EMPEROR THE DEATH OF KINGS

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 2004

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2004

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: 9780007437139

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321766

Version: 2017-05-22

To my father, who recited ‘Vitai Lampada’ with a gleam in his eye. Also to my mother, who showed me that history was a collection of wonderful stories, with dates.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

About the Publisher

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The fort of Mytilene loomed above them on the hill. Points of light moved on the walls as sentries walked their paths in the darkness. The oak and iron gate was shut and the single road that led up the sheer slopes was heavily guarded.

Gaditicus had left only twenty of his men on the galley. As soon as the rest of the century had disembarked, he had ordered the corvus bridge pulled in and Accipiter slid back from the dark island, the oars barely splashing in the still sea waters.

The galley would be safe from attack while they were gone. With all lights forbidden, she was a blot of darkness that enemy ships would miss unless they came right into the small island harbour.

Julius stood with his unit, waiting for orders. Grimly, he controlled his excitement at seeing action at last after six months of coastal patrol. Even with the advantage of surprise, the fort looked solid and dangerous and he knew scaling the walls was likely to be bloody. Once more, he examined the equipment, testing each rung of the ladders he had been issued, moving amongst the men to make sure they had cloths tied around their sandals for silence and better grip on the climb. There was nothing out of place, but his men submitted to the checks without complaint, as they had twice before since landing. He knew they would not disgrace him. Four were long-term soldiers, including Pelitas who had ten years of galley experience behind him. Julius had made him the second in the unit as soon as he realised the man had the respect of most of the crew. He had previously been overlooked for promotion, but Julius had seen the quality behind the casual approach to uniform and the quite astonishingly ugly face on the man. Pelitas had quickly become a staunch supporter of the new young tesserarius.

The other six had been picked up in Roman ports around Greece, as Accipiter made up her full complement. No doubt some of them had dark histories, but the requirements for a clean record were often ignored for galley soldiers. Men with debts or disagreements with officers knew their last chance for a salary was at sea, but Julius had no complaints. His ten men had all seen battle and to listen to them tell their stories was like a summary of the progress of Rome in the last twenty years. They were brutal and hard, and Julius enjoyed the luxury of knowing they wouldn’t shirk or turn away from the dirty jobs – like clearing the Mytilene fort of rebels on a summer night.

Gaditicus walked through the units, speaking to each officer. Suetonius nodded at whatever he was told and saluted. Julius watched his old neighbour, feeling fresh dislike but unable to pin it to any one thing in the young watch officer. For months, they had worked together with a frosty politeness that now seemed unbreakable. Suetonius still saw him as the young boy he and his friends had tied and beaten a lifetime before. He knew nothing of his experiences since then and had sneered as Julius told the men what it was like to come into Rome at the head of a Triumph with Marius. The events in the capital were only distant rumour to the men on board and Julius felt he wasn’t believed by some of Tonius’ friends. It was galling, but the first hint of tension or fighting between units would have meant demotion to the ranks. Julius had kept his silence, even when he heard Suetonius telling the story of how he had once left the other tesserarius swinging from a tree after cracking his head a few times. His tone had made the incident seem nothing more than a little rough fun between boys. He had felt Julius’ gaze on him at the end and pretended surprise, winking at his Second as they went back to their duties.

As Gaditicus walked over to the last of his units, Julius could see Suetonius grinning behind his shoulder. He kept his own eyes on the centurion and saluted stiffly as he stood to attention. Gaditicus nodded to him, returning the salute with a quick motion of his right forearm.

‘If they don’t know we’re here, we should be able to burn out that little nest before dawn. If they’ve been warned, we’ll be fighting for every step. Make sure the armour and swords are muffled. I don’t want them giving the alarm while we’re on the exposed flanks of that place.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Julius replied smartly.

‘Your men will attack the south side. The slope’s a little easier there. Bring the ladders in quickly and have a man at the bottom of each one to hold them steady so you don’t have to waste time looking for a firm footing. I’m sending Suetonius’ men to kill the gate sentries. There are four of them, so it could be noisy. If you hear shouts before you’re close to the wall, sprint. We must not give them time to organise. Understand? Good. Any questions?’

‘Do we know how many are in there, sir?’ Julius asked.

Gaditicus looked surprised.

‘We’re taking that fort whether they have fifty or five hundred! They haven’t paid taxes for two years and the local governor has been murdered. Do you think we should wait for reinforcements?’

Julius coloured with embarrassment. ‘No, sir.’

Gaditicus chuckled bitterly. ‘The navy is stretched thin enough as it is. You’ll get used to never having enough men and ships if you live through tonight. Now, move to your position and take a wide berth around the fort, using cover. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Julius replied, saluting again. Being an officer, even the lowest rank, was difficult at the best of times. He was expected to know his business, as if the ability came with the rank. He had never assaulted a fortress before by day or night, but was supposed to make decisions on the instant that could mean life or death for his men. He turned to them and felt a fresh surge of determination. He would not let them down.

‘You heard the centurion. Silent progress, split formation. Let’s go.’

As one, they thumped their right fists into their leather breastplates in acknowledgement. Julius winced at the small sound they made.

‘And none of that noisy business either. Until we are in the fort, any orders I give are not to be acknowledged. I don’t want you singing out “Yes, sir” when we’re trying to move silently, all right?’

One or two grinned, but the tension was palpable as they made their slow and careful way through the cover. Two other units detached with them, leaving Gaditicus to command the frontal attack once the sentries had had their throats cut.

Julius was thankful for the endless training drills as he saw the smooth way the men separated in pairs, with four of the long ladders to each unit. The soldiers could run up the wide rungs at almost full speed and it would take only seconds to reach the top of the black walls and get into the fort. Then it would be vicious. With no way of knowing how many rebels faced them, the legionaries would be looking to kill as many as possible in the first few moments.

He signalled with a flat palm for the men to crouch as one of the sentry torches stopped close to their position. Sounds would carry easily, despite the rhythmic screech of the crickets in the grass. After a short pause, the sentry light moved on again and Julius caught the eyes of the closest officers, nodding to each other to begin the attack.

He stood and his heart beat faster. His men rose with him, one of them grunting slightly with the weight of the sturdy ladder. They began to trot up the broken rock of the southern approach. Despite the muffling cloths on their sandals and armour, the thud of feet seemed loud to Julius as he broke into a light run beside his men. Pelitas was in the lead, at the head of the first ladder, but the order changed second by second as they scrambled up the uneven surface, denied even the light of the moon to see the ground. Gaditicus had chosen the night well.

Each of the ladders was passed quickly through the hands of the man in front, who planted the trailing end close to the wall for maximum height. The first man held it steady while the second swarmed up into the darkness. In only a few seconds, the first group were over and the second ready to go, their climb made harder as the ladders slipped and scraped on the stone. Julius caught one as it moved and bunched his shoulders to hold it until the weight at the top had gone, appreciating the sharp reality of levers in the process. All along the line, the soldiers were disappearing into the fort and still the alarm had not been given.

He shifted the ladder until the padded head caught on something and gripped it tightly as he climbed, having to lean close with the sharp angle. He didn’t pause at the top in case archers were sighting on him. There was no time to judge the situation as he slid over the crown and dropped into the darkness below.

He hit and rolled to find his men around him, waiting. Before them was a short stretch of scrub grass, grown long over ancient stones. It was a killing ground for archers and they needed to be out of it quickly. Julius saw the other units had not paused and had crossed to the inner wall. He frowned. It stood as tall as the first, only twenty feet away, but this time the ladders were outside and they were trapped between the walls, as the ancient designers had planned. He swore softly to himself as the men looked to him for a quick decision.

Then a bell began to ring in the fort, the heavy tones booming out into the darkness.

‘What now, sir?’ Pelitas said, his voice sounding bored.

Julius took a deep breath, feeling his own nerves settle slightly.

‘We’re dead if we stay here and they’ll be throwing torches down soon to light us up for archers. You’re best in the rigging, Peli, so get your armour off and see if you can carry a rope up the inner wall. The stones are old, there should be a few gaps for you.’ He turned to the others as Pelitas began to undo the lacing that held his armour together.

‘We need to get that ladder back. If Peli falls, we’ll be easy targets for the archers. It’s a fifteen-foot wall, but we should be able to lift the lightest pair of you to the top, where they can reach over and drag it up.’

He ignored the growing sounds of panic and battle inside the fort. At least the rebels were concentrating on Gaditicus’ attack, but time had to be running out for the soldiers on his side.

The men understood the plan quickly and the heaviest three linked arms and braced their backs against the dark stones of the outer wall. Two more climbed up them and turned carefully so they too were able to lean against the wall behind them. The three at the bottom grunted as the weight came to bear on their armour. The metal plates bit into the men’s shoulders, but without them there was a good chance of snapping a collarbone. They bore the discomfort in silence, but Julius saw they could not hold for long.

He turned to the last pair, who had taken off their armour and stripped down to underclothing and bare feet. Both grinned with excitement as Julius nodded to them and they set about climbing the tower of men with the same speed and efficiency that they brought to the rigging of Accipiter. He drew his sword as he waited for them, straining to see into the darkness above.

Twenty feet away on the inner wall, Pelitas pressed his face against the cold, dry stone and began a short and desperate prayer. His fingers shook as they held a tiny space between slabs and he fought not to make any noise as he heaved himself higher, his feet scrabbling for purchase. His breath hissed between his teeth, so loudly he felt sure someone would come to investigate. For a moment, he regretted bringing the heavy gladius as well as the rope wrapped around his chest, though he couldn’t think of anything worse than reaching the top without a weapon. Falling off onto his head in a great crash was a similarly unpleasant prospect, however.

Above him, he could see a dark lip of stone dimly outlined against the glow of torches as the fort sprang to defend itself from the fifty led by Gaditicus. He sneered silently to himself. Professional soldiers would already have sent scouts around the perimeter to check for a second force or an ambush. It was good to take pride in your work, he thought.

His hand searched blindly above, finally finding a good grip where a corner had crumbled away over the centuries. His arms quivered with exhaustion as Pelitas placed a palm at last on the top slab and hung for a moment, listening for anyone standing close enough to gut him as he pulled himself into the inner fort.

There was nothing, even when he held his breath to listen. He nodded to himself and clenched his jaw as if he could bite through the fear he always felt at these times, then heaved up, swinging his legs around and in. He dropped quickly into a crouch and drew the gladius inch by inch, to avoid sound.

He was in a well of shadow that left him invisible on the edge of a narrow platform with steps leading down to the other buildings on two sides. The remains of a meal on the ground showed him there had been a sentry in place, but the man had obviously gone to repel the front attack instead of staying where he had been told. In his head, Pelitas tutted at the lack of discipline.

Moving slowly, he unwound the heavy rope from his chest and shoulders and tied one end to a rusted iron ring set in the stone. He tugged on it and smiled, letting the loops drop into the dark.

Julius saw that one of the other units was pressed close to the inner wall and was following his idea to retrieve the ladders. Next time, they would have a rope attached to the top rung to throw over the wall, the last man pulling the whole thing after them, but it was easy to be wise in hindsight. Gaditicus should have spent more time learning the layout of the fort, though that was difficult enough as nothing overlooked the steep Mytilene hill. Julius dismissed the doubt as disloyal, but a part of him knew that if he was ordering the attack, he would not have sent his men to take the fort until he knew everything there was to know about it.

The faces of the three men at the bottom of the tower were streaked in sweat and contorted with shuddering pain. Above, he could hear scratching sounds and then the length of ladder came sliding down to them. Quickly, Julius braced it against the wall and the tower dismantled down it, leaving the three at the bottom gasping in relief and rolling their shoulders against cramp. Julius went to each of them, clapping arms in thanks and whispering the next stage. Together, they crossed to the inner wall.

A voice yelled close in the darkness of the inner fort above them and Julius’ heart hammered. He did not understand the words, but the panic was obvious. Surprise had finally gone but they had the ladder and as he flattened himself against the wall he saw Pelitas hadn’t failed or fallen.

‘Move the ladder a few feet and make it steady. Three to climb the rope here. The rest with me.’

They ran to the new point and suddenly the air was cut with arrows whistling overhead, punching into the bodies of the other group bringing their ladder over. Screams sounded as the Romans were picked off. Julius counted at least five archers above, their job made easier as torches were lit and thrown down into the killing ground. There was still darkness under the inner wall and he guessed the rebels thought they were defending the first assault and didn’t know the Romans were already below them.

Julius stepped onto the ladder, his gladius gripped tightly as he climbed the wide rungs. A memory flashed into his mind of the riot that had killed his father years before. So this is what it was like to be first up a wall! He pushed the thoughts aside as he came to the top and quickly threw himself down to miss an axe aimed to decapitate him. Losing balance, he scrabbled on the wall for a terrifying moment and then he was in.

There was no time to take stock of the position. He blocked another axe blow and kicked out hard as the weight of the weapon swung the wielder to one side. It crashed down on stone and his sword slid easily into the heaving chest of the enemy. Something hit him on the helmet, snapping his cheek-guard. His vision blurred and his sword came up to block automatically. He felt wet blood run down his neck and chest to his stomach but ignored it. More of his unit reached the narrow walkway and the cutting began properly.

Three of his unit formed a tight wedge around the top of the ladder, their light armour denting under heavy blows. Julius saw a gladius jerked up into a jaw from below, impaling one of the rebels.

The men they faced wore no common uniform. Some sported ancient armour and wielded strange blades, while others carried hatchets or spears. They were Greek in appearance and shouted to each other in that liquid language. It was messy and Julius could only swear as one of his men fell with a cry, blood spattering darkly in the torchlight. Footsteps crashed and echoed all round the fort. It sounded as if there was an army in there, all running to this point. Two more of his men made the walkway and launched into the fight, pushing the enemy back.

Julius jabbed his gladius tip into a man’s throat in a lunge Renius had taught him years before. He hit hard and furiously and his opponents flailed and died. Whatever they were, the men they faced were winning only with numbers. The Roman skill and training was making the core of soldiers round the ladder almost impossible to break.

Yet they were tiring. Julius saw one of his men yell in frustration and fear as his sword jammed between the plates of an ornate set of armour, probably handed down from generation to generation since the time of Alexander. The Roman wrenched at it viciously, almost knocking the armoured rebel from his feet with the movement. His angry shout changed abruptly to a scream and Julius could see the rebel punching a short dagger into his man’s groin under the armour. Finally the Roman went limp, leaving his gladius still wedged.

‘To me!’ Julius shouted to his men. Together they could force a path along the narrow walkway and move deeper into the fort. He saw steps nearby and motioned to them. More men fell to him and he began to enjoy the fight. The sword was a good weight. The armour gave him a sense of being invulnerable and with the hot blood of action in his system, it sat lightly on him.

A sudden blow to his head removed the damaged helmet and he could feel the cool night air on his sweating skin. It was a pleasure, and he chuckled for a moment as he stepped in and barged a man’s shield, knocking him into the path of his fellows.

‘Accipiter!’ he shouted suddenly. Hawk. It would do. He heard voices echo it and roared it again, ducking under a fore-curved sword that looked more like a farm implement than a weapon of war. His return stroke cut the man’s thighs open, dropping him bawling on the stones.

The other legionaries gathered around him. He saw eight of his unit had made the wall and there were six others who had survived the archers. They stood together and the rebels began to waver in their rushing as the bodies piled around them.

‘Soldiers of Rome, we are,’ grunted one of them. ‘Best in the world. Come on, don’t hang back.’

Julius grinned at him and took up the shout of the galley name when it was begun again. He hoped Pelitas would hear them. Somehow, he didn’t doubt the ugly bastard had survived.

Pelitas had found a cloak on a hook and used it to cover his tunic and drawn sword. He felt vulnerable without his armour, but the men who clattered past didn’t even glance at him. He heard the legionaries growl and shout their challenges nearby and realised it was time to join the fight.

He lifted a torch from a wall bracket and joined the enemy rush to the clash of blades. Gods, there were a lot of them! The inner fort was a maze of broken walls and empty rooms, the sort of place that took hours to clear, with every step open to ambush and arrow fire. He rounded a corner in the darkness, ignored and anonymous for precious moments. He moved quickly, trying not to lose his sense of direction in twists and turns, and then found himself on the north wall, near a group of archers who were firing carefully, their expressions serious and calm. Presumably, the remnants of Gaditicus’ force were still out there, though he could hear Roman orders snapped out in the yard by the main gate. Some had got in, but the battle was far from over.

Half the town must have holed up in the fort, he thought angrily as he approached the archers. One looked up sharply at his approach, but only nodded, firing unhurriedly into the mass of men below them.

As he aimed, Pelitas charged, knocking two of the men headfirst to the stones below. They hit with a crash and the other three archers turned in horror to see him as he threw back the cloak and raised the short gladius.

‘Evening, lads,’ he said, his voice calm and cheerful. One step brought his sword into the chest of the closest. He kneed the body off the wall and then an arrow thumped into him, tearing straight through his side. Only the flights jutted from his stomach and he groaned as his left hand plucked at them, almost without his control. Viciously, he swiped the gladius through the throat of the closest archer, who was raising his own arrow.

It was the last and furthest from him who had fired the shaft. Feverishly, he tried to notch another, but fear made him clumsy and Pelitas reached him, sword held out for the thrust. The man backed away in panic and screamed as he fell from the wall. Pelitas went down slowly onto one knee, his breathing rasping painfully. There was no one near and he laid down his sword, reaching around himself to try and snap the arrow. He would not remove it completely. All the soldiers had seen the rush of blood that could kill you when you did. The thought of catching it every time he turned made his eyes water.

His grip was slippery and he could only bend the wooden shaft, a low moan of agony escaping him. His side was soaked in blood and he felt dizzy as he tried to stand up. Growling softly, he eased the arrow back through himself, so it wasn’t sticking so far out behind.

‘Have to find the others,’ he muttered, taking a deep breath. His hands quivered with the beginnings of shock, so he gripped the gladius as tightly as possible and wrapped his other fist in a fold of the cloak.

Gaditicus backhanded a man in the teeth as he ran at him, following through with a short thrust into the ribs. The fort was filled with rebels, more than the small island would support, he was sure. The rebellion must have picked up firebrands from the mainland, but it was too late to worry now. He remembered the young officer’s question about numbers and how he’d scorned it. Perhaps he should have organised reinforcements. The outcome of the night wasn’t easy to predict.

It had started well, with the sentries taken quickly, almost in the same heartbeat. He had ten men over the ladders and the gate open before anyone inside knew what was happening. Then the dark buildings had vomited soldiers at them, pulling on their armour as they ran. The narrow walkways and steps made the maze an archer’s dream, with only the poor light holding their casualties down to flesh wounds, though he’d lost one man to a shaft into his mouth, straight through his skull.

He could hear his men panting as they pressed close to a wall in darkness behind him. Some torches had been lit, but apart from the occasional arrow fired blindly the enemy had retreated for the moment into the side buildings. Anyone rushing down the path between them was going to be cut to pieces before they made a few paces, but equally the enemy could not leave the shelter to engage the legionaries. It was a temporary lull and Gaditicus was pleased to have the chance to get his breath back. He missed the fitness of the land legions. No matter how you drilled and exercised on a ship, a few minutes of fighting and running left you exhausted. Or maybe it was just age, he acknowledged wryly to himself.

‘They’ve gone to ground,’ he muttered. It would be bitter from now on, killing from building to building, losing one of theirs for every one or two of the enemy. It was too easy for them to wait inside a door or a window and stab the first thing to come through.

Gaditicus was turning to the soldier behind to give orders when the man looked down, his mouth dropping in horror. The stones were covered in shining liquid that streamed quickly through the group and sluiced down between the fort buildings. There was no time to make a plan.

‘Run!’ Gaditicus yelled to the group. ‘Get high! Gods, run!’

Some of the younger men gaped, not understanding, but the experienced ones didn’t wait to find out. Gaditicus was at the back, trying not to think about the archers waiting for just this moment. He heard the crackle and whoosh of fire as they lit the sticky fluid and arrows whined past him, taking a legionary in the lower back. The soldier staggered on for a moment before collapsing. Gaditicus stopped to help him, but as he turned his head he saw flames racing towards them. He drew his sword quickly through the soldier’s throat, knowing it was better than burning. He could feel the heat on his back and panic filled him as he rose from the body. His sandals were wet with the stuff and he knew the fire could not be quenched. He ran blindly after his men.

At full pounding sprint, the group of soldiers rounded a corner and charged on, straight at a group of three crouched archers. All three panicked and only one took the shot, sending an arrow above their heads. The archers were cut down and trampled almost without slowing.

On sheets of flame, the fort became visible. Gaditicus and the others roared in anger and relief at being alive, the sound fuelling their strength and frightening the enemy.

The path ended in a courtyard and this time the waiting archers fired smoothly, destroying the front four men and sending the second row sprawling over their dead companions. The yard was full of the rebels and with a baying cry to answer the Romans in ferocity they came on, howling.

Julius froze as he saw the flames explode along a row of squat buildings to his left. The sheltering darkness became flickering gold and shadow and three men in an alcove were suddenly visible a few paces ahead. They were cut down and behind them an open doorway was revealed, leading into the bowels of the fort. It was the decision of a second and Julius ran straight through it, ripping his sword through the guts of a man waiting inside before he could strike. His followers never hesitated. Without knowing the fort, they could spend fruitless minutes searching for ways to reach their comrades with Gaditicus. The most important thing was to keep moving and kill anyone they came across.

