# The Gods of War

Conn Iggulden

The fourth and final volume in the acclaimed Emperor series, in which Conn Iggulden brilliantly weaves history and adventure to recreate the astonishing life of Julius Caesar.Caesar must fight his toughest battle yet – with Rome itself.Julius Caesar, fresh from triumph in Britain and Gaul, is marching on Rome with his legions of hardened veterans. His goal: to unseat Pompey, now dictator of the Empire.But waging war on your own people is never easy. And even after the city itself is taken and Julius, Brutus, Mark Antony and Octavian re-enter in triumph, there are many battles left to fight. For across the Empire – in Spain, Africa, Greece, across Asia Minor – there are legions loyal to Pompey. How will Caesar prevail? And at what cost?‘The Gods of War’ is the story of ambition and loyalty, of friendship and power, of love and war. A famous tale, of truly epic dimensions, it ranges from Rome to Greece to Egypt and back to Rome; it shows how brilliant generalship can completely turn the odds, how overwhelming success can change even the best of men; it depicts brilliantly those famous names – Caesar, Marcus Brutus, Mark Antony, Pompey, Cicero, Cleopatra, Ptolemy – so that they appear anew. This is a triumphant conclusion to the outstanding Emperor series.

### EMPEROR THE GODS OF WAR


### CONN IGGULDEN


## Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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: 2017-05-22

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

Copyright

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

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

About the Publisher


## 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.