The Field of Swords Page 28

  “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 center 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 armor 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 skillful, but as I said, I almost had him.”

  Ciro still waited patiently and Artorath only raised an eyebrow in Brutus’s 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 toward 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 backward.

  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 disk 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 toward 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 farther 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 farther 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 26

  _____________________

  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 toward 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 scrutinize 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 was 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 st
yle.

  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 realize that they do not want to force you further than you have already gone. Is it too much to reestablish 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’s proxy.