After the light of the fire, it was frighteningly dark inside the fortress. Steps led down to a row of empty rooms and at the end was another set, with a single oil lamp on the wall. Julius grabbed it, swearing as the hot liquid spattered onto his skin. His men clattered behind him and at the bottom Julius threw himself down as arrows hit stone around him and shattered, sending stinging fragments into their midst.

The long, low room they entered had three men in it. Two looked terrified at the dirty, blood-covered soldiers and the third was tied to a chair, a prisoner. Julius saw by his robe that he was a Roman. His face and body were battered and swollen, but his eyes were alive with sudden hope.

Julius raced across the room, swaying to avoid another shaft fired poorly and in haste. Almost with contempt, he reached the two men and cut the archer across the throat. The other tried to stab him, but the chestplate took the blow easily and his backhand cut sent the man crashing to the floor.

Julius rested the point of his gladius on the stones and leaned on it, suddenly tired. His breathing came in great gasps and he noticed how silent the place was, how far below the main fort they were.

‘That was well done,’ said the man in the chair.

Julius glanced at him. Up close, he saw the man had been brutally tortured. His face was swollen and twisted and his fingers had been broken, jutting at obscene angles. Trembling shook the man’s body and Julius guessed he was trying not to lose what little control he had left.

‘Cut his bonds,’ he ordered and helped the prisoner to his feet as he came free, noting how unsteady he was. One of the man’s hands touched the arm of the chair and he gave out a moan of agony, his eyes rolling up in his head for a second before he steadied under Julius’ grip.

‘Who are you?’ Julius said, wondering what they were going to do with the man.

‘Governor Paulus. You might say … this is my fort.’ The man closed his eyes as he spoke, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief. Julius saw his courage and felt a touch of respect.

‘Not yet it isn’t, sir,’ Julius replied. ‘There’s a lot of fighting above and we have to get back to it. I suggest we find you somewhere safe to wait it out. You don’t look quite up to joining in.’

In fact the man looked bloodless, his skin slack and grey. He was about fifty years old with heavy shoulders and a sagging stomach. He might once have been a warrior, Julius judged, but time and soft living had taken his strength, at least of the body.

The governor stood straighter, the effort of will obvious.

‘I’ll go with you as far as I can. My hands are smashed, so I can’t fight, but I want to get out of this stinking pest-hole, at least.’

Julius nodded quickly, signalling to two of the men.

‘Take his arms, gently, carry him if you have to. We must get back to help Gaditicus.’

With that, Julius was clattering up the steps, his mind already on the battle above.

‘Come on, sir. Lean on my shoulder,’ said one of the last pair as he took the weight. The governor cried out as his broken hands moved, then gritted his teeth against the pain.

‘Get me out quickly,’ he ordered curtly. ‘Who was the officer who freed me?’

‘That was Caesar, sir,’ the soldier replied as they began the slow trip. By the end of the first flight of stairs, the pain had forced the governor into unconsciousness and they were able to go much faster.

CHAPTER TWO

Sulla smiled and drank deeply from a silver goblet. His cheeks were flushed with the effects of the wine and his eyes frightened Cornelia as she sat on the couch he had provided.

His men had collected her in the heat of the afternoon, when she felt the heaviness of her pregnancy most painfully. She tried to hide her discomfort and fear of the Dictator of Rome, but her hands shook slightly on the lip of the cup of cool white wine he had offered her. She sipped sparingly to please him, wanting nothing more than to be out of his gilded chambers and back in the safety of her own home.

His eyes watched her every move and she could not hold the gaze as the silence stretched between them.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked, and there was a slurred edge to his words that sent a thrill of panic coursing through her.

Be calm, she told herself. The child will feel your fear. Think of Julius. He would want you to be strong.

When she spoke, her voice was almost steady.

‘Your men have thought of everything. They were very courteous to me, though they did not say why you desired my presence.’

‘Desired? What a strange choice of word,’ he replied softly. ‘Most men would never use the word for a woman, what, weeks from giving birth?’

Cornelia looked at him blankly and he emptied his cup, smacking his lips together with pleasure. He rose from his seat without warning, turning his back to her as he refilled his cup from an amphora, letting the stopper fall and roll on the marble floor unheeded.

She watched it spiral and come to rest, as if hypnotised. As it became still, he spoke again, his voice languid and intimate.

‘I have heard that a woman is never more beautiful than when she is pregnant, but that is not always true, is it?’

He stepped closer to her, gesturing with the cup as he spoke, slopping drops over the rim.

‘I … do not know, sir, it …’

‘Oh, I have seen them. Rat-haired heifers that amble and bellow, their skin blotched and sweating. Common women, of common stock, whereas the true Roman lady, well …’

He pressed even closer to her and it was all she could do not to pull away from him. There was a glitter to his eyes and suddenly she thought of screaming, but who would come? Who would dare come?

‘The Roman lady is a ripe fruit, her skin glowing, her hair shining and lustrous.’

His voice was a husky murmur, and as he spoke he reached out and pressed his hand against the swelling of the child.

‘Please …’ she whispered, but he seemed not to hear. His hand trailed over her, feeling the heavy roundness.

‘Ah, yes, you have that beauty, Cornelia.’

‘Please, I am tired. I would like to go home now. My husband …’

‘Julius? A very undisciplined young man. He refused to give you up, did you know? I can see why, now.’

His fingers reached up to her breasts. Swollen and painful as they were at this late stage, they were held only loosely in the mamillare and she closed her eyes in helpless misery as she felt his hands easing over her flesh. Tears came swiftly into her eyes.

‘What a delicious weight,’ he whispered, his voice ugly with passion. Without warning, he bent and pressed his mouth on hers, shoving his fat tongue between her lips. The taste of stale wine made her gag in reflex and then he pulled away, wiping loose lips with the back of his hand.

‘Please don’t hurt the baby,’ she said, her voice breaking. Tears streamed out and the sight of them seemed to disgust Sulla. His mouth twisted in irritation and he turned away.

‘Take yourself home. Your nose is running and the moment is spoiled. There will be another time.’

He filled his cup from the amphora yet again as she left the room, her sobs almost choking her and her eyes blind with shining tears.

Julius roared as his men charged into the small yard where Gaditicus fought the last of the rebels. As his legionaries hit the rebel flank, there was instant panic in the darkness and the Romans took advantage, bodies falling quickly, ripped apart by their swords. Within seconds, there were fewer than twenty facing the legionaries and Gaditicus shouted, his voice a bellow of authority.

‘Drop your weapons!’

A second of hesitation followed, then a clatter as swords and daggers fell to the tiles and the enemy were still at last, chests heaving, drenched in sweat, but beginning to feel that moment of joyous disbelief that comes when a man realises he has survived where others have fallen.

The legionaries moved to surround them, their faces hard.

Gaditicus waited until the rebels’ swords had been taken and they stood in a huddled and sullen group.

‘Now, kill them all,’ he snapped and the legionaries threw themselves in one last time. There were screams, but it was over quickly and the small yard was quiet.

Julius breathed deeply, trying to clear his lungs of the smells of smoke and blood and opening bowels. He coughed and spat on the stone floor, before wiping his gladius on a body. The blade was nicked and scarred, almost useless. It would take hours to rub out the flaws and he would be better exchanging it quietly for another from the stores. His stomach heaved slightly and he concentrated even harder on the blade and the work to be done before they could return to Accipiter. He had seen bodies piled high before and it was that memory of the morning after his father’s death that made him suddenly believe he could smell burning flesh in his nostrils.

‘I think that’s the last of them,’ Gaditicus said. He was pale with exhaustion and stood bent over with his hands on his knees for support.

‘We’ll wait for dawn before checking every doorway, in case a few more are hiding in the shadows.’ He rose straight, wincing as his back stretched and clicked. ‘Your men were late in support, Caesar. We were naked for a while.’

Julius nodded. He thought of saying what it had taken to get to the centurion at all, but kept his mouth tightly shut. Suetonius grinned at him. He was dabbing a cloth to a gash on his cheek. Julius hoped the stitches would hurt.

‘He was delayed rescuing me, Centurion,’ a voice said. The governor had recovered consciousness, leaning heavily on the shoulders of the two men carrying him. His hands were purple and impossibly swollen, hardly like hands at all.

Gaditicus took in the Roman style of the filthy toga, stiff with blood and dirt. The eyes were tired but the voice was clear enough, despite the broken lips.

‘Governor Paulus?’ Gaditicus asked. He saluted when the governor nodded.

‘We heard you were dead, sir,’ Gaditicus said.

‘Yes … it seemed that way to me for a while.’

The governor’s head lifted and his mouth twisted in a slight smile.

‘Welcome to Mytilene fort, gentlemen.’

Clodia sobbed as Tubruk put his arm around her in the empty kitchens.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. ‘He’s been at her and at her all through the pregnancy.’

‘Shhh … come on.’ Tubruk patted her back, trying to control the fear that had leapt in him when he first saw Clodia’s dusty, tear-stained face. He didn’t know Cornelia’s nurse well, but what he had seen had given him an impression of a solid, sensible woman who would not be crying over nothing.

‘What is it, love? Come and sit down and tell me what’s going on.’

He kept his voice as calm as he could, but it was a struggle. Gods, was the baby dead? It was due any time and childbirth was always risky. He felt coldness touch him. He had told Julius he would keep an eye on them while he was away from the city, but everything had seemed fine. Cornelia had been a little withdrawn in the last months, but many a young girl felt fear with the ordeal of her first birth ahead of her.

Clodia allowed herself to be guided to a bench next to the ovens. She sat without checking the seat for grease or soot, which worried Tubruk even further. He poured a cup of pressed apple juice for her and she gulped at it, her sobs subsiding to shudders.

‘Tell me the problem,’ Tubruk said. ‘Most things can be solved, no matter how bad they might seem.’

He waited patiently for her to finish drinking and gently took the cup from her limp hand.

‘It’s Sulla,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been tormenting Cornelia. She won’t tell me all the details, but he has his men bring her to him at any time of the day or night, pregnant as she is, and she comes back in tears.’

Tubruk paled in anger.

‘Has he hurt her? Hurt the child?’ he pressed, stepping closer.

Clodia leaned away from his intensity, her mouth quivering with returning force.

‘Not yet, but every time is worse. She told me he is always drunk and he … places his hands on her.’

Tubruk closed his eyes briefly, knowing he had to remain calm. The only outward sign was a clenched fist, but when he spoke again, his eyes glittered dangerously.

‘Does her father know?’

Clodia took his arm in a sudden grip.

‘Cinna must not know! It would break him. He would not be able to meet Sulla in the Senate without accusations and he would be killed if he said anything in public. He cannot be told!’

Her voice rose higher as she spoke and Tubruk patted her hand reassuringly.

‘He won’t learn it from me.’

‘I have no one else to turn to, but you, to help me protect her,’ Clodia said brokenly, her eyes pleading.

‘You’ve done right, love. She carries a child of this house. I need to know everything that has happened, do you understand? There must be no mistake in this. Do you see how important that is?’

She nodded, wiping her eyes roughly.

‘I hope so,’ he continued. ‘As the Dictator of Rome, Sulla is almost untouchable under the law. Oh, we could bring a case to the Senate, but not one of them would dare to argue the prosecution. It would mean death for anyone who tried. That is the reality of their precious “equal law”. And what is his crime? In law, nothing, but if he has touched her and frightened her, then the gods call for punishment even if the Senate would not.’

Clodia nodded again. ‘I understand that …’

‘You must understand,’ he interrupted sharply, his voice hard and low, ‘because it means that anything we do will be outside the law and if it is any sort of attack on the body of Sulla himself, then to fail would mean the deaths of Cinna, you, me, Julius’ mother, servants, slaves, Cornelia and the child, everybody. Julius would be tracked down no matter where he hid.’

‘You will kill Sulla?’ Clodia whispered, moving closer.

‘If everything is as you say, I will certainly kill him,’ he promised, and for a moment, she could see the gladiator he had once been, frightening and grim.

‘Good, it is what he deserves. Cornelia will be able to put these dark months behind her and bear the child in peace.’ She dabbed at her eyes and some of the grief and worry eased from her visibly.

‘Does she know you have come to me?’ he asked quietly.

Clodia shook her head.

‘Good. Don’t tell her what I have said. She is too close to birth for these fears.’

‘And … afterwards?’

Tubruk scratched the short crop of hair on the back of his head.

‘Never. Let her believe it was one of his enemies. He has enough of them. Keep it a secret, Clodia. He has supporters who will be calling for blood for years later if the truth comes out. One wrong word from you to another, who then tells a friend, and the guards will be at the gate to take Cornelia and the child away for torture before the next dawn.’

‘I will not tell,’ she whispered, holding his gaze for long seconds. At last, she looked away and he sighed as he sat on the bench next to her.

‘Now, start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out. Pregnant girls often imagine things and before I risk everything I love, I need to be sure.’

They sat and talked for an hour in quiet voices. By the end, the hand she placed on his arm marked the beginning of a shy attraction, despite the ugliness of the subject they discussed.

‘I had intended to be on the next tide out to sea,’ Gaditicus had said sourly. ‘Not to take part in a parade.’

‘You believed me to be a corpse then,’ Governor Paulus had replied. ‘As I am battered but alive, I feel it necessary to show the support of Rome that stands with me. It will discourage … further attempts on my dignity.’

‘Sir, every young fighter on the whole island must have been holed up in that fort – and a fair few from the mainland as well. Half the families in the town will be grieving for the loss of a son or father. We have shown them well enough what disobedience to Rome means. They will not rebel again.’

‘You think not?’ Paulus had replied, smiling wryly. ‘How little you know these people. They have been fighting against their conquerors since Athens was the centre of the world. Now Rome is here and they fight on. Those who died will have left sons to take up arms as soon as they are able. It is a difficult province.’

Discipline had prevented Gaditicus from arguing further. He longed to be back at sea in Accipiter, but Paulus had insisted, even demanding four of the legionaries to stay with him permanently as guards. Gaditicus had nearly walked back to the ship at that order, but a few of the older men had volunteered, preferring the easier duty to pirate hunting.

‘Don’t forget what happened to his last set of guards,’ Gaditicus had warned them, but it was a hollow threat, as well they knew after the rebels’ pyre lifted a stream of black smoke high enough to be seen for miles. The job would take them safely to retirement.

Gaditicus cursed under his breath. He was going to be very short of good men for the next year. The old man Caesar had brought on board with him had turned out to be good with wounds, so a few of the injured might be saved from an early release and poverty. He wasn’t a miracle worker though and some of the crippled ones would have to be put off at the next port, there to wait for a slow merchant ship to take them back to Rome. The galley century had lost a third of its men in Mytilene. Promotions would have to be made, but they couldn’t replace twenty-seven dead in the fighting, fourteen of them competent hastati who had served on Accipiter for more than ten years.

Gaditicus sighed to himself. Good men lost just to smoke out a few young hotheads trying to live the stories their grandfathers told. He could imagine the speeches they had made, whereas the truth was that Rome brought them civilisation and a glimpse of what man could achieve. All they fought for was the right to live in mud huts and scratch their arses, did they but know it. He didn’t expect them to be grateful, he had lived too long and seen too much for that, but he demanded their respect and the ill-planned mess at the fort had shown precious little of that. Eighty-nine enemy bodies had been burned at dawn. The Roman dead were carried back to the ship for burial at sea.

It was with such angry thoughts buzzing around in his head that he marched into the town of Mytilene in his best armour, with the rest of his depleted century shining behind him. Rain threatened in the form of dark, heavy clouds and the stiflingly hot air matched his mood perfectly.

Julius marched stiffly after the battering he had taken the night before. It amazed him how many small cuts and scrapes he had picked up without noticing. His chest was purple all down the left side and a shiny yellow lump stood out on one of his ribs. He would have Cabera look at it back on Accipiter, but he didn’t think it was broken.

He disagreed with Gaditicus over the need for the march. The centurion was happy to break a rebellion and vanish, leaving someone else to handle the politics, but it was important to remind the town that the governor was not to be touched above all else.

He glanced over at Paulus, taking in the heavily bandaged hands and the still-swollen face. Julius admired him for refusing to be carried in a litter, determined to show himself unbeaten after his torture. Fair enough that the man wanted to come back to town at the head of an army. There were men like him all over Roman lands. They had little support from the Senate and were like small kings who nonetheless depended on the goodwill of the locals to make things happen as they wanted. When that goodwill failed, Julius knew a thousand things could make life very difficult. No wood or food delivered except at sword-point, roads damaged and property burnt. Nothing to turn out the guards for, but constant irritations, like burrs caught in the skin.

From what the governor said of the life, Paulus seemed to enjoy the challenges. Julius had been surprised to note that his main feeling was not anger at his ordeal, but sadness that people he had trusted had turned against him. Julius wondered if he would be so trusting in the future.

The legionaries marched through the town, ignoring the stares and sudden movement as mothers cleared playing children from their path. Most of the Romans were feeling the aches of the night before and were pleased to reach the governor’s home in the centre. They formed a square in front of the building and Julius saw one of the benefits of the post Paulus held in the beauty of the white walls and ornamental pools. It was a piece of Rome, transplanted into the Greek countryside.

Paulus laughed aloud as his children came running to greet him. He went down on one knee, letting them embrace him while he kept his broken hands clear. His wife too came out and Julius could see tears in her eyes, even from the second rank. A lucky man.

‘Tesserarius Caesar, stand forward,’ Gaditicus ordered, startling Julius out of his thoughts. Julius moved quickly and saluted. Gaditicus looked him over, his expression unreadable.

Paulus disappeared into his home with his family and all the ranks waited patiently for him, happy enough to stand in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine with no jobs to be done.

Julius’ mind churned, wondering why he had been ordered to stand out alone and how Suetonius would feel if it was a promotion. The governor was not able to order Gaditicus to give him a new post, but his recommendation was unlikely to be ignored.

At last Paulus returned, his wife walking out with him. He filled his lungs to address all the men together and his voice was warm and strong.

‘You have restored me to my position and my family. Rome thanks you for your service. Centurion Gaditicus has agreed that you may take a meal here. My servants are preparing my best food and drink for you all.’ He paused and his gaze fell on Julius.

‘I witnessed great bravery last night, from one man in particular who risked his own life to save mine. To him, I award the honour wreath, to mark his courage. Rome has brave sons and I stand here today to prove it.’

His wife stepped forward and lifted a circlet of green oak leaves. Julius unfroze and when Gaditicus nodded at him, removed his helmet to accept it. He blushed and suddenly the men cheered, though whether it was at the honour to one of their own or the food to come, he wasn’t sure.

‘Thank you, I …’ he stammered.

Paulus’ wife put her hand on his own and Julius could see where face paint had covered dark circles of worry under her eyes.

‘You brought him back to me.’

Gaditicus barked out the orders to remove helmets and follow the governor to where his staff were setting up the meal. He held Julius back for a moment and, when it was quiet, he asked to see the circlet. Julius handed it to him quickly, trying not to shout out loud with the excitement he felt.

Gaditicus turned the band of dark leaves over in his hands.

‘Do you deserve it?’ he asked quietly.

Julius hesitated. He knew he had risked his life and rushed two men on his own down in the lowest room of the fort, but it was a prize he had not expected.

‘Not more than a lot of the men, sir,’ he replied.

Gaditicus looked closely at him, then nodded, satisfied.

‘That’s a good line, though I will say I was pleased to see you when you flanked the bastards last night.’ He grinned at Julius’ rapidly changing expressions, from delight to embarrassment.

‘Will you wear it under your helmet, or perched on top?’

Julius felt flustered. ‘I … I hadn’t thought. I suppose I will leave it on the ship if there’s action.’

‘Are you sure, now? Pirates will run scared of a man with leaves on his head, perhaps?’

Julius flushed again and Gaditicus laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘I’m only teasing you, lad. It is a rare honour. I’ll have to promote you, of course. I can’t have a lowly watch officer with an honour wreath. I will give you a twenty to command.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Julius replied, his spirits lifting even further.

Gaditicus rubbed the leaves between his fingers thoughtfully.

‘You will have to wear this in the city some time. It will be expected of you, at least once.’

‘Why, sir? I don’t know the ritual.’

‘It’s what I would do, anyway. The laws of Rome, lad. If you walk into a public event with an honour wreath, everyone must stand. Everyone, even the Senate.’

The centurion chuckled to himself. ‘What a sight that would be. Come in when you’re settled. I’ll make sure they keep some wine for you. It looks like you could do with a drink.’

CHAPTER THREE

In the grey evening light, Brutus scrambled down the side of the building, tearing most of the climbing roses with him. His foot caught in a loop of thorns at the bottom and he fell flat, his sword skidding over the cobbles with a clatter. Wincing, he freed himself before struggling to his feet. He could hear another roar of anger above his head as Livia’s father approached the window and glared down at the intruder. Brutus looked up at him as he tugged at his bracae, yelping as the cloth snagged on a thorn deep in his thigh.

Livia’s father was a bull-like man who carried a heavy axe like a hatchet and was obviously considering whether he could hit Brutus with a good throw.

‘I’ll find you, whelp!’ the man bellowed down at him, practically frothing through his beard in rage.

