything useful from the region, from horses and food to iron, bronze and leather.

‘I’m to have dinner tonight with Buccio and Liburnius,’ Mark Antony said, smiling wryly. ‘I think the legates would like to make amends for the small matter of mutinying under my command.’

He chuckled at the thought, amused at how fate had swung them apart and then together again. The movements of the Republic made a mockery of all his plans. A year before, he could not have imagined standing on those sea cliffs with the Senate in hand and an alliance with a young man he had barely remembered. His mood darkened as he realised Julius had been alive at that time. No one could have predicted the events after the assassination. Mark Antony only counted himself lucky that he had survived and risen, no matter who else had risen with him.

‘They seem to have the ear of Caesar,’ Lepidus said. ‘Perhaps you should question them about crossing the sea to Greece. How long can we stay here without ships?’

‘As long as we must, to keep Rome safe from invasion,’ Mark Antony replied uncomfortably. He did not enjoy hearing the name of Caesar used for Octavian, but it was becoming a hard reality and he assumed it would jar less and less in time. ‘But I agree, it is not enough to stay here and wait. I can wish for a new fleet, but then I might as well wish for the men to be given wings. I do not know all his plans, Lepidus. As it is, we are the block that prevents Brutus or Cassius landing on this coast. While we remain in such strength, they too cannot cross by sea. Who would have thought that galleys would ever be so important? The future of Rome rests on fleets, while legions remain idle.’

‘Then we should build new ships,’ Lepidus said irritably. ‘Yet whenever I ask, that friend of his, Maecenas, tells me I shouldn’t concern myself. Have you broached the subject with Caesar? I would be happier if I knew we were at least beginning the task. I don’t want to spend years on this coast waiting to be attacked.’

Mark Antony grinned to himself, turning away to hide his amusement. He had only arrived from Rome the day before, while Lepidus had been stationed at Brundisium for almost three months. Mark Antony was satisfied with the way the triumvirate was working, though he could appreciate Lepidus might not feel the same. It would not be useful to remind the man he had only been included to give Mark Antony a casting vote in any disagreement. Apart from that, he was not concerned with what Lepidus thought.

The wind gusted around them as they walked the cliffs, looking down to the dark blue sea. Both men felt the energy of it raising their spirits as their togas whipped and fluttered. Even from such a height, Mark Antony could not see Greece in the distance, though he imagined Brutus and Cassius there. The vagaries of fate had thrown him onto this shore and Rome would remember only the victors when it was done.

As he stared out over the vastness of the white-capped ocean, Mark Antony felt his attention dragged towards movement on his right side. He turned his head and froze, his good mood curdling like old milk in his stomach.

‘By the gods, do you see that?’ Lepidus said a moment later.

Mark Antony nodded. Around the bay, a host of galleys rowed into view, sleek and fast and dangerous. Many of them had broken stubs where fine oars had been before and, to his experienced eye, the ships looked battered. Yet they kept coming and his heart sank further.

‘Sixty … no, eighty …’ Lepidus was muttering.

There were at least a hundred galleys, fully half the fleet Sextus Pompey led. Mark Antony found himself making the horned hand instinctively. It was more than enough to blockade the east coast of Italy, preventing even the small boats that carried messages and kept trade alive.

‘It seems Sextus Pompey has heard about our legions gathering here,’ Mark Antony said. ‘By Jupiter, what I wouldn’t give for a fleet! I’ll send a rider to Rome, but we cannot cross now, even if Octavian found me a dozen ships tomorrow.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There was no moon as Agrippa’s galleys eased out into the black sea. For three nights after finishing the canal, he had waited for perfect conditions to open the final gates, unable to move while a storm whipped the waves too high for his redesigned galleys. Stability had proved the biggest danger, with every one of his innovations adding to the top weight. Time and again, he’d had to abandon some scheme when he found it either slowed the ships or made them a death trap for those inside. The months of building around Lake Avernus had been the most frustrating and fascinating of his life, but he was ready, and even if he had not been, Octavian had sent Maecenas down again to order him out.

For once, his friend was silent as the ships slipped away from the coast. Agrippa sensed Maecenas wanted to be anywhere but there, but his pride had not allowed him to refuse. They would face the enemy fleet together, with just forty-eight galleys. Everything depended on timing and surprise – and luck, which grated on Agrippa when the stakes were so high.

In the darkness, the small fleet communicated with shuttered lamps, sending dim beams across the darkness to mark their positions as they formed up. It had taken most of the afternoon and evening for them to creep down the canal, oars in and silent as men on the ground heaved them forward on ropes. The moment when they were all out on deep water brought a surge of excitement.

Agrippa could not help feeling pride at Roman achievement. His men had built a path to the ocean where none had existed before. They’d crafted immense ships and when ideas had failed or proved too unwieldy, they’d dismantled and begun again without complaint. Agrippa told himself he’d make sure the crews and officers were rewarded, if any of them survived.

The dark swell stretched in all directions, easily capable of hiding a vast host of raptor galleys waiting for them. Agrippa swallowed nervously, clenching and unclenching his big fists as he paced the deck. To the south, the island of Sicily lay across his course, a mass of land and tiny coves that was said to shelter the enemy fleet. His hope was only to come as close as possible before dawn. After that, his new weapons and tactics would succeed or fail. His men had trained continuously, but Agrippa knew they could not yet manoeuvre as easily as veteran crews. He wiped sweat from his forehead as the new ships raised sails into the breeze. His galley eased forward with the rest, the only noise the hiss of water passing under the prow. Sicily cupped the toe of Italy at the far south and they had almost two hundred miles to go. Agrippa continued to pace, picturing his maps in his mind. For all his hopes, he’d been tempted to refuse battle and take his fleet to the east coast where Octavian was crying out for ships. With just a little luck, Agrippa knew he could have beached the fleet further south for a day, then passed the heel of Italy the following night, perhaps before Sextus Pompey even knew he was in those waters. It would have been the right decision if Pompey hadn’t split his fleet and taken a hundred galleys of his own around the heel. The news Maecenas had brought had changed everything.

Under twin blockades, both the major coasts of Italy were closed to trade. Rome was already close to starving and the siege could no longer be endured. It had to be broken. Agrippa felt the responsibility weighing heavily on him. If he failed, Octavian would be bottled up in Rome for years, forced to negotiate or even surrender to the forces of the Liberatores. There was no second chance, Agrippa knew. It all came down to Octavian’s faith in him.

Forty-eight galleys raised sails into the night wind, but Agrippa could hardly see them. The danger of white sails being spotted had led to his men colouring the sheets with the madder herb, dipping them again and again in huge vats until they were a rusty brown that would not reveal their position to anyone with half an eye out to sea. The sails were the colour of dried blood, but they served their purpose.

‘I have a good jug here,’ Maecenas said, clinking it against a clay cup to make his point.

Agrippa shook his head, then realised Maecenas could not see the gesture.

‘Not for me. I need to be sharp now we’re out.’

‘You should have been a Spartan, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘I find good red wine merely relaxes me.’ He poured a cup, cursing softly as some of it spilled onto the deck. ‘That’s for good luck, I suppose,’ he said, drinking. ‘You should get some sleep, if sharpness is important. At least the sea is calm tonight. I’d rather not face a watery grave while heaving my guts out over the railing.’

Agrippa did not reply, his thoughts on the galleys all around him. Maecenas did not seem to understand how much of the venture rested on him. Every modification he had made, every new tactic, was his. If it failed, he would have wasted half a year of hard work and a fortune that beggared belief – as well as his own life. His ships were well enough hidden in the night, but the dawn would reveal them to hostile eyes. He did not know whether to dread or welcome the moment they caught sight of the first hostile galley surging towards them.

Vedius was shaken from sleep by Menas, his second in command. He came awake with a grunt, trying to roll over on his bunk and flailing at the man’s hand on his shoulder.

‘What is it?’ he said blearily.

He’d spent so long sleeping on deck that the tiny cabin reserved for a captain seemed an incredible luxury. The mattress may have been lumpy and thin, but it was much better than stretching out under a tarpaulin in the wind and rain.

‘Signal light, sir,’ Menas said, still shaking him.

The man was a legion officer and Vedius sensed scorn behind his carefully neutral manner. Yet he was at Vedius’ command, for all his pretensions and legion honour. Vedius slapped the hand away. He sat up fast and struck his head on a beam, cursing.

‘Right, I’m up,’ he said, rubbing his crown as he clambered out of the tiny alcove.

In the darkness he followed Menas, climbing a short ladder to the deck and the light of a dim lamp. Vedius stared into the distance to where his subordinate was pointing. Far off, on the peak of a mountain, Vedius saw a gleam. The system was that their watchers lit a bonfire at night when they saw anything moving at sea.

‘Someone’s making a night run,’ Vedius said with grim pleasure.

It had to be a valuable cargo if the captains and owners were willing to risk losing their ships on some unseen rock. He rubbed his callused hands together at the thought, making a whispering sound. Visions of gold or chests of legion silver filled his imagination, or better still, the young daughters of some fat senator. With Lavinia on board, Sextus held women only briefly for ransom, but he was not there. Vedius had been without female companionship for a long time and he grinned into the breeze. Willing or not, the whores of Sicily were nowhere near as exciting as the thought of a Roman virgin in his cabin for a few days.

‘Take us out, Menas. Let’s pluck a few fat Roman birds for the pot.’

Menas smiled uncomfortably. The coarse tavern fighter repelled him, but the Senate had given men like Vedius the fleet, the true eagle of Rome, and he could only obey and hide his disgust.

There was no need to be cautious, with the western coast sewn tight. Menas took hold of a horn on his belt and blew a long note across the waters. Eight galleys formed their small group and they were moving almost as soon as they heard the note, their captains ready as soon as the bonfire light had appeared on the peak. In turn, they blew their own horns, a droning chorus that would carry to the next cove and alert the crews there to follow them out.

Vedius felt the wind freshen against his face as the rowers below dipped their oars and the galley began to accelerate. There was nothing like the feeling of speed and power and he could only bless Sextus Pompey for introducing him to it. He rubbed his jaw, feeling an old ache. He owed Sextus everything since the young man had rescued him and given him a purpose when Vedius had been little better than a fighting drunk. He told himself Sextus would never have beaten him if he’d been sober, but the broken jaw had never healed right and Vedius had lived with pain ever since, every meal a misery as it crunched and clicked. The Roman noble had been at his back for years, but for this night, Vedius was alone in command. It was a heady feeling and he loved it.

‘Half-speed!’ he shouted, then he called for a drink to help him shrug off the last of his sleep. One of the Roman legionaries offered water and Vedius laughed at him.

‘I never touch it. Wine feeds the blood, lad. Fetch me a skin!’

Below his feet, the rowing master heard and the drumbeat grew faster. The rowers who had been asleep on their benches shortly before put their backs into it with expert ease. The galleys headed out to sea in tight formation, lunging faster and faster to be first at the prizes ranging on the deep water. They left the island of Capri behind them, a hundred miles north of Sicily.

Agrippa was squinting into the darkness, seeing and losing again the point of light that had appeared in the distance. The night sky had turned around the Pole Star, but dawn was still hours away and he could not understand who might be lighting fires on the hills of Capri as his fleet sailed past in the dark.

‘I need information, Maecenas!’ he said. He thought his friend shrugged, but in the darkness, he could not be sure.

‘No one knows where the enemy fleet is,’ Maecenas said. ‘We have clients on Sicily and every island along this coast, but they can’t keep us informed with no link back to land. You’re running blind, my friend, though I think you have to assume that fire is not just some herdsman warding off the cold.’

Agrippa didn’t reply, his own frustration rendering him mute. The island of Capri was a great dark mass on his right shoulder as he came south, with just one point of light on the highest peak. He strained his eyes into the distant dark for any sign of galleys coming out to hit them.

‘I didn’t plan for an attack at night,’ he muttered. ‘My crews can’t use the grapnels if they can’t see the enemy.’

‘Sometimes the gods play games,’ Maecenas replied lightly.

He sounded supremely unworried and his confidence helped Agrippa to find calm. He would have replied, but he saw something out on the deep water and leaned right over the rail, turning his head back and forth as he tried to make sense of the blurring shadows.

‘Don’t fall,’ Maecenas said, reaching out to grab his shoulder. ‘I don’t want to find myself in command tonight. You’re the only one who understands how it all works.’

‘By all the hells, I see them!’ Agrippa said. He was certain of it: the vague shapes of long galley hulls.

‘Cornicen! Blow three short!’

It was the signal to form up on the flagship and he had to trust that the galley crews knew it meant to follow him. Agrippa snapped half a dozen new orders. The sea was like glass, but he needed light for everything he had planned to do.

Maecenas watched with studied calm as the sails came down and the great oars were lowered into the water. Agrippa’s galley slowed and wallowed, then picked up speed once more as the oars bit and began the rhythmic movement that would push them much faster through the waves. He felt the increase and despite himself he smiled. Around them, the small fleet did the same, all pretence at subterfuge forgotten as the captains yelled their orders.

The lull had brought the enemy galleys closer, though Maecenas could see the white foam from their strokes better than the ships themselves. His throat seemed to have gone dry and he filled another cup for himself, tossing it back.

‘We’ll run south along the coast until dawn,’ Agrippa said. ‘Gods, where is the sun? I need light.’

In the distance, he could hear drums pounding as the galleys came lunging in, faster and faster. His own crews moved to half-speed and then the captain ordered it higher, notch by notch, as they tried to stay clear.

‘They can’t keep going like that, not for long,’ Maecenas said, though it was half a question.

Agrippa nodded unseen in the dark, hoping it was true. He’d had his crews running miles around the lake for months. They were as lean and fit as hunting dogs, but the labour of heaving on oars was exhausting even for men in the peak of condition. He had no idea if the hardened legion galleys Sextus Pompey commanded could simply run his fleet down and ram them.

‘So why are you here?’ Agrippa said. He spoke to break the tension before it suffocated him. ‘I mean, here on the ships.’

‘You know why,’ Maecenas said. ‘I don’t trust you on your own.’

Even in the gloom, they could both see the other man’s teeth as they grinned together. The sound of oars and drums seemed to grow every minute and Agrippa found his heart was racing like prey running from a wolf pack. The wind roared around his ears, making him turn his head back and forth to hear the enemy.

‘Why really?’ he said louder, almost shouting.

As far as he could tell, the enemy galleys were almost on them and he tensed for the first crash of bronze rams into wood. There was no pretence of navigation any longer. The rowers below just heaved and pulled, putting every ounce of strength into each sweep.

‘The same reason you are risking your neck in complete darkness!’ Maecenas shouted back. ‘For him. It’s always for him.’

‘I know,’ Agrippa called back. ‘Do you think he knows how you feel?’

‘How I what?’ Maecenas yelled incredulously. ‘How I feel? Are you seriously choosing this moment, with our lives in the balance, to tell me you think I’m in love with Octavian? You pompous bastard! I can’t believe this!’

‘I just thought …’

‘You thought wrong, you ignorant great ape! Gods, I come out here to face brutal enemies with you – on the sea, no less – and this is what I get? Octavian and I are friends, you great hairy shit-pot. Friends.’

Maecenas broke off as a thunderous crack sounded somewhere close. Men screamed and splashes followed, but the night was like black ink and they could hardly tell where the sounds had come from or whether it was one of their own crews drowning in the dark.

‘You and I will have words about this when it’s over!’ Maecenas snapped. ‘I’d call you out with blades right now if I could see you, if you weren’t the only one who knows how these galleys fight.’

In the face of his appalled indignation, he heard Agrippa laugh. Maecenas almost struck him.

‘You’re a good man, Maecenas,’ Agrippa said, his white teeth still visible in the darkness.

If Maecenas could have seen him, he’d have been worried at the great cords standing out on Agrippa’s neck and chest, every muscle and sinew drawn tight in fear and rage at the enemy. Agrippa was manic, unable to act with enemies all around him and no way of knowing if he’d be drowning at any moment. Talking to Maecenas had helped a little.

‘I am a good man, ape. And so are you. Now please tell me we can outrun these galleys.’

Agrippa looked east, praying for the first light of the sun to appear. He could feel the galley creaking and stretching under him, a thing alive. Salt droplets sprayed across the deck, stinging his face with cold.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

Vedius stepped back from the prow of the galley, trying to see into the plunging blackness. Whoever was out there, they had a lot of ships. There had been a moment when he thought he’d fallen into some sort of trap, but then they’d run, their oars scything through the sea and churning it into white froth. He’d ordered full attack speed and closed the gap quickly on the strange, dark vessels running free before him. For a brief time, he called for ram speed. The galleys skimmed across the calm waters, driven as fast as they could go. He knew the rowers could not keep the brutal pace for long. Ram speed was the final surge of acceleration before striking an enemy, a hundred heartbeats at most before they had to fall back. His head came round in a jerk when he heard some sort of crash, but he could see nothing and the men below were already failing.

‘Ease back to half!’ he roared. He heard the falling horn note drone out, but there was still a bellow of fear behind him as one of his ships came close to ripping the oars off another.

Vedius turned to one of his archers.

‘Do you have pitch arrows?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied.

Fire was not the tool it might have been at sea. The lumps of pitch and tar-cloth on the points robbed the arrows of decent range. In a close battle, Vedius had used them before against merchant ships, but mostly when the fighting was over and he had orders to burn them to the waterline. Wooden galleys moving at speed were soaked in sea spray from one end to the other and the arrows often extinguished themselves in flight or were quickly smothered when they hit an enemy deck. Even so, he gave the order and watched as two men brought up a small brazier filled with hot coals. They treated it like a precious child, terrified of spilling the coals on a wooden ship. The arrow flickered yellow at the tip when the archer touched it to the brazier. In the red glow, Vedius watched in fascination as the man bent his bow and sent it soaring up and forward.

They all watched the path of the shaft. For an instant, Vedius thought he saw oars moving in the dark like the limbs of a crab or spider before the arrow hissed into the black sea.

‘Another. Use a dozen or so, one at a time. And vary the direction. I need to see.’

The bright points rose and fell again and again, giving just enough light for Vedius to make a picture in his mind. There were dozens of galleys out there, though he still could not count them. They too had eased back to half-speed, enough to keep them out of range of anything he could send in their direction. Vedius looked east, searching for the wolf-light that came before the dawn. For a time, he had wished Sextus were there to see this great prize, but in his absence Vedius’ confidence had grown and now he was content to be in command. When Sextus heard, he would know his friend had not let him down when it mattered. His galleys had spread out in a great net of ships, chasing down the prey at speed.

Vedius felt his ship lurch and cursed aloud as they lost way. He could hear urgent shouting down below and growled to himself. One of the rowers had burst his heart or simply collapsed, fouling the oar and knocking the rest out of sequence. It happened occasionally and he knew the oar-master would be quickly among them, heaving the body out while the oar lolled and shoving in one of the soldiers to take his place.

The galley slowed as the other oarsmen took the chance to rest, pleased at even a moment’s respite. Vedius let out a short bark of laughter when he felt the oars bite again and the speed increased. He had never ridden a horse into battle, but he assumed it felt much the same, with the enemy fleeing before him and the sun about to rise. His fleet plunged on through the wine-dark sea and he felt the excitement rise in him as he realised he could make out the prow under his hand. The sun was coming and he was ready.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dawn came quickly out at sea, with no mountains or hills to block the first rays. The sun appeared first as a burning thread on the horizon, gilding the waves and revealing the two fleets to each other. Neither found much to please them. Agrippa swallowed nervously when he saw how badly outnumbered he was, while Vedius had not expected anywhere near that number of ships.

As soon as the sun’s light cast away the dark, Agrippa was roaring new orders to his ships and running up flags. His captains had been forced to memorise a new system so that the enemy galleys would not be able to read his signals. It was with a grim satisfaction that he squinted north and watched the enemy commander send up flags he knew very well. It was another edge, that he could see what they intended and react just as fast as they could. Against so many galleys he needed every advantage he could get.

The larger fleet responded with all the legion discipline Agrippa had expected, widening the line and forming a great curve on the sea as they rowed forward. They had the numbers. He could see only the closest sixty of the galleys facing him, but there were many more behind, blocked from view by their own ships. Agrippa took a deep breath, forcing himself to be calm. He had planned for this and lost sleep for this. He could not shake the sense of cold dread that gripped him, but he had done everything he could to give himself a chance against such a host.

‘Signaller, ready the “attack” flag. Put “prepare” up on the mast.’

Agrippa stared at the great arc of ships coming for him. They were no more than a mile away and he could read the flags flashing between them. He nodded as the order for ‘Attack speed’ went up on what must be their flagship. There. Whoever commanded them was in the very centre.

‘That one is ours,’ he yelled. ‘Signal “back oars”, “turn” and “attack”!’

It took time to send, but Agrippa’s galleys had seen his signal to prepare and reacted at great speed. In just moments, they went from running before the enemy to a dead stop in the water and then began the slow turn, where they were most vulnerable. If the enemy could reach them as they presented their flanks, they would be near helpless. Agrippa saw the enemy galleys accelerate like birds taking flight, churning up the sea. They were too late. Agrippa’s galleys faced them head-on, leaping forward as the oars swept down and back once more.

