EMPEROR THE FIELD OF SWORDS

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 2005

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2005

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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: 9780007437146

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321773

Version: 2017-05-22

To my daughter Mia, and my wife Ella

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

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

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

About the Publisher

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Julius stood by the open window, gazing out over Spanish hills. The setting sun splashed gold along a distant crest so that it seemed to hang in the air unsupported, a vein of light in the distance. Behind him, the murmur of conversation rose and fell without interrupting his thoughts. He could smell honeysuckle on the breeze and the touch of it in his nostrils made his own rank sweat even more pungent as the delicate fragrance shifted in the air and was gone.

It had been a long day. When he pressed a hand against his eyes, he could feel a surge of exhaustion rise in him like dark water. The voices in the campaign room mingled with the creak of chairs and the rustle of maps. How many hundreds of evenings had he spent on the upper floor of the fort with those men? The routine had become a comfort for them all at the end of a day and even when there was nothing to discuss, they still gathered in the campaign rooms to drink and talk. It kept Rome alive in their minds and at times they could almost forget that they had not seen their home for more than four years.

At first, Julius had embraced the problems of the regions and hardly thought of Rome for months at a time. The days had flown as he rose and slept with the sun and the Tenth made towns in the wilderness. On the coast, Valentia had been transformed with lime and wood and paint until it was almost a new city veneered over the old. They had laid roads to chain the land and bridges that opened the wild hills to settlers. Julius had worked with a frenetic, twitching energy in those first years, using exhaustion like a drug to force away his memories. Then he would sleep and Cornelia would come to him. Those were the nights when he would leave his sweat-soaked bed and ride out to the watch posts, appearing out of the darkness unannounced until the Tenth were as nervous and tired as he was himself.

As if to mock his indifference, his engineers had found gold in two new seams, richer than any they had known before. The yellow metal had its own allure and when Julius had seen the first haul spilled out of a cloth onto his desk, he had looked at it with hatred for what it represented. He had come to Spain with nothing, but the ground gave up its secrets and with the wealth came the tug of the old city and the life he had almost forgotten.

He sighed at the thought. Spain was such a treasure house it would be difficult to leave her, but part of him knew he could not lose himself there for much longer. Life was too precious to be wasted, and too short.

The room was warm with the press of bodies. The maps of the new mines were stretched out on low tables, held by weights. Julius could hear Renius arguing with Brutus and the low cadence of Domitius chuckling. Only the giant Ciro was silent. Yet even those who spoke were marking time until Julius joined them. They were good men. Each one of them had stood with him against enemies and through grief and there were times when Julius could imagine how it might have been to cross the world with them. They were men to walk a finer path than to be forgotten in Spain and Julius could not bear the sympathy he saw in their eyes. He knew he deserved only contempt for having brought them to that place and buried himself in petty work.

If Cornelia had lived, he would have taken her with him to Spain. It would have been a new start, far away from the intrigues of the city. He bowed his head as the evening breeze touched his face. It was an old pain and there were whole days when he did not think of her. Then the guilt would surface and the dreams would be terrible, as if in punishment for the lapse.

‘Julius? The guard is at the door for you,’ Brutus said, touching him on the shoulder. Julius nodded and turned back to the men in the room, his eyes seeking out the stranger amongst them.

The legionary looked nervous as he glanced around at the map-laden tables and the jugs of wine, clearly awed by the people within.

‘Well?’ Julius said.

The soldier swallowed as he met the dark eyes of his general. There was no kindness in that hard, fleshless face and the young legionary stammered slightly.

‘A young Spanish at the gate, General. He says he’s the one we’re looking for.’

The conversations in the room died away and the guard wished he were anywhere else but under the scrutiny of those men.

‘Have you checked him for weapons?’ Julius said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then bring him to me. I want to speak to the man who has caused me so much trouble.’

Julius stood waiting at the top of the stairs as the Spaniard was brought up. His clothes were too small for his gangling limbs and the face was caught in the change between man and boy, though there was no softness in the bony jaw. As their eyes met, the Spaniard hesitated, stumbling.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ Julius said as they came level.

‘Adàn,’ the Spaniard forced out.

‘You killed my officer?’ Julius said, with a sneer.

The young man froze, then nodded, his expression wavering between fear and determination. He could see the faces turned towards him in the room and his courage seemed to desert him then at the thought of stepping into their midst. He might have held back if the guard hadn’t shoved him across the threshold.

‘Wait below,’ Julius told the legionary, suddenly irritated.

Adàn refused to bow his head in the face of the hostile glares of the Romans, though he could not remember being more frightened in his life. As Julius closed the door behind him, he started silently, cursing his nervousness. Adàn watched as the general sat down facing him and a dull terror overwhelmed him. Should he keep his hands by his sides? All of a sudden, they seemed awkward and he considered folding them or clasping his fingers behind his back. The silence was painful as he waited and still they had their eyes on him. Adàn swallowed with difficulty, determined not to show his fear.

‘You knew enough to tell me your name. Can you understand me?’ Julius asked.

Adàn worked spit into his dry mouth. ‘I can,’ he said. At least his voice hadn’t quavered like a boy’s. He squared his shoulders slightly and glanced at the others, almost recoiling from the naked animosity from one of them, a bear of a man with one arm who seemed to be practically growling with anger.

‘You told the guards you were the one we were looking for, the one who killed the soldier,’ Julius said.

Adàn’s gaze snapped back to him.

‘I did it. I killed him,’ he replied, the words coming in a rush.

‘You tortured him,’ Julius added.

Adàn swallowed again. He had imagined this scene as he walked over the dark fields to the fort, but he couldn’t summon the defiance he had pictured. He felt as if he was confessing to his father, and it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet in shame, despite his intentions.

‘He was trying to rape my mother. I took him into the woods. She tried to stop me, but I would not listen to her,’ Adàn said stiffly, trying to remember the words he had practised.

Someone in the room muttered an oath, but Adàn could not tear his eyes away from the general. He felt an obscure relief that he had told them. Now they would kill him and his parents would be released.

Thinking of his mother was a mistake. Tears sprang from nowhere to rim his eyes and he blinked them back furiously. She would want him to be strong in front of these men.

Julius watched him. The young Spaniard was visibly trembling, and with reason. He had only to give the order and Adàn would be taken out into the yard and executed in front of the assembled ranks. It would be the end of it, but a memory stayed his hand.

‘Why have you given yourself up, Adàn?’

‘My family have been taken in for questioning, General. They are innocent. I am the one you want.’

‘You think your death will save them?’

Adàn hesitated. How could he explain that only that thin hope had made him come?

‘They have done nothing wrong.’

Julius raised a hand to scratch his eyebrow, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair as he thought.

‘When I was younger than you, Adàn, I stood in front of a Roman named Cornelius Sulla. He had murdered my uncle and broken everything I valued in the world. He told me I would go free if I put aside my wife and shamed her with her father. He cherished such little acts of spite.’

For a moment, Julius looked into the unimaginable distance of the past and Adàn felt sweat break out on his forehead. Why was the man talking to him? He had already confessed; there was nothing else. Despite his fear, he felt interest kindle. The Romans seemed to bear only one face in Spain. To hear they had rivalry and enemies within their own ranks was a revelation.

‘I hated that man, Adàn,’ Julius continued. ‘If I had been given a weapon, I would have used it on him even though it meant my own life. I wonder if you understand that sort of hatred.’

‘You did not give up your wife?’ Adàn asked.

Julius blinked at the sudden question, then smiled bitterly.

‘No. I refused and he let me live. The floor at his feet was spattered with the blood of people he had killed and tortured, yet he let me live. I have often wondered why.’

‘He did not think you were a threat,’ Adàn said, surprised by his own courage to speak so to the general. Julius shook his head in memory.

‘I doubt it. I told him I would devote my life to killing him if he set me free.’ For a moment, he almost said aloud how his friend had poisoned the Dictator, but that part of the story could never be told, not even to the men in that room.

Julius shrugged. ‘He died by someone else’s hand, in the end. It is one of the regrets of my life that I could not do it myself and watch the life fade from his eyes.’