Brutus backed away out of range and tried to pick up his fallen gladius without taking his eyes off the red-faced Greek. He hitched up his bracae with one hand and found the hilt with the other, wishing he had kept his sandals on for the athletic tumbling about with Livia. If her father was trying to protect her innocence, he was about three years too late, Brutus thought. He considered sharing the information with the man out of spite, but she’d played fair by the young Roman, though she really should have checked the house before dragging him into her room as he passed. As she’d been naked, it had seemed only politeness for him to remove his sandals before they collapsed on the bed, though that courtesy would make escape through the sleepy town something of a problem.

No doubt Renius was still snoring in the room for which Brutus had paid. After five days sleeping in the open, both men had been happy enough to break the journey with a chance for a hot bath and a shave, but it looked as if only Renius would be enjoying those comforts while Brutus went for the hills.

Brutus shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably as he considered his choices. He cursed Renius under his breath, partly for sleeping during a crisis, but mainly for convincing him that a horse would eat through their savings by the time they reached the coast and found a berth for Rome. Renius had said that a legionary could march the distance without any trouble, but even a thin pony would have been handy for a quick escape.

The angry beard vanished above and while Brutus hesitated, Livia appeared at the window, her skin still flushed from their activities. It was a good healthy glow, Brutus noted idly, appreciating the way she rested her breasts on the sill.

‘Get away!’ she called in a harsh whisper. ‘He’s coming down after you!’

‘Throw my sandals down, then. I can’t run like this,’ he hissed back. After a moment, the articles came flying at him and he laced them in a frenzy, already able to hear the clump of her father’s tread as he came to the door.

Brutus heard the man’s pleased exclamation on finding him still in the yard. Without looking back, he sprinted away, skidding as the iron studs of his soles met the cobbles. Behind, Livia’s father shouted for the town to stop him, which seemed to cause a stir of excitement amongst the locals going about their business. Brutus groaned as he ran. Already there were answering yells and he could hear a number of others had joined the pursuit.

Feverishly, he tried to remember the streets he’d wandered through only hours before, thankful to find anything with cheap rooms and hot food. Livia’s father had seemed pleasant enough then, though he hadn’t been carrying the axe when he showed the tired men to his cheapest room.

Brutus thumped into a wall as he turned a corner at full speed, dodging round a cart and knocking away the grasping hands of its owner. Which way to get out? The town seemed like a labyrinth. He took roads to the left and right without daring to look back, his breath rasping in his throat. So far, Livia had been worth his trouble, but if he was killed, she wasn’t his choice for the last woman in his life. He hoped the father would take his anger out on Renius and wished them both luck.

The alleyway he ran down came to a dead end around a corner. A cat scrambled away from him as he halted against the nearest stone wall and prepared to risk a glance back. There was nowhere to run, but perhaps he’d lost them for the moment. He strained his ears before inching towards the edge, hearing nothing more threatening than the cat’s complaints disappearing into the distance.

He eased one eye around the wall and pulled back at once. The alley seemed filled with men, all heading his way. Brutus dropped down into a crouch and risked a second glance at them, hoping he wouldn’t be seen so low down.

A voice called out in recognition and Brutus groaned again as he pulled back. He’d picked up a little Greek in his time with the Bronze Fist, but hardly enough to talk his way out of the situation.

He made his decision and stood, firming his grip on the sword hilt, his other hand falling to the scabbard where he could fling it away. It was a fine blade that he’d won in a legion tournament and he would have to show the farmers that he’d earned it. He hitched up his bracae one more time and took a deep breath before stepping out into the alley to face them.

There were five of them, their faces filled with the enthusiasm of children as they rushed down the alley. Brutus pulled away the scabbard with a flourish, in case they were in any doubt about his intentions. With great solemnity, he lowered the point at the men and they pulled up as one. The moment held and Brutus thought furiously. Livia’s father had yet to appear and there could be a chance to win free of the younger men before he arrived to encourage them. They might be open to persuasion and even bribery.

The largest of them stepped forward, careful to remain outside the range of the unwavering sword in Brutus’ hands.

‘Livia is my wife,’ he said in clear Latin.

Brutus blinked at him. ‘Does she know?’ he asked.

The man’s face coloured in anger and he produced a dagger from his belt. The others followed his example, revealing clubs and blades that they waved at Brutus whilst beckoning him forward to meet them.

Before they could rush him, Brutus spoke quickly, trying to sound calm and unruffled by the threat.

‘I could kill every one of you, but all I want is to be allowed to go on my way in peace. I’m a legion champion with this pretty blade and not one of you will leave this alley alive if you make the wrong decision.’

Four of them listened with blank faces until Livia’s husband translated the speech. Brutus waited patiently, hoping for a favourable response. Instead, they chuckled and began to edge closer to him. Brutus took a step back.

‘Livia is a healthy girl with normal appetites,’ he said. ‘She seduced me, not the other way around. There is nothing worth killing for in this.’

He waited with the others for the translation to begin, but the husband remained silent. Then the man said something in Greek, which Brutus barely followed. Part of it was certainly to try to keep him alive, which he approved, but the last part involved him being ‘given to the women’, which sounded distinctly unpleasant.

Livia’s husband leered at Brutus. ‘Catching a criminal means a festival for us. You will be the middle … the heart of it?’

As Brutus began to frame a reply, they rushed him with a flurry of blows and, though he pricked one of them with his gladius, a whistling club connected behind his ear and knocked him unconscious.

He woke to a slow creaking and a feeling of dizziness. While his wits returned, he kept his eyes closed, trying to sense his whereabouts without letting unseen watchers know he was alert. There was a breeze playing about a fair portion of his body and he had a sudden suspicion that his clothes had been removed. There could be no reasonable explanation for this and his eyes snapped open despite his intentions.

He was hanging upside down, suspended by the feet from a wooden scaffold in the centre of the town. A surreptitious glance upwards confirmed the fact that he was naked. Everything hurt, and a memory of being hung from a tree when he was a boy came back to make him shudder.

It was dark and somewhere nearby he could hear sounds of revelry. He swallowed painfully at the thought of being part of some pagan ritual and strained at the ropes that held him. Blood pounded in his head with the effort, but there was no give in the knots.

His movement made him spin in a slow circle and he was able to see the whole of the square at intervals. Every house was lit in a show of life far greater than the dull little place he had imagined on arrival. No doubt they were all boiling pig heads and blowing the dust off home-made wines, he thought dismally.

For a moment, he despaired. His armour was back in the room with Renius and his sword had vanished. He had no sandals and his savings would no doubt fund the very celebration that would be the end of him. Even if he could escape, he was naked and penniless in a strange land. He cursed Renius with some enthusiasm.

‘After a refreshing sleep, I have a good stretch and look out of the window,’ Renius said by his ear. Brutus had to wait until he swung round to face him.

The old gladiator was shaved and clean and clearly enjoying himself.

‘Surely, I say to myself, surely that figure hanging by his feet can’t be the same popular young soldier I came in with?’

‘Look, I’m sure you’ll tell a very amusing story to your cronies, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop rehearsing it and just cut me down before someone stops you.’

The creaking ropes carried Brutus away again. Without a word of warning, Renius sliced the ropes and spilled Brutus onto the ground. Shouts sounded around them and Brutus struggled to rise, pulling himself upright against the scaffold.

‘My legs won’t take my weight!’ he said, trying to rub at each one in turn with desperate energy.

Renius sniffed, looking around.

‘They’d better. With one arm, I can hardly carry you and keep them off at the same time. Keep rubbing. We may have to bluff it through.’

‘If we had a horse, you could tie me to the saddle,’ Brutus retorted, rubbing furiously.

Renius shrugged.

‘No time for that. Your armour’s in this bag. They brought your kit back to the rooming house and I swiped it on my way out. Take your sword and brace yourself against the scaffold. Here they come.’ He passed over the blade and, for all his nude helplessness, Brutus felt a little comfort from the familiar hilt.

The crowd gathered quickly, Livia’s father at the head, carrying his axe in both hands. He tensed enormously powerful shoulders and jerked the blade in Renius’ direction.

‘You came in with the one who attacked my daughter. I’ll give you one chance to gather your things and move on. He stays here.’

Renius stood dangerously still, then took a sharp pace forward, sinking his gladius into the man’s chest so that it stood out behind him. He pulled it out and the man fell face down on the cobbles, the axe head clattering noisily.

‘Who else says he stays here?’ Renius said, looking around the crowd. They had frozen at the sudden killing and there was no response. Renius nodded sternly at them, speaking slowly and clearly.

‘No one was attacked. From the noises I heard, the girl was as enthusiastic as my idiot friend.’ Renius ignored Brutus’ sharp intake of breath at his back, keeping his sweeping gaze locked on the crowd. They barely heard him. The gladiator had killed without a thought and that held the people still.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Renius murmured.

Brutus tested his legs gingerly, wincing at the fire of returning circulation. He began to pull his garments on as quickly as possible, the armour clanking loudly as he searched the bag with one hand.

‘As soon as I’m dressed.’

He knew the moment couldn’t last, but still jumped as Livia came shoving through the people, her voice shrill.

‘What are you doing standing there?’ she screamed at the crowd. ‘Look at my father! Who will kill his murderers?’

Behind her back, Brutus rose, his sword ready. The sweet smiles he remembered from the afternoon had twisted into hatred as she screamed abuse at her own people. None of them met her eyes, their desire for vengeance cooled by the sprawled figure at her feet.

At the edge of the crowd, her husband turned his back on her and stalked away into the darkness. As she saw who it was, Livia turned on Renius, raining blows on his face and body. His only arm held the sword and as Brutus saw the muscles tense, he reached forward and pulled her away.

‘Go home,’ he snapped at her. Instead, her hands reached for his eyes and Brutus shoved her roughly. She fell to the floor near her father’s body and clung to it, weeping.

Renius and Brutus looked at each other and the thinning crowd.

‘Leave her,’ Renius said.

Together, the two men crossed the square and made their way in silence through the town. It seemed hours before they reached the edge of the houses and looked out on a valley leading down to a river in the distance.

‘We should push on. By dawn they’ll be swearing blood feud and coming after us,’ Renius said, finally sheathing his sword.

‘Did you really hear …?’ Brutus asked, looking away.

‘You woke me up with your grunting, yes,’ Renius replied. ‘Your quick tumble could still kill us if they send out decent trackers. In her father’s house!’

Brutus scowled at his companion.

‘You killed him, don’t forget,’ he muttered.

‘And you’d still be there if I hadn’t. Now march. We need to cover as much ground as possible before daylight. And the next time a pretty girl looks twice at you, start running. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.’

Silently disagreeing, the two men set off down the hill.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Not wearing your wreath? I heard you slept with it,’ Suetonius sneered as Julius came on watch.

Julius ignored him, knowing that a response would lead to yet another exchange that would bring the two young officers closer to open hostility. For the moment, Suetonius at least made the pretence of courtesy when the other men were near enough to hear, but when they stood watch on their own, each second dawn, the bitterness in the man came to the surface. On the first day at sea after leaving the island, one of the men had tied a circlet of leaves to the tip of Accipiter’s mast, as if the whole ship had earned the honour. More than a few of the legionaries had waited around to see Julius catch sight of it and his delighted grin brought a cheer out of them. Suetonius had smiled with the others, but the dislike in his eyes had deepened even further from that moment.

Julius kept his eyes on the sea and distant African coast, changing balance slightly with the movements of Accipiter as the galley rolled in the swell. Despite Suetonius’ snide remark, he had not worn the circlet since leaving the town of Mytilene, except for trying it on once or twice in the privacy of his tiny bunk below the decks. By now, the oak leaves had become brittle and dark, but that didn’t matter. He had been given the right to wear it and would have a fresh one bound when he next saw Rome.

It was easy to ignore Suetonius with the daydream of striding into the Circus Maximus on a race day and seeing thousands of Romans stand, first only as they saw him, then in waves stretching further away until the whole crowd was on its feet. He smiled slightly to himself and Suetonius snorted in irritation.

Even in the dawn quiet, the oars rose and fell rhythmically below them as Accipiter wallowed through the waves. Julius knew by now that she was not a nimble ship, having seen two pirates disappear over the horizon with apparent ease in the months since Mytilene. The shallow draught had little bite in the water and even with the twin steering oars, Accipiter lumbered through changes in direction. Her one strength was sudden acceleration under the oars, but even with two hundred slaves their best speed was no more than a brisk stroll on land. Gaditicus seemed untroubled by their inability to close with the enemy. It was enough to chase them away from the coastal towns and major trade lanes, but it was not what Julius had hoped for when he joined the ship. He’d had visions of swift and merciless hunting and it was galling to realise that the Roman skill for land war did not extend to the seas.

Julius looked over the side to where the double oars lifted high and dipped in unison, carving their way through the still waters. He wondered how they could work the massive blades so steadily for hour after hour without exhaustion, even with three slaves to each one. He had been down to the oar deck a few times in the course of his duties, but it was crowded and foul. The bilges stank of wastes that were washed through twice a day with buckets of sea water and the smell had made his stomach heave. The slaves were fed more than the legionaries, it was said, but watching the rise and fall of the beams in the water, he could see why it was needed.

On the great deck, the blistering heat of the African coast was cut by a stiff breeze as Accipiter fought through a westerly wind. At least from that vantage point, Julius could feel Accipiter was a ship designed for battle, if not speed. The open deck was clear of any obstruction, a wide expanse of wood that had been whitened by the beating sun over decades. Only the far end housed a raised structure, with cabins for Gaditicus and Prax. The rest of the century slept in cramped quarters below, their equipment stored in the armoury where it could be quickly snatched up. Regular drills meant they could go from sleep to battle-readiness in less than one turn of the sand-glass. It was a well-disciplined crew, Julius mused to himself. If they could ever catch another ship, they would be deadly.

‘Officer on deck!’ Suetonius barked suddenly by his ear and Julius came to attention with a start. Gaditicus had chosen a much older man as his optio and Julius guessed Prax couldn’t have more than a year or two before retirement. He had the beginnings of a soft belly that had to be belted tightly each morning, but he was a decent enough officer and had noted the tension between Suetonius and Julius in the first few weeks on board. It was Prax who had arranged that they stand dawn watch together, for some reason he chose not to share with them.

He nodded to the two of them amiably as he walked the long deck, making his morning inspection. He checked every rope that ran to the flapping square sail above them and went down on one knee to make sure the deck catapults were solidly bound and unmoving. Only after the careful inspection was finished did he approach the young officers, returning their salutes without ceremony. He scanned the horizon and smiled to himself, rubbing his freshly shaved chin in satisfaction.

‘Four … no, five sails,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The trade of nations. Not much of a wind to stir those who rely on it alone, though.’

Over the months, Julius had come to realise that the genial outlook hid a mind that knew everything that went on in Accipiter, above and below decks, and his advice was usually valuable after you had waited through the casual openings. Suetonius thought he was a fool, but appeared to be listening with avid interest, a manner he adopted for all the senior officers.

Prax continued, nodding to himself, ‘We’ll need the oars to get to Thapsus, but it’s a clear run up the coast then. After dropping off the pay-chests, we should make Sicily in a few weeks if we don’t have to chase the raiders off our waters in the meantime. A beautiful place, Sicily.’

Julius nodded, comfortable with Prax in a way that would have been impossible with the captain, despite the moment of familiarity after Mytilene. Prax had not been present at the storming of the fort, but he seemed not to have minded. Julius supposed he was happy enough with the light duties on Accipiter as he waited to retire and be dropped off at a legion near Rome to collect his outstanding pay. That was one benefit of hunting pirates with Gaditicus. The seventy-five denarii the legionaries were paid each month mounted up without much opportunity to spend it. Even after expenses for equipment and the tithe to the widows and burials fund, there would be a tidy sum available for most men when their time was up. If they hadn’t gambled it all away by then, of course.

‘Sir, why do we use ships that can’t catch the enemy? We could clear out the Mare Internum in less than a year if we forced them to close with us.’

Prax smiled, seemingly delighted by the question.

‘Close with us? Oh, it happens, but they’re better seamen than we are, you know. There’s every chance they’ll ram and sink us before we can send our men over. Of course, if we can get the legionaries on their decks, the fight is won.’

He blew air out slowly through puffed cheeks as he tried to explain. ‘It’s more than just lighter, faster ships we need – though Rome won’t be sending funds to lay keels for them in my lifetime – it’s a professional crew to man the oars. Those three vertical banks they use so precisely, can you imagine what our muscular slaves would do with them? They’d be a splintered mess the first time we tried to hit our best speed. With our way, we don’t need to train experts, and from the point of view of the Senate we don’t need to pay salaries to them either. One sum to buy the slaves and the ship practically runs herself thereafter. And we do sink a few of them, though there always seem to be more.’

‘It just seems … frustrating at times,’ Julius replied. He wanted to say it was madness for the most powerful nation in the world to be outsailed by half the ships on the oceans, but Prax kept a reserve that prevented the comment, despite his friendliness. There was a line not to be crossed by a junior, though it was less obvious than with some.

‘We are of the land, gentlemen, though some like myself come to love the sea in the end. The Senate see our ships as transport to take our soldiers to fight on other lands, as we did at Mytilene. They may come to realise that it is as important to rule the waves, but as I said, not in my lifetime. In the meantime, Accipiter is a little heavy and slow, but so am I and she’s twice my age.’

Suetonius laughed dutifully, making Julius wince, but Prax seemed not to notice. Julius felt a breath of memory at Prax’s words. He remembered Tubruk had said something similar once, making him hold the dark earth of the estate in his hands and think of the generations that had fed it with their blood. It seemed a lifetime of experience away. His father had been alive then and Marius had still been a consul with a bright future. He wondered if someone was tending their graves. For a moment, the dark currents of worry that were always washing against his thoughts came to the surface. He reassured himself, as he always did, that Tubruk would look after Cornelia and his mother. He trusted no one else half as much as that man.

Prax stiffened slightly as his gaze swept the coast. His amiable expression disappeared, replaced by hardness.

‘Get below and sound the call-out, Suetonius. I want every man on deck ready for action in five minutes.’

Wide-eyed, Suetonius saluted smartly and strode to the steep steps, climbing nimbly down. Julius looked where Prax pointed and he narrowed his eyes. On the coast, a pall of black smoke was rising into the morning air, almost unmoved by wind.

‘Pirates, sir?’ he asked quickly, guessing the answer.

Prax nodded. ‘Looks like they’ve raided a village. We may be able to catch them as they come away from shore. You could get your chance to “close” with them, Caesar.’

Accipiter stripped for action. Every loose piece of equipment was stowed away securely, the catapults were winched down and stones and oil prepared for firing. The legionaries gathered quickly and a picked team assembled the corvus, hammering iron spikes between the sections until the great boarding ramp was ready, standing high above the deck. When the holding ropes were released, it would fall outwards onto the timbers of an enemy ship, embedding its holding spike immovably. Over it would come the best fighters on Accipiter, smashing into the pirates as fast as possible to make a space where the rest could jump on board. It was a perilous business, but after every action the places for those first over were hotly contested and changed hands in gambling games as a high stake in dreary months.

Below, the slave-master called for double time and the oars moved in a more urgent rhythm. With the wind coming off the coast, the sail was dropped and reefed neatly. Swords were checked for cracks and nicks. Armour was tied tightly and a growing excitement could be felt on board, held down by the long-accustomed discipline.

The burning village was on the edge of a natural inlet and they sighted the pirate ship as it cleared the rocky promontories and reached the open sea. Gaditicus ordered full attack speed to cut down the enemy’s room to manoeuvre as much as possible. Caught as they were against the coast, there was little the pirate ship could do to avoid Accipiter as she surged forward and a cheer went up from the Romans, the boredom of slow travel from port to port disappearing in the freshening breeze.

Julius watched the enemy ship closely, thinking of the differences Prax had explained. He could see the triple columns of oars cut the choppy sea in perfect unison despite their differing lengths. She was taller and narrower than Accipiter and carried a long bronze spike off the prow that Julius knew could punch through even the heavy cedar planking of the Roman ships. Prax was right, the outcome was never certain, but there was no escape for this one. They would close and drop the corvus solidly, putting the finest fighting men in the world onto the enemy deck. He regretted that he hadn’t managed to secure a place for himself, but they had all been allocated since before the landing at Mytilene.

Lost in thought and anticipation as he was, he did not at first hear the sudden changes in the lookout calls. When he looked up, he took a step back from the rail without realising it. There was another ship coming out of the inlet as they passed it in pursuit of the first. It was coming straight at them and Julius could see the ram emerge from the waves as it crashed through them at full speed, with sail taut and straining to aid the oarsmen. The bronze spike was at the waterline and the deck was filled with armed men, more than the swift pirates usually carried. He saw in a second that the smoke had been a ruse. It was a trap and they had sprung it neatly.

Gaditicus didn’t hesitate, taking in the threat and issuing orders to his officers without missing a beat.

‘Increase the stroke to the third mark! They’ll go right by us,’ he barked and the drummer below beat out his second fastest rhythm. The ramming speed above it could only be used in a brief burst before the slaves began to collapse, but even the slightly slower attack pace was a brutal strain. Hearts had torn before in battles and when that happened, the body could foul the other rowers and put an entire oar out of sequence.

The first ship was quickly growing closer and Julius realised they had reversed oars and were moving into the attack. It had been a well-planned ruse to draw the Roman ship close to the shore. No doubt the chests of silver in the hold were the prize, but they would not be won easily.

