The Gods of War Page 35

  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 annex 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 shoveling 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’s 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 armor in Julius�
��s 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 be 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’s 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’s lungs. There was no weakness in his defense 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 armor dented and then Octavian grunted as Brutus’s 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 supine figure.

  CHAPTER 31

  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 colored 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 defense 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 bro
ught 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 customhouses 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 toward 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.”