Adàn had to look away from the fire he saw in the Roman. He believed him and the thought of this man ordering his own death with such malice made him shudder.

Julius did not speak again for a long time and Adàn felt weak with the tension, his head jerking upwards as the general broke the silence at last.

‘There are murderers in the cells here and in Valentia. One of them will be hanged for your crimes as well as his own. You, I am going to pardon. I will sign my name to it and you will go back to your home with your family and never come to my attention again.’

Renius snorted in amazement. ‘I would like a private word, General,’ he grated, looking venomously at Adàn. The young Spaniard stood with his mouth open.

‘You may not have one, Renius. I have spoken and it will stand,’ Julius replied without looking at him. He watched the boy for a moment and felt a weight lift off him. He had made the right decision, he was sure. He had seen himself in the Spaniard’s eyes and it was like lifting a veil into his memory. How frightening Sulla had seemed then. To Adàn, Julius would have been another of that cruel type, wrapped in metal armour and harder thoughts. How close he had come to sending Adàn to be impaled, or burnt, or nailed to the gates of the fort, as Sulla had with so many of his enemies. It was an irony that Sulla’s old whim had saved Adàn, but Julius had caught himself before he gave the order for death and wondered at what he was becoming. He would not be those men he had hated. Age would not force him into their mould, if he had the strength. He rose from his seat and faced Adàn.

‘I do not expect you to waste this chance, Adàn. You will not have another from me.’

Adàn almost burst into tears, emotions roiling and overwhelming him. He had prepared himself for death and having it snatched away and freedom promised was too much for him. On an impulse, he took a step forward and went down on one knee before anyone could react.

Julius stood slowly, looking down at the young man before him.

‘We are not the enemy, Adàn. Remember that. I will have a scribe prepare the pardon. Wait below for me,’ he said.

Adàn rose and looked into the Roman’s dark eyes for a last moment before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall, wiping sweat from his face. He felt dizzy with relief and every breath he pulled in was clear and cold. He could not understand why he had been spared.

The guard in the room below craned his head to stare up at Adàn’s slumped figure in the shadows.

‘Shall I heat the knives for you then?’ the Roman sneered up at him.

‘Not today,’ Adàn replied, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over the man’s face.

Brutus pressed a cup of wine into Julius’ hand, pouring expertly from an amphora.

‘Are you going to tell us why you let him go?’ he said.

Julius lifted the cup to cut off the flow and drank from it before holding it out again. ‘Because he was brave,’ he said.

Renius rubbed the bristles of his chin with his hand. ‘He will be famous in the towns, you realise. He will be the man who faced us and lived. They’ll probably make him mayor when old Del Subió dies. The young ones will flock around him and before you know it …’

‘Enough,’ Julius interrupted, his face flushing from the heady wine. ‘The sword is not the answer to everything, no matter how you may wish it so. We have to live with them without sending our men out in pairs and watching every alley and track for ambush.’ His hands cut shapes in the air as he strained to find words for the thought.

‘They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?’

‘I understand,’ Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’ reply.

Julius’ face lit with the idea. ‘There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is of Rome.’ He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. ‘Rome is … an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adán to cast us off would be like tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.’

‘Unless he killed the man for sport,’ Renius said, ‘and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.’ He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

‘I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?’ His voice had risen as he spoke and Renius turned to face him, realising he had gone too far.

Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him.

‘If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand that?’

Renius froze. ‘I know that, of course, you …’

Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish and he was left feeling empty and tired.

‘Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.’

Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.

There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.

‘I cannot go back,’ he said aloud, his voice cracking.

Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.

They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.

‘He wants you,’ Renius said.

Cabera looked up at his tone. ‘Hand me that pot, will you?’

Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humour dampened.

‘You’re worried about Julius,’ the old healer said.

Renius shrugged. ‘He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I … can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.’

Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’ arm.

‘He knows you’re here, if he needs you,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a sleeping draught for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.’

Renius shook his head. ‘Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.’

Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.

‘You are a good man, Renius,’ he said, too quietly to be heard.

CHAPTER TWO

Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.

The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.

‘I will buy his catch, Captain,’ Servilia said.

The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.

‘They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,’ he said.

She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.

‘Nonetheless, the sun is hot and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.’

The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labours, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.

‘Won’t your little boat drift away?’ she asked.

The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.

‘He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.’

Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.

The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.

‘Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?’ she asked.

The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.

‘Just a few coppers will do, madam,’ he said.

Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the captain and jerked his knot free before climbing the rail and diving into the blue water below. Servilia leaned over to watch him surface and laughed with pleasure as he pulled himself back in, gleaming in the sunlight like his fish. He pulled his net out of the water and waved to her.

‘What a wonderful beginning,’ she breathed. The captain muttered something unintelligible.

The crewmen who held the fish brought wooden clubs out of a deck locker and, before Servilia realised what they were doing, brought them down on the shining heads with a grim thumping sound. The shining eyes disappeared under the force of the blows, knocked inside the head as blood spattered over the deck. Servilia grimaced as a spot of it touched her arm. The seamen were clearly enjoying themselves, suddenly more vital than they had been at any point in the voyage from Ostia. It was as if they had come alive in the killing and they chuckled and joked with each other as they finished the grisly task.

When the last of the fish were dead, the deck was coated in their blood and tiny silver scales. Servilia watched as the seamen threw a canvas bucket on a line into the sea and sluiced the planks clean.

‘The port is tight with ships, madam,’ the captain said at her shoulder, squinting against the sun. ‘I’ll take her in as close as I can, but we’ll have to anchor for a few hours until there’s a place on the dock.’ Servilia turned to look again at Valentia, suddenly longing to be on land again.

‘As you say, Captain,’ she murmured.

The mountains behind the port seemed to fill the horizon, green and red against the dark blue of the sky. Her son, Brutus, was somewhere over them and seeing him after so long would be wonderful. Strangely, her stomach tightened almost to an ache when she thought of the young man who was his friend. She wondered how the years had changed him and touched her hair unconsciously, smoothing it back where it had fallen in tendrils, made damp by the sea air.

Evening had muted the heat of the sun into grey softness by the time the Roman trade ship was able to ease between the lines of anchored shipping and take her place on the dock. Servilia had brought three of her most beautiful girls with her and they joined her on deck with the crew as they threw ropes to the dockworkers and used the steering oars to bring them safe against the massive wooden beams of the side. It was a delicate manoeuvre and the captain showed his skill in its neatness, as he communicated with the mate at the bow with a series of hand signals and calls.

There was a general air of excitement and the young girls Servilia had brought laughed and joked as the workers on the docks caught sight of them and called ribald comments. Servilia let them preen without a word; all three were the rarity in her business who had not yet lost the love for the work. In fact, Angelina, the youngest, was constantly falling in love with her customers and few months went by without some romantic offering to buy her for marriage. The price always seemed to surprise them and Angelina would sulk for days before someone else took her fancy.

The girls were dressed as modestly as the daughters of any great house. Servilia had taken enormous care with their safety, knowing that even a short sea journey gave a sense of freedom to men that could have caused trouble. Their dresses were cut to obscure the lines of their young bodies, though there were more provocative garments in the trunks Servilia had brought along. If the letters Brutus had sent were correct, there would be a market and the three girls would be the first in the new house she would buy. The sailors who grunted and complained under the heavy trunks would have been shocked at the weight of gold that had been split between them.

Servilia’s perusal of the docks was interrupted as Angelina shrieked suddenly. Servilia’s sharp glance took in the sailor hurrying away and Angelina’s pleased outrage, before she turned back. They had reached land not a moment too soon, she thought.

The captain shouted for the dockworkers to make the ropes fast and the crew cheered the announcement, already anticipating the pleasures of the port. Servilia caught the captain’s eye and he crossed the deck to her, suddenly more genial than she had grown to expect.

‘We won’t break out the cargo until tomorrow morning now,’ he said. ‘I can recommend a few places if you want to go ashore and there’s a cousin of mine who’ll rent you as many carts as you want, at a good price.’