‘Fire catapults at the first ship on my order … Now!’ Gaditicus shouted, then followed the path of the rocks as they soared overhead.

The lookout at the prow called, ‘Two points down!’ to the two teams and the heavy weapons were moved quickly. Sturdy pegs under them were hammered through their holes and others placed to hold the new angle. All this as the winches were wound back once more, with legionaries sweating as they heaved against the tension of a rope of horsehair twice as thick as a man’s thigh.

The pirate vessel loomed as the catapults released again. This time, the porous stones were drenched in oil and burned as they curved towards the enemy trireme, leaving smoke trails in the air behind. They struck the enemy deck with cracks that could be heard on Accipiter, and the legionaries working the catapults cheered as they wound them back again.

The second trireme rushed towards them and Julius was sure the ram would spear Accipiter in the last few feet of her stern, leaving them unable to move or even counterattack by boarding. They would be picked off by arrow fire, pinned and helpless. As that thought struck him, he called to his men to bring up the shields to pass out. In boarding, they were more of a hindrance than a help, but with Accipiter caught between two ships that were moving into arrow range, they would be needed desperately.

A few seconds later, arrows began to spit into the air from both of the enemy triremes. There was no order or aiming to them, just the steady firing high into the air with the hope of pinning a legionary under one of the long black shafts.

The ramming ship alone would have slid astern in clear seas, but obstructed from the front by the first trireme, Accipiter had to dodge, with all the oars on one side ordered to reverse. The strokes were clumsy, but it was faster than simply having them raised clear while the other side brought Accipiter round. It slowed them down, but Gaditicus had seen the need to head for the outside line, or he would be caught between the two ships as the second pulled alongside.

Accipiter crunched past the prow of the first trireme, shuddering as the speed fell off. Gaditicus had the slave-master ready for the move and below decks the oars were pulled in quickly. The professionals of the trireme were not fast enough. Accipiter snapped the beams in groups of three as she passed, each one crushing a man into bloody pulp, deep in the heart of the enemy vessel.

Before the Roman ship had travelled more than half the length of the trireme’s oars, the bronze ram of the second smashed into Accipiter with the cracking roar of broken timbers. The whole ship groaned at the impact, like a living animal. The slaves below began to scream in a horrific chorus of terror. They were all chained to their benches and if Accipiter went down, so did they.

Arrow fire cut into Accipiter’s deck, but there, if nowhere else, was the evidence of lack of army discipline. Julius thanked his luck that they hadn’t the training to fire volleys as he ducked under a shaft that whined nastily over his head. The shields protected the men from most of the shots and then the heavy corvus was leaning out and over, seeming to hang in the air for a moment when the ropes were cut, then slamming down into the enemy deck, its spike holding it as solid as the retribution to come.

The first of the legionaries ran over the causeway, crashing into those who waited, yelling defiance at them. The usual advantage of numbers was gone against either of the two attacking ships. Both seemed packed with fighters, their armour and weapons a mixture of old and new from the whole of the coastal ports.

Julius found Cabera at his side, his usual smile missing. The old man had taken up a dagger and shield, but otherwise wore his habitual robe, which Gaditicus had allowed as long as it was checked for lice twice a month.

‘Better to stay with you than down in the dark, I think,’ Cabera muttered as he took in the unfolding chaos. Both ducked suddenly under their stiff wooden shields as arrows hummed past them. One shaft struck near Julius’ hand, rocking him back. He whistled softly as he saw the barbed head had come through.

Heavy bronze hooks clattered onto the planking, trailing writhing coils. Men began to leap onto Accipiter’s decks and the noise of battle sounded all around, clashing swords and shouts of triumph and despair.

Julius saw Suetonius spread his men out in a line to meet the attackers. Quickly, he ordered his twenty in to support, though he suspected they would have run in without him if he had been slow. There could be no surrender with Accipiter holed and every man there knew it. Their attacks were ferocious in their intensity and the first over the corvus cleared the decks before them, ignoring wounds.

Cabera stayed with him as he moved in to engage and Julius felt comfort from his presence, reminding him of other battles they had survived together. Perhaps the old healer was a good-luck charm, he thought, and then he was into the arc of enemy blades and cutting them down without conscious will, his body reacting in the rhythms Renius had taught him year after hard year.

Julius ducked under a hatchet and shoved the wielder when he was off balance, sending him sprawling by the feet of Pelitas, who stamped hard without thinking in the legionary’s classic battlefield reaction. If it’s upright, cut it down. If it’s down, stamp it flat.

The corvus was packed with soldiers as they jostled and shoved to get over. They were an easy target for archers and Julius could see a group of them against the far rail of the trireme taking shots when they could see through their own men. It was devastatingly effective fire at that short range and more than a dozen legionaries went down before those on board cut the archers apart like so much wheat, in a bloody frenzy. Julius nodded with pleasure as he saw it. He felt the same hatred for archers that all legionaries felt who had known the terror and frustration of their long-range attacks.

The second trireme had backed oars and pulled almost free of Accipiter, the damage done. Gaditicus watched them manoeuvre as he held back units to repel their assault when it came. The situation was changing too rapidly to predict, though he did know the pirates couldn’t stand off. Accipiter could be sinking, but she would not begin to settle for minutes more and the legionaries could yet fight their way clear onto the other trireme, taking command there. It wasn’t impossible that they could salvage some sort of victory if they had an hour and were left alone, which is why he knew there would be another attack as soon as the second ship could clear its ram and bring its fighters close enough to board. He swore to himself as the last cracking timber sounded and the sharp prow pulled away from Accipiter, with the new orders to their oarsmen shouted quickly in what sounded like a mixture of Greek and dog Latin.

Gaditicus sent his remaining reserve of soldiers to the other side of Accipiter, guessing they would board on the opposite side to split the defenders. It was a sensible move and served its purpose, though if the first trireme could be taken quickly enough, then all his men could be brought to repel the new attack and the day might not be lost. Gaditicus clenched his fist over the hilt of his gladius in what he knew was useless indignation. Should he have expected them to meet him fairly and be cut to pieces by his soldiers? They were thieves and beggars, after the silver in his holds, and it felt as if small dogs were bringing down the Roman wolf. His hand shook with emotion as he saw the bank of oars pulled in on one side and the second trireme sculling towards his beloved ship. He could still hear the screaming of the slaves below in a constant chorus of terror that wore at his nerves.

Julius took a blow on his armour and grunted as he reversed his sword through a man’s face. Before he could take in his position, a bearded giant stepped towards him. Julius felt a touch of fear as he saw the enormous height and shoulders of the warrior carrying a weighty metalworker’s hammer that was stained red with blood and hair. The man’s teeth were bared and he bellowed as he brought the weapon over his shoulder in a downward blow. Julius backed away, bringing his arm up to parry in reflex. He felt the bones of his wrist snap in the impact and cried out in pain.

Cabera darted quickly between them and sank his dagger into the man’s neck, but the warrior only roared and brought the hammer back round to sweep the frail healer away. Julius reached for his own dagger with his left hand, trying to ignore the agony of grating bones. He felt dizzy and suddenly detached, but the enormous man was still dangerous, though blood fountained from the neck wound.

The bull-like figure staggered erect and swung again in blind pain. The hammer connected solidly with Julius’ head with a dull crack and he collapsed. Blood pooled slowly from his nose and ears as the fight went on around him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brutus took a deep breath of clean mountain air as he looked back at their pursuers. With Greece spread out below them and the slopes covered with tiny purple blooms lifting a rich scent into the wind, it seemed wrong to be dwelling on death and revenge. Yet, as Renius had predicted, the group of riders contained at least one good tracker, and over the last five days they had remained doggedly on their trail despite a number of attempts to lose them.

Renius sat on a mossy rock nearby with his shoulder stump exposed, rubbing grease into the scarred flesh as he did every morning. Brutus felt guilty each time he saw it, remembering the fight in the training yard of Julius’ estate. He thought he could even remember the blow that had severed the nerves of the arm, but there was no calling it back after all this time. Though the flesh had formed a pink pad of callus, raw patches would appear that needed to be salved. The only real relief came when Renius was forced to leave the leather cap off and let the air get to the skin, but he hated the curious looks it brought and shoved the cap back on whenever he could.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Brutus said. He didn’t need to explain, the five men following had been in both their thoughts ever since first sighting them.

The sun-hammered beauty of the mountains concealed a poor soil that attracted few farmers. The only signs of life were the small figures of the hunters making their slow way up. Brutus knew they could not stay ahead of horses for much longer and as soon as they reached the plains below the Romans would be run down and killed. Both of them were approaching exhaustion and the last of the dry food had gone that morning.

Brutus eyed the vegetation that clung to life on the craggy slopes, wondering if any of it was edible. He’d heard of soldiers eating the singing crickets that haunted each tuft and clump of grass, but it wouldn’t be worth it to catch one at a time. They couldn’t go another day without food and their waterskins were less than half full. Gold coins still filled his belt pouch, but the nearest Roman city was more than a hundred miles away across the plains of Thessaly and they’d never make it. The future looked bleak unless Renius could come up with an idea, but the old gladiator was silent, apparently content to while away an hour rubbing his stump. As Brutus watched, Renius pulled one of the dark flowers and squeezed its juice onto the hairy pad that hung from his shoulder. The old gladiator was always testing herbs for their soothing effect, but, as usual, he sniffed with disappointment and let the broken petals fall out of his good hand.

Renius’ calm expression suddenly infuriated Brutus. With a pair of horses under them, the pursuers from the village would never have come close. It was not in Renius’ nature to regret past decisions, but every pace gained on the footsore Romans made Brutus grunt in irritation.

‘How can you just sit there while they climb up to us? The immortal Renius, victor of hundreds of bouts to the death, cut to pieces by a few ragged Greeks on a hilltop.’

Renius looked at him, unmoved, then shrugged. ‘The slope will cut down their advantage. Horses aren’t much good up here.’

‘So we’re making a stand then?’ Brutus demanded, feeling vast relief that Renius had some sort of plan.

‘They won’t be here for hours yet. If I were you, I’d sit down in the shade and rest. You’ll find sharpening my sword will calm your nerves.’

Brutus scowled at him, but still took up the older man’s gladius and began to work a stone along the edges in long strokes.

‘There are five of them, remember,’ he said after a while.

Renius ignored him, fitting the leather cup over his stump with a grunt. He held one end of the tying thong in his teeth and knotted it with the ease of long practice while Brutus looked on.

‘Eighty-nine,’ Renius said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I killed eighty-nine men in the bouts in Rome. Not hundreds.’

He rose smoothly to his feet and there was nothing of an old man in his movement. It had taken a long time to retrain his body to balance without the weight of his left arm, but he had beaten that loss as he had beaten everything else that stood against him in his life. Brutus remembered the moment Cabera had pressed his hands into the grey flesh of Renius’ chest and seen the colour change as the body stiffened in a sudden rush of returning life. Cabera had sat back on his heels in silent awe as they watched the old man’s hair darken, as if even death couldn’t keep its grip on him. The gods had saved the old gladiator, perhaps so he in turn could save another young Roman on a hilltop in Greece. Brutus felt his own confidence build, forgetting the hunger and exhaustion that racked him.

‘There are only five today,’ Brutus said. ‘And I am the best of my generation, you know. There is not a man alive who can beat me with a sword.’

Renius grunted at this. ‘I was the best of my generation, lad, and from what I can see, the standard has slipped a bit since then. Still, we may yet surprise them.’

Cornelia groaned in pain as the midwife rubbed golden olive oil into her thighs, helping the muscles to uncramp. Clodia handed her a warm drink of milk and honey wine and she emptied the cup almost without tasting it, holding it out for more even as the next contraction built in her. She shuddered and cried out.

The midwife continued to lather oil over her in wide, slow strokes, holding a cloth of the softest wool in her hands, which she dipped into a bowl of the liquid.

‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘You are doing very well. The honey and wine should help with the pain, but it will soon be time to move you over to the chair for the birth. Clodia, fetch more cloths and the sponge in case there’s bleeding. There shouldn’t be much. You are very strong and your hips are a good size for this work.’

Cornelia could only moan in response, breathing in short gasps as the contraction came on fully. She clenched her teeth and gripped the sides of the hard bed, pushing down with her hips. The midwife shook her head slightly.

‘Don’t start pushing yet, dear. The baby is just thinking about coming out. It’s dropped down into position and needs to rest. I’ll tell you when to start pressing her out.’

‘Her?’ Cornelia gasped between heavy breaths.

The midwife nodded. ‘Boys are always easier births. It’s girls who take as long as this.’ She thanked Clodia as the sponge and cloths were placed next to the wooden birthing chair, ready for the last stages of the labour.

Clodia reached out and took Cornelia’s hand, rubbing it tenderly. A door to the room opened quietly and Aurelia entered, moving quickly to the bed and taking the other hand in her own tight grip. Clodia watched her covertly. Tubruk had told her all about the woman’s problems so that she would be able to deal with any difficulty, but Cornelia’s labour seemed to focus her attention and it was right that she should be present at the birth of her grandchild. With Tubruk gone from the house to complete the business they had discussed, Clodia knew it would fall on her to remove Aurelia if she began her sickness before the birth was over. None of her own servants would dare, but it was not a task Clodia relished and she sent a quick prayer to the household gods that it would not be necessary.

‘We think it will be a daughter,’ Clodia told her as Julius’ mother took up station on the other side.

Aurelia did not reply. Clodia wondered if her stiffness was because she was the lady of the house and Clodia only a slave, but dismissed the idea. The rules were relaxed during a labour and Tubruk had said she had trouble with the small things that people took for granted.

Cornelia cried out and the midwife nodded sharply.

‘It’s time,’ she said, turning to Aurelia. ‘Are you up to helping us, dear?’

When there was no answer, the midwife asked again, much louder. Aurelia seemed to come out of a daze.

‘I’d like to help,’ she said quietly and the midwife paused, weighing her up. Then she shrugged.

‘All right, but it could be hours. If you’re not up to it, send in a strong girl to help in your stead. Understand?’

Aurelia nodded, her attention again on Cornelia as she got into position to help take her weight over to the chair.

As Clodia too began to lift, she marvelled at the confidence the midwife showed. Of course, she was a freedwoman, so the days of her slavery were long behind, but there was not an ounce of deference in her manner. Clodia rather liked her and resolved to be as strong as was needed herself.

The chair was built solidly and had arrived on a cart with the midwife a few days before. Together, the women walked Cornelia to where it stood, close to the bed. She gripped the arms tightly, letting her whole weight fall on the narrow curve of the seat. The midwife knelt in front of Cornelia, pushing her legs gently apart over the deep crescent cut into the old wood.

‘Press yourself against the back of the chair,’ she advised, then turned to Clodia. ‘Don’t let it tip backwards. I’ll have another job for you when the baby is showing her head, but for now, that’s your task, understood?’

Clodia took up position with the weight of her hip braced against the chair back.

‘Aurelia? I want you to push down on the abdomen when I say, not before. Is that clear?’

Aurelia placed her hands on the swollen belly and waited patiently, her eyes clear.

‘It’s starting again,’ Cornelia said, wincing.

‘That’s as it should be, my girl. The baby wants to come out. Let it build and I’ll tell you when to push.’ Her hands rubbed more oil into Cornelia and she smiled.

‘Shouldn’t be long now. Ready? Now, girl, push! Aurelia, press down gently.’

Together, they pressed and Cornelia wailed in pain. Again and again they tensed and released until the contraction had gone and Cornelia was drenched in perspiration, her hair wet and dark.

‘Getting the head out is the worst of it,’ the midwife said. ‘You’re doing well, dear. A lot of women scream all the way through. Clodia, I want you to press a piece of cloth against her bottom during the spasms. She won’t thank us if there are grapes hanging there at the end.’

Clodia did as she was told, reaching down between the chair-back and Cornelia and holding the pad steady.

‘Not long now, Cornelia,’ she said, comfortingly.

Cornelia managed a weak smile. Then the contractions built again, a tightening of every muscle that was frightening in its power. She had never known anything like it and almost felt a spectator in her own body as it moved to rhythms of its own, with a strength she didn’t know she had. She felt the pressure build and build, then suddenly disappear, leaving her exhausted.

‘No more,’ she whispered.

‘I have the head, dear. The rest is easier,’ the midwife replied, her voice calm and cheerful. Aurelia rubbed her hands over the swelling, leaning over the chair to see between Cornelia’s shaking legs.

The midwife held the baby’s head in her hands, which were wrapped in coarse cloth to prevent slipping. The eyes were closed and the head appeared misshapen, distended, but the midwife seemed not to worry and urged them on as the next contraction hit and the rest of the baby slid into her hands. Cornelia sagged back into the chair, her legs feeling like water. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and she could only nod her thanks as Aurelia wiped her brow with a cool cloth.

‘We have a girl!’ the midwife said as she took a small sharp knife to the cord. ‘Well done, ladies. Clodia, fetch me a hot coal to make a seal.’

‘Aren’t you going to tie it?’ Clodia asked as she stood.

The midwife shook her head, using her hands to clear the baby’s skin of blood and membranes. ‘Burning’s cleaner. Hurry up, my knees are aching.’

Another heaving contraction brought a slithering mess of dark flesh out of Cornelia with a final cry of exhaustion. The midwife motioned to Aurelia to clear it away. Julius’ mother attended to the afterbirth without a thought, now used to the woman’s authority. She felt a glow of unaccustomed happiness as the new reality sank in. She had a granddaughter. Aurelia glanced at her hands covertly, relieved to see the shaking was absent.

A cry cut the air and suddenly the women were smiling. The midwife checked the limbs, her movements quick and practised.

‘She will be fine. A little blue, but turning pink already. She will have fair hair like her mother unless it darkens. A beautiful child. Have you the swaddling cloths?’

Aurelia handed them to her as Clodia returned, holding a tiny hot coal in iron tongs. The midwife pressed it to the tiny stump of cord with a sizzle and the baby screamed with renewed vigour as she set about wrapping the child tightly, leaving only her head free.

‘Have you thought of a name for her?’ she asked Cornelia.

‘If it was a boy, I was going to name him after his father, Julius. I always thought it … she would be a boy.’

The midwife stood with the baby in her arms, taking in Cornelia’s pale skin and exhaustion.

‘There’s plenty of time to think of names. Help Cornelia onto the bed to rest, ladies, while I gather my things.’

The sound of a fist striking the estate gates could be heard as a low booming in the birthing room. Aurelia lifted her head and stood.

‘Tubruk usually opens the gate for visitors,’ she said, ‘but he has deserted us.’

‘Only for a few weeks, mistress,’ Clodia replied quickly, feeling guilty. ‘He said the business in the city would not take longer than that.’

Aurelia seemed not to hear the reply as she left the room.

Julius’ mother walked slowly and carefully out into the front yard, wincing at the bright sunlight after so long indoors. Two of her servants waited patiently by the gate, but knew better than to open it without her agreement, no matter who was standing there. It was a rule Tubruk had enforced ever since the riots years before. He seemed to care for the safety of the house, yet had left her alone as he had promised he would never do. She composed her expression, noticing a small drop of blood on her sleeve as she did so. Her right hand shook slightly and she gripped it in the other, willing the fit down.

‘Open the gate!’ came a man’s voice from the other side, his fist banging on the wood yet again.

Aurelia signalled to the servants and they removed the bracing beam, pulling the gate open for the visitor. Aurelia saw they were both armed, another rule of Tubruk’s.

Three mounted soldiers entered, resplendent in gleaming armour and helmet-plumes. They were dressed as if for a parade and the sight of them sent a chill through Aurelia.

Why wasn’t Tubruk here? He would be able to handle this so much better than she could.

One of the men dismounted, his movements easy and assured. Holding the reins bunched in one hand, he handed Aurelia a roll of vellum sealed with thick wax. She took it and waited, watching him. The soldier shuffled his feet as he realised Aurelia was not going to speak.

‘Orders, mistress. From our master the Dictator of Rome.’

Still, Aurelia was silent, gripping the hand that held the scroll with the other, her knuckles showing white.

‘Your daughter by marriage is here and Sulla orders her presence before him in the city immediately,’ the man continued, realising that unless he spoke, she might never open the scroll that confirmed the orders with Sulla’s personal seal.

Aurelia found her voice as the shaking steadied in her for a moment.

‘She has just given birth. She cannot be moved. Return in three days and I will have her ready to travel.’

The soldier’s face hardened slightly, his patience unravelling. Who did this woman think she was?

‘Mistress, she will be made ready now. Sulla has ordered her to the city and she will be on the road immediately, willing or not. I will wait here, but I expect to see her in a few minutes at most. Do not make us come in to fetch her.’

Aurelia paled slightly.

‘Wh … what about the child?’

The soldier blinked. There was no child mentioned in his orders, but careers were not made by disappointing the Dictator of Rome.

‘The child too. Make them both ready.’ His expression softened a little. It would hurt nothing to be kind and the woman looked very fragile suddenly. ‘If you have a cart and horses that can be harnessed quickly, they can travel in that.’

Aurelia turned without another word and disappeared into the buildings. The soldier looked up at his two companions, his eyebrows raised.

‘I told you this would be easy. I wonder what he wants with the woman.’

‘Depends who the father is, I should think,’ one replied, winking lewdly.

Tubruk sat stiffly in the chair, nodding as he took the wine offered to him. The man he faced was his own age and they had been friends for the best part of thirty years.