The two fleets came together at a terrifying pace.

‘Gods, there are so many of them!’ Maecenas said, gripping the rail with his knuckles showing white.

Agrippa did not respond, his eyes taking in every detail against the glare of the sun. It was not as simple as each of his ships taking two of the enemy. He knew that if he could destroy their command ship and scatter the others, if he could just survive the first clash, he had a chance.

He called over one of the helmsmen, who passed control of the galley to another while Agrippa pointed out the ship he wanted. The man squinted into the sunlight and took a bearing, then raced back to the stern to guide them in. Agrippa could have just roared his orders from the prow back to him – the galleys were short enough – but he wanted to be accurate.

His small fleet would strike up the centre; they had no other choice. The enemy would flank them immediately, but galleys were not as responsive as legion manoeuvres. To sink his ships, they had to ram at speed or lock the galleys together with a corvus bridge and get on board.

The fleets raced closer and Agrippa could only hope he had prepared his men well enough. The first test at sea was one of nerve, with opposing captains shouting orders left and right to guide them in and outguess the other man. Agrippa swallowed hard. The first weapon was his own ship, which could strip the oars from an enemy as it ripped past, killing half the rowers on one side – if he guessed correctly. If he got it wrong, a head-on collision, prow to prow, could sink them both before a single sword was drawn.

He found himself panting in fear and exhilaration as he saw the enemy captain with an arm wrapped around the prow. Agrippa could see the oars plunging back and forth. He knew legion commanders preferred to dip left from instinct, presenting their right side and their strongest arm to an enemy. Yet he did not know if the galley was commanded by a legion man or one of Sextus Pompey’s pirates.

‘Ready corvus bridge!’ he roared. ‘Ready harpax!’ The grapnel teams exulted in the name they had chosen for his new weapon. The ‘robbers’ would steal whole ships if they could make them work in the chaos of a battle.

All around, his fleet was meeting the enemy, but Agrippa had to focus on just one galley as it soared towards him. If his nerve went and he turned too early, the other captain would have a clear shot at his side and the ram would smash through, holing him below the waterline. Agrippa counted down in his head as the ships raced in without slowing. At fifty paces apart, the other galley had not deviated an inch and Agrippa knew suddenly that the man in command would not move off course, arrogantly certain that his opponent would turn and run. He could not have said how he knew, except for the rock-steady course he followed.

‘Agrippa?’ Maecenas said quietly, watching the approaching galley with sick fascination.

‘Not yet,’ Agrippa muttered.

He made his decision in the last instant, leaving it as late as he could.

‘Oars in port side! Now! Oars up on the free!’

On the left side, where a ship unloaded in a port, the oars came in smartly, heaved across the knees of the rowers. On the free side opposite, the oars came out of the water so the galley could stay on course. The helmsmen pushed the steering oars against the wooden stops, so the galley began to swing right, its speed hardly dropping.

Agrippa tensed, grabbing the rail as his galley sheared along the enemy ship, the sharp prow crashing through dozens of oars. He heard screaming pass him as the great beams of wood crushed men in the oar-benches, snapping their backs and cutting across them. Splinters flew in a deadly hail below their deck as the two galleys passed, leaving the enemy ship torn open.

Agrippa’s crew gave a roar of triumph as they dipped their oars back to the sea on both sides. They wanted to finish off the wounded vessel, but another was coming at them and to turn and present a flank would have been suicide.

Agrippa saw one galley ahead and another slightly further back on his right side.

‘Ready harpax! Target on the free side!’

All around him, ships were locked in battle. Many had lost their oars on both sides, rendered completely helpless. More than one had been ripped right open in the impact, so that they were heeling over, already beginning to sink. Even as he risked a glance around, he saw two hulls turn over and ease beneath the surface, with bodies studding the waves and thrashing in a stream of silver bubbles.

The opposing galley was pouring on speed to repay him for his first attack, but as the second one began to pass, Agrippa bellowed an order to his harpax crews. The grapnels soared out and the enemy crews watched with open mouths as they reached and gripped. His legionaries made the capstans spin and the rest of his fighting men raced to the port side to prevent their ship going over as they were dragged sideways across the waves.

The galley he had been facing head-on seemed to slide left. Agrippa’s crew staggered as the galley they had latched on to tipped and capsized. It started to sink as the hold filled with water and Agrippa felt his own galley tipping over as the grapnels remained lodged.

‘Axes! By Mars, cut the ropes!’ he roared, a note of panic entering his voice.

He cursed the copper wires woven into the cables. They resisted the first blows while his ship continued to tilt, dragged over by the vanishing galley. The first rope parted with a twang that could be heard by all those around. The second of three went with two men hacking frenziedly at it, then the third, which whipped across the face of one of the soldiers, sending him spinning into the water with his face a mass of blood.

Agrippa’s galley crashed back, raising a wave of spray that drenched half the men on the slippery deck.

‘Harpax crews!’ he shouted, already hoarse. ‘Fit more ropes and grapnels.’

They had a second set, but while they had been locked together, another galley had slid up to his side at full speed. Agrippa barely had time to order the port oars in once more before the ships grated together, a long, groaning sound. He showed his teeth as he saw the enemy corvus bridge lifted up by sweating soldiers.

‘Corvus teams! Up and over! Repel boarders!’

He would not leave his post at the prow, but he saw Maecenas draw a gladius and pick up a shield from where they were stowed in a wooden rack. With the first wave of soldiers, Maecenas raced to the spot where the enemy must come, while their own corvus bridges were thrown up. The enemy ship had come in at an angle, so that the one closest to the stern could not reach. It stuck out into the breeze like a wooden tongue, men standing uselessly behind it. The one closest to the prow slammed down into the enemy deck, the great iron spike at its head lodging immovably in the wood.

Agrippa’s soldiers poured over the narrow bridge, while still more of them defended those trying to gain their own deck. Agrippa could see a century of legion soldiers on the enemy galley, but his second advantage showed itself immediately. Each of his rowers had won his place in sword tourneys. They left their benches and raced up onto the deck, three times as many fighting men as the enemy legionaries and each one a veteran and a skilled swordsman. Maecenas went with them over the corvus bridge, battering men back with his shield as his group fought to make space for more to come over.

It was slaughter. For a brief moment, both sides fought their way onto the opposing ship, but the ones that reached Agrippa’s galley were cut down in moments, their bodies thrown over the side to sink. His own soldiers hacked and killed their way through the enemy crew and went down into the hold to threaten the rowers there.

A cheer went up as they dragged the captain to the deck, a man in a plumed helmet who had tried to hide himself below when he saw his ship was taken. Still alive, he was thrown overboard to drown in his armour – and Agrippa’s men had another ship. He was tempted to take it for his own, but the enemy fleet still swarmed all around.

‘Set fires and get back quickly,’ he ordered, watching the sea in all directions for a new threat until black smoke rose over the screaming of oarsmen. Agrippa closed his ears to the sound. There was no justice in such a battle. He knew they had not chosen to attack him, but there was no help for it and he could not show mercy. His soldiers came back on board and the corvus bridges were levered out of the decks with fallen swords.

The galleys eased apart and the pillar of smoke thickened quickly, roaring yellow in the hold. Agrippa shouted encouragement to his men as they took their positions once again at the oars, dropping red blades at their feet and placing their blistered hands on the wooden beams. All around him his small fleet was still fighting.

It was a strange lull. The battle had spread over a vast distance as the galleys ran each other down. The water was covered in a slick of oil and splinters and floating bodies, some of them still moving. Agrippa could see any number of upturned hulls and had no way of knowing if they were his own or those of the enemy. For those still fighting, he knew every ship he’d built, with just a glance. He was pleased at the numbers. He turned at the cracking thump of catapults and saw threads leap out again from one of his ships, dragging another of the enemy galleys close enough to kill. Whether by luck or because they had learned not to rush a single rail, it remained upright, and then his swordsmen came charging over two corvus bridges and that ship too was taken.

Maecenas returned to his side, panting from his exertions. He looked around him in wonder, having never seen a battle at sea before.

‘Are we winning?’ he said, resting his sword on the rail.

Agrippa shook his head. ‘Not yet. Half the ships you see are disabled. We could take those, but there’s no point.’

He signalled quarter-speed to the oar-master and the galley eased between burning vessels. They could all hear crying, screaming men in the infernos they passed and the black smoke choked them. The breeze had begun to freshen, driving the smoke away to the east. To Maecenas’ shock, the sun was still low in the morning sky, though he thought they had been fighting for many hours.

As they moved through the devastation of the battle, Agrippa sighted the first ship they had struck. The captain’s crew had worked hard to transfer oars to the broken side and restore some movement to his battered ship. Agrippa saw new signals fluttering on its mast and he watched to see how many ships could still respond. It seemed to take an age for them to answer, but he saw flags go up on galleys in the distance as they began to come back.

He sent up his own signal to regroup on his flag and then there was nothing to do but wait.

‘Now we will see,’ he said grimly. He sought out the closest galley that looked undamaged but carried the colours of the Roman fleet on its mast. Agrippa raised his voice to carry to his crew. ‘That one. There’s no point waiting for them to come to us.’

His men were exhausted after rowing all night and then fighting after that, but Maecenas could see the savage delight in the harpax crews as they coiled ropes and wound back the catapults. They were in no mood to lose after coming so far.

Vedius felt a dim red fury as he watched the enemy flagship run up new signals. They made no sense, even to the ex-perienced legion signallers he commanded. Whoever the man was, he was a cunning bastard, Vedius thought to himself. Those flying grapnels had devastated his galleys. He’d seen three of them turned over before his very eyes while he struggled to restore something like order to the oar crew below his feet.

He shuddered briefly as pictures flashed in his mind. There had been a time when Vedius had believed nothing could ever turn his stomach. He’d witnessed murder and rape with utter calm. Yet on the deck below, bodies and limbs were jammed obscenely together, crushed by the oars and the impact with the other ship. He did not want to go back down there, to the stench of open bowels and more blood than he could believe, so that it pooled and gathered with the roll of the ship. More than sixty men had died as their own oars cut them to pieces. He had been helpless then, waiting for the impact of a ram to send the rest to the bottom. Yet he had not panicked and his legion crew had gone to work with hard faces and Roman discipline, clearing the slippery corpses and moving oars over at good speed. One or two had lost the contents of their stomachs as they worked, but they’d just wiped their mouths and moved on. Menas had been one of those and Vedius had formed something like respect for the Roman officer. Menas had not shirked the labour, pitching in with the others and coming away so covered in blood he might have been working in a slaughterhouse.

For a time, all Vedius could do was watch and give signals to keep his fleet together as the enemy cut through them. Every last one of the bastards had been armed with those appalling grapnels and when the ships came together, they went through good legion soldiers like a scythe through wheat. He had seen four of the enemy ships rammed and sunk, and his men cheered each one, but Vedius knew he had lost many more. Even now, with some way on his galley once more, he could see a great part of his fleet listing or burning, or simply drifting helplessly, with oars sheared away and dead men lying still on the deck.

With narrowed eyes, he saw the enemy commander’s galley come easing back, its prow pushing splinters and bodies aside as it came. As he stared, it accelerated in a new direction, like a wasp attacking one of the ships he had called back to him. Vedius swore impotently. With half his oarsmen dead, he could not keep up with them, never mind stage a ramming action that would do serious damage. For the first time he considered saving as many ships as he could and simply getting away. Sextus would want to hear about these new weapons and tactics.

He held back from giving the order, wanting to see first how many of his ships survived. For all he knew, he still outnumbered the enemy and could yet turn disaster into a victory, no matter what it cost.

From all sides, ships rowed back to him as soon as they saw the flags. With each one returning, Vedius’ heart sank further. They were battered and broken, their sides running with blood or gashed open so that he could see through to rowers sitting just feet above the waves. Many would be lucky to make it back to shore. He could see only three that had come through unscathed, their crews staring out at the rest in shock as they took in the scale of destruction. Vedius shook his head. He knew they were not used to losing, but that did not change the reality of it. That small fleet of forty or fifty ships had torn them apart.

Twenty-nine galleys came limping back to his position and by then the enemy commander was engaged in a corvus battle with one of them. Vedius watched with hope until he saw smoke billow out from the oar-benches and the enemy move on, seeking out fresh targets. It too had sent up a new signal, though he could not read it. Vedius saw other ships come rowing in, forming up on their command galley in good order. Staring into the sun, Vedius did his best to count the enemy ships and did not enjoy the result.

‘Menas! Count them again! The sun is throwing shadows on my eyes.’

His second in command muttered numbers aloud, though the ships shifted position all the time as they gathered.

‘Twenty-three … twenty-five … twenty … eight. I think that’s it. Shall I order an attack, sir?’

Vedius closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing weariness out of them with his thumbs. He could not say it had been a good life, not really. He’d had some good days, that was all.

‘Stop thinking like a legionary, Menas. It’s time to run for the coves we know.’

Menas nodded. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said.

He gave the orders and the battered galleys began to row south towards Sicily.

Maecenas was staring into the distance as the two fleets formed up. Agrippa knew by then that they’d lost only twenty galleys, though it still weighed on him like a failure. His harpax weapons had proved both deadly and effective in the battle and the double corvus bridges and expert sword crews had done the rest.

‘They are retreating … that way,’ Maecenas said.

Agrippa came to stand by his shoulder.

‘South, it’s south,’ he said. His voice was drained of any pride by then, almost too weary to speak at all.

‘Will you follow?’ Maecenas asked.

‘I have to. They are heading the way I want to go. I don’t mind losing another day to chase them down and burn the rest of them. They can’t outrun us now.’

‘You think we can do it again, against Sextus Pompey?’ Maecenas asked.

Agrippa looked around him. A dozen ships nearby were burning, avoided by his galleys as they feared burning sparks and ashes setting their own craft on fire. Others had turned over and could not be salvaged, but there were many more waiting to be taken, their crews slaughtered.

‘Given a month to make repairs and to gather new crews for the ships we haven’t burned, yes, Maecenas, I think we can do it again. We have to.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Brutus smiled. It was one of the many benefits of a young wife, he’d found. Not only did he feel a greater urge to keep lean and fit rather than surrender to age, but Portia lacked the cynicism that had been battered into him over the years of his life. She laughed more easily than he did and, in doing so, infected him with it, so that when he thought of her, his dark moods eased.

‘You are mocking me,’ Portia said. She pouted at him, knowing he loved the expression. In the nights together, he would sometimes bite gently at her lower lip, delighting in its fullness.

‘I would not dare,’ he replied. ‘I salute your Roman spirit in wanting to care for your husband on campaign. I only say that I have tasted your cooking before and this is one chore best left to the servants.’

She gasped in mock outrage, gesturing with the kettle she held as if she might throw it at him. She had dressed herself in the manner of the rustic Greeks, with a simple white tunic tied with a wide sash belt and a dark red cloak over all. As she spoke, she wound her hands through the rich cloth so that it seemed almost alive and part of her, always in movement. Brutus looked on his wife fondly, standing before him in jewelled sandals that cost more than the peasant houses they passed each day. Her feet were small and she wriggled the toes as she stood there. Her dark hair was bound in silver threads and already the fashion she had begun was being copied by Roman women in the camp, affecting simpler make-up and cloth, as if they too could look as beautiful as she did.

‘I will tend to my husband!’ she said.

He stepped close to her and his arm slid around her waist.

‘You know I would like nothing more, but perhaps your husband’s blood has enough charcoal for the moment.’

Portia gasped and pushed him away.

‘You have never tasted my herb chicken, husband. If you had, you would not mock me so.’

‘I believe you,’ he said dubiously. ‘If you want to, I will not complain. Each mouthful will be nectar to me and I will smile as I chew each leathery piece.’

‘Oh! You will see! You will be sorry you said that when you sleep alone tonight!’

She stalked away, brandishing her kettle and calling for servants. Brutus looked affectionately after her, his gaze taking in the vast camp all around him. He saw some of the legionaries smile as they caught sight of her, staring wistfully at the young wife of their commander. Brutus watched them carefully for a moment, his expression darkening. That was the disadvantage, of course. He could never be certain some young buck wasn’t risking his neck to court her, affected by lust or romance until his common sense was drowned like a puppy in wine.

Brutus took a deep breath, letting the warm air fill his lungs and hiss out through his nose. He loved Greece. As a young soldier, he had travelled through the very land where his legions now gathered. His companion had been a grizzled old soldier named Renius, a bad-tempered and ruthless son of Rome who was many years in the grave. For a moment, Brutus could picture the two of them making their way to his first legion appointment. He found himself shaking his head in happy memory. He had been so young then. All those he loved had still been alive and he and Julius had been friends, determined to make their mark on the world.

Brutus looked back through the years, hardly able to recognise the young man he had been when he first crossed Greece. Julius had been rising in Rome, but he had needed military power. Brutus had been determined then to be his general, his greatest support. He could not have imagined there would ever be a day when he struck to kill his friend.

With the sun hot overhead, he sat down on a fallen tree that made the boundary of a farmhouse garden he had taken for the night. He could see all his youth and he was lost in it. He recalled Tubruk, the manager of Julius’ estate outside Rome. Brutus would not want to see the disappointment in that man’s eyes if he still lived. Tubruk would never understand how they had been driven apart. For some, it was better they were dead, so they could not have their hearts broken by everything that came after.

His mother Servilia was still alive, an old woman with white hair now, who yet maintained a stiff back and upright carriage that belied her years. Julius had loved her, Brutus had to admit, though it had eaten at him for years to see his own mother fawn on his friend. In the end, Julius had thrown her aside for his Egyptian queen, the one woman able to bear him a son.

Brutus sighed to himself. He had seen his mother age almost overnight as she abandoned the last pretences of youth. He had thought she might even pine away and die, but there had never been weakness in Servilia. The years only hardened her, like teak or leather. He vowed to visit her when he returned to Rome, perhaps with his young wife on his arm, though he knew they would squabble like cats.

‘What are you thinking?’ Portia said suddenly from behind him.

He had not heard her come back and he started, irritated that anyone could get so close without him knowing it. Age stole away all that made him who he was, he thought. Even so, he smiled at her.

‘Nothing. Nothing important.’

Portia frowned prettily. ‘Shall I show you my scar? My proof that I can be trusted?’

Before he could reply, she flicked back her cloak to reveal a long, sun-browned thigh. With one hand, she lifted the hem of the Greek tunic, showing him a deep pink ridge almost as long as his hand. Brutus looked around him, but there was no one watching. He leaned forward and kissed the mark, making her sigh and run her hands through his hair.

‘You should not have done that to yourself,’ he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I have seen men die from fever after wounds less serious.’

‘It showed you I was not some empty-headed courtesan to be ignored. I am a Roman lady, husband, with Roman fortitude – and a marvellous cook. So I can be trusted with your thoughts, with all things. You were very far away just now.’

‘I was thinking of Julius,’ he admitted.

She nodded, taking a seat on the log next to him.

‘I thought you were. You always have that look on your face when you do. Sadness mostly.’

‘Well, I have seen sad things,’ he said. ‘And I have given too much of my life to seeking out the right path to follow.’ He gestured to the legions encamped all around them, spreading over miles in formal array. ‘I only hope I have found it now. I would like to return to Rome, Portia. Though I love this land, it is not my home. I want to walk through the forum again, perhaps to serve as a consul for a time.’

‘I would like that – for you, but not for me, husband, do you understand? I am happy wherever you are. You have wealth enough for comfort and you are respected and loved.’ She hesitated, unsure how far she should go with an argument they had been through before, many times. ‘I do not want to lose you. You know I would die on the same day.’

Brutus turned to her and gathered her to him. She felt small against his side and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cloth as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

‘You are a little mad, you know,’ he muttered. ‘But I love you anyway. And I will not lose, Portia. I have thrown down a tyrant, a king. Should I now bend my knee to some boy calling himself by the same name? I knew the real Caesar. Octavian has no right to it. No right at all.’

Portia reached up and took his face in her hands, the touch surprisingly cool on his skin.

‘You cannot unbreak all that is broken, my love. You cannot fix the entire world. I think that, of all of them, you have done enough and hurt yourself enough for one lifetime. Is it such a terrible thing to enjoy the fruits of your life now? To have slaves wait on you hand and foot while you enjoy the summers? To spend those years with me in some fine villa by the sea? My father has a place in Herculaneum that is very beautiful. He writes letters every day and runs his estates. Is there shame in that? I don’t think there is.’

He looked down at her. It could not be said that she didn’t understand what drove him. He had told her everything of his past and his failures as well as his triumphs. She had married him in the full knowledge of who he had been and who he still wanted to be, but that did not stop her arguing for peace and retirement. He was only sorry their son had died in childhood. Raising a growing boy might have turned her attentions away from her husband. Yet since then, she had not quickened again, as if her womb had died with the child. The thought upset him and he shook his head.