‘Thank you, Captain. It’s been a great pleasure.’ Servilia smiled at him, pleased to see a blush start high on his cheeks. Angelina was not the only one with a circle of admirers on the ship, she thought with some pleasure.

The captain cleared his throat and raised his chin to speak again, looking suddenly nervous.

‘I will be dining alone later, if you would like to join me. There’ll be fresh fruit sent to the ship, so it’ll be better than we’re used to.’

Servilia laid a hand on his arm and felt the heat of his skin beneath his tunic.

‘It will have to be another time, I’m afraid. I’d like to be moving by dawn. Would you be able to have my trunks taken off first? I’ll speak to the legion to arrange a guard on it until the carts are loaded.’

The captain nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. His first mate had told him the woman was a whore, but he had the intense impression that offering her money to stay with him would lead to an awful humiliation. For a moment he looked so terribly lonely that Servilia considered letting Angelina raise his spirits. The little blonde loved older men. They were always so desperately grateful, and for such little effort. Looking at him, Servilia guessed he would probably refuse the offer. Men of his years often wanted the company of a mature woman as much as the physical pleasures and Angelina’s earthy frankness would only embarrass him.

‘Your trunks will be first on the dock, madam. It has been a pleasure,’ he said, looking wistfully after her as she went to climb the steps onto the dock. A number of his crew had gathered in case the younger women were unsteady crossing the rail and his eyebrows drew together as he considered them. After a moment of thought, he followed Servilia, knowing instinctively that he should be there to help the men.

Julius was deep in work when the guard knocked on the door to his rooms.

‘What is it?’

The legionary looked unusually nervous as he saluted.

‘I think you’d better come down to the gate, sir. You should see this.’

Raising his eyebrows, Julius followed the man down the steps and out into the powerful afternoon sun. There was a peculiar tension affecting the soldiers who clustered around the gate, and as they parted for him Julius noticed one or two with the strained faces of men trying not to smile. Their amusement and the heat seemed to feed the prickling anger that had become the foundation of his waking hours.

Beyond the open gate was a string of heavily laden carts, their drivers lightly coated by the dust of the road. A full twenty of the Tenth had taken station to the fore and rear of the odd procession. With narrowed eyes, Julius recognised the officer as one who had been dispatched on port duty the previous day and his temper frayed still further. Like the carts, the legionaries were coated in enough dust to show they had walked every step of the way.

Julius glared at them.

‘I do not recall giving orders for you to escort trade goods from the coast,’ he snapped. ‘There had better be an excellent reason for leaving your post and disobeying my orders. I cannot think of one myself, but perhaps you will surprise me.’

The officer paled slightly under the dust.

‘The lady, sir …’ he began.

‘What? What lady?’ Julius replied, losing patience with the man’s hesitation. Another voice sounded then, making him start in recognition.

‘I told your men you could not object to them helping an old friend,’ Servilia said, stepping down from the riding seat of a cart and walking towards him.

For a moment, Julius could not respond. Her dark hair was wild around her head and his eyes drank in the sight of her. Surrounded by men, she seemed fresh and cool, perfectly aware of the sensation she caused. She walked like a stalking cat, wearing a brown cotton dress that left her arms and neck uncovered. She wore no jewels but a simple chain of gold ending in a pendant that was almost hidden as it disappeared between her breasts.

‘Servilia. You should not have presumed on a friendship,’ Julius said, stiffly.

She shrugged and smiled as if it were nothing.

‘I hope you won’t punish them, General. The docks can be dangerous without guards, and I had no one else to help me.’

Julius looked coldly at her, before returning his gaze to the officer. The man had followed the exchange and now stood with the glazed expression of one who waited for bad news.

‘My orders were clear?’ Julius asked him.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you and your men will take the next two watches. Your rank makes you more responsible than they, does it not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the hapless soldier replied.

Julius nodded. ‘When you are relieved, you will report to your centurion to be flogged. Tell him twenty strokes on my order and your name to be entered in the lists for disobedience. Now run back.’

The officer saluted smartly and spun on his heel. ‘Turn about!’ he shouted to his twenty. ‘Double speed back to the docks.’

With Julius there, no one dared groan, though they would be exhausted before they were halfway back to their original post and the watches to come would see them dropping with tiredness.

Julius stared after them until they were clear of the line of carts, before turning back to Servilia. She stood stiffly, trying to hide her surprise and guilt at what her request had brought about.

‘You have come to see your son?’ Julius said to her, frowning. ‘He is training with the legion and should be back at dusk.’ He looked at the line of carts and bellowing oxen, clearly caught between his irritation at the unexpected arrival and the demands of courtesy. After a long silence, he relented.

‘You may wait inside for Brutus. I will have someone water your animals and bring you a meal.’

‘Thank you for your kindness,’ Servilia replied, smiling to cover her confusion. She couldn’t begin to understand the differences in the young general. The whole of Rome knew he had lost his wife, but it was like speaking to another man from the one she had known. Dark pouches ringed his eyes, but it was more than simple tiredness. When she had seen him last, he had been ready to take arms against Spartacus and the fires in him were barely controlled. Her heart went out to him for what he had lost.

At that moment, Angelina leapt onto the road from her cart at the back of the line and waved, calling something to Servilia. Both she and Julius stiffened as the girlish voice rang out.

‘Who is that?’ Julius said, his eyes narrowing against the glare.

‘A companion, General. I have three young ladies with me for the trip.’

Something in her tone made Julius glance at her in sudden suspicion.

‘Are they …’

‘Companions, General, yes,’ she replied lightly. ‘All good girls.’ For the right price, they could be superb, she added silently.

‘I’ll put a guard on their door. The men are not used to …’ he hesitated. ‘It may be necessary to keep a guard. On the door.’

To Servilia’s intense pleasure, a slow blush had started on Julius’ cheeks. There was still life in him, somewhere deep, she thought. Her nostrils flared slightly with the excitement of a hunt. As Julius marched back between the gates, she watched him and smiled, pressing the fullness of her lower lip between her teeth in amusement. Not too old after all, she told herself, smoothing her tangled hair with a hand.

Brutus stretched his back muscles as he rode the last miles towards the fort. His century of extraordinarii were in formation behind him and he felt a touch of pride as he glanced to each side and saw the neat line of cantering horses. Domitius was in position on his right and Octavian held the line a few places along. They thundered over the plain together, raising a plume of dust that left the taste of bitter earth in their mouths. The air was warm around them and their mood was light. They were all tired, but it was that pleasant lethargy of skilled work, with food and a good night’s sleep only a little way ahead.

As the fort came into sight, Brutus called to Domitius over the noise of the horses, ‘Let’s give them a show. Split and wheel on my signal.’

The guards on the gate would be watching them come in, he knew. Though the extraordinarii had been together for less than two years, Julius had given him what he wanted in the way of men and horses, and he had wanted the best of the Tenth. Man for man, Brutus would have wagered on them against any army in the world. They were the charge-breakers, the first into impossible positions. Every one of them had been picked for his ability with horse and sword and Brutus was proud of them all. He knew the rest of the Tenth considered them more show than substance, but then the legion hadn’t seen a battle in their time in Spain. When the extraordinarii had been blooded and shown what they could do, they would justify their expense, he was certain. The armour alone had cost a small fortune: laced bronze and iron strips that allowed them greater movement than the heavier plates of the triarii legionaries. The men of Brutus’ extraordinarii had polished the metals to a high sheen and, against the glossy skin of their mounts, they glowed in the dying sun.

Brutus raised his hand and made sharp gestures to each side. He kicked his mount into a gallop as the group slid smoothly apart as if an invisible line had been drawn on the ground. Now the wind pressed against Brutus’ face and he laughed with excitement, not needing to look to know the formation was perfect. Specks of white spittle flew back from his horse’s mouth and he leaned forward into the saddle-horn, gripping with his legs and feeling as if he was flying.