‘I still have difficulty recognising I am not the young man I was,’ Fercus said, smiling ruefully. ‘I used to have mirrors all round my house, but every time I passed one, I would be surprised at the old man peering out at me. Still, the body fails, but the mind remains relatively sharp.’

‘I should hope so; you are not old,’ Tubruk replied, trying to relax and enjoy his friend’s company as he had so many times over the years.

‘You think not? Many of those we knew have gone on to cause mischief in the silent lands by now. Disease took Rapas and he was the strongest man I ever met. At the end, they say his son put him over his shoulder to carry him out into the sun. Can you imagine anyone putting that great ox over their shoulder? Even a son of his! It is a terrible thing to grow old.’

‘You have Ilita and your daughters. She hasn’t left you yet?’ Tubruk murmured.

Fercus snorted into his wine. ‘Not yet, though she still threatens to every year. In truth, you need a good, fat woman yourself. They hold off the old age wonderfully, you know. And keep your feet warm at night, as well.’

‘I am too set in my ways for new love,’ Tubruk replied. ‘Where would I find a woman willing to put up with me? No, I’ve found a family of sorts at the estate. I can’t imagine another.’

Fercus nodded, his eyes missing nothing of the tension that filled the old gladiator’s frame. He was prepared to wait until Tubruk felt ready to broach the reason for his sudden visit. He knew the man well enough not to hurry him, just as he knew that he would help in any way he could. It wasn’t simply a matter of the debts he owed, though they were many; it was the fact that Tubruk was a man he respected and liked. There was no malice in him and he was strong in ways that Fercus had rarely seen.

Mentally, he tallied up his holdings and available gold. If it was a matter of money that was needed, there had been better times, but he had reserves and debts of his own that could be called in.

‘How’s business?’ Tubruk asked, unconsciously matching Fercus’ own thoughts.

Fercus shrugged, but stopped the light reply before it left his lips.

‘I have funds,’ he said. ‘There is always a need for slaves in Rome, as you know.’

Tubruk looked steadily at the man who had once sold him to be trained for combat in front of thousands. Even then, as a young quarry slave who knew nothing of the world or the training to come, he had seen that Fercus was never cruel to those who passed through his sales. He remembered despairing on the night before he was sent to the training pens, when his mind turned to ways of ending his life. Fercus had stopped by him as he walked his rounds and told him that if he had heart and strength, he could buy himself free and still have most of his life ahead of him.

‘I will come back on that day and kill you,’ Tubruk had said to the man.

Fercus had held his gaze for a long time before replying. ‘I hope not,’ he had said. ‘I hope you will ask me to share a cup of wine.’

The younger Tubruk had been unable to reply, but later the words were a comfort to him, just to know that one day there could be the freedom to sit and drink in the sun, his own master. On the day he was free, he had walked through the city to Fercus’ home and placed an amphora on the table. Fercus had set up two cups next to it and their friendship had begun without bitterness.

If there was anyone in the world outside the estate that he could trust, then Fercus was the man, but still he was silent as he went over the plans he had made since Clodia had come to see him. Surely there was another way? The course he followed sickened him, but he knew if he was prepared to die to protect Cornelia, then he could surely do this.

Fercus stood and gripped Tubruk’s arm.

‘You are troubled, my old friend. Whatever it is, ask me.’ His eyes were steady as Tubruk looked up at him and held the gaze, the past open between them.

‘Can I trust you with my life?’ Tubruk asked.

Fercus gripped his arm all the tighter in response, then settled back into his seat.

‘You don’t have to ask. My daughter was dying before you found a midwife to save her. I would have died myself at the hands of those thieves if you had not fought them off. I owe such a debt to you that I thought I would never have the chance to repay it. Ask me.’

Tubruk took a deep breath.

‘I want you to sell me back into slavery – to the house of Sulla,’ he said quietly.

Julius barely felt Cabera’s hands as they lifted his eyelids. The world seemed alternately dark and bright to him and his head was filled with a red agony. He heard Cabera’s voice from far away and tried to curse him for disturbing the darkness.

‘His eyes are wrong,’ someone said. Gaditicus? The name meant nothing, though he knew the voice. Was his father there? Distant memories of lying in darkness on the estate came to him and merged with his thoughts. Was he still in bed after Renius had cut him in training? Were his friends out on the walls turning back the slave rebellion without him? He struggled slightly and felt hands pressing him down. He tried to speak, but his voice would not obey, though a mushy sound came out, like the moan of a dying bullock.

‘That is not a good sign,’ Cabera’s voice came. ‘The pupils are different sizes and he is not seeing me. His left eye has filled with blood, though that will pass in a few weeks. See how red it is. Can you hear me, Julius? Gaius?’

Julius could not answer even to his childhood name. A weight of blackness pressed them all away from him.

Cabera stood up and sighed.

‘The helmet saved his life, at least, but the blood from his ears is not good. He may recover, or he may remain like this. I have seen it before with head wounds. The spirit can be crushed.’ The grief was clear in his voice and Gaditicus was reminded that the healer had come aboard with Julius and had a history that went back further than the time on Accipiter.

‘Do what you can for him. There’s a good chance we’ll all see Rome again if they get the money they want. At least for a while, we’re worth more alive than dead.’

Gaditicus fought to keep the despair from his voice. A captain who had lost his ship was not likely to find another. Trussed helpless on the deck of the second trireme, he had watched his beloved Accipiter sink beneath the sea in a swirl of bubbles and driftwood. The slaves at the oars had not been released and their screams had been desperate and hoarse until the waters took the ship. His career too had sunk with her, he knew.

The struggle had been brutal, but most of his men had finally been cut down, overwhelmed and attacked on two sides. Again and again, Gaditicus played over the short battle in his mind, looking for ways he could have won. Always he finished by shrugging, telling himself to forget the loss, but the humiliation stayed with him.

He had thought of taking his life to deny them his ransom and the shame it would cause his family. If they could even raise the money.

It would have been easier on them if he had gone down with Accipiter like so many of his men. Instead, he was left to sit in his own filth with the twelve surviving officers and Cabera who had escaped by offering to use his skills as a healer for the pirates. There were always those with wounds that would not close and infections that clung to their genitals after whores in lonely ports. The old man had been busy since the battle and was only allowed to see them once a day to check their own wounds and dressings.

Gaditicus shifted slightly, scratching at the lice and fleas that had infested him since the first night in the cramped and filthy cell. Somewhere above, the men that held them captive swaggered about on the trireme’s decks, rich with prisoners for ransom and the chests of silver stolen from Accipiter’s hold. It had been a profitable risk for them and he grimaced as he recalled their arrogance and triumph.

One of the men had spat in his face after his hands and feet were tied. Gaditicus flushed with anger as he thought of it. The man had been blind in one eye, his face a mass of old scars and stubbly bristle. The white eye had seemed to peer at the Roman captain and the man’s cackle almost made him show his anger and humiliate himself further by struggling. Instead, he had stared impassively, only grunting when the little man kicked him in the stomach and walked away.

‘We should try to escape,’ Suetonius whispered, leaning in close enough for Gaditicus to smell his breath.

‘Caesar can’t be moved at the moment, so put it out of your mind. It will take a few months for the ransom messages to reach the city and a few more for the money to come back to us, if it comes at all. We will have more than enough time to plan.’

Prax too had been spared by the pirates. Without his armour, he seemed much more ordinary. Even his belt had been taken in case the heavy buckle could be used as a weapon and he constantly hitched up his bracae. Of all of them, he had taken the change in fortunes with the least obvious anger, his natural patience helping to keep them all steady.

‘The lad’s right though, Captain. There’s a good chance they’ll just drop us all overboard when they get the silver from Rome. Or the Senate could stop our families making the payment, preferring to forget us.’

Gaditicus bristled. ‘You forget yourself, Prax. The Senate are Romans as well, for all your poor opinions of them. They won’t let us be forgotten.’

Prax shrugged. ‘Still, we should make plans. If this trireme meets another Roman galley, we’ll be sent over the side if they look like boarding us. A bit of chain around our feet would do the job nicely.’

Gaditicus met the eyes of his optio for a few moments. ‘All right. We’ll work out a few things, but if the chance comes, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Caesar has a broken arm as well as the head injury. It will be weeks before he can stand, even.’

‘If he survives,’ Suetonius put in.

Cabera looked at the young officer, his gaze sharp.

‘He is strong, this one, and he has an expert healer tending him.’

Suetonius looked away from the old man’s intense stare, suddenly embarrassed.

Gaditicus broke the silence. ‘Well, we have the time to consider all outcomes, gentlemen. We have plenty of that.’

CHAPTER SIX

Casaverius allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as he surveyed the long kitchen hall. Everywhere, the bustle of the evening was coming to an end, with the last of the orders served hours before.

‘Perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured to himself as he had done every evening for the ten years he had been employed by Cornelius Sulla. Good years, though his once trim figure had swollen alarmingly in the time. Casaverius leaned back against the smooth plaster wall and continued grinding with his pestle and mortar, preparing a mustard seed paste that Sulla loved. He dipped a finger into the dark mixture and added a little oil and vinegar from the row of narrow-necked pots that hung along the walls. How could a good cook resist tasting his own meals? It was part of the process. His father had been even larger and Casaverius took pride in his heaviness, knowing that only a fool would employ a thin cook.

The brick ovens had been closed to the air for long enough and should have cooled. Casaverius motioned to the slaves that they could be raked clean ready for new charcoal in the morning. The air in the kitchen was still thickly sluggish with heat and he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe his brow. With the weight, he seemed to sweat more, he admitted to himself, pressing the already damp cloth against his face.

He considered finishing the paste in one of the cool rooms where iced dishes were prepared, but hated to leave the slaves unattended. He knew they stole food for their families, and in moderation he could forgive them. Left alone, though, they might grow incautious and who knew what would disappear then? He remembered his father complaining about the same thing in the evenings and quickly whispered a prayer for the old man, wherever he was now.

There was a great peace at the end of a day that had gone well. Sulla’s house was known for fine food and when the call came for something special, he enjoyed the excitement and energy that stole over the staff, starting with the moment of anticipation as he opened his father’s sheaf of recipes, untying the leather thongs that bound the valuable parchments and running his finger down the lettering, taking pleasure from the fact that only he could read them. His father had said that every cook should be an educated man and Casaverius sighed for a moment, his thoughts turning to his own son. The lad spent mornings in the kitchens, but his studies seemed to fly from his mind whenever the day was fine. The boy was a disappointment and Casaverius had come to accept that he might never be able to run a grand kitchen on his own.

Still, there were years left before he would leave his plates and ovens for the last time, retiring to his small home in a good district of the city. Perhaps then he might find time to entertain the guests his wife wanted. Somehow, he never managed to bring his expertise into his own home, being satisfied with simple dishes of meat and vegetables. His stomach grumbled a little at the thought and he saw the slaves were removing their own roasted packages of bread and meat from the ashes of the ovens where they had been placed at the end. It was a small loss to the kitchen to be able to send them back to their quarters with a few hot mouthfuls and it made a friendly atmosphere in the kitchens, he was sure.

The new slave, Dalcius, passed him, bearing a metal tray of spice pots, ready to be placed back on their shelves. Casaverius smiled to him as he began unloading the tray.

He was a good worker and the broker at the sales had not lied when he said he knew his way round a kitchen. Casaverius considered that he might allow him to prepare a dish for the next banquet, under his watchful eye.

‘Make sure the spices go in the right places, Dalcius,’ he said.

The big man nodded, smiling. He certainly wasn’t a talker. That beard might have to be cut off, Casaverius thought. His father had never let a beard into his kitchens, saying they made the place look untidy.

He tasted his mustard paste again and smacked his lips appreciatively, noting that Dalcius finished his task quickly and neatly. From his scars, he looked more like an old fighter, but there was nothing bullish about the man. If there had been, Casaverius couldn’t have had him in the kitchens, where the endless rushing and carrying always meant a few would bump into each other. Bad tempers couldn’t survive down below the rich houses, but Dalcius had proved amiable, if silent.

‘I will need someone to help me tomorrow morning, to prepare the pastries. Would you like to do that?’ Casaverius didn’t realise he was speaking slowly, as if to a child, but Dalcius never seemed to mind and his silences invited the manner. There was no malice in the fat cook, and he was genuinely pleased when Dalcius nodded to him before going back into the stores. A cook had to have an eye for good workers, his father had always said. It was the difference between working yourself into an early grave and achieving perfection.

‘… and perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured again to himself.

At the end of the long kitchen hall, the door to the house above opened and a smartly dressed slave entered. Casaverius straightened, laying his mortar and pestle aside without thought.

‘The master sends his apologies for the late hour and wonders if he may be sent something cold before he sleeps, an ice dish,’ the young man said.

Casaverius thanked him, pleased as always with the courtesy.

‘For all his guests?’ he asked quickly, thinking.

‘No, sir, his guests have departed. Only the general remains.’

‘Wait here, then. I will have it ready in a few moments.’

The kitchens went from end-of-evening stupor to alertness in the time it took Casaverius to issue new orders. Two of the kitchen runners were sent down the steps to the ice rooms, far below the kitchens. Casa strode under a low arch and through a short corridor to where the desserts were prepared.

‘A lemon ice, I think,’ he muttered as he walked. ‘Beautiful bitter southern lemons, made sweet and cold.’

Everything was in place as he entered the cool dessert room. Like the main kitchen, the walls were hung with dozens of amphorae filled with syrups and sauces, made and refilled whenever the kitchens were quiet. There was no hint of the oven heat in there and he felt the sweat chill on his heavy body with a pleasurable shiver.

The ice blocks, wrapped in rough cloth, were brought up in minutes and crushed under his direction until the ice was a fine slurry. To this he added the bitter-sweet lemon and stirred it in, just enough to flavour without overpowering. His father had said the ice must not be yellow and Casaverius smiled as he noted the colour and fine texture, using a ladle to scoop the mixture into the glass bowls on a serving tray.

He worked quickly. Even in the cool room the ice was melting and the journey through the kitchens would have to be fast. He hoped that one day Sulla would allow another passage to be cut in the rock under his luxurious home, so that the iced desserts could be brought straight up. Still, with care and speed, the dishes would reach his table almost intact.

After only a few minutes, the two bowls were full of the white ice and Casaverius sucked his fingers, groaning in exaggerated pleasure. How good it was to taste cold in the summer! He wondered briefly how much silver coin the two bowls represented, but it was an unimaginable sum. Drivers and carts transported huge blocks of ice from the mountains, losing half in the journey. They were brought down to the dripping darkness of the ice rooms below him, there to melt slowly, but giving cool drinks and desserts for all the summer months. He reminded himself to check that the supplies were adequate. It was almost time for a new order.

Dalcius entered the room behind him, still carrying his spice tray.

‘May I watch you prepare the ices? My last master never had them.’

Casaverius motioned him in cheerfully.

‘The work is done. They must be rushed through the kitchens before they begin to melt.’ Dalcius leaned over the table and his arm knocked over the jug of sticky syrup in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’ good humour vanished on the instant.

‘Quick, you idiot, fetch cloths to clean it up. There is no time to waste.’

The big slave looked terrified and he stammered, ‘I … I’m sorry. I have another tray here, master.’

He held out the tray and Casaverius lifted the bowls, cleaning them quickly with his own sweat-soaked rag. No time to be sensitive, he thought. The ice was melting. He placed the bowls on the tray and wiped his fingers irritably.

‘Don’t just stand there, run! And if you trip over your own feet, I’ll have you whipped.’ Dalcius moved quickly out of the room, and Casaverius began to wipe up the spilled mess. Perhaps the man was too clumsy for more difficult tasks.

Outside in the corridor, it was the work of a moment for Tubruk to empty the vial of poison into the bowls, stirring it in with a finger. That done, he raced through to the kitchen and handed the tray to the waiting slave.

The eyes that had seemed so nervous looked steadily at the retreating back as the door to the house above closed behind him. Now he must escape, but there was bloody work to do first. He sighed. Casaverius was not a bad man, but one day in the future, even with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognise him.

Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back towards the cool rooms, touching the bone-handled knife under his tunic as he walked. He would make sure it looked like a murder rather than suicide. That should keep Casaverius’ family safe from revenge.

‘Did you give him the tray?’ Casa snapped as Tubruk re-entered the small cool room.

‘I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.’

The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly towards him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. He saw the blade and fear and confusion coursed through him.

‘Dalcius! Put that down!’ he said, but Tubruk shoved the dagger neatly into the fleshy chest, bursting the heart. Twice more he stabbed it home to be sure.

Casaverius fought for breath, but it would not come. His face purpled and his hands flailed, knocking the ladles and jugs off the tables with a crash.

Finally, Tubruk stood, feeling sick. In all his years as a gladiator and a legionary, he had never murdered an innocent and he felt stained by it. Casaverius had been a likeable man and Tubruk knew the gods cried out against those that hurt the good. He steadied himself, trying to drag his gaze away from the fat man’s body where it had slid onto the floor. He left quietly, his footsteps loud in the corridor that led back to the kitchen. Now he had to escape and reach Fercus before the alarm was sounded.

Sulla lolled on a couch, his thoughts drifting away from the conversation with his general, Antonidus. It had been a long day and the Senate seemed to be trying to block his nominations for new magistrates. He had been made Dictator with the mandate of restoring order to the Republic and they had been eager enough to grant his every wish for the first few months. Recently, they had taken up hours of debate with long speeches on the powers and limitations of the office and his advisers had said he should not impose on them too harshly for a while. They were small men, he thought. Small in deed and dreams. Marius would scorn them for fools, if he were still alive.

‘… objections will be raised to the lictors, my friend,’ Antonidus was saying.

Sulla snorted disdainfully.

‘Objections or not, I will continue to have twenty-four of them with me. I have many enemies and I want them to be a reminder of my power as I walk between the Capitol and the Curia.’

Antonidus shrugged.

‘In the past, there have been only twelve. Perhaps it is better to let the Senate have their way on this, to gain strength in more serious negotiation.’

‘They are a pack of toothless old men!’ Sulla snapped. ‘Has not order returned to Rome in the last year? Could they have done it? No. Where was the Senate when I was fighting for my life? What help were they to me then? No. I am their master and they should be made to recognise that simple fact. I am tired of walking carefully around their sensibilities and pretending the Republic is still young and strong.’

Antonidus said nothing, knowing that any objection he made would be met with wilder promises and threats. He had been honoured at first to be taken on as military adviser, but the post had been a hollow one, with Sulla using him only as a puppet for his own orders. Even so, part of him agreed with Sulla’s frustration. The Senate struggled to protect their dignity and old authority, while acknowledging the need for a Dictator to keep the peace in the city and Roman lands. It was farcical and Sulla was quickly tiring of the game.

A slave entered with the ices, placing them on a low table before bowing out of the room. Sulla sat up, his irritation forgotten.

‘You will have to taste these. There is nothing like them for relief from the summer heat.’ He took a silver spoon and ladled the white ice into his mouth, shutting his eyes with pleasure. The bowl was soon empty, and he considered calling for another. His whole body seemed cooler after the ice and his mind was calm. He saw Antonidus had not begun and urged him on.

‘It must be eaten quickly, before it melts. Even then, it can be a wonderfully refreshing drink.’ He watched as the general sampled a spoonful and smiled with him.

Antonidus wanted to finish their business and go home to his family, but knew he could not rise until Sulla became tired. He wondered when that might be.

‘Your new magistrates will be confirmed tomorrow at the Curia,’ he said.

Sulla lay back on his couch, his expression resuming its sulky lines.

‘They had better be. I owe those men favours. If there is another delay, the Senate will regret it, I swear before the gods. I will disband them and have the doors nailed shut!’

He winced slightly as he spoke and his hand drifted to his stomach, rubbing gently.

‘If you choose to disband the Senate, there will be civil war again, with the city in flames once more,’ Antonidus said. ‘However, I suspect you would emerge triumphant at the end. You know you have unwavering support in the legions.’

‘That is the path of kings,’ Sulla replied. ‘It draws and repels me at the same time. I loved the Republic, would still love it now if it was run by the sort of men who ruled when I was a boy. They are all gone now and when Rome calls, the little ones who are left can only run crying to me.’ He belched suddenly, wincing, and as he did so Antonidus felt a worm of pain begin in his own gut. Fear brought him to his feet, his glance falling to the bowls, one empty, one barely touched.

‘What is it?’ Sulla demanded, pulling himself upright, his face twisting in the knowledge even as he spoke. The burning in his belly was spreading and he pressed his hand into himself as if to crush it.

‘I feel it too,’ Antonidus said in panic. ‘It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!’

Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached towards him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.

He pushed a finger into the Dictator’s limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Come on, come on, again,’ Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved drily. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, failing with one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.

The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semi-conscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.

‘Fetch doctors!’ he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.

‘Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!’ he shouted. ‘Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!’ His strength seemed to leave him in that moment and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.

When the doctors rushed in they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.

‘He is gone,’ one of them said, his face white.

‘His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,’ Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.

Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla’s city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.

‘Get back on your way, slave,’ he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance and be gone. The man would recognise him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius – and to the memory of Julius’ father, who had trusted him.

Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier’s throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people, walking their peaceful journeys unknowing as the old wolf moved through them.

He had to reach Fercus to be safe, but there was more than a mile to go and though he moved quickly he could not run for fear of someone spotting and chasing him. Behind, he could hear the familiar clatter of soldiers’ sandals as they took up position and began halting the crowds, searching for weapons, looking for a guilty face.

