The Field of Swords Page 22

  “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 landholdings 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 colored, 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 license for five years, not two, and my eldest son, Publius, is to be taken into the Tenth as an officer, a tribune. 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. Pompey and Crassus 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 armor, Julius strode through the night, heading toward Bibilus’s 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 from 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 ha
ve 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 recognized 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’s 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 recognized 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’s entrance. He was ugly with malice as he struggled with conflicting emotions. A consul could not be touched, could not be held. Even Suetonius’s 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 toward 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 farther.

  “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 realized 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’s 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’s 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 larg
e 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 expression shamed him worse than knives. He had not come to the house for them.

  CHAPTER 21

  _____________________

  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 travelers 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 armor. 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 armor 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 honor, 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.