The fort was growing with astonishing rapidity and, caught up in the moment as he was, Brutus almost left it too late for the signal to re-form the split square. The two groups swerved together only moments before they were changing their holds on the reins to halt, but there were no mistakes. As one man, they dismounted, patting the steaming necks of the stallions and geldings Julius had brought over from Rome. Only cut mounts could be used against enemy cavalry, as intact stallions could be sent berserk by the scent of a mare in season. It was a balancing act between taking the best for the extraordinarii and keeping the bloodlines strong. Even the local Spanish whistled and called when they saw those horses, their love of the breed overcoming the usual reticence they showed to the Roman soldiers.

Brutus was laughing at something Domitius had said when he caught sight of his mother. His eyes widened for a moment before he rushed under the gate arch to embrace her.

‘Your letters didn’t mention this!’ he said, lifting her up to her toes and kissing her on both cheeks.

‘I thought you might become overexcited,’ Servilia replied. They both laughed and Brutus put her down.

Servilia held him back at arm’s length and smiled to see him so full of life. The years in Spain had suited her only son. He had a force for life in him that made other men look up and stand straighter in his presence.

‘As handsome as ever, I see,’ she said with a twinkle. ‘I suppose you have a string of local girls pining after you.’

‘I daren’t go out without a guard to save me from the poor creatures,’ he replied.

Domitius appeared suddenly, moving between them to force an introduction.

‘Ah, yes, this is Domitius, who cleans the horses. Have you met Octavian? He’s kin to Julius.’ Grinning at Domitius’ appalled expression, Brutus had to wave Octavian closer.

Octavian was overcome and attempted a salute that ended in more confusion, making Brutus laugh. He was too familiar with the effect his mother could have to be surprised by it, but he noticed they were quickly becoming the centre of an admiring circle of the extraordinarii as they jostled to see the new arrival in their midst.

Servilia waved to them, enjoying the attention after the dull month at sea.

Young men were so peculiarly vibrant, untouched by the fears of age or death. They stood around her like innocent gods, and lifted her with their confidence.

‘Have you seen Julius, Mother? He …’ Brutus broke off at the sudden hush that fell over the yard. Three young women swept out of an archway and the crowd of soldiers parted before them. They were all beautiful in different ways. The youngest was blonde and slight, her cheeks lit with rising colour as she walked towards Servilia. At her shoulders were two others with features to make grown men weep into their wine.

The spell of their entrance was broken as someone let out a low whistle and the crowd came back to life.

Servilia raised an eyebrow at Angelina as they met. The girl knew exactly what she was doing. Servilia had seen that in her from the beginning. She was the sort of woman men fought each other to protect and her presence in a drinking house was usually enough to start a riot before the evening was over. Servilia had found her serving wine and giving away what men would pay well for. It had not taken much persuasion, considering the sums involved. Servilia kept two-fifths of everything Angelina earned in the house in Rome and still the young blonde was becoming a wealthy woman in her own right. As things stood, she would be looking to start her own establishment in a few years, and she would come to Servilia for the loan.

‘We were worried about you, mistress,’ Angelina lied cheerfully.

Brutus eyed her with open interest and she returned his gaze without embarrassment. Under the girl’s scrutiny, he could hardly confirm the suspicion that had come into his mind. Though he told himself he had come to terms with Servilia’s profession, the thought of his men knowing showed him he was not as secure as he’d thought.

‘Are you going to introduce us, Mother?’ he asked.

Angelina widened her eyes for a split second.

‘This is your son? He’s just as you said. How wonderful.’

Servilia had never discussed Brutus with Angelina, but was caught between exasperation at the girl’s transparency and a shrewder part of her that could smell the money to be made. The crowd had grown, around them. These were not men used to the attentions of young women. She began to suspect that from legion trade alone Valentia was going to be very profitable indeed.

‘This is Angelina,’ she said.

Brutus bowed and Angelina’s eyes sparkled at his courtesy.

‘You must join us at the general’s table this evening. I’ll raid the cellar for wine and we’ll wash the dust of the road off you.’ He held Angelina’s eyes as he spoke and managed to make the proposition sound remarkably sexual. Servilia cleared her throat to interrupt them.

‘Lead us in, Brutus.’

The extraordinarii parted again to let them through. The hot meal that awaited them in their barracks did not seem half as tempting as it had on the ride back, without the company of the women as a spice. They stood as if abandoned in the courtyard until the small procession had disappeared inside. The spell was broken then and they broke apart to care for the horses, suddenly brisk in their movements as if they had never been interrupted at all.

Despite Angelina’s protests, Servilia left her three companions in the rooms they had been given. Someone had to unpack the trunks and for that first night Servilia wanted her son’s full attention. She had not brought them to Valentia to find Brutus a wife from their number, after all.

Julius did not come down with the others, sending a curt apology with his personal guard when Brutus asked if he would join them. Servilia saw the refusal did not surprise any of the men at the table and wondered again at the changes Spain had wrought in them.

In Servilia’s honour, the meal was a mixture of local dishes, served in an array of small bowls. The spices and peppers made Octavian cough until he had to be thumped on the back and given wine to clear his throat. He had been in awe of Servilia from the first moment in the courtyard and Brutus teased him subtly, while Servilia pretended not to notice the boy’s discomfort.

The room was lit with warm, flickering lamps, and the wine was as good as Brutus had promised. It was a pleasant meal and Servilia found that she was enjoying the banter between the men. Domitius allowed himself to be persuaded into telling one of his stories, though the conclusion was spoiled slightly as Cabera called it out with enthusiasm, then thumped the table in amusement.

‘That story was old when I was a boy,’ the old man cackled, reaching over to take a portion of fish from a bowl near Octavian. The young man was about to take the same piece and Cabera slapped his fingers to make him drop it, scooping up the rich flesh as it fell. Octavian scowled at him, clearly stifling a response as he remembered the presence of Servilia at the table.

‘How did you come to be with the Tenth legion, Domitius?’ Servilia asked.

‘Brutus arranged it when we were down in the south fighting Spartacus. I’d let him win a couple of practice bouts out of fairness, but on the whole he saw that he could benefit from my training.’

‘Lies!’ Brutus said, laughing. ‘I asked him in passing if he would be willing to transfer to the new legion and he practically bit my arm off in enthusiasm. Julius had to pay a fortune in compensation to the legate. We’re all still waiting to see if he’ll be worth it.’

Domitius waited patiently until Brutus was drinking from his wine cup.

‘I’m the best of my generation, you see,’ he told Servilia, watching in amusement as Brutus fought not to choke, turning red in the process.

The sound of footsteps made them all look up and the men rose together to welcome Julius. He took his place at the head of the table and signalled for them to sit. Servants brought fresh dishes and Brutus filled a cup with wine, smiling when he saw Julius raise an eyebrow at the quality.

The conversation began again and as it did Servilia caught Julius’ eye and inclined her head slightly. He copied the gesture, accepting her at the table, and she found herself letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

There was an authority to him that she couldn’t recall seeing before. He didn’t join in the laughter, merely smiling at the more outrageous chatter. He punished the wine, Servilia noted, drinking as if it was water and with no obvious effect, though a slow flush appeared at his neck that could have been from the evening heat.

The high spirits at the table were quickly restored. The camaraderie between the men was infectious and after a while Servilia was engaged in the stories and humour with the others. Cabera flirted outrageously with her, winking at inopportune moments and making her snort with amusement. Once as she laughed she caught Julius’ eye again and the moment seemed to freeze, hinting at a deeper reality behind the lively façade of the meal.

Julius watched her, constantly surprised at the effect she had wrought on the usually sombre gathering. She laughed without affectation and in those moments he wondered how he could ever have found her less than beautiful. Her skin was dark and freckled from the sun and her nose and chin a little too strong, yet still she had something that set her apart. The calculating part of him saw how she transferred her attention to whoever spoke, flattering them simply by the interest she showed. She was a woman who liked men and they sensed it. Julius shook his head slightly. His reaction to her disturbed him, but she was so different from Cornelia that no comparison occurred to trouble his thoughts.

He had not been in female company for a long time and then only when Brutus managed to get enough drink in him that he didn’t care any more. Looking at Servilia reminded him of the world outside his soldiers’ rough gatherings. He felt unbalanced with her, out of practice. The thought crossed his mind that he should be careful to keep a distance. A woman of her experience could very well eat him alive.