More legionaries ran past him, their gazes sweeping the crowd as they tried to get ahead and close the road. Tubruk took a side street and then another, trying not to panic. They would not know yet who they were looking for, but he had to shave the beard as soon as he was safe. Whatever happened, he knew they must not take him alive. At least then, with luck, they might never link him to the estate and Julius’ family.

As the soldiers began to close the road, a man in the crowd suddenly ran, throwing aside a basket of vegetables he had been carrying. Tubruk thanked the gods for the man’s guilty conscience and tried not to look back as the soldiers brought him down, though the man’s squeal was desperate as they cracked his head onto the stone street. Tubruk walked through turning after turning with hurried steps and the shouting was left behind at last. He slowed his pace in the darkening shadows as he reached the alley that Fercus had told him to make for. At first, he thought it was deserted, but then he saw his friend step out from an unlit doorway and beckon to him. He went inside quickly, his nerves close to breaking, finally collapsing in the dirty little room that meant safety, at least for a while.

‘Did you do it?’ Fercus asked as Tubruk tried to get his breath back and his racing pulse to slow.

‘I think so. We will know tomorrow. They have closed off the streets, but I made it clear. Gods, it was close!’

Fercus handed him a razor and motioned to a bowl of cold water.

‘You still have to get clear of the city, my friend. And that will not be easy if Sulla is dead. If he is alive, it will be next to impossible.’

‘Are you ready to do what you have to?’ Tubruk said quietly, rubbing the water into the bushy growth that covered his face.

‘I am, though it hurts me to do it.’

‘Not as much as it will hurt me. Do it quickly once I have shaved.’

He noticed his hand trembled as he used the narrow blade and cursed to himself as he cut the skin.

‘Let me do it,’ Fercus said, taking the razor from him. For a few minutes there was silence between them, though their thoughts ran wildly.

‘Did you get out without being seen?’ Fercus asked as he worked at the stubborn bristle. Tubruk didn’t answer for a long time.

‘No. I had to kill two innocent men.’

‘The Republic can stand a little blood on its hem if Sulla’s death restores equality to Rome. I cannot regret what you have done, Tubruk.’

Tubruk remained silent as the blade cut away the last of his beard. He rubbed his face, his eyes sad.

‘Do it now, while I feel numb.’

Fercus took a deep breath, walking around to face the old gladiator. There was nothing left of the shambling Dalcius in his strong face.

‘Perhaps …’ Fercus began hesitantly.

‘It is the only way. We discussed this. Do it!’ Tubruk gripped the arms of the chair as Fercus raised a fist and began to beat his face into an unrecognisable mess. He felt his nose break along old lines and spat onto the floor. Fercus breathed heavily and Tubruk coughed, wincing.

‘Don’t stop … yet,’ he whispered through the pain, wanting it to be over.

When they were finished, Fercus would return with Tubruk to his own home, leaving the rented room behind without a trace of them. Tubruk would be chained into a coffle of slaves leaving the city, his face swollen. His final act before the slave market had been to sign a chit of sale under his own name. Fercus would deliver one more anonymous slave to the estate outside the city, ready for a back-breaking life of work in the fields.

At last, Tubruk raised a hand and Fercus stopped, panting and amazed at how much effort the beating had taken to give. The man who sat in the chair bore only a small resemblance to the one who had come in from the streets. He was satisfied.

‘I never beat my slaves,’ he muttered.

Tubruk raised his head slowly.

‘You have not beaten one now,’ he said, swallowing blood.

Brutus ducked below a ridge of stone, panting. Their pursuers had brought bows and his quick glimpse had shown two archers hanging back while the others crept cautiously towards their position. As soon as he and Renius were forced to show themselves, the shafts would bite into them and it would be over.

Brutus pressed as closely as he could to the dark rock, thinking furiously. He was sure he’d recognised Livia’s husband as one of the archers, so it looked as if the man had been persuaded of her innocence while there was no one to argue with her. No doubt she would welcome him home as a hero if he dragged Brutus’ body behind him.

The thought of her warmed Brutus for a moment. Her dull husband would probably never appreciate what he had.

Renius had given his dagger to the younger man, preferring the solid weight of his gladius. Brutus had his own sword sheathed and a small blade in each hand as he waited. He knew he could throw them well enough to kill, but they would hardly give him a chance to aim before the archers sighted on him. It would be close.

He put his head over the ridge and took in the positions of the men climbing towards him. The archers shouted a warning to their companions, but Brutus was already out of sight and moving to a new position. This time, he rose fully and sent one knife flashing before he threw himself down.

A shaft buzzed overhead, but Brutus grinned as he heard the knife strike flesh. He moved again, further along the ridge near to Renius, the second knife ready in his hand.

‘I think you just scratched him,’ Renius muttered.

Brutus frowned at him for disturbing his concentration, flushing as a stream of raging oaths sounded over the crest.

‘And annoyed him,’ Renius added.

Brutus tensed for another attempt. He would have loved to aim at one of the archers, but the bows could just be picked up by another and they stood furthest from the small ridge that hid the Romans.

He leapt up to find one of them almost on top of him. The man gaped at the sudden apparition and Brutus sank the blade into his exposed throat, dropping back and scrambling away on his stomach, raising dust.

Two more came at Brutus then, swinging blades. He rose to meet them, trying to keep an eye on the archers behind and spoil their aim with sudden steps left and right.

A shaft creased the air by his legs as the first Greek was impaled on his gladius. Brutus hung on to the slumping body, using it as a shield. Though he was dying, the man shouted and swore at Brutus as the young man danced him to one side and then another. An arrow came from nowhere to spear into the man’s back and blood spilled out of his mouth onto Brutus’ face. Brutus swore and heaved the body into the arms of his companion, then whipped his gladius up into the man’s groin in the classic legion thrust. They fell away in silence onto the shrubs and flowers and Brutus found himself looking at Livia’s husband at the moment he released his arrow.

He began to move, but the blurring shaft reached him as he turned, knocking him onto his back. The armour had saved him and Brutus blessed his gods for luck as he rolled. He came up to see Renius punch Livia’s husband flat before facing the last of them, who stood terrified, with his arms quivering under the strain of the bow.

‘Easy, boy,’ Renius called to him. ‘Go down to your horse and go home. If you fire that thing, I’ll bite your throat out.’

Brutus took a pace towards Renius, but the old gladiator held out a hand to stop him.

‘He knows what he has to do, Brutus. Just give him a little time,’ Renius said clearly. The young man holding the taut bow shook his head, looking pale with tension. Livia’s husband writhed on the ground and Renius pressed a foot onto his neck to hold him.

‘You’ve had your battle, boys, now go home and impress your wives with the story,’ Renius continued, gently increasing the pressure so that Livia’s husband began to claw at his foot, choking.

The archer eased his grip and took two paces away.

‘Let him go,’ he said in a heavy accent.

Renius shrugged. ‘Throw your bow away first.’

The young man hesitated long enough for Livia’s husband to go purple and then threw the bow over the rocks behind him with a clatter. Renius removed his foot, allowing Livia’s husband to scramble up, wheezing. The old gladiator didn’t make a move as the two young Greeks put distance between them.

‘Wait!’ Brutus called suddenly, freezing them all. ‘You have three horses you don’t need down there. I want two of them.’

Cornelia sat with her back straight, her eyes bright with worry as she faced Antonidus, the one they called Sulla’s dog.

The man was merciless, she knew, and he watched every change in her face as he questioned her with a terrifying concentration. She had heard nothing good of Sulla’s general and she had to fight not to show fear or relief at the news he had brought. Her daughter was asleep in her arms. She had decided to call her Julia.

‘Your father, Cinna, does he know you are here?’ he asked, his voice clipped as his gaze bored into her.

She shook her head slightly. ‘I do not think so. Sulla called for me from my husband’s home outside the city. I have been waiting in these rooms with my baby for days now, without seeing anyone except slaves.’

The general frowned, as if something she had said didn’t ring true, but his eyes never left hers.

‘Why did Sulla summon you?’

She swallowed nervously and knew he had seen it. What could she tell him? That Sulla had raped her with her daughter crying at her side? He might laugh or, worse, think she was trying to blacken the great man’s name after his death and have her killed.

Antonidus watched her writhe in worry and fear and wanted to slap her. She was beautiful enough for it to be obvious why she had been summoned, though he wondered how Sulla could have been aroused by a body still loose from birth.

He wondered if her father had been behind the murder and almost cursed as he realised there was yet another name to add to the list of enemies. His informants had told him Cinna was on business in the north of Italy, but assassins could have been sent from there. He stood suddenly. He prided himself on his ability to spot a liar, but she was either witless or knew nothing.

‘Don’t travel. Where will you be if I need to bring you back here?’

Cornelia thought for a moment, fighting the sudden elation. She was going to be released! Should she return to the town house or travel back to Julius’ family estate?

Clodia was probably still there, she thought.

‘I will be outside the city at the house where I was sought before.’

Antonidus nodded, his thoughts already on the problems he faced.

‘I am sorry for the tragedy,’ she forced herself to say.

‘Those responsible will suffer greatly,’ he said, his voice hard. Again, she felt the intensity of his interest in her, making her own expression seem false under his scrutiny.

After a moment more, he stood and walked away across the marble floor. The baby awoke and began to whimper to be fed. Alone and deprived of a nurse, Cornelia bared her breast to the child’s mouth and tried not to cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tubruk awoke, cramped and stiff with cold in the darkness of the slave house. He could hear other bodies moving around him, but there was no sign of dawn in the chain room where they slept and were made ready for travel.

From the first hours with Fercus, working out the details, it was this part that he had barely allowed himself to consider. It seemed a small worry with the possibility of torture and death to come if the attempt on Sulla’s life had failed, or if he was caught escaping. There were so many ways for him to suffer a disaster that the night and day he would spend as a slave had been pushed to the back of his mind, almost forgotten.

He looked around him, his eyes making out shapes even in the dark. He could feel the weight of the metal cuffs holding his hands to the smooth chain that clinked at the slightest movement. He tried not to remember what it had been like the first time, but his memory brought back those nights and days and years until they clustered and murmured within him and it was hard not to cry out. Some of the chained men wept softly, and Tubruk had never heard a more mournful sound.

They could have been taken from distant lands, or had slavery forced upon them for crime or debt. There were a hundred ways, but to be born to it was worse than all the rest, he knew. As small children, they could run and play in happy ignorance until they were old enough to understand they had no future but to be sold.

Tubruk breathed in the smells of a stable: oil and straw, sweat and leather, clean human animals who owned nothing and were owned in their stead. He pulled himself upright against the weight of the chains. The other slaves thought he was one of them, guilty of something to have been beaten so badly. The guard had marked him as a troublemaker for the same reason. Only Fercus knew he was free.

The thought brought no comfort. It was not enough to tell himself that he was just a short journey from the estate and freedom. If you are thought a slave and if you are chained in darkness, unable even to rise, where then is precious liberty? If a free man is bound to a slave coffle, he is a slave, and Tubruk felt the old nameless fear he had felt in the same room decades before. To eat, sleep, stand and die at another’s whim – he had returned to that and all his years of pride in winning his way to freedom seemed ashes.

‘Such a fragile thing,’ he said, just to hear his voice aloud and the man next to him grunted awake, almost pulling Tubruk over as he struggled up. Tubruk looked away, thankful for the darkness. He did not want the light to come through the high windows to reveal their faces. They were heading for short, brutal lives in fields, working until they fell and could not rise. And they were like him. Perhaps one or two of the men in this room would be picked out for their strength or speed and trained for the circus. Instead of ending their lives as crippled water-carriers or taken by disease, they would bleed away their futures into the sand. One or two might have children of their own and see them taken for sale as soon as they had their growth.

The light came slowly, despite him, but the chained slaves were still, listless in their confinement. For many, the only sign of wakefulness was a slight noise of the chain as they stirred. With the light came food and they waited patiently.

Tubruk reached to his face and winced as he gauged the swelling from Fercus’ blows the night before. The guard’s surprise had been obvious when Tubruk was brought in. Fercus had never been a cruel man and the guard knew Tubruk must have insulted him grievously to have such an obvious beating on the very night before being delivered to his new owners.

No questions had been asked, of course. Even though the slaves might only pass a few days in the house while Fercus took his profit, he owned them as utterly as the chair he sat in or the clothes he wore.

They were given wooden bowls filled with a slop of cooked vegetables and bread and Tubruk was digging his fingers into his when the door opened again and three soldiers entered with Fercus. Tubruk kept his face down with the others, not daring to meet an eye, even by accident. A murmur of interest swept the room, but Tubruk did not add to it. He guessed why they were there and his belly seemed cold with tension. They would have spoken to all Sulla’s kitchen staff by now and found that one called Dalcius was missing. Fercus had said he would be examined at the gates of the city before leaving, but had not expected them to be so thorough as to search his slave rooms even before setting off.

In the grey light of morning, Tubruk felt he would be spotted immediately, but the soldiers moved without hurry amongst the slaves as they ate, clearly intending to be meticulous with the task they had been given. As well they might be, Tubruk thought sourly. If they missed him here and then he was identified at the gate, they would be severely punished. He wondered if Sulla had eaten the poison and knew that he might not be sure for days or even weeks, if the Senate chose to delay the news. The people of Rome hardly ever saw the Dictator except from a distance over a crowd. They would continue with their lives unknowing and if Sulla survived they might never learn of the attempt at all.

A rough hand reached under his chin as he chewed his food slowly. Tubruk allowed his head to be raised and found himself looking into the hard eyes of a young legionary. He swallowed the mouthful and tried to look unconcerned.

The soldier whistled. ‘This one’s had a kicking,’ he said softly.

Tubruk blinked through his swollen eyes, nervously.

‘He insulted my wife, officer,’ Fercus said. ‘I administered the punishment myself.’

‘Did you now?’ the legionary continued.

Tubruk felt his heart pump powerfully in him as he looked away, remembering too late that he had been meeting the gaze where he should not.

‘I’d have ripped his stomach out if he insulted mine,’ the legionary said, letting Tubruk’s chin fall.

‘And lose my profit?’ Fercus replied quickly.

The officer sneered and spat one word, ‘Merchants.’

He moved on to the next with Fercus, and Tubruk cleaned his bowl, gripping it hard to hide hands that shook with relief. Minutes later, the soldiers were gone and the guards entered to kick them to their feet, ready to be fastened into the cart that would carry them out of Rome and to their new homes and lives.

Julius pressed his head up to the bars of the little cell below the trireme deck, closing his left eye to see what was going on more clearly. With it open, the blur brought on his headaches and he wanted to delay that as long as possible each day. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and turned back to the others.

‘Definitely a port. Warm air, and I can smell fruit or spices. I’d say Africa.’

After a month in the cramped semi-darkness, the words caused a stir of interest in the Romans who sat or lay against the wooden sides of their prison. He looked at them and sighed before shuffling back to his place, levering himself down carefully to avoid putting weight on the splinted arm.

The month had been hard on all of them. Denied razors and water to wash with, the usually fastidious soldiers were a ragged crew, filthy and dark-bearded. The bucket they had been given as their toilet was filled to overflowing and buzzed with flies. It had a corner to itself, but excrement had slimed the floor around it and they had no cloths to wipe themselves. In the heat of the day, the air had the stench of disease and two of the men had developed fevers that Cabera could barely control.

The old healer did what he could for them, but he was searched thoroughly every time he brought their food or tended their sick. The pirates still kept him busy with their own ailments and Cabera said it was clear they had not had a healer on board for years.

Julius felt a headache beginning and stifled a groan. Ever since recovering consciousness the pains had been with him, sapping at his will and strength and making him snap at the others. They were all irritable and what discipline they had once had was being eroded in the darkness day by day, with Gaditicus having to step in more than once to stop blows as tempers frayed.

With his eyes closed, the headache remained quiescent, but Cabera had told him he must not stop using the blurred eye and to spend hours of each day focusing on the near and far or it would be lost to him when they were finally back in the sun. He had to believe it would end. He would return to Rome and Cornelia and the misery would become memories. It helped a little to imagine it had already happened, that he was sitting in the sun on the estate wall, with his arm around Cornelia’s slim waist and cool, clean air off the hills ruffling their hair. She would ask him how it had been in the filth and the stench of the cell and he would make light of all of it. He wished he could remember her face more clearly.

Julius held his hand up and squinted at it, then the barred door, over and over until the headache began to throb in his left temple. He let his hand fall and closed his eyes to its wasted condition after a month on rations that kept them from death but did little more. What he wouldn’t give for a cold oyster to slip down his throat! He knew it was stupid to torture himself, but his mind produced bright visions of the shells, as real as if they hung before him and as sharp as his sight had been before the fight on Accipiter.

He remembered nothing of that day. As far as his memory told the tale, he had gone from healthy and strong to broken and in pain in a moment, and for the first few days of consciousness he had been filled with rage at what had been taken from him. He had been blind in his left eye for long enough to believe he would never see again, and never be able to use a sword with any degree of skill.

Suetonius had told him that one-eyed men couldn’t be good fighters, and he had already found he was missing things as he reached for them, his hand swiping the air as he failed to judge the distance properly. At least that had come back with his sight, though the shimmering outlines he could see with his left infuriated him, making him want to rub the eye clear. His hand rose to do just that again in habit and he caught himself, knowing it would do no good.

The headache seemed to find another channel in his brain and worked its way into it until that spot throbbed in sympathy with the first. He hoped it would stay there and not go on. The thought of what had begun happening to him was a fear he had barely started to explore, but three times now the pain had swelled into flashing lights that consumed him and he had woken with his lips bitter from yellow bile, lying in his own filth with Gaditicus holding him down grimly. In the first fit, he had bitten his tongue badly enough that his mouth filled with blood and choked him, but now they had a strip of grimy cloth torn from his tunic to shove between his teeth as he convulsed, blind.

All the red-eyed, stinking soldiers raised their heads at the tread of steps on the narrow rungs from the deck above. Anything unusual was seized upon to break the endless boredom and even the two who were feverish tried to see, though one fell back, exhausted.

It was the captain, who seemed almost to glow with clean skin and health compared to the men of the Accipiter. He was tall enough to have to duck his head as he entered the cell, accompanied by another man who carried a sword and a dagger ready to repel a sudden attack.

If his head hadn’t been pulsing its sullen sickness, Julius might have laughed at the precaution. The Romans had lost their strength, unable to exercise. It still amazed him how fast the muscles became weak without use. Cabera had shown them how to keep themselves strong by pulling against each other, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

The captain breathed shallowly, his eyes taking in the full slop bucket. His face was tanned and creased from years of squinting against the glare of the sea. Even his clothes carried a fresh smell in with him and Julius ached to be out in the air and the open spaces, so powerfully that his heart hammered with the need.

‘We have reached a safe port. In six months, perhaps you will be put down some lonely night, free and paid for.’ The captain paused to enjoy the effect of his words. Just the mention of an ending to their imprisonment had every man’s gaze fastened to him.

‘The amounts to ask for, now that is a delicate problem,’ he continued, his voice as pleasant as if he addressed a group of men he knew well instead of soldiers who would tear him apart with their teeth if they had the strength.

‘It must not be so much that your loved ones cannot pay. We have no use for those. Yet somehow I don’t believe you will be truthful if I ask you to tell me how much your families will bear for you. Do you understand?’

‘We understand you well enough,’ Gaditicus said.

‘It is best if we reach a compromise, I think. You will each tell me your name, rank and wealth and I will decide you are lying and add whatever I think would be right. It is like a game, perhaps.’

No one answered him, but silent vows were made to their gods and the hatred was clear enough in their expressions.

‘Good. Let us start then.’ He pointed to Suetonius, his gaze drawn as the young man scratched at the lice that left red sores on all their bodies.

‘Suetonius Prandus. I am a watch officer, the lowest rank. My family have nothing to sell,’ Suetonius replied, his voice thick and hoarse with lack of use.

The captain squinted at him, weighing him up. Like the others there was nothing to inspire dreams of wealth in his thin frame. Julius realised the captain was simply enjoying himself at their expense. Taking pleasure from having the arrogant officers of Rome reduced to bargaining with an enemy. Yet what choice did they have? If the pirate demanded too much and their families could not borrow the money or, worse, refused to, then a quick death would follow. It was hard not to play the game.

‘I think, for the lowest rank, I will ask for two talents – five hundred in gold.’

Suetonius spluttered, though Julius knew his family could pay that easily, or ten times that amount.

‘Gods, man. They do not have the money!’ Suetonius said, his unkempt body lending the feel of truth to the words.

The captain shrugged. ‘Pray to those gods that they can raise it or over the side you go with a bit of chain to hold you down.’

Suetonius sank back in apparent despair, though Julius knew he would consider himself to have outwitted the pirate.

‘You, Centurion? Are you from a rich family?’ the captain asked.

Gaditicus glared at him before speaking. ‘I am not, but nothing I say will make any difference to you,’ he growled before looking away.

The captain frowned in thought. ‘I think … yes, for a centurion, a captain no less, like myself … it would be an insult if I asked less than twenty talents. That would be about five thousand in gold, I think. Yes.’

Gaditicus ignored him, though he seemed to sag slightly in despair.

‘What is your name?’ the captain asked Julius.