‘I am not an old man like your father, Portia, not this year anyway. I have another battle in me. If I don’t fight it, or if we lose, they will say of me only that I was a murderer, not that I freed Rome. They will talk of Marcus Brutus as just some petty traitor and they will write the histories to suit them. I have seen it done, Portia. I will not let them do it to me. I cannot let them do it to me!’ He reached up to hold her wrists and brought her hands down to his chest, over his heart.

‘I know you are a good man, Marcus,’ she said, softly. ‘I know you are the best of them, better than that scrawny Cassius, or Suetonius, or any of them. I know it hurt you to be part of their plots, just as it hurts you now to be fighting still. I think you care too much about how they see you, my love. What does it matter if small men live in ignorance of who you were, who you still are? Is your dignity so fragile that the meanest beggar on the street cannot laugh like a fool when you pass? Will you answer all insults, even from men who are not worthy to tie your sandals? You did free Rome, husband. You restored the Republic, or at least you gave them the chance to see a way through without dictators and kings ruling them as slaves. That’s what you’ve said a dozen times. Isn’t that enough for you? You have done more than most men would manage in a dozen lifetimes and I love you for it, but the seasons change and there has to come a time when you put down the sword.’

‘I will, I swear it, after this. Just after this, Portia. The gods have given me all the lions of Rome as my enemies. If they can be beaten, there is no one else who can make an empire out of the ashes. The Republic will go on and there will be peace for a thousand years. I have that in my grasp, just as I have you in my grasp.’

He accompanied the last words with his hands slipping down and tickling her so that she shrieked and squirmed. He went on regardless, ignoring her protests and struggles until there were tears in her eyes.

‘You are a monster!’ she said, laughing. ‘And you do not listen to me.’

He shook his head. ‘I do, you know. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to walk as a free man, with his freedom bought and earned for Rome. I want that, but I will not be ruled by kings, not again. Not by Mark Antony and certainly not by Octavian. I will stand against them one last time and, if the gods smile on me, I will walk with you on my arm in Rome while all the younger men stare at your beauty. And I will be content.’

There was sadness in her eyes as she responded, though she tried to smile.

‘I hope so, my love. I will pray for it.’

She rested her head against his chest, easing into him so that for a time they sat together in silence, staring out over the plain where his legions were preparing the evening meal.

‘I loved him too, you know,’ Brutus said. ‘He was my greatest friend.’

‘I know,’ she replied drowsily.

‘I fought once against him, Portia. Here in Greece, at Pharsalus. I wish you could have seen it. He was incredible.’ He breathed out slowly, the memories bright before his eyes. ‘He broke the forces of Gnaeus Pompey and after the battle he came to find me on the field. He held me in his arms, as I am holding you – and he forgave me my betrayal.’

His voice caught as he spoke, the memory bringing back old griefs and a half-buried anger. From that moment, Brutus had been the man forgiven for his treachery by the noble Caesar. His place had been set in tales and poems of Rome: the weak traitor blessed by a better man. Brutus shuddered slightly, feeling goosebumps rise on his arms as he held his wife. He had not admitted to Portia how he felt on that day in Greece, years before. He had told her he feared for the Republic when Caesar brought Cleopatra and his son to Rome. He had spoken of his belief that they had begun a dynasty to rule the world.

It was all true, yet only part of the truth. Caesar’s fate had been written on that day at Pharsalus, when he had broken and tortured his friend by forgiving Brutus in front of them all.

Portia seemed to be dozing in his arms and he raised her up, kissing her forehead.

‘Come on, love. Let me experience this herb chicken of yours.’

She stirred, yawning and stretching like a cat while he looked fondly down at her.

‘The day is very warm,’ she said. ‘Is there much further to go now?’

‘Not so far, though I will send you back to Athens when I meet Cassius’ legions.’

‘I would prefer to stay with the camp,’ she said.

‘So you’ve said a hundred times, but a legion camp is no place for you, I know that much. I’ll see you safe before we march to the coast.’

‘I don’t know why you have to march to meet his men when the coast is in the opposite direction.’

‘He’s bringing more than half the army, Portia. It makes sense to let them see each other before the horns start blowing. And there aren’t too many plains where ninety thousand men can form up, not in these hills.’

‘What was the name of the place where we’re going?’ she said.

‘Philippi,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It’s just a town, like any other.’

Octavian let the breeze fill his lungs. Standing on the cliffs at Brundisium, he could see for miles out to sea. The sun was strong on his back and yet he could not relax, especially in the company of Mark Antony. Separated by a gulf of more than thirty years, he had to struggle not to be intimidated by a man who had known a very different Rome, before Caesar had risen to command the city and the world beyond it.

Even from the height of the rocky path, he could not see the coast of Greece, somewhere across the haze. His attention was on the stretch of dark blue sea outside the port, where two fleets of galleys battled it out. They were like toy ships, too far away for him to hear the orders roared and the crack of catapults sending grapnels and stones soaring into the air.

Agrippa had rounded the heel of Italy the night before, taking advantage of a calm sea with little wind. Octavian had learned they were coming only that morning, when an exhausted messenger had reached him after crossing the peninsula at breakneck speed. Octavian and Mark Antony had had to climb to the highest point on the coast before they could even see Agrippa’s galleys, but it had been clear from the first moments that Sextus Pompey had also been warned. His fleet was already in formation when Agrippa’s ships came into view at first light. Well rested, Pompey’s galleys had sprung into attack immediately, knowing Agrippa’s oarsmen would be tired after a night rowing along the coast.

‘Gods, did you see that?’ Mark Antony called.

He had walked further down the path, following the motion of the fleet battle with grim fascination. He knew as well as Octavian that Agrippa held their own futures in his hands. If Octavian’s friend failed, the legions could not cross a sea of raptor galleys and survive. It still rankled with Mark Antony that he had not been told of the secret fleet at Avernus.

‘Where?’ Octavian replied without looking up.

‘Next to the closest one on fire, by the rock there, two ships to the left. The one that turned right over. Your friend is doing well, despite the numbers against him.’

Octavian clenched his jaw at the reminder. Agrippa’s fleet was still badly outnumbered, though they had come round the coast with almost fifty galleys. He suspected some of those were almost for show, or to decoy the forces under Sextus Pompey. Certainly, some of the ships fought with full crews, while others only tried to ram, dodging and racing among the rest at full speed. As he watched, Octavian saw one ship crash its prow into another, staving in the side so that it began to sink. Yet the attacker could not free itself and the two galleys remained jammed together. Their crews were fighting on the decks, not just to win, but to decide who would stay on the ship that wasn’t sinking. Octavian saw oars sweeping backwards and knew the attacker was one of Pompey’s captains. Agrippa’s oarsmen poured up and out of his ships whenever they attacked, their oars pulled in or left to droop on chains. It was a dangerous tactic, as they were instantly vulnerable to any other ship coming in hard, but the additional numbers made a vital difference, as far as Octavian could tell.

Even with the knowledge that Agrippa’s ships had red sails, it was almost impossible to be certain who was winning. Some of Agrippa’s ships wallowed like fat old women in the slightest breeze and Octavian could only imagine the constant terror of the men in them as they waited for the lurch that would send them right over and into the cold sea. They were safe enough while the rowers moved them, but as soon as those men left to fight, the ships became dangerously unstable. At least one had already been sunk with only a light impact from a ram.

‘Can you say who has the advantage?’ Mark Antony said.

His voice sounded tight and Octavian glanced at him before shaking his head. The older man was feeling the strain, as well he might, given the stakes and with no way to influence the outcome.

‘Not from here,’ Octavian said loudly. His voice dropped to a mutter as he went on. ‘I can’t do anything from here.’

He glanced at the sun and saw that he had been there all morning. The noon point had passed and the two fleets were still fighting, with more and more ships set ablaze or sunk or turned right over to become a fouling danger to the rest. Thousands of men were already dead by fire or sword or water. The mass action of the beginning had turned into a weary battering, a test of endurance and will, as each captain took their chances with one more enemy, or just held themselves clear to let rowers recover their wind. There was nothing beautiful in it, Octavian realised. He had somehow expected there would be. The reality was like two old prizefighters smashing away at each other through blinded eyes, already bloody and yet unable to fall as they hung on each other. His future lay in the balance and he sent a prayer to Julius and Mars that Agrippa would come through.

Octavian was not naive. He knew some crimes went unpunished. Thieves and murderers sometimes went on with their lives and did well, dying happy and old in their family homes. Julius had once told him of a man who had robbed a friend, then used the money to begin a successful business. The friend had died in poverty while the thief thrived and stood as a senator. Yet a man could seek to make his own justice, even if it did not come on its own or through the will of the gods. It was not given to him; he had to take it. Octavian could not rest while the Liberatores lived, while they continued to parade their crimes as good works.

Octavian had seen a coin with the head of Brutus and the title on the reverse that proclaimed him ‘Saviour of the Republic’. He clenched his jaw at the image in his mind. He would not let them steal the history from more deserving men. He would not let them turn what they had done into a noble thing.

Sextus Pompey saw only despair all around him. His crew had been fighting for hours. They had survived three attacks by boarders, barely pulling the ships apart each time before they were overwhelmed. Few of his men were unwounded and many more were simply gasping for fresh water or a moment to rest. The life they led had made them fit, but they lacked the endless well of energy his youth gave him. His nineteenth birthday had come and gone over the previous months, with a celebration thrown for him by his Roman legion captains. They had toasted him in wine and those who remembered his father had made fine speeches. The brothers Casca had declaimed a new poem sweeping through the cities, written by Horace, that praised the Republic as a jewel among the works of men.

It was a happy, distant memory as he looked at the detritus and bodies floating all around him. No one in Rome had known he had a string of horses across the narrowest point of the mainland so that he and Vedius could communicate. He had done everything right and it had still not been enough. The message had come in time for him to form up and wait for the enemy fleet and he had been confident at dawn. Yet the few lines scrawled on parchment had not prepared him for the suicidal tactics of the galleys he faced, nor the terror of clattering, whirring grapnels soaring over his head. Twice his crew had escaped by hacking at ropes as they drew tight over his ship. The cables were still there on his deck, with copper wires shining. There had not been a moment of peace to dislodge them and put them over the side.

He had only been able to watch as the enemy galleys smashed and sank half his fleet. His ships had started well, ramming and shearing oars with discipline, but they lost three or more for every ship they sank. The enemy galleys moved like hornets, stinging with fire arrows at close range, then boarding as the crews were forced to douse the flames before they could catch hold. It had taken Sextus too long to discover that half the ships he faced were manned only by rowers and were no real threat. They all wore red sails, whether furled or filled with the wind. The dangerous ones hid amongst the greater number, pouring men over twin corvus bridges and slaughtering his crews before setting fires and moving on.

The sea was covered in thick smoke and he could hear the creak and splash of oars all around him. He did not know if he was surrounded by the enemy or whether he could risk a signal to his own ships. He gave a sharp order for his oarsmen to stroke at half-speed, though they too were failing and more than one body had been cleared in the hours since dawn. The darts and strikes of a war galley had been reduced to a slow creeping progress.

The wind strengthened in a gust, blowing part of the smoke away so that he could see further across the waves. It did not bring him comfort as the expanding horizon revealed dozens of sunken hulls, drifting like pale fish at the surface, with bodies all around. Many more ships still burned and as the air cleared he saw three galleys cruising in close formation, hunting through the wreckage. One of them had grapnels ready on the deck and Sextus knew he was taken as soon as they spotted him and began to turn. He thought of his sister Lavinia, safe in the hold. He could not let them capture her.

‘Turn for the coast and beach her hard!’ he yelled to his oar-master. ‘Give me ram speed for the last quarter-mile. One last time and we will be on land to scatter.’

The exhausted rowers heard his voice and they increased the stroke once again, lost in a world of misery and torn muscles. His galley surged away and he heard cries behind him as the enemy captains poured on speed in response.

The battle had taken him miles along the coast from Brundisium. He could see a sandy cove not too far away and he pointed to it, his helmsmen keeping the ship on its final course with dogged determination.

Lavinia came up from the hold, looking green from the hours she had spent in the foetid gloom. She saw the galleys chasing them and the shore ahead and her heart broke for her brother. He was a beautiful figure as he stood on the prow and watched the shallows with desperate concentration. Even then, he smiled at her when she touched his arm.

‘Hold on to me,’ he said. ‘If we hit a rock, it will be a hard blow at this speed. I do not know the coast here.’

She gripped his arm as the ship shuddered suddenly, the long shallow keel rubbing along a shelving shore. Sextus swore under his breath, terrified his galley would grind to a halt on a sandbank, leaving him stranded with land so close. His oar-master bellowed orders and the rowers cried out in agony, but the shuddering ceased and the galley lurched and dropped into deeper water.

‘Nearly there!’ Sextus yelled back.

In the same moment, one of the rowers fell dead and the man’s oar fouled those around it, so that the galley began to turn in the surf.

‘Close enough,’ Sextus said to Lavinia.

He had hoped for a landing that would put the galley right up onto the beach, but instead it bobbed and lurched in the surf, splintering oars on one side. He extended a hand to his sister.

‘Come on, you’ll have to get your skirts wet.’

Together, they climbed down, jumping the last part into white-frothed waves. There was sand under his feet and he felt some of his fear lift as he saw the enemy galleys sweeping back and forth out at sea. They had seen him almost ground on the sandbank and they could only stare and send arrows that fell short.

The galley rocked in a swell that would eventually batter her into pieces. Yet he had brought his crew safely to land and they clambered down, jumping into deeper water as the ship bobbed back and forth. In the lower deck, the rowers sat like dead men, panting and limp. Slowly, they left their oars and came out, red-eyed and exhausted. More than one stepped into the sea and simply vanished, too tired even to make the few paces to shore. Others helped their oar-mates, dragging each other until they collapsed on the burning sand.

As they gathered in exhausted silence, Sextus and Lavinia looked up at a sea that was becoming choppy and white-flecked. Burning and overturned hulls stretched into the distance, the ashes of all his hopes.

His captain, Quintus, had survived. The legion officer had fallen into the surf as he made landfall and he looked bedraggled and weary.

‘Do you have further orders, sir?’ he said.

Sextus almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

‘Could you carry them out, Quintus, if I did? The fleet has gone. We are landsmen once again.’ He thought for a moment and went on. ‘But there could be other survivors. Take the men up to a high point and search the coast. My sister and I will head for the closest town.’

Quintus saluted stiffly, calling to the men to follow him. They staggered off to find a way up the cliffs and for a time Sextus was content just to sit on the hot yellow sand and look out to sea. Lavinia watched him, unable to find words that could begin to comfort her brother. Gulls called overhead and the galley creaked as it rolled and shuddered in the surf. After a long time, he smiled at his sister.

‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. He guided Lavinia over the dunes to the bottom of the cliffs, looking for any sort of path that would take them away from the bitter sea at his back.

‘What will happen now?’ Lavinia asked.

He shrugged, shaking his head.

‘Caesar and Mark Antony will cross,’ he said. ‘I can’t stop them.’

‘No, Sextus. I mean, what will happen to us?’

In response, he showed her a small pouch from his belt.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you. I have a few gems and gold coins. If we can reach a town, we’ll be safe enough. From there, we’ll go back to Spain. There are still men there who remember our father, Lavinia. They will keep us safe.’

Though there were goat paths, the going was very steep. He and his sister had to climb steadily, struggling for handholds in withered scrub bushes. The shadows moved as they went and for a time both of them recalled climbing hills as children. They were panting as they reached the top of the cliffs and Sextus raced Lavinia over the crest. He came to a shocked halt at what he saw ahead, giving out a groan that was halfway between anger and utter despair. Behind him, Lavinia looked up fearfully at the sound.

Quintus was there with those of the crew who had gone with him. Their hands were bound and they had no fight left in them. A line of legionary soldiers was watching with interest, standing in formation.

A plumed centurion stepped forward. He had watched the flagship beach and he stared at the young man and his sister as they approached, brushing sand and dirt from their hands.

‘Sextus Pompey? I have orders from the triumvirs Caesar and Antony for your arrest. Your name is on the list of proscriptions.’

Sextus turned to his sister, passing her the pouch out of sight of the men at his back.

‘Thank you for showing me the path,’ he said, stepping away from her.

The centurion’s eyes flicked between Lavinia and Sextus, seeing the same blond hair in them both. The girl was clearly terrified. The centurion cleared his throat, making a quick decision. He was a father to daughters himself and his orders had said nothing about a sister.

‘If you’ll come quietly, sir, I’ll have one of my men escort the … local girl back to town.’

Sextus sagged slightly, struggling to hide the fear that had smothered him since sighting the men. He knew what the proscription list meant. He could see it in the delighted expressions of the soldiers waiting for him as they wondered how they would spend the bounty on his head.

‘Thank you, Centurion,’ he said, closing his eyes for a moment and swaying as tiredness finally caught up to him. ‘I would appreciate it if you chose a … trustworthy man as an escort.’

‘Don’t worry about that, sir. We don’t make war on women.’

Sextus saw Lavinia look back at him with wide, horrified eyes as a burly legionary took her gently by the arm and guided her away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Octavian was not exhausted. He suspected he needed a new word to describe what he was and he had certainly passed ‘exhausted’ weeks before. It was not that he did not sleep or eat. He did both and sometimes slept like a dead man before rising again after a few hours. He ate with mindless precision, tasting nothing as he forced his body to go on. Yet each day brought so many tasks and demands on him that he found himself sweating constantly from the first moment he came awake before dawn to the last collapse into his bed, usually still clothed. The sheer complexity of moving and supplying twenty legions and all their auxiliaries required a staff of thousands, an entire legion of clerks and factors. They worked under his orders and yet at times they were apparently unable to do anything unless he had signed it off.

It was one area where Mark Antony showed no particular talent, though Octavian suspected the older man was happy enough to let him take the burden. Whenever the responsibility was left to the ex-consul, Octavian found the work remained undone until he was forced to take over. He could not shake the suspicion that he was being subtly manipulated, but a thousand tasks would have been unfinished if he had ignored them in turn – and the legions would still be waiting to cross to Greece.

Keeping Rome secure from attack while he was away for a campaign had proved to be a logistical nightmare. His co-consul Pedius was content to rule the Senate and they offered no resistance in the city, but the rest of it! Simply moving tens of thousands of men across country, while always securing food and water for them, had been a mountain to climb on its own. After months of blockades, diverting a third of Rome’s remaining grain stores to feed hungry soldiers had hardly reduced tension in the capital. Yet Octavian knew supply would play a major part in the campaign against Brutus and Cassius in Greece. Starving men did not fight well.

He doubted Cassius and Brutus had such worries. They could strip the east of food and fighting men and deal with the consequences later. There were times when Octavian wondered if he might triumph in Greece only to spend a dozen years putting down uprisings on Roman lands.

The legions he had left behind looked presentable enough, but for anyone who knew, their training had barely begun. Again, Mark Antony had seemed blithely uninterested. It had been Octavian who’d raised three new legions on the mainland, paying a bounty to a generation of young men to join, then marching them off to barrack towns while they were still half-drunk and dazed with the change in fortunes.

He could feel the galley moving under his feet in a gentle swell, waiting for the sun to rise before they landed. It was Octavian’s fifth crossing in a month. Every hour of daylight had been used to launch galleys crammed with soldiers, but they had lost two ships and almost six hundred men in the early landings. The galleys had struck each other, turning over just far enough from shore to make survival almost impossible for those on board. After that, the captains had been more cautious, but the crossing had slowed further and the entire operation had lost another week from the original plans.

Octavian stared east as the sky lightened. The early sun cast a pale gleam over the Greek coast, where the army was assembling and marching inland. He shook his head in awe at the thought. Twenty legions were a greater force than had ever been brought together in one place. As well as a hundred thousand soldiers, there were another forty thousand camp followers and staff and thirteen thousand cavalry taking up space on the galleys Agrippa had managed to salvage after his battles. The coast of Greece had been ravaged for miles, with new roads driven inland just to accommodate the mass of equipment and men coming in each day.

Octavian groaned when he thought of the costs. The coffers of Rome were empty; he had seen to that himself as he toured the treasure houses of the argentarii and the Senate. He had orders out to every mine and coin house in Roman possession to increase production, but without new workers it would be years before they had enough even for the dips and peaks of normal production. He knew there was still wealth in Rome – some of the senators had made fortunes from the estates of those proscribed and from lending gold at high rates during the crisis. Octavian carried notes from more than a dozen of them, for tens of millions of aurei. The debts would be a burden on the state for a generation, but he had not had a choice and had sealed his name to them all as the needs increased. For a time, he had held back the fortunes he had inherited, but then he plunged those too into the war chest for the campaign. He tried not to think of how quickly they had vanished.

As the sun’s light increased, the galley captain picked his spot on new docks built for the landings, easing his craft safely in. Octavian waited for the corvus to be raised and dropped to the port side and stepped ashore.

A dozen men waited for him and he forced a smile for them, which became real when he saw Maecenas and Agrippa were there. He felt as if he had been swallowed up in the group as soon as he stepped away from the galley. The small crowd surrounded him and as each man tried to claim his attention, he felt a nauseating lethargy dull his responses. He shook his head and tried to crush the feeling yet again, to make himself think and work at high speed just one more time.