He shook his head to clear it, irritated with his weakness. The first woman to sit at their table for months and he was reacting with little more sophistication than Octavian, though he hoped his thoughts weren’t so obvious. He’d never hear the end of Brutus’ mockery if they were. He imagined the amused taunts with a shudder and pushed his wine cup away firmly. No matter what, she was hardly likely to show interest in a friend of her son. It was ridiculous even to entertain the idea.

Octavian interrupted Julius’ musings as he reached across the table to offer Servilia the last morsel of a herb dish. The young Roman had grown in strength and skill under the tutelage of Brutus and Domitius. Julius wondered if Octavian would have so much to fear from the apprentices in the city as he’d used to. He doubted it. The boy seemed to thrive in the company of the rough soldiers of the Tenth and even copied the way Brutus walked, to his friend’s amusement. He seemed so young, it was strange to think Julius had been married when only a year older.

‘I learned a new feint this morning, sir,’ Octavian said proudly.

Julius smiled at him. ‘You’ll have to show it to me,’ he said, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s hair.

Octavian beamed in response to the small show of affection. ‘Will you train with us tomorrow, then?’ he asked, readying himself for disappointment.

Julius shook his head. ‘I’m going out to the gold mines with Renius for a few days,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I will when I come back.’

Octavian tried to look pleased, but they could all see he took it as a straight refusal. Julius almost changed his mind, but the dark humours that plagued him eased back into his thoughts. None of them understood his work. They had the light spirits of boys and that carelessness was no longer a luxury he could afford. Forgetting his earlier resolution, Julius reached for his cup and emptied it.

Brutus saw the depression settle on his friend and struggled to find something to divert him.

‘The Spanish swordsmith will begin working with our legion men tomorrow. Can’t you delay the trip until you’ve seen what you paid for?’

Julius stared at him, making them all uncomfortable.

‘No, the preparations are made,’ he said, refilling his cup and cursing softly as he spilled a little of the wine onto the table in the process. Julius frowned at his hands. Was there a tremble there? He couldn’t tell. As rather stilted conversation resumed, he watched them all, looking for some sign that they had seen his weakness. Only Cabera met his eyes and the old man’s face was full of kindness. Julius drained the cup, suddenly angry with all of them.

Servilia dipped her fingers in the water bowl and wiped her mouth delicately with them, a gesture that held Julius’ attention, though she seemed not to notice it.

‘I have enjoyed this, very much, but the journey here was tiring,’ she said, smiling at them all. ‘I will rise early to watch your training, Octavian, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course, come and watch,’ Brutus said pleasantly. ‘I’ll get a carriage ready for you in the stables, as well. This is a luxurious post, compared to some. You’ll love it here.’

‘Find a good horse and I won’t need the carriage,’ Servilia replied, noting the flicker in Julius’ eyes as he digested this piece of information. Men were such strange creatures, but she had yet to find one who didn’t enjoy the thought of a beautiful woman on a horse.

‘I hope my girls won’t be a disruption to you all. I will look for a place in the city tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen. General.’

They rose with her and again she experienced that strange frisson of excitement as Julius’ eyes met her own.

Julius stood soon after she had left, swaying slightly.

‘I have left my orders in your quarters, Brutus, for the time I am away. Make sure there is a guard on those girls while they are in our care. Good night.’ He left without another word, walking with the exaggerated stiffness of a man trying to hide the effects of too much wine in his blood. For a moment there was a pained silence.

‘It’s good to have a new face here,’ Brutus said, carefully avoiding more difficult subjects. ‘She’ll liven this place up a little. It’s been too quiet recently.’

Cabera whistled quietly to himself. ‘A woman like that … all men are fools around her,’ he said softly, his tone making Brutus stare at him in puzzlement. The old man’s expression was unreadable as he shook his head slightly and reached for more wine.

‘She is very … graceful,’ Domitius agreed, searching for the final word.

Brutus snorted. ‘What did you expect after seeing me with a sword? I’d hardly come from a carthorse, would I?’

‘I did think there was a female quality to your stance, yes,’ Domitius replied, rubbing his forehead in thought. ‘Yes, I see it now. It looks better on her though.’

‘It is a manly grace in me, Domitius, manly. I’m quite happy to demonstrate it again to you tomorrow.’ The old smile had returned to Brutus’ face as he narrowed his eyes in mock offence.

‘Do I have a manly grace, Domitius?’ Octavian asked.

Domitius nodded slowly, his manner easy.

‘You do, of course, lad. It is only Brutus who fights like a woman.’

Brutus roared with laughter and threw a plate at Domitius, who ducked it easily. It crashed on the stone floor and they all froze comically before the tension dissolved into humour once again.

‘Why does your mother want a house in the city?’ Octavian asked.

Brutus looked sharply at him, suddenly sorry to have to puncture his innocence.

‘For business, lad. I think my mother’s girls will be entertaining the legion before too long.’

Octavian looked around in confusion for a moment, then his face cleared. They were all watching him closely.

‘Will they charge full price for someone of my age, do you think?’ Octavian said.

Brutus threw another plate in his direction, hitting Cabera.

Lying on the narrow pallet in his rooms above, Julius could hear their laughter and shut his eyes tightly in the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Servilia already loved the little city of Valentia. The streets were clean and busy with people. There was an air of affluence about the place that made her palms itch. Yet despite the signs of wealth, it had a fresh feel to it that her own ancient city had lost centuries before. This was a more innocent town. Even finding the right building had been easier than she’d expected. There were no officials needing a private payment before documents could be signed; it was simply a matter of finding the right place and paying gold to the current owner. It was refreshing after the bureaucracy of Rome and the soldiers Brutus had sent out with her were able to show her three possible locations as soon as she asked. The first two were close to the water and likely to attract more of the dockworkers than she wanted. The third was perfect.

In a quiet street close to the market and away from the waterfront, it was a roomy building with an impressive façade of white lime and hardwood. Servilia was long familiar with the need to present a pleasant face to the world. No doubt there were grimy little houses hidden in the towns where widows and whores earned a little extra on their backs, but the sort of place she wanted would attract dignitaries and officers from the legion, and be correspondingly more expensive.

With so many new houses being built by the Tenth, Servilia had sensed the owner could be pressured and the final price was a bargain, even with the furnishings to come. Some of those would have to be shipped from Rome, though a swift inspection of local seamstresses resulted in a string of smaller payments and deals.

With the house in her possession, she paid for an outgoing merchant to take a list of her requirements back to Rome. At least four more women would be needed and Servilia took great care in choosing their characteristics. It was important to establish a reputation for quality.

After three days, there was little to be done but give the house a name, though that gave Servilia more trouble than she expected. Though there were no clear proscriptions in law, Servilia knew instinctively that it should be something discreet and yet suggestive. Calling it ‘The House of Rams’ or suchlike would not do at all.

In the end, Angelina surprised her with a suggestion. ‘The Golden Hand’ was sufficiently erotic without being crude and Servilia had wondered whether Angelina’s light colouring had prompted the idea. When she’d acquiesced, Angelina had leapt up and kissed her on both cheeks. The girl could be adorable when she had her own way, there was no doubt about it.

On the third morning after entering the city, Servilia watched a delicately drawn sign lifted onto iron hooks and smiled as a few of the Tenth cheered the sight. They would spread the word that the house was open for business and she expected the first night to be a busy one. After that, the future was assured and she fully expected to be able to pass over control to someone else in a few months. It was tempting to think of a similar establishment in every city of Spain. The finest girls and the feel of Rome. The market was there and the money would pour into her coffers.

Servilia turned to her son’s guards and smiled at them.

‘I hope you will be able to get passes for tonight?’ she said lightly.

They looked at each other, aware that the dock watch had suddenly become a valuable counter in their purses.

‘Perhaps your son could intercede for us, madam,’ the officer replied.

Servilia frowned at that. Though they had not discussed it openly, she suspected Brutus was more than a little uncomfortable with her business. For that matter, she wondered if Julius had been told about the new house and what he thought of the idea. He might not have heard of her plans away in the south at his mines, though she couldn’t see how he could object.