He too considered ignoring the man, but then his headache throbbed and a spike of anger rose in him.

‘My name is Julius Caesar. I command a twenty. I am also the head of a wealthy house.’

The captain’s eyebrows rose and the others muttered amongst themselves in disbelief. Julius exchanged a glance with Gaditicus, who shook his head in a clear message.

‘Head of a house! I am honoured to meet you,’ the captain said with a sneer. ‘Perhaps twenty talents would be right for you as well.’

‘Fifty,’ Julius said, straightening his back as he spoke.

The captain blinked, his easy manner vanishing.

‘That is twelve thousand pieces of gold,’ he said, awed out of complacency.

‘Make it fifty,’ Julius replied firmly. ‘When I have found you and killed you, I will need funds. I am far from home, after all.’ Despite the pain in his head, he mustered a savage grin.

The captain recovered quickly from his surprise. ‘You are the one that had his head broken. You must have left your wits on my decks. I will ask for fifty, but if it does not come, the sea is deep enough to hold you.’

‘It is not wide enough to hide you from me, whoreson,’ Julius replied. ‘I will nail your men to a line of crosses all along the coast. Your officers I may have strangled out of mercy. You have my word on it.’

The soldiers erupted into a shout of cheers and laughter at the captain, who paled with anger. For a moment, it looked as if he would step further into the cell to strike Julius, but he mastered himself and looked around scornfully at the baying men.

‘I will set high prices on all of you. See if you cheer then!’ he shouted over the jeers as he left with his crewman, who locked the door securely behind him, shaking his head in disbelief at Julius through the bars.

When they were sure there was no one to hear, Suetonius rounded on Julius.

‘What did you do that for, you fool? He’ll beggar our families for your stupid pride!’

Julius shrugged. ‘He’ll set the prices at what he thinks he can get, just as he would have before coming down here, though he might ask fifty for me, out of spite.’

‘Caesar’s right,’ Gaditicus said, ‘he was just playing with us.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Fifty! Did you see his face? That was Rome in you, lad.’ His laughter broke off into coughing, but he still smiled.

‘I think you were wrong to bait him,’ Suetonius continued and one or two of the others muttered agreement.

‘He killed Romans and sank Accipiter and you think we should play his little games? I’d spit on you if I had any,’ Julius snapped. ‘I meant it too. Once I’m free, I will find him and cut him down. Even if it takes years, he will see my face before he dies.’

Suetonius scrambled at him, raging, but was held by Pelitas as he tried to get past.

‘Sit down, you idiot,’ Pelitas growled, shoving him back. ‘There’s no point fighting amongst ourselves and he’s barely recovered as it is.’

Suetonius subsided with a scowl that Julius ignored, scratching idly under his splint as he thought. His eyes took in the sick men lying in damp, stinking straw.

‘This place will kill us,’ he said.

Pelitas nodded.

‘We know they guard the top of the steps with two men. We’d have to get past them. Now we’re docked, it might be worth a go?’

‘Maybe,’ Julius said, ‘but they’re careful. Even if we could dig the hinges out of the door, the deck hatch is bolted from above every time someone comes in here, even Cabera. I don’t see how we could break it fast enough to get out before there’s a crowd waiting for us.’

‘We could use Suetonius’ head,’ Pelitas said. ‘A few sharp blows and one of them would give way. Either way, we win.’ Julius chuckled with him.

The following night, one of the sick men died. The captain allowed Cabera to drag out the body and dump it over the side without ceremony. The mood of those left sank towards complete despair.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I am surrounded by women,’ Tubruk said cheerfully as Aurelia, Cornelia and Clodia entered, bringing life and energy into the quiet triclinium. In the weeks that had followed Fercus’ bringing him inside the gates and passing the bill of sale into his untied hands, Tubruk had regained much of the peace he had lost in the city. Coming together each morning to eat had become a ritual for the four of them, and Tubruk had begun to look forward to the light breakfast. Aurelia was always at her best in the mornings and, if he was any judge, there was true friendship between Cornelia, Clodia and herself. The house had not seen laughter since before the slave riots and they lifted Tubruk’s spirits.

His face had healed with time, though he bore a new scar over his left eye to remember the ordeal. He recalled the relief he’d felt when he first saw the legionaries dressed in black on the city streets, a uniform the city would see for a full year of mourning at the Dictator’s death. Even then, the dark cloth had seemed inappropriate to the mood of Rome. Fercus had told him there was a fresh breeze blowing through the Senate, with Cinna and Pompey working to restore the old Republic and once again lay the ghosts of kings that Sulla had brought back to the streets.

The estate manager travelled only rarely into the city now, and always with caution. He thought the chances were good that he would never be linked with the poisoning of Rome’s leader, but it took only one accusation and the Senate would tear the estate apart looking for evidence. If they found Fercus and tortured him, the broker would give Tubruk to them, he was sure. The man had a family he loved, and honour and friendship crumbled in the face of that. Still, it had been the right thing to do and they had won, even though he would never know a day of complete peace again while Sulla’s friends and supporters searched for the assassin.

A month after his return to the estate, Tubruk had put on a heavy cloak and ridden to the city to make offerings at the temples of Mars and Vesta in thanks for the life of Cornelia. He had also prayed for the souls of Casaverius and the guard he had killed at the gate.

Cornelia had her daughter sitting on her lap and Clodia was reaching out at intervals to tickle the baby under her armpits and make her laugh. Even Aurelia smiled at the childish giggles that came from Julia, and Tubruk spread honey on his bread with a mixture of emotions churning in him. It was good that Aurelia had found a little of the old happiness. She had been too long surrounded by stern men. When she had first held her granddaughter, she had cried without sobbing, tears falling from her.

Yet he was sure she was failing and the thought brought him pain as he saw she had not eaten with the others. Gently, Tubruk pushed a plate of fresh, crusty bread over to her side of the low table and their eyes met for a second. She took a piece and tore a sliver from it, chewing it slowly as he watched. She had said that eating brought on her fits, and left her sick and vomiting. There was no appetite, and before he had watched her closely she had been losing weight alarmingly and hardly taking anything in.

She was wasting before him and no matter what he said when they were alone, she would only weep and say she could not eat. There was no space in her for food.

Clodia tickled the child and was rewarded with a sudden belch of milky vomit. All three women rose as one to help clean it up and Tubruk rose with them, feeling excluded and minding not a bit.

‘I wish her father were here to see her grow,’ Cornelia said wistfully.

‘He will be, love,’ Tubruk said. ‘They have to keep those they ransom alive or the trade would stop. It’s just a business deal to them. Julius will come home and now Sulla is dead, he can start again.’

She seemed to take more hope from his words than he felt himself. No matter what happened, Tubruk knew that even if Julius did make it back, he would not be the same after his experiences. The young lad who had taken ship to escape Sulla had died. Who would return was yet to be seen. Life would be harder for all of them after having to pay such a high ransom. Tubruk had sold some of the land of the estate to Suetonius’ family, who had bargained cruelly over the price, knowing his need from their own demand. Tubruk sighed. At least Julius would be pleased to have a daughter, and a wife to love him. That was more than Tubruk had.

He glanced at Clodia and found her looking back at him, with something in her expression that brought the blood to his face like a boy’s. She winked at him before turning back to help Cornelia and he felt strangely uncomfortable. He knew he should be going out to see the workers who waited for his orders, but he sat and took another slice of bread and ate it slowly, hoping she would look his way again.

Aurelia swayed slightly and Tubruk moved quickly to her, taking her shoulder. She was incredibly pale and her skin looked waxen. He felt the lack of flesh under her stola and the always present grief swelled in him.

‘You should rest,’ he said quietly. ‘I will bring you more food later.’

She did not reply and her eyes had taken on the lost gaze. She moved with him as he walked her away from the table, her steps faltering and weak. He felt her frame shiver against him as the trembling began again, each time leaving her weaker than the last.

Cornelia and Clodia were left alone with the child, who pawed at Cornelia’s dress to find a nipple.

‘He is a good man,’ Clodia said, looking at the doorway they’d gone through.

‘A shame he is too old to make a husband,’ Cornelia replied artlessly.

Clodia firmed her jaw.

‘Old? He is still strong where it matters,’ she said, her voice sharp. Then she saw Cornelia’s bright eyes and blushed. ‘You see too much, my girl. Let the child feed.’

‘She is always hungry,’ Cornelia said, wincing as she allowed Julia to attach herself, pressing her little face deep into the breast.

‘It helps you to love them,’ Clodia said and when Cornelia looked up at her tone, Clodia’s eyes were lined with tears.

In the cool dimness of the bedchamber, Tubruk held Aurelia tightly until the fit had finally passed from her. Her skin burned against him and he shook his head at her thinness. Finally, she knew him again and he lowered her back against soft cushions.

He had held her first on the night of her husband’s funeral and it had become a ritual between them. He knew she took comfort from his strength and there were fewer bruises on her these days, with her thrashing limbs gripped tight in his arms. He found he was breathing heavily and wondered afresh how it was possible that she could have so much strength in such a wasted body.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her eyes half open.

‘It was nothing. I will bring you a cool drink and leave you to rest.’

‘I don’t want you to leave me, Tubruk,’ she said.

‘Didn’t I say I’d care for you? I will be here for as long as you need me,’ he said, trying to force cheerfulness into his tone.

She opened her eyes fully and turned her head to him.

‘Julius said he would stay with me, but he left. Now my son has gone as well.’

‘Sometimes the gods make a mockery of our promises, love, though your husband was a decent man. Your son will come back safe as well, if I know him at all.’

She closed her eyes again and Tubruk waited until natural sleep came before stealing out of the room.

As storms smashed the coast, the moored trireme pitched and rolled heavily despite the shelter of the tiny African bay, far from Roman lands. Several of the officers were retching, though there was no food to come up. Those who had water in their bellies from their meagre ration struggled not to lose a drop, with their hands pressed tightly over their mouths. There was never enough and in the heavy heat their bodies craved moisture of any kind. Most of them cupped their hands as they urinated, gulping the warm liquid back as fast as they could before it was lost.

Julius remained unaffected by the rocking ship and took considerable pleasure from Suetonius’ discomfort as he lay with his eyes shut, moaning softly with his hands on his stomach.

Despite the seasickness, there was a new mood of optimism in the tiny cell. The captain had sent a man to tell them the ransoms had all been paid, travelling by land and sea to a secret meeting spot where an agent for the pirates had completed the last leg of the long trip and brought the gold to this distant port. Julius had felt it was a small victory that the captain had not come down himself. They had not seen him for months since the day he had tried to torment them and that pleased them all. Had he come, he might have been surprised at what he saw. They had come through the lowest point of the captivity and were growing stronger.

The desperate group of the first few months now waited patiently for their release. The fever had claimed two more, lessening the stifling crush a little. The new will to survive came partly from Cabera after that, for he had finally managed to bargain for better rations for them. It had been a dangerous gamble, but the old man saw that little more than half of them would make it to freedom unless they were better fed and cleaned, so he had sat on deck and refused to heal another pirate until they gave him something in return. The captain had been suffering at that time from a virulent rash he had picked up in the port and hardly blustered at all before allowing it. With the food came hope and the men had started to believe they might see Rome and liberty again. Swollen, bleeding gums had begun to heal and Cabera had been allowed to give them a cup of white ship’s tallow to rub on their sores.

Julius too had played his part. When his splint was removed, he was horrified to see the way his muscles had vanished and immediately set about the exercises Cabera had suggested. It had been agony in the cramped space, but Julius organised the officers into two groups of four and five. One would huddle together as close as possible for an hour and let the others have the space to wrestle and lift their comrades as dead weights, building back the muscles they had all lost before changing over and letting the other group work and sweat. The slop bucket had been knocked over too many times to count, but the men grew stronger and no more succumbed to fevers.

The headaches came less often now, though the worst would leave him almost unable to speak with the pain. The others had learned to leave him alone when he went pale and closed his eyes. The last fit had been two months before and Cabera said that might well be the end of them. He prayed that was true. The memories of his mother’s illness had given him a terrible fear of the weakness that threw him down and forced his mind into the dark.

With the news that the ship was ready to set sail and head for a lonely piece of coast to set them down, the officers of Accipiter were jubilant and Pelitas had even slapped Suetonius on the back in excitement. They were still bearded and wild-looking, but now they chattered with fantasies of bath-houses and being rubbed down with oil.

It was strange how things changed. Where once Julius dreamed of being a general like Marius, now he thought of being clean as a greater pleasure. It had not changed his desire to destroy the pirates, however. Some of the others talked of returning to the city, but he knew he could not while his family’s money floated around in the hold of a pirate ship. His anger had pushed him to stand the sickness and pain that came from the hard exercise and he had forced himself to do more and more each day, knowing he had to be strong if his word to the captain was not to be spit in the wind.

The motion of the trireme changed slowly and the Romans gave a low cheer as the rolling steadied and they could hear the beat for the rowers as the ship moved into open sea.

‘We’re going home,’ Prax said, wonderingly, with a catch in his voice. The word had a strange power and one of the men began weeping. The others looked away from him, embarrassed, though they had seen worse in the months together. Many things had changed between them in that time and Gaditicus sometimes wondered if they could work again as a crew even if Accipiter was produced whole and afloat for them. They had kept some semblance of discipline, with Gaditicus and Prax settling disputes and stopping fights, but the awareness of station had been slowly eroded as they judged each other by new rules and found different strengths and weaknesses.

Pelitas and Prax had become good friends, each seeing in the other something of the same phlegmatic outlook on life, despite the difference in ages. Prax had lost his swollen gut in the time in the cell, replacing it with hard muscle after weeks of pushing himself with the others in the daily exercises. Julius suspected that he would be pleased with the new lease of life when he was shaved and clean. He smiled at that thought, scratching a sore in his armpit.

Gaditicus had been one of those who suffered in the choppy waters of the dock, but he was gaining colour as the ship cut through the waves instead of rocking in them. Julius had found a respect and liking for him that had been missing from his automatic obedience to the rank. The man had held the group together and seemed to appreciate what Julius and Cabera had done for them.

Suetonius had not flourished in the captivity. He had seen the bonds that had formed between Pelitas, Prax, Julius and Gaditicus and bitterly resented Julius being included. For a while, he had been friendly with the other four officers and two camps had emerged. Julius had used those groups to compete against each other in the daily training and eventually one of the officers had cuffed Suetonius as he complained to him in whispers.

Shortly after that, Cabera had been able to bring the first decent food they had seen since the beginning and they had all cheered. Typical of the old man to have given the fruit to Julius to hand out. Suetonius couldn’t wait for freedom and order to be restored, wanting to see the moment when Julius realised he was just a junior officer again.

Two weeks after leaving port, they were taken out of the cell in darkness and left on a strange coast, without weapons or supplies. The captain had bowed to them as they were taken to the small boat that would be rowed in to the beach beyond, where they could hear the crash of waves.

‘Goodbye, Romans. I will think of you often as I spend your coin,’ he had called, laughing. They stayed silent, though Julius looked up at him steadily, as if noting every line of his face. He was furious that Cabera had not been allowed to leave with them, though he had known they might hold him. It was just one more reason to find the captain and rip his throat out.

On the beach, their bonds were cut and the sailors backed away carefully, daggers ready.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, now,’ one of them warned. ‘You can work your way home in time.’ Then they were in the boat and rowing hard for the trireme that was black against the moonlit sea.

Pelitas reached down and picked up a handful of the soft sand, rubbing it between his fingers.

‘I don’t know about you lads, but I’m going for a swim,’ he said, stripping off his infested clothes in a sudden rush. A minute later, only Suetonius stood on the shore, then he was dragged in by the shouting, laughing officers, clothes and all.

Brutus used his dagger to skin the hares they’d bought from a farmer, scooping out the guts into a slimy heap. Renius had found some wild onions and with the crusty bread and a half-full wineskin, it would be a suitable feast for their last night in the open. Rome was less than a day’s travel away and with the sale of the horses, they were in profit.

Renius dropped a few heavy pieces of dead wood by the fire and lay down as close as he could, enjoying the warmth.

‘Pass me the wineskin, lad,’ he said, his voice mellow.

Brutus pulled the stopper out and gave it to him, watching as Renius guided the spout to his mouth and gulped.

‘I’d go easy if I were you,’ Brutus said. ‘You have no head for wine and I don’t want you picking a fight with me or weeping or something.’

Renius ignored him, finally gasping as he lowered the skin.

‘It’s good to be home again,’ he said.

Brutus filled their small cooking pot to the brim and lay down on the other side of the fire.

‘It is. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it before the lookout sighted the coast. It brought everything back to me.’

Shaking his head in memory, he stirred the stew with his dagger. Renius raised his head and rested it on his hand.

‘You’ve come a long way from the boy I trained. I don’t think I ever told you how proud I was when you made centurion for the Bronze Fist.’

‘You told everyone else. It got back to me in the end,’ Brutus replied, smiling.

‘And now you’ll be Julius’ man?’ Renius said, eyeing the bubbling stew.

‘Why not? We walk the same path, remember? Cabera said that.’

‘He said the same to me,’ Renius muttered, testing the stew with a finger. Though it was clearly boiling, he didn’t seem to feel the heat.

‘I thought that was why you came back with me. You could have stayed on with the Fist if you’d wanted.’

Renius shrugged. ‘I wanted to be at the heart of things again.’

Brutus grinned at the big man. ‘I know. Now Sulla’s dead, this is our time.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Fercus said. He strained against the ropes that held him to the chair, but there was no give in them.

‘I think you know exactly what I mean,’ Antonidus said, leaning in very close so that their faces almost touched. ‘I have a gift for knowing a lie when I am told one.’ He sniffed twice suddenly and Fercus remembered how they called him Sulla’s dog.

‘You reek of lies,’ Antonidus said, sneering. ‘I know you were involved, so simply tell me and I will not have to bring in the torturers. There is no escape from here, broker. No one saw you arrested and no one will know we have spoken. Just tell me who ordered the assassination and where the killer is and you will walk out unharmed.’

‘Take me to a court of law. I will find representation to prove my innocence!’ Fercus said, his voice shaking.

‘Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? Days wasted in idle talk while the Senate tries to prove it has one law for all. There is no law down here, in this room. Down here, we still remember Sulla.’

‘I know nothing!’ Fercus shouted, making Antonidus move back a few inches, to his relief.

The general shook his head in regret.

‘We know the killer went by the name of Dalcius. We know he had been bought for kitchen work three weeks before. The record of the sale has vanished, of course, but there were witnesses. Did you think no one would notice Sulla’s own agent at the market? Your name, Fercus, came up over and over again.’

Fercus paled. He knew he would not be allowed to live. He would not see his daughters again. At least they were not in the city. He had sent his wife away when the soldiers came for the slave market records, understanding then what would happen and knowing he could not run with them if he wanted them to escape the wolves Sulla’s friends would put on his trail.

He had accepted that there was a small risk, but after burning the sale papers, he had thought they would never make the link among so many thousands of others. His eyes filled with tears.

‘Guilt overwhelms you? Or is it just that you have been found out?’ Antonidus asked sharply. Fercus said nothing and looked at the floor. He did not think he could stand torture.

The men who entered at Antonidus’ order were old soldiers, calm and untroubled at what they were asked to do.

‘I want names from him,’ Antonidus said to them. He turned back to Fercus and raised his head until their eyes met once more. ‘Once these men have started, it will take a tremendous effort to make them stop. They enjoy this sort of thing. Is there anything you want to say before it begins?’

‘The Republic is worth a life,’ Fercus said, his eyes bright.

Antonidus smiled. ‘The Republic is dead, but I do love to meet a man of principle. Let’s see how long it lasts.’

Fercus tried to pull away as the first slivers of metal were pressed against his skin. Antonidus watched in fascination for a while, then slowly grew pale, wincing at the muffled, heaving sounds Fercus made as the two men bent over him. Nodding to them to continue, the general left, hurrying to be out in the cool night air.

It was worse than anything Fercus had ever known, an agony of humiliation and terror. He turned his head to one of the men and his lips twisted open to speak, though his blurring eyes could not see more than vague shapes of pain and light.

‘If you love Rome, let me die. Let me die quickly.’

The two men paused to exchange a glance, then resumed their work.

Julius sat in the sand with the others, shivering as dawn finally came to warm them. They had soaked the clothes in the sea, removing the worst of months of fetid darkness, but they had to let them dry on their bodies.

The sun rose swiftly and they were silent witnesses to the first glorious dawn they had seen since standing on the decks of Accipiter. With the light, they saw the beach was a thin strip of sand that ran along the alien coast. Thick foliage clustered right up to the edge of it as far as the eye could see, except for one wide path only half a mile away, found by Prax as they scouted the area. They had no idea where the captain had put them down, except that it was likely to be near a village. For the ransoms to be a regular source of funds, it was important that prisoners made it back to civilisation and they knew the coast would not be uninhabited. Prax was sure it was the north coast of Africa. He said he recognised some of the trees and it was true that the birds that flew overhead were not those of home.

‘We could be close to a Roman settlement,’ Gaditicus had said to them. ‘There are hundreds of them along the coast and we can’t be the first prisoners to be left here. We should be able to get on one of the merchant ships and be back in Rome before the end of summer.’

‘I’m not going back,’ Julius had said quietly. ‘Not like this, without money and in rags. I meant what I said to the captain.’