He could not understand what was happening to him. He was young and fit, but sleep and food no longer seemed to restore his spirit or his flesh. Each morning he would surface in confusion, batting away at unseen horrors before realising he was awake once more. As soon as he had washed and dressed, he would be back at work, cudgelling his brain into thinking of clever answers and solutions.

‘Give the consul a little room, would you?’ Agrippa snapped suddenly.

Octavian shook his head, his senses sharpening. He had been walking away from the docks, with men on all sides calling questions and trying to show him sheaves of documents. He understood he had been answering them, but for the life of him he could not recall what he’d said. Agrippa had sensed something was wrong in his friend’s blank eyes and used his size to push a few of the men aside despite their outrage.

‘No, Pentias, nothing is that important,’ Octavian heard Maecenas reply to another man’s demand. ‘Now why don’t you give us a moment without your noise? The army isn’t going to collapse because you had to wait, is it?’

Octavian had no idea who the other speaker was, but whatever he said in reply was a mistake, as Maecenas stepped hard into him and the pair were left behind for a while in furious argument.

Over the previous month the port of Dyrrhachium had changed so much as to be unrecognisable. That was one thing about legions, Octavian thought dully. They could build anything. He looked up as he reached a main road leading back into what was now a major town. Huge warehouses loomed on both sides, well guarded for the wealth of food and gear they contained. The legions had felled trees and sawed planks to be nailed and pegged together until they had made entire streets. Stores and smithies were working night and day and the stink of leather-workers’ vats lay thick in the air. It would all be left behind when they marched, but they would go with new nails in their sandals and the right tack for the extraordinarii, patched or replaced. He had seen a thousand orders for requisition and cargo and the details swam before his eyes as he walked on.

In theory, there was no reason why the clerks and factors couldn’t accompany him anywhere on the vast coastal camp. Yet as the group began to pass through the tents of soldiers, Maecenas and Agrippa managed to dissuade the others from clamouring too loudly for his attention. On the previous trip, Octavian had stopped Agrippa throwing a man into the sea as he pressed too close on the docks, but this time the strange lethargy that overcame him made it difficult to object and he merely stared as the big man held another back and told him in sharp, short words what he could do with his requisitions.

The three of them went on alone after that, with Agrippa glaring back to make sure they did not dare to follow.

‘Thank the gods this is the last time,’ Agrippa said.

The sun was still rising and the road ahead was filled with its glare and the promise of another hot day under an empty blue sky. They passed through the oldest camps, the places claimed by the first men to land six weeks before. Legionaries were early risers by instinct and order, so there were already thousands of men moving around, scraping bowls of warm oats into themselves, or sipping at hot tisanes. Many more were sparring lightly, keeping limber and loosening muscles made tight by sleeping on the stony ground. There was a friendly air to the camp and more than a few called out as they spotted Agrippa, recognising the big man and pointing him out to their tent-mates. He had become famous for a brief time: the man who had smashed the Roman fleet and won the chance to cross.

Octavian felt a weight pressing behind his eyes as he reached the top of the coastal hills and looked out onto the plains beyond. In the morning light, he could not see an end to the vast camp that stretched in all directions. It took a better eye than his to see the line of demarcation between the two forces, but it was there. Mark Antony had sole command of his own legions and Octavian felt a sullen anger at the reminder of another irritation. His colleague had insisted on crossing first. As a result, his legions had taken the very best spots near water and shade. The ex-consul then had the gall to complain at every lost day after that, while Octavian brought his own legions to Greece. Away from Rome, Mark Antony had been able to ignore the host of problems at home and concentrate only on deploying his forces and scouting the land ahead. It had seemed a small thing at the time, but allowing Mark Antony to land first had established the man’s legions as the vanguard without any formal decision. Octavian found himself biting his inside lip and gave a weary smile as he thought of Pedius back in Rome, no doubt doing the same thing.

‘Have you eaten?’ Maecenas said.

Octavian looked up, his eyes blank as he tried to think back. He remembered a bowl of oats and honey, but it might have been the previous day. Little details such as meals had sunk into the mass of things he was too tired to consider or remember.

‘I’m not hungry,’ he said, though he changed his mind as he spoke and realised he was. Some gleam of energy returned to him then and his gaze sharpened. ‘The last of the horses will be over by noon. I have the personal oath of the harbour master at Brundisium, for whatever that’s worth. It’s done at last, Maecenas. We’ll march today.’

Maecenas saw Octavian’s hands were shaking and his expression changed to one of concern as his eyes flicked back to Agrippa and then down once more, drawing the big man’s attention.

‘I think you should try to eat,’ he said. ‘Even if Mark Antony moves at this moment, we won’t be marching for hours yet. Get something hot and take a nap or something. Gods, Octavian, you look exhausted. You’ve done enough for the moment.’

‘Not exhausted,’ Octavian mumbled. ‘Need a new word.’ With an effort, he summoned his will and stood a little straighter, forcing his muddled thoughts back to clarity. ‘Yes, I’ll eat something,’ he said. ‘But, Agrippa, would you go back and fetch those clerks for me? I can’t just ignore them.’

‘You can; I keep telling you,’ Agrippa replied. ‘I’ll have a word with them and see if anything really can’t keep. I doubt there’s much at this point.’

‘All right,’ Octavian replied, unable to hide his relief. He was sick of the details. Like the soldiers in camp all around him, he wanted to get moving and he wanted to fight. Putting his seal to some legion arrangement to buy a thousand saddles from some Greek merchant was no longer on his list of priorities.

The three of them approached the command tent and Octavian’s heart sank as he saw another dozen men waiting for him, their faces lighting up as they spotted him.

Mark Antony was in a fine mood as he dismounted. His command post was right up at the leading edge of the host of legions that had landed in Greece. He’d made it a habit to ride along the outer perimeter each morning as the sun came up, knowing the men would see him in his polished armour and cloak and take heart from it. He liked as many of his men as possible to see him each day, to be reminded that they fought for an individual rather than a faceless Senate. He had long suspected such things mattered when it came to the morale of individual legions, and those he commanded were, for the most part, strangers to him. A few remembered him from campaigning with Julius and when they greeted him, he made a point of stopping and spending a moment with them that he knew they would remember for the rest of their lives. It was not much to ask of a commander and they were thrilled that he bothered to speak to common soldiers, especially when he truly recalled a name or a place from the distant past. Men who had been young when they fought Vercingetorix were now senior soldiers, many earning a higher rank in the intervening years. When his memory sparked a scene from those days, Mark Antony could hardly believe so much time had passed. It made him feel old.

‘Legates,’ he said in greeting to the men waiting for him. ‘What a beautiful morning. Have you news from the coast?’

He asked the same question each day and in all honesty he could not believe it was taking Octavian so long to land his forces. There had been times when he’d been tempted to take his legions inland and let Octavian catch him up, but good sense had overridden each impulse. He had spies and informers enough among the population to know that Brutus and Cassius had assembled a huge army. He would need every legion he had – and perhaps more than he had.

The thought of Rome in the hands of men like Consul Pedius had worried him enough to leave Lepidus behind in the city. His co-triumvir would sit out the conflict in relative safety, but at least Mark Antony would not come home to find he had lost Rome while fighting his enemies. There had been too many surprises since the assassination and he trusted Lepidus to lack the ambition he would need to reach beyond his grasp.

As a result, Mark Antony had been forced to appoint another to command his left wing. He was uncertain as to whether Pontius Fabius was the ablest of his generals, but he was the most senior, with almost twenty-five years of service in every post from senator to legion tribune. Mark Antony noted how, as his new second in command, the man stood subtly apart, and he was not surprised when it was Pontius who spoke for the other legates.

‘The word is that the last ships are in, Triumvir,’ Pontius said. ‘We are expecting to move today.’ He smiled as he spoke, knowing the news had been a long time coming.

Mark Antony raised his eyes briefly to the heavens.

‘I might wonder why that news wasn’t brought over last night, so I could be already on the way. Still, that is good to know.’

With a noble effort, he held back from criticising Octavian, unaware that he actually did so regularly. As a result, almost every man there considered themselves to belong to the main army, with a subsidiary force lagging behind.

‘Are the legions ready to march?’ he asked the assembled group.

They responded with stiff courtesy, nodding. The triumvir was a head taller than all of them and he seemed to have twice the life in his frame, a figure of endless energy. He clapped Pontius on the shoulder as he passed, calling for breakfast and making his servants scurry to provide it.

‘Today is the day then, gentlemen. Come and break your fasts with me. I have a little fresh bread, though don’t ask me where I found it. My factor is a genius or a thief; I have not decided which.’

They smiled at that, taking their places in the command post and accepting cups of water brought fresh from a stream nearby. As the other legates were already seating themselves, Pontius stayed out long enough to pass on the orders. Around that single point, twelve legions began to pack up to leave the coast behind.

‘Send a runner to Caesar when we have finished here,’ Mark Antony called out to his subordinate. ‘I’m heading east this morning. I’ll see him at the first camp.’ He took a cup of water to wash the bread down and idly picked through a plate of boiled vegetables, looking for something worth eating. ‘If he can catch up, of course.’

The men around the table chuckled dutifully, though they were already thinking of the campaign ahead. The problem did not lie in finding the enemy forces. All the reports carried the same information, that the army of Brutus and Cassius had found a good position and had been fortifying it for months. It was every legion commander’s worst scenario – facing quality soldiers on land they had prepared and chosen well in advance. None of them saw any special significance in the name the scouts reported. The town of Philippi may have been named for Philip of Macedon, father to Alexander, but to the stolid Romans sitting and munching that morning, it was just another Greek town. It lay some two hundred and fifty miles to the east and they would reach it in twelve days or less. Like hunting dogs, the march would harden their legs and improve their fitness as they went. They would arrive ready to break the back of anyone who dared to oppose the will of Rome.

Mark Antony’s words were reported back to the legions of Caesar gathered on the coast. Even if Pontius Fabius had not been a cousin of Maecenas, there would have been half a dozen other reports before the day was out, keeping Octavian informed of every detail of his colleague’s movements and intentions. Octavian had found it useful to have a few trusted men around the other two members of the triumvirate, on the advice of Pedius months before. It was not a matter of trust, or its lack. He had accepted Agrippa’s dictum long before, that a commander needed information above all else. A man could never be blind with a thousand eyes reporting to him each day.

When Mark Antony’s legions moved at noon, horns blared and the men roared as they felt the excitement of moving at last, after months of preparations. Mark Antony jerked in surprise when that blare and roar was answered behind him and the legions of Caesar set off at the same time, in perfect step.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The city of Philippi had been built as a simple fortress in the mountains, but three hundred years is a long time to stare north for marauding tribes. As well as stone walls and the open space of an agora, the original stronghold was still there, swallowed in a hundred other buildings that had crept out to make narrow streets along the ridge. Cassius had enjoyed seeing a small temple to Philip of Macedon, hidden away in a street of merchants. He had known another man who claimed divinity and it made him smile. If it had not been for a good road leading to the coast, the small town would have withered long before with the glories of its founder, or perhaps his son.

Cassius had not intended it to be anything but a gathering point for his legions and those of Brutus while they waited for Sextus Pompey to smash the forces trying to land in Greece. When news filtered back of the disastrous battles at sea, they had changed their plans and begun to look around them for the best place to stand and fight. Viewed in that light, Brutus was the first to spot the possibilities of making Philippi the centre of their formation. They had access to the sea along the Via Egnatia, a Roman road built on one much older and capable of bearing any amount of men and equipment. Philippi itself sat on a high ridge which was almost unassailable from the west, as the father of Alexander the Great had intended. Even better from Cassius’ point of view, the southern approach was guarded by a steep hill and a vast, sucking marsh of reeds and standing water at its foot. The rains had been heavy the previous winter and it was surely an obstacle no legion could slog through.

When Cassius and Brutus agreed to make the town their command, their soldiers had set to work building a massive wooden palisade all along the edge of the marsh. Natural geography and Roman skill meant the town could not be attacked from that direction, while mountains protected the north and the sea lay to the east. The enemy could approach only from the west and be funnelled into the war machines of twenty Roman legions. Everything from sharpened wooden stakes to scorpion bows and even heavy catapults awaited them.

More than a month had gone by since the first reports of landings at Dyrrhachium. The two commanders had been kept busy hunting down increasing numbers of extraordinarii scouting the area. Cassius had brought Parthian mounted archers from Syria and they were brutally effective, accurate even at a gallop across rough ground. Even so, the constant small clashes were proof the legions were coming, their commanders seeking to know everything they could about the forces and terrain they would face.

Cassius belched softly into his fist as he stared across the marshes. He was on the same rations as the men and not enjoying them particularly. At least the weeks of waiting had allowed them to stockpile supplies. He knew there was every chance the galleys taken from Sextus would be blockading the Greek coast before too long. There had been no news of the brothers Casca. Cassius assumed they had been drowned or slaughtered with the broken fleet.

Cassius suspected he spent too much time thinking about his co-commander rather than the men he faced. Yet Brutus had such an odd mixture of qualities that he never quite knew how he would be received when they met. The man came alive like a memory of his youth when he was training the extraordinarii cavalry. The officer in charge of the Parthian archers followed Brutus around like a lost pup, delighting in the Roman’s praise. Cassius felt his mood darken further at the thought. Brutus somehow inspired respect from those around them without seeming to try. It had never been his own gift and it irritated Cassius to have conversations with senior men while their eyes followed Brutus. They looked for just a word or a nod of approval from him, while Cassius stood forgotten. As he belched again, Cassius thought sourly of the way the legions had cheered Brutus’ wife as she left for the coast.

He wondered if he should have made more of an issue about commanding the right wing. The legions tended to accept the commander of that position as the man in charge and Brutus had drawn up his legions on the wide ridge without bothering to consult his colleague. They would face the worst of the fighting there, Cassius had no doubt, yet the men seemed pleased and honoured even so.

He kept all sign of unease from his expression as he mounted and rode along the ridge of Philippi, projecting, at least to his own mind, a mood of goodwill and confidence to anyone who saw him. To his left, birds wheeled and dived for insects above the marshes, while ahead the huge ripple in the land tapered down to the western plain. It was there that he and Brutus had positioned their legions to await the enemy. Cassius could only nod to himself as he trotted his horse through the Syrian legions he commanded. They were in the process of eating and he saw men stiffen and salute when they saw him. Hundreds more upset their wooden plates as they scrambled up. He waved them back to their food with only half his attention, trying to think of anything that could still be improved.

‘This is a good place to stand,’ he murmured to himself. He knew Philip of Macedon had chosen the spot to hold off hordes of Thracian tribesmen, but as far as Cassius knew, the walled town had never been attacked. No blood had ever been shed into the marshes of Philippi or the dry ground above it. That would change, he thought, with mingled satisfaction and dread. The very best of Rome would bleed and die on the land he could see all around him. There was no help for it, not any longer.

As he rode, he reached a group of legionaries sitting in the shade of an olive tree ancient enough to have been planted by Philip himself. They saw him approach and rose to their feet before he could wave them down.

‘We’re ready, sir,’ one of them called as he passed.

Cassius inclined his head in response. He knew they were ready. They all were. They had done everything they could and all he needed now was for men like Mark Antony and Caesar to overreach themselves, to believe just a little too much in their own abilities, then break their backs against the best fortified position he had ever known.

Octavian squinted up at the sun, his head aching in a steady thump that seemed to mimic his heartbeat. He had grown used to thirst during the previous eight days, accepting that he had it easier on horseback than the legions marching east. They had to wait for a formal stop before they could line up to refill the lead flasks with water. The most experienced of them drank sparingly, judging the time between stops so that they would have just a little left at each one.

They had marched a solid twenty miles from the coast on the first day and almost twenty-four on the second. That had remained their average pace, as the legions found their stride and muscles strengthened. It was a favourite activity amongst the men to while away the days, taking the length of their pace as three feet, then multiplying the number of paces and counting off the miles as they went. Even without maps, legions had a pretty good idea of how far they’d come at any time.

As they stopped at noon, Octavian found a spot in the shade of a tree by the road and wiped sweat from his face. He considered his own polished iron bottle, soldered with tin and bound in a strap of brass. He knew he should get it refilled, but he could still taste the metal in his mouth and the thought of more of that blood-warm water made him nauseous. It would be hours until the next stop and he either had to get up and fill the thing from the barrels trundling along behind the legions or call someone else to do it for him. Neither appealed. The water-carriers would be along in a moment, he told himself. Yet the sun seemed to have intensified, so that it beat against his skin like a metalworker’s hammer.

He shook his head groggily, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. None of the men around him seemed to be suffering particularly. Maecenas and Agrippa still looked fresh and relaxed as they stood talking nearby, as fit as the horses they rode.

Octavian opened his mouth as wide as it would go, feeling his jaw crack and trying to clear his senses. He hadn’t done much sparring or running with Maecenas and Agrippa recently. Perhaps that was it. He was out of condition and feeling it. It was nothing hard work and cool water couldn’t cure. The taste of metal in his mouth intensified, making him dry-heave.

‘Caesar?’ he heard a voice call.

Maecenas, he thought. He opened his mouth again to reply and the headache jabbed, making him groan. Octavian slumped, slipping away from the trunk of the tree and falling sideways onto the dry ground. His sweat sank into it, vanishing instantly as it fell in fat drops from his skin.

‘Shit! Caesar?’

He heard more words but he could feel a flood of vomit building in his throat. He could not stop it. Octavian had a sense of strong hands holding him down as he slipped off a ledge into a roaring blackness.

Maecenas shaded his eyes as he watched the legions with Mark Antony trudge over the hills into the distance. He’d sent messengers forward with the news that Caesar had been taken ill. There was no way to keep it secret. Whatever public declarations of brotherhood the triumvirs made to each other, a man like Mark Antony would be suspicious at his ally calling a halt while he marched towards hostile forces.

The legions gave no sign of stopping and Maecenas breathed in relief. The last thing he wanted was the triumvir’s booming voice offering to help. The best legion healers were already working on Octavian, though Maecenas didn’t allow himself to hope. They could cut a mangled limb free well enough, sealing the blood flow with hot irons. Injured soldiers sometimes lived through such operations and a few even survived the fevers that followed. Yet there was no wound on Octavian’s body to be treated, not beyond the numerous red bites they had all picked up in the sand dunes. Maecenas scratched idly at his own, wondering how long it would be before they were ordered forward, with or without their commander.

Each of the eight legates had come to the healers’ tent as the day wore on, while the men camped anywhere they could find a scrap of shade. It was a relief when the sun began to sink into the west behind them, though it only reminded them all of wasted time.

Agrippa came out of the tent, looking subdued.

‘How’s he doing?’ Maecenas asked.

‘Still burning up. He started speaking a while ago, but it was just gibberish. He’s not awake yet.’

Maecenas looked around to see if they could be overheard. The legates Buccio, Silva and Liburnius were standing in a small group nearby, so he bent his head closer to his friend.

‘Do you think it’s the falling sickness? The same thing we saw before?’

Agrippa shrugged. ‘What do I know about medicine? His bladder didn’t go, thank the gods. Good idea putting that horse blanket on him by the way. I … told the healers about the first time.’

Maecenas looked sharply at him.

‘Did you have to? He never said he wanted anyone else to know.’

‘I thought they might have more chance of healing him if they knew. We have to explain it, Maecenas, unless you think we can stay here for a few days with no one asking questions. It’s done, anyway. I think it won’t hurt him with the men. They know Caesar had it – and Alexander.’

Maecenas considered for a moment.

‘That works,’ he said. ‘I’ll spread the word tonight, maybe get a little drunk with a few of the officers. I’ll say being in the land of Alexander has brought it on.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ Agrippa said, snorting.

‘But believable. The noble ailment of Caesar’s. It means he’s a Caesar in blood as well as name. Telling them that won’t do him any harm.’

Silence fell between them as they stood there, waiting helplessly for some news or change in Octavian’s condition.

‘We need him, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘He’s the only one holding all this together.’

‘The name of Caesar …’ Agrippa began.

‘Not the name! Or the bloodline. It’s him. The men look to him. Gods, he took to this as if he was born to it. There’s never been an army this size, except the one we face. If it had been left to Mark Antony, we’d still be in Rome and you know it.’

Maecenas kicked idly at a loose stone by his foot.

‘He took command of legions in the Campus – and they accepted it. If he’d been willing to slaughter the Senate, he could have had it all, right then and there. His sense of honour is all that stopped him becoming an emperor in one night. By the gods, Agrippa, think of that! He faced down legates from Rome when the consuls were killed and they joined him. Octavian chose you to make a fleet. Who else would have done that? Perhaps there is something in the blood! But we need him now, or this army becomes Mark Antony’s and everything Octavian has done will end up in his hands.’

‘He came out of it quickly last time,’ Agrippa said at last.

Maecenas only looked tired.

‘He wasn’t running a fever then. This looks worse. I’ll pray he rises fresh tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, we’re going to have to move anyway. Mark Antony will insist on it.’