Servilia ran a hand idly along the line of her throat as she thought of him. Today was the day he was due to return. He was probably eating in the barracks at that moment and if she set off without delay, she could be back at the fort before the day was wasted.

‘I will need permanent guards for the house,’ she said as the thought occurred to her. ‘If you wish, I will ask the general to post you here,’ she told the officer. ‘I am a Roman citizen after all.’

The guards looked at each other in wild surmise. Wonderful as the idea seemed, the thought of Caesar hearing their names to guard a whorehouse was enough to cool any man’s ardour. Reluctantly, they shook their heads.

‘I think he would prefer local men as guards here,’ the officer said at last.

Servilia took the reins of her horse from one of the Tenth and leapt into the saddle. The leggings she wore were a little loose on her, but a skirt or stola would hardly have been appropriate.

‘Mount up, lads. I’ll go and ask him and we’ll see,’ she said, wheeling her horse around and kicking it into a canter. The hooves rattled loudly on the street and the local women raised their eyebrows at this strange Roman lady who rode like a soldier.

Julius was greeting an elderly Spaniard as Servilia rode up to the gates of the fort. During daylight hours the gates were left open and the guards passed them straight through into the yard with only a nod. Her escort from town led their mounts back to food and water, leaving her alone. Being Brutus’ mother was proving extremely useful, she realised.

‘I would like to have a word with you, General, if I may,’ she called, walking her horse over to the pair.

Julius frowned in barely concealed anger.

‘This is Mayor Del Subió, Servilia. I’m afraid I have no time to see you this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow.’

He turned away to guide the older man into the main building and Servilia spoke quickly, acknowledging the mayor with a swift smile.

‘I was thinking of riding out to the local towns. Are you able to recommend a route?’

Julius turned to the mayor.

‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ he said.

Del Subió bowed, glancing at Servilia from under bushy eyebrows. If he had been the Roman general, he would not have left such a beauty to pout alone. Even at his age, Del Subió could appreciate a fine woman and wondered at Caesar’s irritation.

Julius walked to Servilia.

‘These hills are not completely safe. There are rogues and travellers who would think nothing of attacking you. If you’re lucky they will just steal the horse and let you walk back.’

With the warning delivered, he tried to turn back to the mayor again.

‘Perhaps you would like to join me, then, for protection?’ Servilia said softly.

He froze, looking into her eyes. His heart thumped in his chest at the thought before he gathered his control. She was not easy to refuse, but his afternoon was filled with work. His eyes raked the yard and caught sight of Octavian coming out of the stables. Julius whistled sharply to catch the boy’s attention.

‘Octavian. Saddle a horse for yourself. Escort duty.’

Octavian saluted and disappeared back into the darkness of the stable block.

Julius looked at Servilia blankly, as if the exchange was already forgotten.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he did not reply as he took Del Subió inside.

When Octavian reappeared, he had already mounted and had to lean low on the saddle to clear the arch of the stables. His grin faded at Servilia’s expression as she took a grip on the pommel and threw a leg over her saddle. He had never seen her angry and, if anything, the fury in her eyes made her more beautiful. Without a word to him, she started forward into a gallop through the gates, forcing the guards to step aside or be knocked down. Eyes wide with surprise, Octavian followed her out.

She rode hard for a mile before reining back to a more sedate canter. Octavian closed the gap to ride at her shoulder, unconsciously showing his expertise with the way he matched her pace so exactly. She handled the horse well, he noted, with the skilled eye of the extraordinarii. Small flicks of the reins guided the blowing animal left and right around obstacles and once she urged her mount to jump a fallen tree, rising in the saddle and taking the landing without a tremor.

Octavian was entranced and told himself he wouldn’t speak until he found something sufficiently mature and interesting to say. Inspiration didn’t come, but she seemed willing to let the silence continue, taking out her anger at Julius’ snub in the exertion of the ride. At last she reined in, panting slightly. She let Octavian approach and smiled at him.

‘Brutus said you were a relation to Caesar. Tell me about him.’

Octavian smiled back, completely unable to resist her charm or question her reasons.

Julius had dismissed his last supplicant an hour before and stood alone by the window that looked out over the hills. He had signed orders to recruit another thousand for the developing mines, and granted compensation to three men whose lands had been encroached by the new buildings on the coast. How many other meetings had there been? Ten? His hand ached from the letters he had written and he massaged it slightly with the other as he stood waiting. His last scribe had retired a month before and he felt the loss keenly. His armour hung on the wooden tree by his desk and the night air was a relief on the sweat-darkened tunic underneath. He yawned and rubbed his face roughly. It was getting dark, but Octavian and Servilia were still out somewhere. He wondered if she were capable of keeping the boy late to worry him, or whether something had happened. Perhaps one of the horses had become lame and had to be walked back to the fort.

Julius snorted softly to himself. That would be a lesson well learned, if it was so. Away from the roads, the land was rugged and wild. A horse could easily break a leg, especially in the gloom of evening, when pits and animal holes would be hidden in shadow.

It was ridiculous to worry. Twice he lost patience and strode away from the window, but as he thought through the tasks for the next day, he found himself edging back to the view over the hills, looking for them. Away from the breeze, the room could be stifling, he told himself, too weary even to believe his own self-deceptions.

When the sun was little more than a red line against the mountains, he heard the clatter of hooves in the yard and stepped hurriedly back from the window rather than be seen. Who was the woman to cause him so much discomfort? He imagined how long it would take for the pair of them to brush and water their horses before coming inside. Would they be joining the officers’ table again for a meal? He was hungry, but he didn’t want to entertain a guest. He would have food sent up to him, and …

A low knocking at his door interrupted his thoughts, making him start. Somehow, he knew it would be her even as he cleared his throat to call, ‘Come in.’

Servilia opened the door and walked into the room. Her hair was wild after the ride and a smear of dirt marked her cheek where she had touched it. She smelled of straw and horses and he felt his senses heighten at the sight of her. She was still angry, he saw, summoning the will to resist whatever she had come to demand. It really was too much that she walked in without even an announcement. What was the guard doing below? Was the man asleep? He would hear about it when she had gone, Julius swore to himself.

Without speaking, Servilia walked across the wooden floor to him. Before he could react, she pressed the palm of her hand against his chest, feeling the heart thump under the cloth.

‘Still warm, then. I had begun to wonder,’ she said softly. Her tone held an intimacy that unsettled him and somehow he couldn’t muster the anger he expected. He could feel where her hand had rested, as if she had left a visible sign of her touch. She faced him, standing very close, and he was suddenly aware of the darkness of the room.

‘Brutus will be wondering where you are,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is very protective of me,’ she replied. She turned to leave and he almost reached out for her, watching in confusion as she crossed the long room.

‘I wouldn’t … have thought you needed much protecting,’ he murmured. He hadn’t really meant her to hear it, but he saw her smile before the door closed behind her and he was alone, his thoughts swirling in chaos. He breathed out slowly, shaking his head in amusement at his own reactions. He felt as if he were being stalked, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His tiredness seemed to have vanished and he thought he might join the table below for the evening meal after all.

The door opened again and he looked up to see her, still there.

‘Will you ride out with me tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Octavian said you know the area as well as anyone.’

He nodded slowly, unable to remember what meetings he had planned and not caring, particularly. How long had it been since he’d last had a day away from his work?

‘All right, Servilia. Tomorrow morning,’ he said.

She grinned then without replying, shutting the door noiselessly behind her. He waited for a moment until he heard her light step going downstairs and relaxed. He was surprised to find he was looking forward to it.

As the light faded, the furnace turned the workshop into a place of fire and shadow. The only light came from the forge and the glow lit the Roman smiths as they waited impatiently to be shown the secret of hard iron. Julius had paid a fortune in gold for them to be taught by a Spanish master, but it was not something to be handed over in a moment, or even a single day. To their exasperation, Cavallo had taken them through the entire process, step by step. At first, they had resisted being treated as apprentices, but then the more experienced of them had seen the Spaniard was exact in every part of his skill and begun to listen. They had cut cypress and alder wood to his order and stacked the logs under clay in a pit as large as a house for the first four days. While it charred, he showed them his ore furnace and lectured them on washing the rough rocks before sealing them with the charcoal to burn clean.