‘What choice do you have?’ Gaditicus replied. ‘If you had a ship and a crew you could still spend months searching for that one pirate out of many.’

‘I heard one of the guards call him Celsus. Even if it’s not his real name, it’s a start. We know his ship and someone will know him.’

Gaditicus raised his eyebrows. ‘Look, Julius. I would like to see the bastard again as much as you, but it just isn’t possible. I didn’t mind you baiting the idiot on board, but the reality is we don’t have a sword between us, nor coins to rub together.’

Julius stood and looked steadily at the centurion. ‘Then we will start by getting those, then men to make a crew, then a ship to hunt in. One thing at a time.’

Gaditicus returned the gaze, feeling the intensity behind it. ‘We?’ he said quietly.

‘I’d do it alone if I had to, though it would take longer. If we stay together, I have a few ideas for getting our money back so we can return to Rome with pride. I won’t creep back home beaten.’

‘It’s not a thought I enjoy,’ Gaditicus replied. ‘The gold my family sent will have pushed them all into poverty. They will be happy to see me safe, but I will have to see how their lives have changed every day. If you aren’t just dreaming, I will listen to those ideas of yours. It can’t hurt to talk it through.’

Julius put out his hand and gripped the older man’s shoulder, before turning to the others.

‘What about the rest of you? Do you want to go back like whipped dogs or take a few months more to try and win back what we have lost?’

‘They will have more than just our gold on board,’ Pelitas said slowly. ‘They wouldn’t be able to leave it anywhere and be safe, so there’s a good chance the legion silver will be in the hold as well.’

‘Which belongs to the legion!’ Gaditicus snapped with a trace of his old authority. ‘No, lads. I’ll not be a thief. Legion silver is marked with the stamp of Rome. Any of that goes back to the men who earned their pay.’

The others nodded at this, knowing it was fair.

Suetonius spoke suddenly in disbelief.

‘You are talking as if the gold is here, not on a distant ship we will never see again while we are lost and hungry!’

‘You are right,’ Julius said. ‘We had better get started along that path. It’s too wide to be just for animals, so there should be a village hereabouts. We’ll talk it out when we have a chance to feel like Romans again, with good food in our bellies and these stinking beards cut off.’

The group rose and walked towards the break in the foliage with him, leaving Suetonius alone, his mouth hanging open. After a few moments, he closed it and trotted after them.

The two torturers stood silently as Antonidus viewed the wreck that had been Fercus. The general winced in sympathy at the mangled carcass, glad that he had been able to enjoy a light sleep while it was going on.

‘He said nothing?’ Antonidus asked, shaking his head in amazement. ‘Jupiter’s head – look what you’ve done to him. How could a man stand that?’

‘Perhaps he knew nothing,’ one of the grim men replied.

Antonidus considered it for a moment.

‘Perhaps. I wish we could have brought his daughters to him so I could be sure.’

He seemed fascinated by the injuries and inspected the body closely, noting each cut and burn. He whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Astonishing. I would not have believed he had such courage in him. He didn’t even try to give false names?’

‘Nothing, General. He didn’t say a word to us.’

The two men exchanged a glance again, hidden behind the general’s back as he bent close to the bound corpse. It was a tiny moment of communication before they resumed their blank expressions.

Varro Aemilanus welcomed the ragged officers into his house with a beaming smile. Although he had been retired from legion life for fifteen years, it was always a pleasure to see the young men the pirates left on his small stretch of coast. It reminded him of the world outside his village, distant enough not to trouble his peaceful life.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, indicating couches that were thinly padded. They had been fine once, but time had taken the shine from the cloth, he noted with regret. Not that these soldiers would care, he thought as they took the places he indicated. Only two of them remained standing and he knew they would be the leaders. Such little tricks gave him pleasure.

‘Judging by the look of you, I’d say you have been ransomed by the pirates that infest this coastline,’ he said, his voice drenched in sympathy. He wondered what they would say if they knew that the pirate Celsus often came to the village to talk to his old friend and give him the news and gossip of the cities.

‘Yet this settlement is untouched,’ said the younger of the two.

Varro glanced sharply at him, noting the intense blue stare. One of the eyes had a wide, dark centre that seemed to look through his cheerful manner to the real man. Despite the beards, they all stood straighter and stronger than the miserable groups Celsus would leave nearby every couple of years. He cautioned himself to be careful, not yet sure of the situation. At least he had his sons outside, well armed and ready for his call. It paid to be careful.

‘Those they have ransomed are left along this coast. I’m sure they find it useful to have the men returned to civilisation to keep the ransoms coming in. What would you have us do? We are farmers here. Rome gave us the land for a quiet retirement, not to fight the pirates. That is the job of our galleys, I believe.’ He said the last with a twinkle in his eye, expecting the young man to smile or look embarrassed at failing in that task. The steady gaze never faltered and Varro found his good humour evaporating.

‘The settlement is too small for a bath-house, but there are a few private homes that will take you in and lend you razors.’

‘What about clothes?’ said the older of the two.

Varro realised he didn’t know their names and blinked. This was not the usual way of such conversations. The last group had practically wept to find a Roman in such a strange land, sitting on couches in a well-built stone house.

‘Are you the officer here?’ Varro asked, glancing at the younger man as he spoke.

‘I was the captain of Accipiter, but you have not answered my question,’ Gaditicus replied.

‘We do not have garments for you, I am afraid …’ Varro began.

The young man sprang at him, gripping his throat and pulling him out of his seat. He choked in horror and sudden fear as he was dragged over the table and pressed down onto it, looking up into those blue eyes that seemed to know all his secrets.

‘You are living in a fine house for a farmer,’ the voice hissed at him. ‘Did you think we wouldn’t notice? What rank were you? Who did you serve with?’

The grip lessened to let him speak and Varro thought of calling to his sons, but knew he didn’t dare with the man’s hand still on his throat.

‘I was a centurion, with Marius,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How dare you …’ The fingers tightened again and his voice was cut off. He could barely breathe.

‘Rich family, was it? There are two men outside, hiding. Who are they?’

‘My sons …’

‘Call them in here. They will live, but I’ll not be ambushed as we leave. You will die before they reach you if you warn them. My word on it.’

Varro believed him and called to his sons as soon as he had the breath. He watched in horror as the strangers moved quickly to the door, grabbing the men as they entered and stripping their weapons from them. They tried to shout, but a flurry of blows knocked them down.

‘You are wrong about us. We live a peaceful life here,’ Varro said, his voice almost crushed from him.

‘You have sons. Why haven’t they returned to Rome to join the armies like their fathers? What could hold them here but an alliance with Celsus and men like him?’

The young officer turned to the soldiers who held Varro’s sons.

‘Take them outside and cut their throats,’ he said.

‘No! What do you want from me?’ Varro said quickly.

The blue eyes fastened on his again.

‘I want swords and whatever gold the pirates pay you to be a safe place for them. I want clothes for the men and armour if you have it.’

Varro tried to nod, with the hand still on his neck.

‘You will have it all, though there’s not much coin,’ he said, miserably.

The grip tightened for a second.

‘Don’t play false with me,’ the young man said.

‘Who are you?’ Varro wheezed at him.

‘I am the nephew of the man you swore to serve until death. My name is Julius Caesar,’ he said quietly.

Julius let the man rise, keeping his face stern and forbidding while his spirits leapt in him. How long ago had Marius told him a soldier had to follow his instincts at times? From the first instant of walking into the peaceful village, noting the well-kept main street and the neat houses, he had known that Celsus would not have left it untouched without some arrangement. He wondered if all the villages along the coast would be the same and felt a touch of guilt for a moment. The city retired their legionaries to these distant coasts, giving them land and expecting them to fend for themselves, keeping peace with their presence alone. How else could they survive without bargaining with the pirates? Some of them might have fought at first, but they would have been killed and those that followed had no choice.

He looked over to Varro’s sons and sighed. Those same retired legionaries had children who had never seen Rome, providing new men for the pirate ships when they came. He noted the dark skin of the pair, their features a mingling of Africa and Rome. How many of these would there be, knowing nothing of their fathers’ loyalties? They could never be farmers any more than he could, with a world to see.

Varro rubbed his neck as he watched Julius and tried to guess at his thoughts, his spirits sinking as he saw the strange eyes come to rest on his beloved sons. He feared for them. He could feel the anger in the young officer even now.

‘We never had a choice,’ he said. ‘Celsus would have killed us all.’

‘You should have sent messages to Rome, telling them about the pirates,’ Julius replied distantly, his thoughts elsewhere.

Varro almost laughed. ‘Do you think the Republic cares what happens to us? They make us believe in their dreams while we are young and strong enough to fight for them, but when that is all gone, they forget who we are and go back to convincing another generation of fools, while the Senate grow richer and fatter off the back of lands we have won for them. We were on our own and I did what I had to.’

There was truth in his anger and Julius looked at him, taking in the straighter bearing.

‘Corruption can be cut out,’ he said. ‘With Sulla in control, the Senate is dying.’

Varro shook his head slowly.

‘Son, the Republic was dying long before Sulla came along, but you’re too young to see it.’

Varro collapsed back into his seat, still rubbing his throat. When Julius looked away from him, he found all the officers of Accipiter watching him, waiting patiently.

‘Well, Julius?’ Pelitas said quietly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We gather what we need and move on to the next village, then the next. These people owe us for letting the pirates thrive in their midst. I do not doubt there are many more like this one,’ he replied, indicating Varro.

‘You think you can keep doing this?’ Suetonius said, horrified at what was happening.

‘Of course. Next time, we will have swords and good clothes. It will not be so hard.’

CHAPTER TEN

Tubruk swung the axe smoothly into the cut in the dying oak. A sliver of healthy wood jolted out under the blow, but the dead branches showed it was time for the old tree to come down. It wouldn’t be long until he reached the heartwood and he was sure the core was rotten. He had been working for more than an hour and sweat plastered his linen bracae to him. He had removed his tunic after warming up and felt no need for it, despite the breeze that blew through the woods. The drying perspiration cooled him and he felt at peace. It was difficult not to think about the problems of running the estate after the ransom payment, but he pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating on the swing and strike of the heavy iron blade.

He paused, panting, and rested his hands on the long axe handle. There had been a time when he could have swung an axe all day, but now even the hairs on his chest had turned a winter grey. Foolish to keep pushing himself perhaps, but old age came fastest to those who sat and waited for it and at least the exercise kept his belly flat.

‘I used to climb that tree,’ a voice sounded behind him. Tubruk jumped at the interruption to the quiet of the woods, turning with the axe in his hands.

Brutus was there, sitting on a stump with his arms folded and the old grin making his eyes bright. Tubruk laughed with the pleasure of seeing him and rested the axe against the wide trunk of the oak. For a moment, they didn’t speak, then Tubruk crossed the space to him and gripped him in a great hug, lifting him off the stump.

‘By all the gods, Marcus, it’s good to see you, lad,’ Tubruk said as he let Brutus go. ‘You’ve changed. You’re taller! Let me look at you.’

The old gladiator stepped back and pulled on his tunic.

‘That’s a centurion’s armour. You’ve prospered.’

‘Bronze Fist,’ Brutus replied. ‘Never lost a battle, though we came close once or twice when I was giving the orders.’

‘I doubt it. Gods, I’m proud of you. Are you back for good now, or on your way through?’

‘My posting is over. There are a few things I want to do in the city before finding a new legion.’

For the first time, Tubruk noticed how dusty the young man was.

‘How far have you walked?’

‘Halfway across the world, it feels like. Renius doesn’t like to part with his money for horses, though we found a couple of nags for part of it.’

Tubruk chuckled as he picked up the axe and rested it on his shoulder.

‘He came back with you then? I thought he’d given up on the city when they burned his house in the riots.’

Brutus shrugged. ‘He’s gone to sell the plot and find a place to rent.’

Tubruk smiled in memory. ‘Rome is too quiet for him now. I should think he’d hate it.’ He clapped a hand on Brutus’ shoulder. ‘Come down the hill with me. Your old room is just as it was and a good soak and rub-down will take the dust of the road out of your lungs.’

‘Is Julius back?’ Brutus asked.

Tubruk seemed to slump a little as if the axe had suddenly become heavier.

‘We had to raise a ransom for him when pirates took his galley. We’re still waiting to hear if he’s safe.’

Brutus looked at him in amazement. ‘Gods, I haven’t heard this! Was he wounded?’

‘We know nothing. All I’ve had was the order for the money. I had to pay for guards to load it onto a merchant ship at the coast. Fifty talents, it was.’

‘I didn’t think the family had that kind of money,’ Brutus said quietly.

‘We don’t now. All the businesses had to be sold, as well as some of the estate land. There’s just the crop revenue left. The years will be hard for a while, but there is enough to live on.’

‘He’s had his share of bad luck. Enough for a lifetime.’

‘I doubt he’ll be down for long. Julius and you are the same. Money can always be made again, if you live long enough. Did you know Sulla was dead?’

‘I heard. Even in Greece, the soldiers at the ports wore black. Is it true he was poisoned?’

Tubruk frowned for a second, looking away before replying. ‘It’s true. He made a lot of enemies in the Senate. His general, Antonidus, is still searching for the killers. I don’t think he will ever give up.’

As he spoke, he thought of Fercus and the terrible days that had followed after hearing he had been taken. Tubruk had never known fear like it, waiting for soldiers to march from the city and take him back for trial and execution. They had not come and Antonidus continued to question and search. Tubruk didn’t even dare look for Fercus’ family in case Antonidus was watching them, but he had sworn the debt would be repaid somehow. Fercus had been a true friend but, more than that, he had believed in the Republic with a passion that had surprised the old gladiator when he had first broached the plan for killing Sulla. Fercus had hardly needed to be persuaded.

‘… Tubruk?’ Brutus broke into his thoughts, looking curious.

‘I’m sorry. I was thinking of the past. They say the Republic has returned and Rome is once again a city of law, but it isn’t true. They sink their teeth into each other to prevent anyone taking over from Sulla. Only recently, two senators were executed for treason on nothing more than the word of their accusers. They bribe and steal and give out free corn to the mob, who fill their bellies and go home satisfied. It is a strange city, Marcus.’

Brutus put his hand on Tubruk’s shoulder.

‘I did not know you cared so much about it,’ he said.

‘I always did, but I trusted more when I was younger. I thought that men like Sulla and, yes, Marius could not harm her, but they can. They can kill her. Do you know that free corn wipes out small farmers? They cannot sell their crops. Their lands are put up for sale and added to the swollen holdings of the senators. Those farmers end up on the city streets being given the very corn that ruined them.’

‘There will be better men in the Senate in time. A new generation, like Julius.’

Tubruk’s expression eased a little, but Brutus was shocked at the depth of the bitterness and sadness he had seen revealed. Tubruk had always been a pillar of certainty in the lives of the boys. He struggled to find the right words to say.

‘We will make a Rome that you can be proud of,’ he said.

Tubruk reached up and gripped his outstretched arm.

‘Oh, to be young again,’ he said, smiling. ‘Come on home, Aurelia will be thrilled to see you so tall and strong.’

‘Tubruk? I …’ Brutus hesitated. ‘I won’t stay for long. I have enough coin to get lodgings in the city.’

Tubruk glanced at him, understanding. ‘This is your home. It always will be. You stay as long as you want.’

The silence stretched again as they walked towards the estate buildings.

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d expect me to make my own way now. I can, you know.’

‘I know, Marcus,’ Tubruk replied, smiling as he called out for the gates to be opened.

The young man felt a weight lift from him. ‘They call me Brutus now.’

Tubruk put out his hand and Brutus took it in the legionary’s grip.

‘Welcome home, Brutus,’ Tubruk said.

He led Brutus into the kitchens while the water was heated for his bath, motioning him to a chair while Tubruk cut meat and bread for him. He was hungry himself after the axe work and they ate and talked with the ease and comfort of old friends.

The heat seemed to batter at his skin as Julius inspected the six new recruits. The African sun even made his armour painful to touch and anywhere the metal made contact with his skin was an agony until he could shift it.

Nothing of his discomfort showed in his expression, though the first doubts tugged at his concentration as he looked at the men he’d found. They were strong and fit enough, but not one of them had been trained as a soldier. For his plan to work, he needed a force of fifty at least and had begun to believe that he would get them. The trouble was, they needed to take orders and make war with the sort of discipline the Accipiter officers took completely for granted. Somehow, he had to impress upon them the simple fact that they would die without it.

Physically, they were impressive enough, but only two of the six had volunteered and these from the last village. He expected there to be more as they came to resemble a proper Roman half-century, but the first four had come because he had insisted on it and they were still angry. The second village had seemed happy to be rid of the largest of them and Julius guessed he was a troublemaker. His expression seemed set in a constant sneer that irritated Julius every time he saw it.

Renius would have beaten them into shape for him, he thought. That was a start. He had to think what Renius would do. Gaditicus and the others from Accipiter had followed him this far, hardly believing how easy it had been after the first settlement. Julius wondered how many Romans in all the hundreds of retirement farms had sons who could be taught to fight. There was an army out there and all that was needed was for someone to find them and remind them of the call of blood.

He stopped next to the troublemaker, and saw how the eyes met his with polite enquiry and not a trace of fear or respect. He towered over most of them, his limbs long and lithely muscled, shining with sweat. The biting flies that tormented the officers of Accipiter seemed not to trouble him at all and he stood like a statue in the heat. The man reminded him of Marcus to some extent. He looked every inch a Roman, but even the Latin he spoke was a corrupted mix of African dialect and phrases. Julius knew his father had died and left him a farm which he had neglected to the point of ruin. Left alone, he would have been killed in a fight or joined the pirates when the last of the money and wine ran out.

What was the man’s name? Julius prided himself on learning them quickly as he had once seen Marius could do for every man under his command, yet under the cool stare, he couldn’t think of it at first. Then it came to him. He had told them to call him Ciro, giving no other. He probably didn’t even know it was a slave name. What would Renius do?

‘I need men who can fight,’ he said, looking into the brown eyes that returned his glare so steadily.

‘I can fight,’ Ciro replied, his confidence obvious.

‘I need men who can keep their temper in a crisis,’ Julius continued.

‘I can …’ Ciro began.

Julius slapped him hard across the face. For a moment, anger flared in the dark eyes, but Ciro held himself still, the muscles of his bare chest twitching like a great cat. Julius leaned close to him.

‘Do you want to take up a sword? Cut me down?’ he whispered harshly.

‘No,’ Ciro replied, and the calm was back once more.

‘Why not?’ Julius asked, wondering how to reach him.

‘My father … said a legionary had to have control.’

Julius stayed where he was, though his thoughts spun wildly. There was a lever here.

‘You didn’t have control in the settlement where we found you, did you?’ he said, hoping he had guessed correctly about Ciro’s relationship with the villagers. The big man said nothing for a long time and Julius waited patiently, knowing not to interrupt.

‘I wasn’t … a legionary then,’ Ciro said.

Julius eyed him, looking for the insolence he had come to expect. It was missing and silently he cursed the Senate for wasting men like these, who dreamed of being legionaries while wasting their lives in a strange land.

‘You are not a legionary,’ Julius said slowly and saw the mouth begin to twist in response to the rejection, ‘but I can make you one. You will learn brotherhood with me and from me, and you will walk the streets of the distant city with your head high. If anyone stops you, you will tell them you are a soldier of Caesar.’

‘I will,’ Ciro said.

‘Sir.’

‘I will, sir,’ he said and stood tall.

Julius stood back to address the recruits, standing with the waiting officers of Accipiter.

‘With men like you, what can’t we achieve? You are the children of Rome and we will show you your history and your pride. We will teach you the gladius and battle formations, the laws, the customs, the life. There will be more to come and you will train them, showing what it means to be of Rome. Now we march. The next village will see legionaries when they see you.’

The line of pairs was ragged and out of step, but Julius knew that would improve. He wondered if Renius would have seen the need in the new men, but dismissed the thought. Renius wasn’t here. He was.

Gaditicus waited with him, falling in beside as they brought up the rear of the column.

‘They follow you,’ he noted.

Julius turned quickly to him. ‘They must, if we are ever to crew a ship and take back our ransoms.’

Gaditicus snorted softly, clapping his hand on Julius’ armour.

Julius faltered and stopped. ‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Tell them we’ll catch them up. Quickly!’

Gaditicus gave the order and watched as the double file of Romans marched away along the path. They were quickly out of sight around a bend and Gaditicus turned to Julius enquiringly. He had gone pale and shut his eyes.

‘Is it the sickness again?’ Gaditicus asked.

Julius nodded weakly.

‘Before … the last fit, I tasted metal in my mouth. I can taste it now.’ He hawked and spat, his expression bitter. ‘Don’t tell them. Don’t …’

Gaditicus caught him as he fell and held him down as his body jerked and twisted, his sandals cutting arcs in the undergrowth with the violence of their movement. The biting flies seemed to sense his weakness and swarmed around them. Gaditicus looked around for something to jam between Julius’ teeth, but the cloth they had used on Accipiter was long gone. He wrenched up a heavy leaf and managed to get the fibrous stalk across Julius’ mouth, letting it fall in as the mouth champed. It held and Gaditicus bore down with all his weight until the fit was over.

Finally, Julius was able to sit up and spit out the stalk he’d almost bitten through. He felt as if he had been beaten unconscious. He grimaced as he saw his bladder had released and thumped his fists into the earth in fury, scattering the flies before they darted back at his exposed skin.

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