‘I can make a litter easily enough,’ Agrippa replied. ‘Maybe string it between two horses …’ He trailed off as he considered the problem. ‘It’s possible.’

By dawn the following morning, Mark Antony had already sent riders back to find out where his rearguard had gone. As if he already knew Octavian was still senseless, he sent accompanying orders to catch him up at their best speed.

Agrippa worked quickly with the planks of a water cart and his own tools. The sun was barely over the horizon by the time he was satisfied. It was rough work, but he’d rigged an awning stretched tight over the litter and Octavian’s limp form was strapped down with instructions to dribble water between his lips as they went.

There was no sign of life from his friend as the litter poles were tied to a saddle. Agrippa brought his own horse to take the other end, but the litter swayed so dangerously between the horses that he gave up and arranged for legionaries to take shifts carrying the litter in pairs. He and Maecenas took the poles for the first few hours, able to watch over their friend as they marched east with the others.

It was a long, hard day, under a sun that burned. Agrippa and Maecenas were ready to hand over to another pair at the noon rest. They were not surprised to see two of the legates ride across the face of the legions to their position. Buccio had been one of those who mutinied rather than attack a Caesar in the forum. He had gambled his entire future on Octavian and the worry showed in every line of his face. Flavius Silva had given his honour into the hands of the younger man when he swore an oath to him in the Campus. Neither man wanted to see him fail, having come so far.

Maecenas saw an opportunity as the two men stood with Agrippa, blocking the view of many of those around.

‘Stand just there for a moment,’ he said.

With care, he untied the straps holding Octavian to the litter and reached under the thin sheet of linen, pulling out a wineskin that sloshed half-full. Buccio looked confused for an instant, before his face cleared.

‘That’s clever,’ he said.

‘Agrippa thought of it,’ Maecenas said. He walked away to empty the urine into a bush, then returned. ‘The tricky bit is putting it back on. Would you like to have a go?’

‘No … no, thank you. Some things are for close friends.’

Maecenas sighed. ‘I never thought I’d … ah well. He is my friend. I suggest you block the view of the men as best you can. Oh, and I’d never mention this to him, if I were you.’

He shoved the empty skin back under the blanket and rummaged about with a strained expression before bringing his empty hands out and retying the straps.

‘That should hold him until this evening at least. I’m half tempted to give it to Mark Antony the next time he calls for wine.’

Buccio gave a snort of laughter, but as he looked at the other three, he saw only worry in their faces for the man lying senseless. He made a decision.

‘I think I’ll take a turn with the litter. Will you join me, Legate Silva?’

His colleague nodded, spitting on his hands and taking a grip on the closest pole.

‘Have someone lead my horse, would you?’ Silva said to Maecenas.

Maecenas was surprised at how the simple gesture touched him. The two legates lifted the litter together and as the legionaries around them saw what they were doing, they smiled in genuine appreciation.

‘Onward, then,’ Buccio said. ‘One way or another, he will reach Philippi.’

He clicked his tongue to start the horse on its way and they set off once more, moving through the legions as they formed to march. To the pleasure of Maecenas and Agrippa, a great cheer went up at the sight of their legates carrying Caesar to battle.

Mark Antony was in a dark mood as he assessed the maps before him. They had not been properly surveyed, but instead had been collated over the previous week from the efforts of hundreds of scouts and extraordinarii. Though the Parthian horse archers had taken a terrible toll, enough men had survived to crawl or ride back and describe the land to his clerks. The best of them had even made their own quick drawings with charcoal, scratching lines on vellum as they hid in the marshes or looked down from the hills.

The result had cost thirty-seven lives, as well as another dozen or so men being treated for arrow wounds. Mark Antony looked at the lack of detail and wondered if the best scouts were the ones who had been killed. There was certainly no obvious weakness in the place Brutus and Cassius had chosen.

‘What do you think, Pontius?’ he said. ‘Cast your eye on this and tell me you can see something I can’t.’

His second in command approached the table, where the great sheet was held with lead weights. He could see the massive ridge above the marshes, as well as a broken, jagged line to indicate the wooden palisades protecting the walled town from the south. On the ridge itself, blocks had been marked to indicate the position of the enemy forces. Numbers were hard to judge at the best of times, but Mark Antony had hoped to outnumber the enemy and had been disappointed.

When Pontius did not reply immediately, Mark Antony went on, his voice hard.

‘Show me a place I can attack that isn’t from the west. Gods, where did they find this place? The sea and mountains on two sides, marshes on the other? You can be sure they’ve prepared the only approach, Pontius. If we come from the west, it will be bloody work and with no guarantee of victory, none at all.’

He had begun to think the campaign was suffering from a surfeit of ill-luck. First Caesar had been brought low with some ailment – carried into battle on a litter, no less! Mark Antony had been to see when Octavian arrived in the camp, but it had not raised his spirits. Of all men, he had known the power of having Caesar on his side. Had he not lost two legions to him? It should have been a massive advantage, but if the young man died before battle was even joined, it would be taken as a terrible omen by the men. Mark Antony firmed his jaw. It would be easier to bear if he could see a way to break through the legions on the ridge of Philippi.

Cassius was a cunning old man, he acknowledged. He knew Brutus was capable enough in a field battle, especially with extraordinarii, but this! This had the marks of Cassius all over it. With good Roman legions, there wouldn’t be a mistake in the preparations. Cassius and Brutus would be happy to defend a strong position while Mark Antony bloodied his head against their walls.

‘You have scouted the marshes, I take it?’ Pontius said suddenly.

Mark Antony came back with a start from his trance of dark thoughts.

‘Of course. The water is neck-deep in places and the mud is thick, black muck that could swallow a horse. There’s no way through there. I’m surprised they wasted time building that wooden barrier against the hill, in all honesty. The marsh is enough of an obstacle …’ He broke off. Julius Caesar had crossed wide rivers in Gaul. Mark Antony had seen it. What was a marsh compared to that? It was no deeper than a river and he just needed a path through it.

‘I think …’ Pontius said.

Mark Antony held up a hand to silence him.

‘Wait. Just … wait. If I could lay a path across that marsh, perhaps something narrow, the reeds would prevent anyone seeing my men, yes?’ He barely hesitated long enough for Pontius to nod before going on with a growing excitement. ‘They know we have to come up that cursed ridge, so I must come from the south. My men can break their palisade – whatever one man has built, another can take down. All I need to do is work out how to cross that marsh. They’ll never see me coming.’

He clapped Pontius on the back and strode out of the tent, leaving the other man staring after him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Brutus watched grimly, shading his eyes to stare into the distance as Antony’s extraordinarii rode up the ridge as close as they dared and launched spears and lead balls high into the air. The balls flew further and could do terrible damage, though the spears caused more fear in the packed ranks. They plunged into the men standing or crouching on the ridge and Brutus could not see if anyone had been injured or killed. He knew the intention was to irritate a defending force to the point where they might boil out of their safe position. His men had enough discipline to resist, but it rankled with them not to be able to respond. One or two spears and scorpion bolts had been sent flying back on the first day, but against wide-spaced horsemen they were wasted. The weapons worked best against a massed charge. Until that time, Brutus knew his men had to endure the hail and remember they would get their chance to pay it all back.

Mark Antony’s riders had kept up the stinging attacks for the best part of two days, delighting in every yell of pain they caused. Brutus glowered at the thought of that man taking pride in the tactic. Eventually the legions from Rome would have to attack or go home with their tails between their legs. Brutus knew very well how much they were eating each day, as the same amount was consumed from the stores in Philippi.

As the sun set, Brutus had climbed to the town’s walls and looked out on his legions in battle array, reaching halfway down the western slope. If Mark Antony and Octavian attacked, they would have to come uphill in the face of spears, lead shot, iron bolts and a few other treats he had prepared for them. It should have brought him a feeling of contentment, but the disadvantage of such a strong position was that they were free to manoeuvre and he was not. They could roam the land all around, looking for weaknesses, while he could only sit and wait for the real killing to begin.

From the height of the town wall and with the ground dropping away, he could see for miles to the west, easily as far as the massive camp Octavian and Mark Antony had created. It was an odd thing to see for a man of his experience: the high earth ramps studded with stakes, the gates and sentries that were the signs of Rome in the field – yet on a side he faced as an enemy. It was strange to be in the position so many other nations had known since his people had first come out of the seven hills armed with iron.

When he’d seen Mark Antony had placed himself on the opposite right wing, Brutus was obscurely disappointed. Each side had two commanders and two armies, but Cassius would face Mark Antony, while Brutus would see the boy again. He cleared his throat and spat on the dry stone at his feet. He remembered Octavian very well. He had taught him to ride, or at least to ride with cavalry. His mouth quirked as he realised he felt some sense of betrayal at facing that young man in battle. Perhaps Octavian would be feeling the same way when the time came.

All his memories were of a boy, but Brutus knew he would meet a man when the killing started. He told himself not to underestimate the new Caesar. Brutus could still remember being that young, without the painful joints or the terrible slowness that seemed to have drifted over him in recent years. He remembered when his body worked as it was meant to, and if it hurt, it healed as fast as a young dog. He stretched his back at the thought, wincing as it clicked and ached.

‘If you remember me at all, boy, you’ll be afraid of facing me.’

He muttered the words staring into the distance, as if Octavian could hear him. One of his guards looked up, but Brutus ignored the unspoken question. He had yet to see Octavian’s men in any kind of action. The extraordinarii who galloped across his lines carried the legion standards of Gaul, making sure the defenders knew who were harassing them. Brutus felt the simmering anger on behalf of his own men, forced to sit and wait while their enemies hooted and jeered and tried to leave a few dead with every attack.

The biggest armies ever fielded by Rome stood less than a mile apart. The sun was dipping towards the horizon and even the long summer day would end in a few hours. He cleared his throat and spat again, tired of waiting for the dark.

Cassius looked up as the runner came racing down the hill to his position. He saw the man’s flushed face and braced himself against a spike of worry.

‘What is it?’ he said, too impatient to wait through formalities.

‘You need to come, sir. The men in the town think they’ve seen movement in the marshes.’

Cassius cursed as he mounted his horse and dug in his heels to ride up the hill. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, seeing Mark Antony’s extraordinarii gallop back across the front line for yet another sweep through their own dust. He could see specks of black lead rising from whirring slings and he ducked in unconscious reaction. The men under their path raised shields over their heads once more.

Cassius trotted his mount after the runner. They passed through waiting legionaries the whole way, the ground completely hidden by soldiers sitting or standing idle, as they had been all that day and the one before.

As he reached the town itself, Cassius saw one of his tribunes gesturing to him from a set of steps that led up to the wall. Grim-faced, Cassius jogged up and followed him to the top. He saw Brutus further along, already moving in his direction. Cassius raised a hand to greet him.

The tribune found the spot he wanted and pointed into the marshes that stretched into the distance. At his shoulder, Cassius and Brutus stared out across the broken land of water and reeds higher than a man.

‘There, sir. Can you see? Beyond that twisted tree.’

Cassius leaned forward to squint, but his eyes were not as sharp as they had once been and the marsh was just a blur of brown and green to him.

‘I can’t see anything at that distance,’ he snapped in frustration. ‘Describe it to me.’

‘I see it,’ Brutus said. ‘There’s movement, wait … yes. There.’

‘I was told those marshes cannot be crossed,’ Cassius said.

Brutus shrugged. ‘I sent men to try it and they almost drowned before they made it halfway and had to come back. But anything can be crossed with enough wood and time. It occurs to me that Mark Antony has been keeping us busy watching his extraordinarii while he sneaks up to flank us.’

‘Flank us, or come up behind,’ Cassius said bitterly. ‘I’ll have to bring men back to guard the walls here and the Via Egnatia. This town is like an island. I can hold it for ever with the legions we have.’

‘Give the orders then,’ Brutus said. ‘I can hold the ridge.’

Both men looked up suddenly at a great roar, turning their heads.

‘What was that?’ Cassius demanded.

He spoke to empty air. Brutus was already running back along the wall and vanishing down the steps to the town. Cassius turned to the tribune, picturing the ridge forces in his mind.

‘Legions Thirty-Six and Twenty-Seven to this spot to defend the palisades. I want …’

He hesitated, unable to recall which of his legions were closest, before losing patience.

‘Pick three more to march through the town and guard the eastern road. We cannot allow them to land soldiers from the sea.’

It would be enough, he told himself. No matter what Mark Antony was planning, he would find Roman legions waiting for him. Cassius cracked his knuckles, showing his worry as the tribune ran to deliver the orders. A man of his position should not have to pelt about the walls like a boy, but he was desperate to know what had caused the great roar from the front.

The noise went on, growing louder and louder. Cassius blanched. He summoned calm with an effort and walked back down the steps to the street below, mounting his horse and trotting towards the ridge.

The summer had been hot and there had been no rain for weeks around Philippi. As Mark Antony’s extraordinarii raced along the front, a great cloud of dust had lifted and followed them, hanging in the windless air and thickening as they wove back and forth, launching their spears and shot. To get in range, they galloped in hard to barely thirty paces off the front ranks, close enough to see the faces of those glowering at them. The legions of Cassius and Brutus stood straight, with their shields resting on the dry ground and their swords and spears ready. They hated those horsemen and there were more than a few men fingering sword hilts in anticipation, longing for the order to rush forward and gut the vainglorious cavalry who jeered and mocked them.

Almost two hundred riders cantered up and down the front ranks, masking the great care they took over range and demonstrating their courage to the standing men. Even when their spears and balls of lead were gone, they remained, making sudden darts and lunges at the impassive ranks to see if anyone would flinch or try a spear-shot they could mock. The dust continued to rise until they were dashing through an orange-yellow haze and the dry particles covered every inch of exposed skin.

A new century of horsemen rode up from the main camp, each man carrying a spear in his right hand and a sling with a bag of shot dangling by his knee. The officers yelled parade-ground orders at the riders, making their mounts prance back and forth in complicated patterns that could only contrast with the sullen soldiers watching them. The entire century came back together when they had launched spears, following the flights with their eyes as they went. At full gallop, they wheeled together to head along the line. At the same time, the riders already there turned to race back through the dust.

When it came, the crash was thunderous. In the haze of dust the two groups had lost sight of each other for vital moments and crossed each other’s paths. Horses tumbled over as they tangled at terrific speed, their riders thrown. Some of them struck and rolled, getting dazedly to their feet, while others lay stunned.

The legionaries saw thirty or forty horsemen lying helpless, victims of their own overconfidence. It was too much after another day of stinging blows and insults. The centurions and optios saw the danger and roared orders, but the front ranks were already moving, drawing swords as they bore down on the wounded men with savage expressions. Nothing could hold them back and they broke into a run. Thousands poured over the invisible line where they had stood for two days, a horde of delighted soldiers bellowing a challenge as they came.

The men behind responded, jumping up and racing forward even as their officers hesitated. Had an attack been ordered? They had heard no horns, nor the command word: liberty. The more cautious yelled at their units to stand down, while others thought they had missed the signal and helped to sweep the line forward. They were moving at last. They had waited weeks to fight and it was happening.

Like a roaring avalanche of men, the entire right wing of Brutus’ legions surged down the ridge, overwhelming the fallen cavalry in the first hundred paces as men stabbed anything on the ground and went on. They could see the legions of Caesar ahead of them, milling in panic.

The officers higher up the ridge wasted precious moments trying to call a general halt, orders flowing down the lines of command. By then, the first two legions had seen that the enemy were not ready and had not expected an attack of any kind. The legates at the front countermanded the order to halt as the opportunity to do real damage presented itself. They could see a chance and they took it on their own authority, knowing those behind did not have all the facts. They ordered a charge while the legions of Caesar were still running to form lines and yelling orders in complete chaos.

The moment hung in the air. The legions streaming off the ridge broke into a fast jog as they readied spears. The forces behind saw they were committed and were left with no more choices.

Brutus was still high above his moving ranks when he worked out what was happening. He could see his legions spilling out onto the flatter ground, driven faster by the slope. At first he was black-faced with fury. He had seventeen thousand horses on the wings of the ridge and the sudden surge of men had left them next to useless, unable to reach clear ground and accelerate. He stared in frustration as his first two legions crossed the empty mile over the bodies of dead men and horses, swallowing them up in a tide of red and grey.

Brutus felt his heart hammering in his chest. In an instant, he understood his legions had gone too far to call back. He had to throw the rest in support or see them slaughtered by overwhelming numbers. He took a deep breath and roared new orders to advance. Furious officers looked up to see who was interfering. When they realised it was Brutus, they added their voices to the rest. Horns blared across the ridge of Philippi.

There was confusion in the middle of the ridge as opposing orders met, but Brutus bellowed his command over and over, and gradually, slowly, the massed legions turned and formed up and marched towards the enemy.

On the left, the legions of Cassius marched back to defend against the attack from the marshes and Brutus had a vision of two snakes writhing against each other. He stood up on his saddle, his horse standing perfectly still in the press of men as it had been trained to do. In the distance, through the dust that rose with every step and every sandal, he could see his legions crashing into the Caesarian wing.

Brutus bared his teeth in an expression that lacked either amusement or pity. He wanted to be down there on the plain and he dropped back into the saddle, kicking in and urging the animal past sweating, swearing soldiers.

Mark Antony could see very little of the chaos on the ridge, though the sounds of battle drifted to him over the stinking marshes. For two days, he’d had a full legion working in the black filth that mired every step, while thousands more of his men felled trees well away from Philippi and sawed them into planks as thick as a clenched fist for the carts to bring in.

It had been brutal work, beset by flies and snakes lurking in the shallows, as well as the stench of gas released with every sucking step. Yet they had made themselves a path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. It stretched from the edge of the marshy ground to the centre, then across towards the palisade. His task that day had been to bring the legions up as close as he dared, relying on the reeds and rushes to keep them hidden.

They’d crept along, hunched over, until there were thousands of them on the planks and thousands more waiting to come after them. He’d gone himself to the head of the path, to see the last fifty feet and the wooden barricade Cassius’ men had built.

Anything one man had built, another could break, Mark Antony reminded himself. Under the shade of the ridge, he’d had men out all night gently sawing at the key beams, muffling the sound with cloths in great bundles. The town had slept peacefully above their heads and there had been no cries of alarm.

When they were ready, he had sent orders for his extraordinarii to keep the enemy attention focused on the front and then simply waited for the sun to set. His men would be vulnerable to missiles from the town. He needed poor light to spoil the aim of those defending, but enough for his men to scramble up the rough earth and stones and breach the walls.

Before that moment came, before the sun had even touched the horizon, he heard a great roar and he froze, certain they had been seen. If his men had been spotted, reinforcements would be running to the walls above his head. He had to move or withdraw and do either one quickly. Mark Antony made his decision and stood up straight, feeling his stiff knees protest.

‘Advance and attack!’ he roared.

His men lunged forward and those closest to the barricade heaved on ropes they pulled up from the muck, black and stinking in the light. For a few breathless moments, the beams groaned and then cracked, bringing down half of the construction. Slithering wooden stakes fell all around the closest men and they ran over them, clambering up the slope towards the walls above.

Mark Antony looked up at the fortress. The walls of Philippi were centuries old, but then his men were not wild tribesmen. Hundreds carried ropes with grapnels on their backs; others had hammers with long handles that they used to help them climb. They went up the hill in a surge and he soon saw the first men on the walls themselves, climbing up a hundred broken footholds, or smashing them out with heavy blows so that other men could ascend.

As he began to climb after his men he heard the sounds of fighting above. With just a little luck, he would see Cassius and Brutus dead before the sun set. He breathed hard as he climbed, sinking his hands into soft earth and spitting against dust drifting in all directions. His heart pounded, his body drenched in sweat before he was halfway up to the walls. It didn’t matter, he told himself. The pain was just something to ignore.

The Seventh Victrix were the first to come under assault, as the legions of Brutus swarmed down the ridge at them. They were caught completely by surprise and could not form a fighting line before the forces met and the killing began.

Hundreds died in the initial contact, the marching machine of Rome cutting through Octavian’s forces. More and more raced down off the ridge, but Mark Antony’s wing was at half strength or less, with so many of his men down in the marsh. All they could do was hold position in a solid shield line, jamming the boards into the ground and crouching behind them. Rather than be flanked, they too began a slow withdrawal, step by step into the northern plain.

In his command tent in the twin camp, Octavian stirred sluggishly, unaware of the disaster unfolding for his legions. He did not see the initial rout, as Legate Silva was cut down from his horse by a spear and then torn apart. The men with Silva ran to get out of the way and it infected the rest, so that they broke suddenly and without warning. In the time it took the legate to die, his legion had been forced back into the next and they too had felt the impossibility of standing against a wave of Roman legionaries with their blood up and victory in their grasp. The Eighth Gemina fought a solid retreat as the Seventh Victrix broke, unable to do anything but hold lines and step back with locked shields.