They were all men who loved their craft and by the end of the fifth day they were filled with excited anticipation as Cavallo brought a lump of iron bloom to his furnace and poured it molten into clay racks, finally turning out heavy bars of the metal onto a workbench for them to examine.

‘The alder wood burns cooler than most and slows the changes. It makes a harder metal as more of it takes the charcoal, but that is only part of it,’ he told them, thrusting one of the bars into the bright yellow heat of his forge. There was barely enough room to heat two pieces at a time, so they clustered around the second, copying every move and instruction he gave them. The cramped workshop could not hold all of them, so they took turns coming in and out of the cooling night air. Only Renius stayed throughout as an observer and he poured with enough sweat to blind him, silently noting each stage of the process.

He too was fascinated. Though he had used swords for all his adult life, he had never watched them being made and it gave him an appreciation for the skills of the dour men who worked earth into shining blades.

Cavallo used a hammer to beat the bar into the shape of a sword, reheating it again and again until the spike looked like a black gladius, crusted with impurities. Part of the skill came in judging the temperature by the colour as it came out of the forge. Each time the sword was at the right heat, Cavallo held it up for them to see the shade of yellow before it faded. He filed and beat the soft metal as his own sweat sizzled on it, falling in fat drops to vanish on contact.

Their own bar was matched to his at every point and as the moon rose, he nodded to the Romans, satisfied. His sons had lit a low pan of charcoal as long as a man and before its metal cover was removed, it glowed as brightly as his forge. While his sword heated again, Cavallo signalled to a row of leather aprons on pegs. They were clumsy things to wear, thick and stiff with age. They covered the whole body from neck to feet, leaving only the arms bare. He smiled as they pulled them on, used by now to following his instructions without question.

‘You will need the protection,’ he told them as they struggled to move against the constricting coverings. At his signal, his sons used tongs to lift the cover from the charcoal pan and Cavallo pulled the yellow blade from the furnace with a flourish. The Roman smiths crowded closer, knowing they were seeing a stage of the process they did not recognise. Renius had to step back from the sudden wave of heat and craned to watch what was going on.

In the white heat of the charcoal, Cavallo hammered the blade again, sending sparks and whirring pieces of fire into the air. One landed in his hair and he patted the flame out automatically. Over and over he turned the blade, his hammer working it up and down without the force of his first blows. The ringing sound was almost gentle, but they could all see the charcoal sticking to the metal in dark crusts.

‘It has to be fast here. It must not cool too far before the quenching. Watch the colour … now!’

Cavallo’s voice had softened, his eyes filled with love for the metal. As the redness darkened, he lifted his tongs and jammed the sword into a bucket of water in a roar of steam that filled the little workshop.

‘Then back into the heat. The most important stage. If you misjudge the colour now, the sword will be brittle and useless. You must learn the shade, or everything I have taught you has been wasted. For me, it is the colour of day-old blood, but you must find your own memory and fix it in your minds.’

The second sword was ready and he repeated the beating in the charcoal bed, once again scattering embers into the air. It was clear enough by then why they wore the leathers. One Roman grunted in pain as a fiery chip settled on his arm before he could pluck it away.

The swords were reheated and shoved into the charcoal four more times before Cavallo finally nodded. They were all sweating and practically blind from the moisture-laden fog in the workshop. Only the blades cut through the steam, the air burning away from their heat in clear trails.

Dawn lit the mountains outside, though they could not see the light. They had all stared into the furnace for so long that wherever they looked was darkness.

Cavallo’s sons covered the tray and dragged it back to the wall. As the Romans breathed and wiped sweat from their eyes, Cavallo shut up his forge and removed the bellows from the air-holes, hanging them neatly on hooks ready to be used again. The heat was still oppressive, but there was a sense of it all coming to an end as he faced them, holding a black blade in each hand, his fingers wrapped around a narrow tang that would be encased in a hilt before use.

The blades were matt and rough-looking. Though he had hammered each using only his eye, they were identical in length and width and when they were cool enough to be handed around, the Roman smiths felt the same balance in each. They nodded at the skill, no longer resentful of the time they had spent away from their own forges. Each of them realised they had been given something of value and they smiled like children as they hefted the bare blades.

Renius took his turn with them, though he lacked the experience to be able to judge the weight without a hilt. The blades had been taken from the earth of Spain and he stroked a finger along the rough metal, hoping he would be able to make Julius understand the glory of the moment.

‘The charcoal bed gives them the hard skin over a softer core. These blades will not snap in battle, unless you leave impurities within, or quench them at the wrong colour. Let me show you,’ Cavallo said, his voice stiff with pride. He took the blades from the Roman smiths and gestured them to stand back. Then he rapped each one hard onto the edge of his forge, causing a deep tone as if a bell sounded the dawn. The swords remained whole and he breathed slowly in satisfaction.

‘They will kill men, these ones. They will make an art of death.’ He spoke with reverence and they understood him. ‘The new day begins, gentlemen. Your charcoal will be ready by noon and you will return to your own forges to make examples of the new swords. I will want to see them, from all of you, in say … three days. Leave them without a hilt and I will craft those with you. Now, I am going to bed.’

The grizzled Roman smiths murmured their thanks and trooped out of the workshop, looking back longingly at the blades they had made that night.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pompey and Crassus rose from their seats in the shade to acknowledge the crowd. The racegoers of the Circus Maximus cheered their consuls in a wave of sound and excitement that echoed and crashed around the packed seating. Pompey raised a hand to them and Crassus smiled slightly, enjoying the attention. He deserved it, he thought, after the gold it had cost him. Each clay entry token was stamped with the names of the two consuls and, though they were freely given out, Crassus had heard the tokens were as good as currency in the weeks leading up to the event. Many of those who sat waiting for the first race had paid well for the privilege. It never ceased to please him how his people could turn even gifts into an opportunity for profit.

The weather was fine and only the lightest wisps of clouds drifted across the long track as the crowds settled and shouted bets to each other. There was an air of excitement in the benches and Crassus noted how few families there were. It was a sad fact of life that the races were often marred by fights in the cheaper seats, as men argued over losses. Only a month before, the circus had to be cleared by legionaries called in to restore order. Five men had been killed in a minor riot after the favourite had lost in the final race of the day.

Crassus frowned at the thought, hoping it would not happen again. He stretched up in his seat to note the positions of Pompey’s soldiers on the gates and main walkways. Enough to intimidate all but the most foolhardy, he hoped. He did not want the memory of his consular year associated with civil unrest. As things stood, his endorsement of the candidates in the coming elections would still be worth a great deal. Even with more than half his term to serve, the factions in the Senate were shifting as those who hoped for the highest posts began to make themselves known. It was the greatest game in Rome and Crassus knew the favours he could gather would be the currency of power for the following year, if not much longer.

Crassus glanced at his co-consul, wondering if Pompey too was planning for the future. Whenever he was tempted to curse the law that restrained them, he took solace from the fact that Pompey was similarly bound. Rome would not allow another Marius to stand as consul over and over. Those wild days had gone with the shade of Sulla and the civil war. Still, there was nothing to prevent Pompey grooming his own favourites to succeed him.

Crassus wished he could shake the sense of inadequacy that assailed him whenever he and Pompey were together. Unlike his own sharp features, Pompey looked as a consul was expected to look, with a broad, strong face, and gently greying hair. Privately, Crassus wondered if the dignified image was helped along with a little white powder at the temples. Even sitting next to him, he couldn’t be sure.

As if the gods hadn’t given him enough, Pompey seemed to have their blessing with his military enterprises. He had promised the people to rid the seas of pirates and in only a few months the Roman fleet had swept the Mare Internum clean of the scavengers. Trade had boomed as Pompey had promised. No one in the city thanked Crassus for financing the venture, or for bearing the loss of the ships that didn’t survive. Instead, he was forced to throw even more gold at the people in case they forgot him, while Pompey could rest easy in their adoration.

