The Field of Swords Read online

  The months in Senate had exceeded Julius’s 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 rivaled 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. Rumors 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’s 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 favorites 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 toward 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 repli
ed, 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 toward 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 toward 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,” Brutus 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 recognized 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 honor. But for today, you will not get a coin from me.”

  Herminius stiffened in impotent anger. He glanced at the silver armor of the men mounted at Julius’s 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 22

  _____________________

  So why do you stay with him?” Cabera asked. The silver-armored 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. Brutus was too far away to make out details, though he could see the sun catch the breastplate Julius 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’s 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 defense, 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 w
ould 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’s 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 armor. 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.