They reached the edge of the massive twin camp and tried to steady the men there, but by then, all of Brutus’ legions had been turned in their direction and they could see the widest and deepest line of fighting men any of them had ever witnessed coming to tear them to pieces in savage rage. They fell back from the camp, abandoning the equipment and supplies of a hundred thousand men – and the commander lying unconscious within.

Brutus’ men charged into the camp, eager for loot and plunder. Somewhere in that perimeter was a war chest of gold and silver, and even those covered in blood looked for it as they stalked in and stabbed anyone who stood against them.

The command tents were at the centre of the camp, laid out according to rules the invading legionaries knew as well as anyone. They yelled in excitement as they saw them, racing forward, loping in like wolves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Maecenas cursed as he sank into black mud to the knee. Each step into the marsh was an effort. He had to strain to pull his feet out, the unnatural motion making his knees ache. As he turned to speak to Agrippa, he slipped on some buried log and fell, clutching at the high reeds and wincing as cold muck slapped along his side.

The man they carried fell with him, so that Octavian’s body was spattered.

‘Get up, Maecenas,’ Agrippa snapped. ‘We need to get further in.’

They could hear the noise of the battle behind them, as well as the voices of Mark Antony’s men somewhere over on their left. The marsh stretched far enough and deep enough to hide them all from sight, so that he and Maecenas had entered a world of stillness. Things slithered away from them and they could see ripples in the standing water as they dipped as low as they could and dragged their senseless friend deeper into the marsh, constantly expecting the shout that would tell them they had been spotted.

Heading away from the town, they reached a wide pool and both men had to give up any idea of keeping clear of the black sludge. Agrippa and Maecenas stepped down into it, swearing in low voices as they supported Octavian between them. They could feel his searing skin on theirs, an unpleasant fever heat. Their friend murmured at times, seeming almost to come awake as they struggled with his weight and his body hung limp.

‘That’s far enough, I think,’ Maecenas said. ‘By Mars, what are we going to do now? We can’t stay here.’

They had placed Octavian on a raised hillock of the reeds, leaving him face up into the setting sun with his legs still in the water. He was in no danger of drowning, at least. Agrippa prodded another dense patch and decided to risk sitting down, lowering his weight carefully and groaning as the water reached him even through the dead plants. He rested his hands on his knees as Maecenas found a similar spot.

‘If you had a better idea, you should have said so,’ Agrippa snapped. His eyes caught a sinuous movement and he jerked his leg close as something slid through the water. ‘I hope that isn’t a snake. I should think even a scratch will turn to fever in this place, never mind a bite.’

Both men fell silent as they considered the prospect of spending the night in the marshes. They would not be able to sleep while things crawled over their feet and legs. Maecenas slapped his neck where something bit him.

‘You are the one who is meant to understand strategy,’ he said. ‘So if you have any ideas, this is the time to mention them.’

‘One of us has to get out and see how things lie,’ Agrippa said. ‘If the legions have been slaughtered, the best we can do is stay here for a few days and then try for the coast.’

‘On foot? Carrying Octavian? We’d have more chance surrendering now. By the gods, Brutus had a bit of luck today. I don’t think he ordered that attack. I didn’t hear any horns when it started, did you?’

Agrippa shook his head. With eight legions, he and Maecenas had watched in horror as the soldiers on the ridge came pouring down with no warning whatsoever. They’d looked at each other and come to the same conclusion in a moment, running for the command tent where Octavian lay helpless and carrying him out even as Brutus’ legions continued their mad rush down the ridge. For a time, they had found sanctuary among Mark Antony’s remaining forces, but those legions too had begun to retreat and Agrippa had seen the edge of the marsh nearby. He still didn’t know if he’d made the right decision.

Octavian twisted suddenly and began to slip into the black water. Maecenas was up first to grab him under the armpits and pull him back onto the crushed reeds. His friend opened his eyes for a moment and said something Maecenas could not understand before his eyes rolled up.

‘He’s burning,’ Maecenas said.

The water was freezing, untouched by the sun in the murky world of shade and reeds. He wondered if Octavian could feel the cold leaching into him and whether it might help smother the fever he was suffering.

‘Why hasn’t he woken? It wasn’t like this before,’ Agrippa said.

‘He didn’t have a fever before. I think he drove himself too hard over the last month or so. I had to make him eat a few times and it’s not as if there is much spare flesh on him.’ Something whined in Maecenas’ ear and he slapped at it, suddenly furious. ‘Gods, if I ever get Brutus or Cassius within the reach of a sword, I’ll take the chance, I swear it.’

The sun was setting and darkness was stealing across the marsh, seeming to rise from the ground like a mist. Maecenas and Agrippa were tortured by stinging flies that settled on their exposed limbs, attracted to the crusting black mud on their skin. With grim expressions, both of them tried to make themselves comfortable as best they could. Sleep was impossible in such a place, at least while Octavian could slip into the water and drown. It would be a long, long night.

Cassius spat into a cup of water to clear his mouth as more yellow bile came into his throat. It was thick, bright stuff, pooling like soup below the surface of the clear liquid and hanging from a long thread as he coughed. He wiped his lips with a cloth, irritated that his body should betray him at such a time. His stomach roiled and ached and he told himself it was not fear.

Mark Antony’s men had breached his palisade as if the thing was no obstacle at all. They’d come over the walls of Philippi and slaughtered hundreds of his men, pushing them back while more and more climbed in.

To save his own life, he’d pulled back to the northern edge of the town, where he had his command, but in doing so he’d lost contact with his officers. He had no idea where his legions were or whether they were still following his last orders to defend the marsh side. He’d sent fifteen thousand men east to guard the Via Egnatia, though he thought now that it was a mistake. All he’d done was weaken the ranks of defenders where they were most needed.

He handed his cup to his servant, Pindarus, who made it vanish discreetly. The only other man still with him was a legate, Titinius, who was clearly uncomfortable at being away from his legion. The man paced back and forth in the small stone building, his hands clenched behind his back.

‘I need to see, Titinius,’ Cassius said, irritated at the man’s agitation as much as anything else. ‘Is there a way up to the roof?’

‘Yes, sir. Around the back. I’ll show you.’

They left the building and found a short flight of steps against the outer wall. Cassius climbed them quickly, stepping out onto the flat surface and staring all around him. His eyes were not good and the frustration only built. He could see legions swarming on the ridge, disappearing into the distance like storm clouds.

‘Tell me what you can see, Titinius,’ he ordered.

‘It looks like the legions of Brutus have taken the enemy camp,’ Titinius said, squinting. ‘I think the enemy have pulled back and formed up beyond it, though it’s too far for details.’

‘And here, on the ridge? Who can you see moving?’

Titinius swallowed uncomfortably. The town was a mile across and he could see huge numbers of men and extraordinarii on the marsh side of the ridge. Even when they were fighting, it was hard to see who they were, or which side had the upper hand. He shaded his eyes to look at the sun as it touched the western horizon. Darkness would come soon and the night would be full of clashes and alarms. He shook his head.

‘I can’t tell if we still hold the town, sir, but …’ His attention was caught by a century of extraordinarii riding through the streets towards his position. ‘Riders coming, sir. No banners or standards.’

‘Are they mine?’ Cassius demanded, narrowing his eyes. He could see where Titinius was pointing, but the distant riders were just a blur to him. He tasted bile once again at the thought of being taken. If Mark Antony had won the town, he would not give his enemy an easy death. ‘Are they mine, Titinius? I need to know.’

His voice had risen almost to a shout and the legate flinched.

‘I’ll go out to them, sir, and meet them before they reach us. You’ll see then.’

Cassius stared at him, aware that the man was offering his life, if the approaching cavalry were under the command of Mark Antony. He almost refused. There was still time to run, but if the riders were his own and they had repelled the attack from the marshes, he would be back in control. Cassius reached out to grip the man’s shoulder.

‘Very well, Titinius. Thank you.’

The legate saluted stiffly, heading down to the street at a good pace while Cassius stared after him.

‘I doubt I deserve that kind of loyalty,’ he muttered.

‘Sir?’ his servant Pindarus said.

The young man looked concerned for him and Cassius shook his head. He was a lion of Rome. He needed no one’s pity, no matter how it turned out.

‘Nothing, lad. Now, you can be my eyes.’

He looked towards the sun, frowning as he saw it had dipped to just a line of gold in the west. The sky was aflame with colour and the air was warm. He took deep breaths, trying to show Roman fortitude as he waited to hear his fate.

Titinius kicked in his heels, making his horse canter along the stone streets, so that the noise of its hooves echoed back from the houses on either side. The animal snorted in discomfort as it skidded on the stones, but he urged it on along a street he knew should bring him to the horsemen trotting through the town. He could hear them coming long before he was able to see anything and his stomach clenched in fear. If it was the enemy, they would take delight in killing a legate. As soon as they recognised his rank from his armour, they would cut him to pieces. He looked back briefly, catching a glimpse of the distant figures of Cassius and his servant waiting on the roof. Titinius set his jaw. He was a servant of Rome and he would not shirk his duty.

He passed into a small square that caught the last of the sun’s light and as he looked across he saw the first lines of horsemen on the other side. Titinius reined in hard, dragging his mount’s head in close to its neck. It whinnied and stamped as he stared at them. They had spotted the lone horsemen and a dozen or so kicked their own mounts into a canter out of instinct, drawing swords to face any possible threat.

His hammering heart leapt when he recognised one of them. Titinius found himself panting and blowing in relief, suddenly aware of the tightness of terror in his chest even as it began to ease.

‘Thank the gods, Matius,’ he said as they reached him. ‘I thought you were Mark Antony’s men.’

‘I thought the same when I saw you waiting for us,’ his friend replied. ‘It’s good to see you alive after all that, you old dog. I should have known you’d find a safe spot.’

Both men dismounted and clasped hands in the legionary grip.

‘I’ve come from Cassius,’ Titinius said. ‘He’ll want to know the news. How is it going out there?’

‘It’s a mess, that’s how it’s going. The last I heard, we’d taken their camp, but they’ve pulled back in reasonable order and we’ll fight again tomorrow.’

‘What about the attack here?’ Titinius said. The riders didn’t look as if they’d been fighting and he took hope from that. His friend’s expression warned him the news wasn’t good before he spoke.

‘We couldn’t hold them. They’ve dug in on the ridge and the marsh end of town. It will be vicious work getting them out again, but there are fresh legions polishing their pretty helmets on the sea road. When they come back in tomorrow, we’ll retake the position, I don’t doubt it.’

Titinius clapped Matius on the shoulder, taking heart from the mixed report.

‘I’ll take the news to the old man. This part of town has been quiet so far. I haven’t seen anyone else before you.’ After the mounting fear as he’d ridden in, Titinius was sweating heavily and he wiped his face. ‘I really thought I was done when I saw you,’ he said.

‘I can see,’ Matius replied with a grin. ‘I think you owe me a few drinks tonight.’

On the roof, the setting sun was casting the houses all around in dark gold and orange. The servant Pindarus called out everything he could see as Titinius reached the horsemen.

‘He’s pulled up, sir,’ he said, straining his eyes. ‘Gods, he’s … off his horse. They have surrounded him. I’m sorry, sir.’

Cassius closed his eyes for a moment, letting the tension bleed out of him.

‘Come with me then, Pindarus. I have a last task for you before you find a place of safety. I won’t hold you here now.’

‘I’ll stay, sir, with you. I don’t mind.’

Cassius paused at the head of the steps, touched by the offer. He shook his head.

‘Thank you, lad, but it won’t be necessary. Come on.’

They went down together and the gloom suited Cassius’ mood. He had always loved the grey light before darkness, especially in summer, when it stretched for ever and the night eased through the last of the day.

In the main room below, Cassius crossed to where a gladius lay on a table. The sheath was a work of art in stiff leather and a gold crest. He drew the sword, placing the sheath back down as he tested the edge with his thumb.

Pindarus looked at his master in growing dismay as Cassius turned to face him. The older man saw the pain in his servant’s eyes and he smiled wearily.

‘If they come for me, they’ll make my death a performance, Pindarus. Do you understand? I have no wish to be impaled, or ripped apart for their entertainment. Don’t worry, I am not afraid of what comes next. Just make it clean.’

He gave the sword hilt first to Pindarus. The young man took it with a shaking hand.

‘Sir, I don’t want to do this …’

‘You’d rather see me paraded for the common soldiers? Humiliated? Don’t worry, lad. I’m at peace. I lived well and I brought down a Caesar. That is enough, I think. The rest is just … the screeching of children.’

‘Please, sir …’

‘I gave my life for the Republic, Pindarus. Tell them that, if they ask. There’s a pouch of coins with my cloak. When it’s done, take it and run as far as you can.’

He stood straight before the young man with a sword. Both of them looked up as they heard hoof-beats growing closer.

‘Do it now,’ Cassius ordered. ‘They mustn’t take me.’

‘Would you turn away, sir? I can’t …’ Pindarus said, his voice breaking. He was breathing hard as Cassius nodded, smiling again.

‘Of course. Quickly, then,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me wait.’

He faced a window into the twilit town and he took a long slow breath, smelling the scent of wild lavender on the air. He raised his head to it, closing his eyes. The first blow knocked him to his knees and a groaning sound came from his torn throat. Pindarus sobbed and swung again, cutting the head free.

Titinius was cheerful as he threw a leg over his horse and dismounted. He hadn’t been able to see anyone on the roof as he rode back with Matius and the extraordinarii.

‘Come in with me,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He’ll want to hear everything you’ve seen.’

He strode in through the door and stopped on the threshold, frozen. Matius paused behind him.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Titinius shook his head, his mouth open. He could see the thin body of the commander lying in a pool of blood, its head off to one side.

‘Pindarus! Where are you?’ Titinius shouted suddenly, striding in.

There was no reply and he paled further as he stood over the body, trying to understand what had happened. Could the servant have been a traitor? Nothing made sense! He heard Matius gasp as he stared in from the doorway. Titinius looked back at him in sudden understanding.

‘He believed you were the enemy,’ he said. Titinius gathered his thoughts before they could spool away into uselessness. ‘I’ll look after things here. You need to find Marcus Brutus now. Tell him what happened.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Matius began.

Titinius flushed. ‘The old man thought he was captured, Matius. He had his servant take his life rather than fall into the hands of Mark Antony and Caesar. Just get through to Brutus. He has sole command now. There is no one else.’

In the darkness, Octavian woke and stirred. He could not understand why his legs were so bitterly cold or why the air stank and things rustled around his head whenever he moved. He lay still for a time, staring up at a clear sky and a billion stars shining across the dark. He remembered stopping on the march and the dreadful taste of metal filling his mouth, but after that there was only confusion. Moments came to him, of being carried, of men cheering he knew not what, of the sounds of clashing iron coming closer and panic all around him.

He struggled to sit up, his legs skidding in the sludge that had settled around them as he lay there. To his shock, he felt an arm reach out to steady him, then jerk back as Agrippa found him moving, rather than just slipping from his seat into the marsh.

‘Octavian?’ Agrippa hissed.

‘Caesar,’ Octavian murmured. His head hurt and he could not understand where he was. ‘Do I have to tell you again?’

‘Maecenas? Wake up.’

‘I’m not asleep!’ came Maecenas’ voice from nearby. ‘You were asleep? How could you sleep in this place? It’s impossible!’

‘I was dozing, not fully asleep,’ Agrippa replied. ‘Keep your voice down. We don’t know who’s out here with us.’

‘How long was I sick?’ Octavian said, trying to sit up. ‘And where am I, exactly?’

‘You’ve been unconscious for days, Caesar,’ Agrippa replied. ‘You’re at Philippi, but it isn’t going well.’

He passed over a canteen to Octavian, who removed the top and sucked gratefully at the warm water within.

‘Tell me everything,’ Octavian replied. He felt as if his body had been battered all over. Every joint ached and tendrils of pain spread out from his stomach to his limbs, but he was awake and the fever had broken.

CHAPTER THIRTY

In the night Brutus had found sleep for a few brief moments before a unit of extraordinarii reached him with news that Cassius had taken his own life. His first response had been anger at the old man’s loss of faith, in their cause and in him. It was not over. They had not lost.

In the cool darkness, he’d drunk water and chewed on a piece of dried meat, while the cavalry officer watched him in the dim light of an oil lamp. Finally, Brutus made his decision.

‘Send your men out to every legion under Cassius. My orders are to form up on the plain below.’

The man went running for his horse, disappearing into the night as he passed on the order and his men scattered.

Brutus stood at the bottom of the ridge. He knew he could not command two separate armies of that size, not without Cassius. Orders took too long on different fronts, arriving after the situation had changed and causing chaos. His only choice was to bring them together into one host, or see them cut apart separately.

Under the stars, vast forces marched past each other on the ridge and around the marshes. They moved in deliberate silence, not knowing whether they passed friends or foes in the dark and with no particular desire to find out. It was true Brutus left Mark Antony in control of Philippi, but he thought the man would gain no benefit from the walled town. Mark Antony and Octavian had come to Greece to attack, not to remain behind defences. With Cassius already dead, Brutus knew they would want to complete the victory and take revenge for their losses the day before. He smiled grimly at the thought. Let them come. He had waited his whole life.

As the sun rose, his legions drew up on the great plain at the foot of Philippi. Brutus spoke to each of the legates, one by one or in groups as they came to him. He was ready to fight again, legion against legion, pitting his ability to lead against the talents of Mark Antony and Caesar.

When there was light enough to see, Brutus rode along his ranks, judging the numbers left to him. His army had lost thousands, but they had taken the main camp of Mark Antony and Caesar and driven their legions back with many more dead. Bodies still littered the great ridge, glittering like dead wasps in the dawn.

In Philippi, Mark Antony had seen the vast array on the plain and begun to march his legions down. Brutus could see them coming, accepting the challenge. Mark Antony had always been arrogant, he recalled. He doubted the man had much choice, even so. His legates would pressure him even if he tried to hold back.

Brutus had seen the vast, deserted camp on the plain. Everything valuable had already been taken, though Brutus was sorry none of his men had reported the death of Caesar. It would have been somehow fitting if Octavian and Cassius had both fallen on the same day, leaving the two old lions of Rome to fight it out. Brutus could still hardly believe he was in sole command, but the thought did not displease him. He was at the head of a Roman army. There was no Gnaeus Pompey, no Julius Caesar there to gainsay his orders. This battle would be his alone. Brutus exulted in the rightness of it. For this, he had killed Caesar in Pompey’s theatre. He was out of the shadow of others at last.

He looked up as a great cheer went up from Octavian’s legions, less than a mile from his ranks. He could see a distant figure riding up and down the lines there. Brutus gripped his sword hilt tightly, understanding it had to be Octavian, that the young man had survived to fight again. He told himself it didn’t matter to him. Seeing the pretender fall would only add to the sweetness of the day to come. It was a strange thought to know he had only two enemies left in the world and they would both face him that day across the plain of Philippi. Mark Antony would be confident, he thought. His men had done well, though Cassius had denied them the chance to capture him. Brutus gave silent thanks for the old man’s courage. At least the day would not begin with the spectacle of a public execution.

Octavian had yet to prove himself. His legions had run the day before and they would be seething with that humiliation, determined to restore their honour. Brutus smiled coldly at the thought. His men fought for liberty. It would do just as well.

Octavian was sweating, his body wet with it, though he had ridden barely a mile up and down the lines. He knew he had to let the men see him, to remind them they fought for Caesar, but he felt as if only his armour held him up, his body as weak as a child’s.

He saw a messenger galloping across his ranks with dash, a young man delighting in his own speed. When the rider reined in, he was panting and flushed.

‘Discens Artorius reporting, Consul.’

‘Tell me Mark Antony hasn’t found something else to delay him,’ Octavian replied.

The extraordinarii rider blinked and shook his head. ‘No, sir. He sent me to let you know Senator Cassius is dead. They found his body last night, up in the town.’

Octavian looked over his shoulder at the legions opposing him. There was no sign of Cassius’ banners in the cluster around the command position. He wiped sweat from his eyes.

‘Thank you. That is … most welcome.’

Those around him had overheard the rider and the news spread quickly. A ripple of thin cheering followed, though in the main the men were indifferent. They hardly knew Cassius beyond his name. Yet Brutus still lived and his legions were the ones who had forced the rout the day before. His legions were the ones they wanted to break. Octavian could see the determination in every face as he looked down the ranks. They surely knew the fighting would be hard, but they were more than ready for it to begin.

The two Roman armies faced each other over a mile while the remaining legions came down from Philippi. As Mark Antony was coming in from the east, Octavian had to give him the right wing. He knew the man would expect it and he could hardly make him march through his ranks to take position on the left. Octavian sat and sipped from a canteen, feeling the breeze dry the sweat on his face. Mark Antony seemed to be taking his time, as if he sensed the armies would stand all day until he arrived.

While he waited, Octavian half expected a sudden attack from the legions under Brutus. His men were certainly tense, waiting for it, but it seemed Brutus preferred not to leave a flank open to fresh legions coming off the ridge halfway through the battle.

The morning wore on, the sun moving slowly up to noon. Octavian tossed the empty canteen back to Agrippa and accepted another as the right wing formed piece by piece and the military powers of Rome faced each other on a foreign field. It would be brutal when it began, Octavian realised. No matter what the outcome, Rome would lose much of her strength for years to come. A generation would be cut down on the plains of Philippi.

On both sides, the extraordinarii gathered on the furthest point of the wings. Their peacetime roles as message-carriers and scouts were only to keep them occupied when they were not fighting. Octavian watched as the cloaked cavalrymen drew long swords and shields for their true purpose, their horses milling and snorting as the animals felt the growing excitement in their riders. He looked to his right, where Mark Antony had taken position at last in the third rank. The town and ridge were empty of men. They were ready.

Octavian trotted his mount back to his own position behind the first and second fighting lines. The sun crept over the noon point as both sides prepared, emptying bladders where they stood and sipping at waterskins or canteens they would try to ration through the day’s heat. Against so many, a battle could not be over quickly and they had to prepare to fight all day. In the end, it would come down to stamina and will.

Octavian checked his lines of command to his legates one last time, asking for confirmation that they were ready. Seven of them still lived, with Silva’s body somewhere among the carrion meat from the previous day. He did not know the man who had replaced him, but he knew the others. He knew their strengths and weaknesses; the ones who were rash and the ones who were cautious. Brutus would have no such personal knowledge of the legions he commanded, especially not those he had gained from Cassius. It was an edge and Octavian intended to use it.

The responses came back quickly and Octavian made what plans he could beyond the first clash. The left wing was his to command.

The men were looking to him, waiting for the order. Agrippa and Maecenas were there at his side, steady and solemn. They had saved his life when he was senseless with fever. It seemed another lifetime somehow and he felt the cares and trials of months fall away as he sat his horse and stared across the plain. His body was weak, but it was just a tool. He was still strong where it mattered.

Octavian took a deep breath and a mile away the legions of Brutus began to move. He raised and dropped his hand and his own ranks began to march, the release of tension palpable as they strode towards the enemy. On his right, Mark Antony gave the same order. Out on the wings of both armies, extraordinarii dug in their heels, holding back their mounts as they eased forward, forming slight horns past the marching legionaries. Cornicens blew long notes across the lines, sounding the advance.

The two armies walked over dry ground, raising great clouds behind the front ranks as the gap between them shrank down to a thread that was suddenly made black with thousands of spears in the air. Arrows came from the Parthian horsemen, cutting holes in the extraordinarii. The thread wavered as both sides soaked up dead and wounded men, stepping over and around them and breaking into a run. They crashed into each other with a noise like thunder on the plain.

Brutus felt a deadly calm settle on him, a coldness at the centre of his chest as the armies came together. He was not a young man to be carried away on a tide of excitement and fear, and he gave orders with cool detachment. He frowned slightly to himself as he saw how long it took for them to be carried out, but he had not given complete freedom to his legates. This was his battle, though he began to learn how hard it is to command the best part of ninety thousand in the field. It was a larger army than Pompey had ever commanded, or Sulla, or Marius, or Caesar.

He saw his Parthian archers do well on the right wing, surging forward almost a mile away from his position in the centre. He sent a command across the marching lines for them to go wide and empty their quivers into the enemy extraordinarii from a safe distance before closing with swords. It was the right order, but by the time it reached them, they had already pulled back and the moment was lost.

At first, his legions pushed against both wings of the enemy and he felt a glittering pleasure as his men cut their way through thousands of Mark Antony’s men. The shade of Cassius would be watching and he wanted the old man to see.

It didn’t last long. Where his lines grew weak, the enemy legions advanced before he could shore them up with reinforcements. When his men won a temporary advantage and cut into the forces with Octavian, they found fast-moving legions thickening the ranks against them and brief chances vanished like frost in the sun. Having two commanders halved the time it took for them to control their chains of command and though the difference was subtle, it began to tell more and more as the afternoon crept past in blood and pain.

Brutus felt it happening. He could see the battlefield in his head as if from above, a trick of perspective he had learned from his tutors years before. When he saw the unwieldy lines of command were hampering his legions, he grew afraid. He sent fresh orders to cast his legates loose from overall control for a time, in the hope that they would respond faster on their own. It made no difference. One of Cassius’ Syrian legates staged a wild attack, forming an immense wedge formation that cut past Octavian’s front rank. Ten thousand men shifted right in saw orders against them, bolstering the lines and slaughtering the Syrian legionaries on two sides. None of his legates had moved fast enough to support the attack and the numbers of dead were terrible. The wedge fell apart inside Octavian’s ranks, engulfed in a flood.

Brutus sent an order to rotate his own front line. For the length of a legion, two panting ranks moved back in tight formation with shields up, allowing fresh men to the fore. Beyond that distance, the front two ranks fought on, the order getting lost somewhere on the way. It was infuriating, but Brutus had to roar for extraordinarii messengers and send them out to the legates a second time.

He took full command once more and the entire front line eased back and then forward as unblooded soldiers came through with harsh voices bellowing. They pushed on for a few brief moments, hacking down men who were panting and growing weary. Then the orders were mirrored and they faced fresh men in turn, all along the clashing front.

Brutus found he had to move his horse back a step as the men in front of him were driven in on themselves. He cursed, shouting encouragement. He saw his Parthian archers had been cut to pieces, caught by swordsmen while they still held bows. His entire right wing was in danger of being flanked as Octavian’s legions began to spill around it.

Calmly, Brutus ordered two of his legions to saw into them, then waited with his heart pounding for the orders to take effect across a mile of land. Mark Antony was pressing forward on the other flank at the same time. Brutus responded to that, bawling new orders and sending out riders and runners. When he looked back, the right flank had crumpled and he could see his legions falling back, shields raised as they stumbled into their own forces to get away.

‘Where are you?’ Brutus said loudly. ‘Come on! Where are you?’

Only then did he see the legions he had ordered to support the wing begin to move sideways through their own ranks. It was a difficult manoeuvre in a marching line and he felt a wave of disgust and dread, seeing they were already too late. The flank was collapsing and the men falling back only hampered the attempt to support them in a clot of struggling soldiers. The enemy came in hard, using extraordinarii well as they swung out and back in at a gallop. It was butchery and Brutus began to feel a black despair. He needed Cassius, and Cassius was dead. It was like acid in his throat to know he could not command so many alone.

With his heart in his mouth, he sent new orders to disengage, to come back a hundred paces and re-form. It was the only way to save his right wing before the enemy routed half a dozen of his Syrian legions. He thanked his gods that it was one command he could give by horn, and the droning notes sounded across the plain.

Octavian’s legions also knew what the signal meant. They pressed forward to take advantage, even as his centurions tried to withdraw in good order. Brutus sensed his front line wavering as the horns blared. For tiring men, it was a dangerous distraction. Hundreds died as Brutus made his horse walk backwards, unwilling to turn from the enemy. For an instant, he saw a gap between the armies, then it was filled as Octavian’s legions charged forward, roaring and clashing their swords on their shields as they came in again.

Step by step, his army came back with him, furious that they had been ordered away. Brutus saw the right wing sort themselves out as they went, so that the danger of a complete rout on that side began to pass. In the crush, he found himself in the front rank for a moment. He cut down at a helmet and grunted with the impact and satisfaction as a man fell. His ranks re-formed in front of him and he shouted to the cornicens to sound the halt and break off the slow retreat.

The horns moaned again across the battlefield, but his right wing continued to fall back. Brutus cursed as he saw his position. He needed to send fresh legions in to hold it, but Mark Antony chose that moment to begin tearing into his left flank once more.

Octavian cursed as the enemy legions pulled back before he could roll them up from the wing. His extraordinarii were down to a few thousand horses and their spears and lead shot were gone. All they could do was follow the wing’s retreat and then cut back in wild dashes, slicing throats as they went. More of the horses fell with kicking legs and the high screams of dying animals. Octavian clenched his jaw, letting anger give him the strength to endure.

His mouth was dry, his tongue and lips a gummed mass. He shouted to Agrippa for water and his friend passed him another canteen. He sucked at it, freeing his mouth and clearing his throat. The sweat still poured off him and it took all his control to hand back the bottle while there was still a little sloshing at the bottom.

He’d seen that the legions under Brutus were slow to respond to any new situation and he’d worked like a madman to make that weakness count. His legions swarmed, moving left and right as they advanced, threatening one spot to test the enemy response, then surging forward in another when the lines grew thin. Octavian felt the first sense of victory when the wing crumpled without support, but then Brutus pulled back in good order and battle joined again with renewed ferocity.

When he moved forward, it was over dead and wounded men, some of them crying out in such pitiful agony that their own friends finished them with quick gashes to the throat. Octavian passed one soldier with his stomach ripped open, his armour torn and broken. The man was sitting hunched over, holding his guts in bloody hands and weeping, until a careless stranger knocked him onto his back. Octavian lost sight of the man in the press, but he could still see his terror.

The fighting had gone on for hours and they had moved barely two hundred paces from where they began, even with the withdrawal Brutus had pulled off in the teeth of the enemy. Octavian was gasping once more, sick of an enemy that seemed never to shrink or falter. He was in no mood to appreciate Roman courage as he sent two almost fresh legions up the centre, using their shields to bow back the lines facing them.

Brutus drew men in to block the advance and Octavian immediately snapped orders to launch the Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina at the wing, pulling back his extraordinarii into formation. The two legions chanted ‘Caesar!’ as they went, the name that had created panic in enemies for a generation.

Brutus was caught by the sudden move, with too many of his forces committed in the centre. Octavian thought he heard the man yelling orders, though the noise of battle hammered his ears on all sides and he could not be sure. The wing crumpled again and the carnage went on and on before there was a sign of new men rushing to the position.

The legion on Brutus’ right wing had almost broken once, saved only by the steady withdrawal. They were exhausted from the constant attacks by extraordinarii. As Victrix and Gemina came at them, roaring the name of Caesar, they turned and tried to retreat again. It had worked once.

Octavian watched as the lurching retreat turned into a sudden rout, with thousands of soldiers turning away from the fighting and breaking into a run. He sent new orders to his extraordinarii and they swept back in as the wing disentegrated and the rout began to spread.

More than fifty thousand soldiers still stood with Brutus, panting and bloodied. When the right wing was slaughtered before their eyes, the will to fight went out of them. Brutus could do nothing to stop them falling back, though he bawled until he was hoarse and his messengers raced away in all directions once more, as exhausted as the men fighting. They had ridden fifty miles or more on mounts lathered in sweat, so that his commands slowed even further each time.

Octavian could see the panic in the legions facing him as they felt the wing go. They knew his next move was to get behind them and cut off their retreat. It was the ultimate fear for a foot soldier, to be attacked before and behind and have nowhere left to run. They fell back, further and further. A huge roar went up from the legions under Octavian and Mark Antony as they pressed forward, sensing they would actually survive it all, seeing their triumph in every step against a fleeing enemy.

Brutus looked desperately around him, seeking some ruse, some factor he had not seen that could yet influence the outcome. There was nothing. His legions were falling away in full rout on the right wing and the left was in retreat. He could do nothing but come back with the battered centre, his front ranks fending off blows as they tried to save themselves from an enemy given new strength by the prospect of victory.

His legates were sending riders to him every few moments, pleading for new orders. For a time, he had nothing for them and despair ate at his will. He could not bear the thought of Mark Antony’s smug pleasure, or the humiliation of being taken by Octavian.

He took deep breaths, trying to force life back into limbs that seemed suddenly leaden. The closest legions still looked to him, thousands of men knowing he held their lives in his hands. He ordered them back, retreating further and further away from the bloody slash of dead soldiers that marked where the armies had met. When he turned his horse to leave the battlefield, it was over. He saw the confusion and fear in his men as they retreated with him.

Brutus looked further into the distance. The hills behind Philippi were not too far off. The sun was setting and many of his men would survive the slaughter if he could just reach the slopes. He told himself he could scatter the legions through the mountains and perhaps he would even see his wife again in Athens.

The army of Octavian and Mark Antony pressed hard as they retreated, but the light was failing and the cool grey twilight was on them by the time he reached the foothills. Brutus led his legions up the rough ground, leaving a trail of dead the whole way as his men were cut down.

He turned at the tree line, seeing with dull anger that only four legions had come with him. Many more had surrendered on the plain or been butchered. Even those with him were reduced in number, so he doubted more than twelve thousand made it to the slopes.

The legions of Octavian and Mark Antony roared victory until they were so hoarse their voices failed. Then they clashed their swords on shields, spattering blood across themselves as they gave thanks for surviving the battle.

Brutus climbed until his horse could carry him no further. He left the animal to run free, walking with the rest as the gloom darkened across the plain. He could still see for miles as he looked back. The bright lines of everything he had dreamed lay in bloody heaps on the dry soil of Philippi.

In the darkness, Octavian and Mark Antony met. They were both weary and dirty with blood and dust, but they clasped hands, wrist to wrist, each man knowing only too well how close it had been. For that night, the triumvirs had the victory and all they had risked had paid off.

‘He won’t get away, not now,’ Mark Antony said. His legions had been closest to the foothills and he’d sent them up to stay close to the defeated soldiers trudging away from the battlefield. ‘When he stops, I’ll have him surrounded.’

‘Good. I haven’t come so far to let him escape,’ Octavian replied. His eyes were cold as he regarded his fellow triumvir and Mark Antony’s smile became strained.

‘I found some of the Liberatores hiding in the town last night,’ Mark Antony said. It was a peace offering between allies and he was pleased to see life come back to Octavian’s expression as he stood there.

‘Have them brought to me.’

Mark Antony hesitated, disliking the tone that sounded so much like an order. Yet Octavian was consul as well as triumvir. More importantly, he was the blood and heir of Caesar. Mark Antony nodded stiffly, conceding his right.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Brutus couldn’t sleep. He had driven himself to the edge of endurance for two days and his mind kept scrabbling away like a rat trapped in a box. High in the hills, he sat on a clump of scrub grass with his hands in his lap and his sword unstrapped and lying at his feet. He watched the moon rise above him and took pleasure in air so clear that he could almost reach out and take the white disc in his hand.

He could smell the sourness of his own sweat and his body ached in every joint and muscle. Some part of him knew he should still be looking for an escape, but the night was stealing through him and he recognised it as the numbness of acceptance, too strong to resist. He was too tired to run, even if there had been a way through the mountains at his back. Perhaps Cassius had felt the same at the end – no anger or bitterness, just peace descending on him like a cloak. He hoped so.

In the moonlight, Brutus watched the dark masses of men moving to surround the tattered remnants of his army. There was no way back to the plain, no way back even to the man he had once been. He could see lights on the ridge of Philippi and he tried to blot out the mental images of Octavian and Mark Antony toasting his failure and their success. He had rejoiced at being alone in command as the sun rose that morning, but it was not a fine thing at the end. He would have taken comfort from the dry wit of Cassius or one of his old friends with him one last time. He would have taken comfort from his wife embracing him.

As he sat there, under the stars, his men sat in groups on the hillside, talking to each other in low voices. He had heard their fear and he understood their hopelessness. He knew they would not stand with him when the sun came up again. Why should they when they could surrender to noble Caesar and be saved? There would be no last great stand on the mountains by Philippi, not for Brutus. All he could do was die. He knew the coldness in his bones was his mind preparing for the end and he did not care. It was over. He had killed the first man in Rome and the dark rush of blood had carried him over the sea to this place, with a breeze tugging at his cloak and his lungs filled with cold, sweet-scented air.

He did not know if the shades of the dead could truly see the living. If they could, he imagined Julius would be there with him. Brutus looked up into the stillness of the night and closed his eyes, trying to feel some presence. The dark pressed in instantly, too close to bear. He opened them again, shivering at the soft blackness that was so much like death. For just a little while, he had held the future of Rome in his hands. He had believed he had the strength to alter the passage of a people and a city as it moved into the centuries ahead. It had been a fool’s dream; he knew that now. One man could only do so much and they would go on without him and never know he had lived. He smiled wryly to himself then. He had been the best of a generation, but it had not been enough.

A memory came back to him in fragments, a conversation from too many years before. He had sat in the shop of a jeweller named Tabbic and talked about making his mark on the world. He had told the old man that he wished only to be remembered, that nothing else mattered. He had been so young! He shook his head. There was no point recalling his failures. He had worked for something more than himself and age had crept up on him while he was blinded by the sun.

Alone on the hill, Brutus laughed aloud at the mistakes he had made, at the dreams and the great men he had known. They were ashes and bones, all of them.

In the town of Philippi, Octavian stared coldly as four men were dragged into the room and thrown to the floor before him. They had been badly beaten, he saw. Suetonius lowered his head and stared wonderingly at the bright blood that dripped from his scalp to the floor. Gaius Trebonius was bone-white with terror, visibly trembling as he sat sprawled and did not try to rise. Octavian did not know the other two as men. Ligarius and Galba were simply names on the list of proscriptions to him. Yet they had been part of the group of assassins, stabbing knives into Caesar just a year and a dozen lifetimes before. They stared around themselves through swollen eyes and, with his hands bound, Galba could only sniff at the blood dribbling from his nose.

The man who rose to peer down at them was young and strong, showing no sign that he had fought a battle that day. Suetonius raised his head under that interested gaze, turning aside for a moment to spit blood onto the wooden floor.

‘So will you be emperor now, Caesar?’ Suetonius said. ‘I wonder what Mark Antony will say about that.’ He smiled bitterly, showing bloody teeth. ‘Or will he too fall to your ambition?’

Octavian cocked his head, assuming a puzzled expression.

‘I am the champion of the people of Rome, Senator. You see no emperor here, not in me. You do see Caesar, and the vengeance that you have brought down on your own head.’

Suetonius laughed, a wheezing sound from his battered frame. His lips bled fresh as the scabs cracked, so that he winced even as he chuckled.

‘I have known Caesars to lie before,’ he said. ‘You have never understood the Republic, that fragile thing. You are nothing more than a man with a burning brand, Octavian, looking at the scrolls of greater men. You see only heat and light and you will not understand what you have burned until it is all gone.’

Octavian smiled, his eyes glittering.

‘I will be there to see it, even so,’ he said softly. ‘You will not.’

He gestured to a soldier standing behind Suetonius and the man reached down with a knife in his hand. Suetonius tried to jerk away, but his hands were tied and he could not escape the blade as it cut across his throat. The sound he made was terrible as he looked up at Octavian, in hatred and disbelief. Octavian watched until he fell forward and looked away only when Gaius Trebonius gave a broken cry of grief.

‘Will you ask for mercy?’ Octavian said to him. ‘Will you call on the gods? You did not wield a blade on the Ides of March. Perhaps I could offer a reprieve to one such as you.’

‘Yes, I ask for mercy!’ Trebonius said, his eyes wide with fear. ‘I was not there on the Ides. Grant me my life; it is in your power.’

Octavian shook his head in regret.

‘You were part of it,’ he said. ‘You fought with my enemies and I have discovered I am not a merciful man.’

Once again he nodded to the executioner and Gaius Trebonius gave a great yell of anguish that choked into gurgling as his throat was opened. He fell twitching and scrabbling onto the floor by Suetonius. The smell of urine and opened bowels filled the room, bitter and pungent.

The remaining pair knew better than to plead for their lives. Ligarius and Galba watched Octavian in sick fascination, but they did not speak and prepared themselves to die.

‘Nothing?’ Octavian asked them. ‘You are almost the last of those brave men, those Liberatores who murdered the Father of Rome. You have nothing to say to me?’

Galba looked at Ligarius and shrugged, spitting out a final curse before kneeling straight and waiting for the knife. Octavian gestured in sharp anger and the knife was dragged across two more throats, making the air heavy with the smell of blood and death.

Octavian took a deep breath, weary but satisfied. He knew he would sleep well and be up before the dawn. There was just Brutus left. There was just one more day.

The sky was clear as the sun rose and Brutus was still awake after a night that had seemed to last for ever. He watched the spreading colours of dawn in peace and when he stood at last, he felt somehow refreshed, as if the long hours had been years and he had slept after all. With care, he removed his armoured breastplate, untying the thongs and letting it fall away so the cold could reach his skin. He shivered, taking pleasure in the small sensations of being alive on that morning. Every breath was sweeter than the last.

When he could see the faces of his men, he knew what they would say before they said it. The legates came to him as soon as it was light enough and they would not meet his eyes, though he smiled at them and told them they had done all they could and that they had not failed him.

‘There is nowhere left to go,’ one of them murmured. ‘The men would like to surrender, before they come for us.’

Brutus nodded. He found he was breathing harder as he drew his sword. They stared at him as he checked the blade for imperfections and when he looked up, he laughed to see their sorrow.

‘I have lived a long time,’ he said. ‘And I have friends I want to see again. This is just another step, for me.’

He placed the tip of the blade against his chest, holding the hilt tight in both hands. He took one last breath and then threw himself forward, so that the blade punched between his ribs and into the heart. The men with him flinched as the metal stood out from his back and life went out of him like a sigh.

The soldiers of Mark Antony began to march up the hill towards them and the legates readied themselves to offer formal surrender. Two of their number went out to those climbing and word spread quickly that they would not resist, that Brutus was already dead by his own hand.

While the sun still rose, Mark Antony came striding through the scrub bushes with a century of men. The legates laid down their swords and knelt, but he looked past them to where Brutus lay dead. He approached the body, then undid the clasp that held his cloak, draping the cloth over the still form.

‘Carry him gently, gentlemen,’ he said to the kneeling legates. ‘He was a son of Rome, for all his faults.’

They bore the body down the hill to where Octavian waited. The news that they would not have to fight had spread to his men like fire on a dry hill and the mood was sombre as they watched the red-draped figure brought back to the plain of Philippi.

Octavian walked to the legates as they laid the body down. They had taken the sword out of the still flesh and Octavian looked at a face that was strong, even in death.

‘You were his friend,’ Octavian murmured. ‘He loved you more than all the rest.’

When he looked up, his eyes were red with weeping. Agrippa and Maecenas had come to stand by him.

‘There’s an end to it,’ Agrippa said, almost in wonder.

‘It’s not an ending,’ Octavian said, wiping his eyes. ‘It is a beginning.’ Before his friends could reply, he gestured to one of Mark Antony’s men. ‘Remove the head for me,’ he said, his voice hardening as he spoke. ‘Put it with the heads of Cassius and the other Liberatores who fell here. I will have them sent to Rome to be thrown at the feet of the statue of Julius Caesar. I want the people to know I kept my promises.’

He watched as the legates hacked Brutus’ head from his body and bound it in a cloth bag to be taken home. Octavian had hoped for joy when the last of them fell – and it was there, a brightness in him that swelled as he breathed in the warm air.

Mark Antony felt old and tired as he watched the hacking blades fall. There would be triumphal processions to come and he knew he should feel satisfaction. Yet he had seen the bodies of the last Liberatores, left to rot in a room in Philippi. The odour of death was in his hair and clothes and he could not escape it. The crows were gathering already, he saw, settling on the faces of men who had walked and laughed only days before.

He was unable to explain the sadness that gripped him. He looked into the rising sun and thought of the east and the Egyptian queen who was raising the son of Caesar. Mark Antony wondered if the boy would look like his old friend or show some sign of the greatness he had inherited with his blood. He nodded to himself. Perhaps in the spring he would leave Lepidus to handle his affairs in Rome for a time. When Rome was settled, he would visit Cleopatra and see the Nile and the son who would one day own the world. It was a fine promise to make to himself and he felt his weariness lift at the prospect. Philippi would be a place of the dead for years, but Mark Antony was alive and he knew good red wine and redder meat would help him recover his strength. He was the last general of his generation, he realised. He had surely earned the peace to come.

EPILOGUE

Mark Antony checked himself one last time as he stood waiting on the docks at Tarsus. There was a breeze coming off the water and he was cool, his uniform polished. He could almost laugh at his nervous sense of anticipation as he looked down the river with a hundred officials from the Roman town. None of them had predicted that the Egyptian queen would come herself, but her barge had been sighted off the coast of Damascus days before.

Mark Antony leaned forward yet again, staring down the river at the huge barge coming slowly up to the port. He saw the description had been no exaggeration. The oars shone blindingly in the sun, each blade covered in polished silver. Purple sails fluttered above the craft, catching the breeze and easing the strain on the slaves working below. Mark Antony grinned. Or perhaps it was just for the effect, the glorious splash of colour that already made the Roman port look drab in comparison.

He watched in pleasure at the spectacle as the enormous vessel came up to the piers and the crew snapped orders in a tongue he did not know, easing their charge in as the oars were shipped and ropes flung to waiting dockmen to tie them off fore and aft. Mark Antony could see a figure on the deck, reclining under an awning amidst a sea of coloured cushions. His breath caught as she rose like a dancer to her feet, her gaze passing lightly over the men waiting and then settling on him. It was surely no accident that she was wearing the formal dress of Aphrodite, with her shoulders bare. The pale pink cloth looked well against her tanned skin and Mark Antony recalled the woman’s Greek ancestry, visible in the curling black hair bound in tiny golden seashells. For a moment, he envied Julius.

Mark Antony told himself not to forget that she was the joint ruler of Egypt with her son. It had been Cleopatra who led the negotiations with her estranged court when Caesar had come to her lands. It was because of her that Cyprus was Egyptian once more and no longer an island of Rome. Her barge would have passed it on the journey around the coast and he wondered if she had thought of Julius then, or pointed out her possession to his son.

A wooden ramp was laid to the docks and, to Mark Antony’s surprise, a troupe of beautiful women came up from the hold, singing as they went. A dozen black soldiers took their position as an honour guard on the docks, perhaps aware of how splendid they looked with their dark skin set against armour of polished bronze.

Through them all, the queen of Egypt walked, guiding a young boy with her hand resting on his shoulder. Mark Antony stared, entranced as they came towards him. The women walked with her, so that she moved in song.

He cleared his throat, deliberately bluff and composed. He was a triumvir of Rome! He told himself to get a grip on his awe as she came to stand before him, looking up into his face.

‘I have heard about you, Mark Antony,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have been told you are a good man.’

Mark Antony found himself flushing and he nodded, collecting wits which seemed to have deserted him.

‘You are … welcome in Tarsus, your majesty. It is a pleasure I did not expect.’

She did not seem to blink as she listened, though her smile widened. By the gods, she was still beautiful, Mark Antony thought to himself. His eyes drank her in and he did not want to look away.

‘Let me introduce my son, Ptolemy Caesar.’

The boy stepped forward with her hand still on his shoulder. He was dark-haired and serious, a boy of only six years. He glowered at Mark Antony, looking up at the man with no sign of being impressed.

‘We call him Caesarion – little Caesar,’ Cleopatra said. He could hear the affection in her voice. ‘I believe you knew his father.’

‘Yes, I knew him,’ Mark Antony replied, searching the boy’s features in fascination. ‘He was the greatest man I have ever known.’

Cleopatra cocked her head slightly as she listened to him, all her attention focused on the big Roman welcoming her to his lands. She smiled a little wider at that, seeing honesty in his response.

‘I know Caesarion would like to hear about his father, Mark Antony, if you are willing to talk about him.’

She held out her hand and he took it formally, leading her away from the docks and breaking the trance that had settled on him since she set foot on land.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said. ‘It is a fine tale.’

HISTORICAL NOTE

No other writer can equal Mark Antony’s funeral oration as written by William Shakespeare, though the playwright didn’t use the detail of a wax effigy, a matter of historical record. It is true that the rioting crowds burned the senate house down for the second time, along with an impromptu cremation of Caesar’s body. Nicolaus of Damascus gave the number of assassins as eighty, whereas the first-century historian Suetonius mentions sixty. Plutarch mentions twenty-three wounds, which suggests a core group, with many more who did not actually strike. Of those core conspirators, the names of nineteen are known: Gaius Cassius Longinus, Marcus Brutus, Publius Casca (who actually struck the first blow), Gaius Casca, Tillius Cimber, Gaius Trebonius (who distracted Mark Antony during the assassination), Lucius Minucius Basilus, Rubrius Ruga, Marcus Favonius, Marcus Spurius, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Servius Sulpicius Galba, Quintus Ligarius, Lucius Pella, Sextius Naso, Pontius Aquila, Turullius, Hortensius, Bucolianus.

For those who are interested in details, Publius Casca had his estate and possessions sold in a proscription auction, which included a table bought by a wealthy Roman and then transported to a provincial town in the south: Pompeii. Preserved in the ash of the Vesuvius eruption, the lionhead legs of that table can be viewed there today, still marked with his name.

Though I have made him a little older to fit the chronology of previous books, Octavian was around nineteen when Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC. He was in Greece/Albania when the news came and he returned to Brundisium by ship. On his return to Rome and learning of his adoption by Caesar, he changed his name to Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, though he dropped the final part shortly afterwards and never used it.

Caesar’s will had been written at an earlier stage of his life, though it is not known exactly when. It is true that he gave 300 sesterces to each citizen – a total somewhere in the region of 150 million silver coins in all, as well as a huge garden estate on the banks of the Tiber. Even then, Octavian received around three-quarters of the total after bequests and legacies. Although it was lodged at the temple of Vesta, as I have it, it was in fact read publicly by Caesar’s last father-in-law: Lucius Calpurnius.

The most important part of the will was that it named Octavian as Caesar’s son, so catapulting him instantly to a status and influence mere wealth could never have brought. With the adoption came the ‘clientela’ – tens of thousands of citizens, soldiers and noble families sworn to Caesar. There is no modern equivalent of this bond, which is closer to a feudal retainer or family tie than a business relationship. It can be fairly said that without that bequest, it is unlikely Octavian would have survived his baptism of fire in Roman politics.

Mark Antony had a number of children before Cleopatra, most of whom are lost to history. With Fulvia, he had two sons: Marcus Antonius Antyllus and Jullus Antonius. I changed the name of the second son to Paulus as Jullus was just too similar to Julius. Anytllus was a nickname. In later years, he was sent to Octavian with a vast sum offering peace, but Octavian kept the gold and sent him back to his father.

In a similar way to Jullus Antonius, I changed the name of Decimus Brutus to Decimus Junius, as I didn’t want another Brutus to cause confusion. That assassin of Caesar was in fact a distant relative of Marcus Brutus. It is true that he was given an area of northern Italy as a reward for his part in the assassination. It is also true that Mark Antony decided to take it from him with the Brundisium legions, and that Octavian was given the task of stopping him. What an irony it must have been for Octavian to be ordered north by his enemies to stop the one man who had supported Caesar!

Note on cowardice. It has become the fashion in recent years to consider Octavian as some sort of weakling. He was neither weak nor a coward. There are well-attested historical accounts of him walking into a hostile camp unarmed to address a mutinous legion – with the body of the last man to try it still on the ground before him. It is true that he was prone to a peculiar collapse at moments of stress. Some modern writers have suggested asthma or dropsy, though the Roman historian Suetonius described him as deeply asleep and senseless, which does not fit those ailments at all. Given that epilepsy ran in his family, the likelihood is that he suffered ‘grand mal’ fits, which left him helpless whenever they struck. His enemies certainly crowed about his absences, but he showed courage in every other aspect of his life. After a wasted day where he was absent and sick, he went on to lead from the front at the battle of Philippi. On other occasions, he stood his ground in riots, with missiles flying all around him. He once went first across over an unsteady gangway and was badly injured when it collapsed. In short, claims of his cowardice sit on weak foundations.

The death of consuls Hirtius and Pansa in the same campaign against Mark Antony was incredibly fortunate for Octavian. I have simplified the events, which actually took place in two major battles a week apart. Pansa fell in the first and Hirtius in the second, leaving Octavian in sole command. There is no evidence that Octavian colluded with Mark Antony, though I suggest that does not mean there was no collusion. It is one of those historical moments when the extraordinary outcome should be considered a little too fortunate, without someone having jogged fate’s elbow. Octavian was not present at the first battle and fought personally at the second, securing a Roman eagle on his own as he withdrew.

Having accepted Senate authority and the position of propraetor – equivalent to a governorship of a province – Octavian found himself in sole command of eight legions. There are one or two interesting rumours that spread after the battle. Pansa survived his wounds for a time before dying, which led to gossip that his own doctor had poisoned him on Octavian’s orders. It was even said that Octavian had struck Hirtius down himself, though this is almost certainly untrue.

While in exile in Athens, Brutus was a regular patron of debates and philosophical discussions, like many other Romans in Greece before him. The small training scene is fictional, though he was fit at the time of Philippi and must have trained regularly. The detail of the second man moving faster is a little-known truth from studies of gunfighters in the American west that I could not resist including. The man who draws first sparks an unconscious response from a trained opponent, who tends to draw more smoothly and with greater speed. It is counter-intuitive, but as Japanese kendo fighters will affirm, the instinctive reaction after thousands of hours of training is often faster than a blow resulting from a controlled decision.

On coins: Both Brutus and Cassius had coins minted after the assassination of Caesar. The most famous is the one with the head of Brutus on one side and the words ‘Eid Mar’ on the reverse, with two daggers around the skullcap of a newly freed man. Others linked Brutus with the words ‘liberty’ and ‘victory’ – an early example of propaganda in an age before mass communication.

Note on fleet construction: Agrippa’s secret fleet was based near modern-day Naples at the lake of Avernus. The lake has the benefit of being only a mile from the sea and at roughly the same level. Roman surveyors will have confirmed this for him, but it was still a relatively minor project compared to, say, bringing an aqueduct for a hundred miles, or laying road for thousands. Bearing in mind that 25,000 men working with spades on the Panama canal could shift a million cubic yards a day, the Avernus canal could have been dug in just three or four days with a thousand men. Add in complications such as canal gates to hold back the lake, and a figure of start-to-finish in a month is reasonable.

Agrippa’s catapult grapnel, named the harpax or ‘robber’, is part of the historical record, though not well known. The description of bronze bearings comes from a similar project at a lake by Genzano, near Rome, where Roman ships were rescued from the bottom in the nineteen thirties. In Genzano, the Romans built a tunnel from the lake to the sea. I didn’t know the ancient Romans had ball bearings before that trip and it is well worth a visit.

With those sorts of innovations, and despite being badly outnumbered, Agrippa was able to destroy the Roman fleet under Sextus Pompey. It is one of those key moments in history where a single man influenced the entire future of a nation and yet it is almost unknown today.

It is occasionally necessary, for reasons of plot, to alter the main line of history. I have followed the true history for most of this book, but the events concerning Sextus Pompey took place after Philippi and not before as I have them here. Octavian agreed to meet him at sea for a failed peace accord, where Sextus’ admiral Menas offered to cut the ship adrift and effectively hand Rome to Sextus. Sextus had given his oath of truce. He was furious with Menas, not for offering, but for not just doing it and thereby allowing Sextus to preserve his oath.

The second wife of Brutus was an interesting character. Her actual name was Porcia Catonis, which I changed to Portia because it didn’t sound like the slender beauty she actually was. According to the histories, she came upon her husband when he was considering the assassination of Julius Caesar. Porcia was very young and famously beautiful. He said he couldn’t trust a woman with such a secret, so to prove her loyalty, she wounded her thigh with a knife, then bore the pain and fever for a full day before showing him what she had done. He trusted her after that, though when he went to Athens, he left her in Rome, rather than bring her with him, as I have it here. Instead of showing a relationship through letters, I preferred to put her in the scenes in Greece. Though the exact manner is disputed, she committed suicide after the death of Brutus at Philippi.

On poets: It is an odd coincidence that the two best-known poets of the Roman world, Quintus Horatius Flaccus (Horace) and Publius Vergilius Maro (Virgil), should have known each other. History sometimes throws up clusters of great names in the same generation, just as Michelangelo and Da Vinci knew and loathed each other in a later century.

Octavian’s noble friend Maecenas was in the habit of collecting poets among his wide group of friends. He knew Virgil well when they were in their twenties. Horace actually met Brutus first when he was in Athens and was present at the battle of Philippi, though Horace was forced to flee in the general chaos.

Philippi was indeed created by King Philip of Macedon as a walled city to stand against marauding Thracian tribes. It is in ruins today and was rebuilt at least twice even in the time of Augustus. At the time of the battles there, it was a walled stronghold built on a wide hill and overlooking a marsh that Cassius did think was impassable, especially once his men had built wooden palisades along the base.

When Octavian collapsed, he remained lucid enough to give orders that he be carried to Philippi on a litter. He was in the twin camp when the unplanned attack started. Brutus’ legions rushed forward without warning after days of being stung by skirmishes and raids against their lines. I have compressed the timeline here, as the battles took place after many days where little happened.

While Mark Antony led his legions in an attack across marshes, taking Cassius’ camp, Brutus’ legions captured his own camp – but Octavian had vanished. We cannot be certain where he went, but he is said to have hidden in a marsh and there was only one around Philippi. Agrippa and Maecenas were almost certainly with him.

The first day of battle was utterly chaotic, with vast numbers of men passing each other in poor light and not knowing whether they were surrounded by friends or enemies. It is true that Cassius thought he was taken and asked his servant Pindarus to kill him. By the time Titinius returned with news that the approaching horsemen were on their side, Cassius was dead and Brutus was in sole command of the legions against Mark Antony and Caesar.

Octavian had recovered enough to take part on 23 October 42 BC, when Brutus led out his forces alone for the second battle of Philippi. The Caesarian forces fought bravely, perhaps with the motivation to repay their rout in the first clash. Octavian and Mark Antony worked well together. They broke Brutus’ legions and Mark Antony led the pursuit as Brutus retreated into the wooded hills above Philippi with four battered legions.

It was Mark Antony who surrounded that exhausted force. Word came to Brutus that his men were considering surrender and the following morning he said goodbye to his companions and threw himself on a sword.

Mark Antony treated the body with respect, laying his own cloak over it. When Octavian came to see, he had the head removed and sent to Rome to be thrown at the feet of Caesar’s statue.

It is true that Octavian executed many of the captured men after Philippi, including almost all of the Liberatores still alive. He had his revenge in the end, surviving illness and disasters, setbacks and betrayals to find himself consul and triumvir, in command of Rome.

Mark Antony travelled to the east to oversee and restore Roman rule to states driven to near bankruptcy by Cassius as he prepared for war. It was Antony who installed King Herod as ruler of Judaea, a man best known for the slaughter of innocents as he tried to defeat a prophecy foretelling the birth of Christ.

Famously, Mark Antony met Cleopatra when she came to him at Tarsus in her royal barge, rowed by silver oars and with purple sails. She was in her early thirties and still renowned for her beauty and intelligence. It is said that she dressed as Aphrodite to meet the Roman. The relationship that followed would be the great love of his life. When years of argument and strain between Antony and Octavian finally led to conflict in 31 BC, Mark Antony lost the sea battle of Actium and another at Alexandria. He and Cleopatra both committed suicide when it was clear they had lost. The son she had with Julius Caesar, Ptolemy Caesarion, was killed in Alexandria on the orders of Octavian. He was just seventeen years old.

Octavian ruled for decades as Augustus Caesar, a title meaning ‘noble’ or ‘illustrious’. He was first in Rome for a golden age of expansion, until his death in AD 14. Yet in his long life, he never called himself emperor. Historians refer to him as the first emperor, but that title would not be used until his successor, Tiberius. Octavian’s long rule was exactly what was needed for Rome to consolidate after decades of internal wars. It can honestly be said that his legacy was the Roman empire, his period of stable rule saving Rome from destruction and chaos. It is because of Augustus as well as Julius that Rome survived longer than any other empire in history and the name of Caesar came to mean king.

As a writer of historical fiction, I like to travel to the lands in question wherever possible, but I also need the best histories for the details. As well as older sources such as Plutarch and Cassius Dio, I am indebted to Anthony Everitt, for his wonderful book Augustus: The Life of Rome’s First Emperor. I recommend it to anyone interested in the period. Thanks are also due to Shelagh Broughton, who moved heaven and earth to research the list of Caesar’s assassins for me.

It would be possible to write another two or three books on the reign of Augustus Caesar and the men who followed him as emperors. There are many stories left to tell. Yet I always intended this book to be about the immediate aftermath of the assassination and the fates of those men who stabbed Julius Caesar on the steps of Pompey’s theatre, on the Ides of March 44 BC. Not a single one of them died a natural death.

Conn Iggulden

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am indebted once again to the talented group who read, re-read, argued furiously about and edited this book with me. In particular: Katie Espiner, Tim Waller, Tracy Devine and Victoria Hobbs – I thank you all.

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

This edition published 2013

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2013

Map © John Gilkes 2013

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

While some of the events and characters are based on historical incidents and figures, this novel is entirely a work of fiction.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007482825

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007510979

Version: 2013-12-05

About the Author

Conn Iggulden is one of the most successful authors of historical fiction writing today. His two number one bestselling series, on Julius Caesar and on the Mongol Khans of Central Asia, describe the founding of the greatest empires of their day. Conn Iggulden lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and their children.

www.conniggulden.com

Also by Conn Iggulden

THE EMPEROR SERIES

The Gates of Rome

The Death of Kings

The Field of Swords

The Gods of War

THE CONQUEROR SERIES

Wolf of the Plains*

Lords of the Bow

Bones of the Hills

Empire of Silver

Conqueror

Blackwater

By Conn Iggulden and Hal Iggulden

The Dangerous Book for Boys

The Dangerous Book for Boys Yearbook

By Conn Iggulden and David Iggulden

The Dangerous Book of Heroes

By Conn Iggulden and illustrated by Lizzy Duncan

Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children

Tollins II: Dynamite Tales

* Published in the USA as Genghis: Birth of an Empire

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Emperor: The Gates of Rome first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Emperor: The Death of Kings first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

Emperor: The Field of Swords first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005

Emperor: The Gods of War first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006

Emperor: Blood of Gods first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2013

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

These novels are entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007552405

Version: 2013-12-05

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

http://www.harpercollins.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1

Auckland, New Zealand

http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London, W6 8JB, UK

http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

10 East 53rd Street

New York, NY 10022

http://www.harpercollins.com