Crassus tapped the fingers of one hand on the other as he thought. The citizens of Rome respected only what they could see. If he raised a legion of his own to patrol the streets, they would bless him every time one of his men caught a thief or broke up a fight. Without one, he knew Pompey would never treat him as an equal. It was not a new idea, but he held back from planting a new standard in the Campus Martius. Always, there was the private fear that Pompey was right in his assessment of him. What victories could Crassus claim for Rome? No matter how he clad them in shining armour, a legion had to be well led and while it seemed effortless for Pompey, the thought of risking another humiliation was more than Crassus could bear.

The campaign against Spartacus had been bad enough, he thought miserably. He was sure they still mocked him for building a wall across the toe of Italy. None of the Senate mentioned it in public, but word had filtered back from the soldiers and his spies told him it was still seen as a subject for laughter amongst the chattering masses of the city. Pompey told him there was nothing in it, but then he could afford to be complacent. No matter who was elected at the end of the year, Pompey would still be a force in the Senate. Crassus wished he could be as certain of his own position.

Both men watched as the seven wooden eggs were brought out to the central spine of the track. At the beginning of each lap, one would be removed until the last would signal the frenzy of struggle that marked the end of each contest.

As the ritual before the races approached completion, Crassus motioned behind him and a smartly dressed slave stepped forward to relay his bets. Though Pompey had disdained the opportunity, Crassus had spent a useful hour with the teams and their horses in the dark stables built under the seating. He considered himself a good judge and thought that the team of Spanish whites under Paulus were unstoppable. He hesitated as the slave waited to relay his bet to his masters. The valley between the hills was usually perfect for horses that preferred a soft track, but there had been little rain for nearly a week and he could see spirals of dust on the ground below the consular box. His mouth was similarly dry as he made up his mind. Paulus had been confident and the gods loved a gambler. This was his day, after all.

‘Three sesterces on Paulus’ team,’ he said, after a long pause. The slave nodded, but as he turned, Crassus grabbed his arm in his bony fingers. ‘No, two only. The track is quite dry.’

As the man left, Crassus sensed Pompey’s grin.

‘I really don’t know why you bet,’ Pompey said. ‘You are easily the richest man in Rome, but you wager less valiantly than half the people here. What are two sesterces to you? A cup of wine?’

Crassus sniffed at a subject he had heard before. Pompey enjoyed teasing him, but he would still come begging for gold when he needed to fund his precious legions. That was a secret pleasure for the older man, though he wondered if Pompey ever thought of it. If Crassus had been in that position, it would have been like slow poison, but Pompey never varied his cheerful manner. The man had no understanding of the dignity of wealth, none at all.

‘A horse can twist a leg or a driver fall in any race. You expect me to waste gold on simple chance?’

The betting slave returned and handed Crassus a token, which he held tightly. Pompey looked at him with his pale eyes and there was a distaste there that Crassus pretended not to notice.

‘Apart from Paulus, who else is running in the first?’ Pompey asked the slave.

‘Three others, master. A new team from Thrace, Dacius from Mutina and another team shipped over from Spain. They say the horses from Spain went through a storm that unsettled them. Most of the betting money is going on Dacius at the moment.’

Crassus fixed the man with a glare.

‘You did not mention this before,’ he snapped. ‘Paulus brought his horses over from Spain. Did they suffer in the same ship?’

‘I do not know, master,’ the slave replied, bowing his head.

Crassus reddened as he wondered whether he should withdraw his bet before the race began. No, not in front of Pompey, unless he could find a reason to excuse himself for a few moments.

Pompey smiled at the other consul’s discomfort. ‘I will trust the people. One hundred gold on Dacius.’

The slave didn’t even blink at an amount greater than his own price at sale.

‘Certainly, master. I will fetch you the token.’ He paused for a moment in silent enquiry, but Crassus only glared at him.

‘Quickly, the race is about to start,’ Pompey added, sending the slave off at a run. Pompey had seen two flag-bearers approach the long bronze horn at the edge of the track. The crowd cheered as the note sounded and the gates to the stables opened.

First out was the Roman, Dacius, his light chariot pulled by dark geldings. Crassus fidgeted as he noted the arrogant poise and balance of the man as he brought his team around in a smooth turn to line up at the start. The man was short and stocky and the crowd cheered wildly for him. He saluted towards the consular box, and Pompey rose to return the gesture. Crassus copied the action, but Dacius had already turned away to complete his preparation.

‘He looks hungry today, Crassus. His horses are fighting the bit,’ Pompey told his colleague cheerfully.

Crassus ignored him, watching the next team onto the sand. It was the Thracian entry, marked out in green. The bearded driver was inexperienced and few of the crowd had put money on him. Nevertheless, they cheered dutifully, though many were already craning to see the last two come out of the gloom of the stables.

Paulus flicked the long looping reins over his Spanish horses as they thundered out into the light. Crassus thumped the rail with his fist at the sight of them.

‘Dacius will have to work hard to beat these. Look at their condition, Pompey. Glorious.’

Paulus did look confident as he saluted the consuls. Even at a distance, Crassus saw the flash of white teeth against his dark skin and some of his worry eased. The team took its place with the others and the last Spanish competitor rode out to join them.

Crassus had seen nothing wrong with the horses in his first visit, but now he studied them for signs of weakness. Despite his assertions to Pompey, he was suddenly convinced the stallions looked ill at ease compared to the others. Crassus took his seat reluctantly as the horn sounded again and the betting ceased. The slave returned to hand Pompey his token and the consul played idly with it while they waited.

Silence fell across the mass of people. Dacius’ team took fright at something and sidestepped into the Thracian, forcing both men to crack their whips over their heads. A good driver could snap the tip of his whip inches away from any one of his horses at full gallop and order was quickly restored. Crassus noted the Thracian’s calm and wondered if a chance had been missed. The little man didn’t seem at all out of place amongst the more experienced charioteers.

The silence held as the horses pawed and snorted in place for a moment, then the horn was blown a third time, its wail lost in the roar as the teams lunged forward and the race began.

‘You have done well, Crassus,’ Pompey said, looking over the heads of the crowd. ‘I doubt there’s a man in Rome who doesn’t know your generosity.’

Crassus glanced sharply at him, looking for mockery. Pompey was impassive and didn’t seem to feel the gaze.

Below them, the thundering horses reached the first corner. The light chariots scored long sliding arcs in the sand as they were pulled around by the plunging horses. The riders leaned over to balance themselves, held in place by nothing more than their skill and strength. It was an impressive display and Dacius slid neatly between two teams to take an early lead. Crassus frowned at the development.

‘Have you decided whom you will support for consul at the end of the year?’ he said, forcing a neutral tone.

Pompey smiled. ‘It’s a little early to be thinking of it, my friend. I am enjoying being consul myself at the moment.’

Crassus snorted at the blatant falsehood. He knew Pompey too well to believe his denials. Under the pressure of his stare, Pompey shrugged.

‘I believe Senator Prandus can be persuaded to put his name on the lists,’ he said.

Crassus watched the racing teams, considering what he knew of the man.

‘There are worse choices,’ he said at last. ‘Would he accept your … guidance?’

Pompey’s eyes were bright with excitement as Dacius continued to lead the field. Crassus wondered if he was feigning the interest merely to annoy him.

‘Pompey?’ he prompted.

‘He would not be troublesome,’ Pompey replied.

Crassus hid his pleasure. Neither Prandus nor his son Suetonius were men of influence in the Senate, but having weak men as consuls would mean he and Pompey could continue to guide the city, merely exchanging the public aspect for the private. Returning to the anonymity of the back benches after leading Rome was an unpleasant prospect for both of them. Crassus wondered if Pompey knew he held debts on the family and would have his own form of control if Prandus was elected.

‘I could accept Prandus, if you are sure of him,’ he said over the noise of the crowd. Pompey turned an amused expression to him.

‘Excellent. Do you know if Cinna will stand?’

Crassus shook his head. ‘He’s all but retired since the death of his daughter. Have you heard something?’

In his eagerness, Crassus reached out to hold Pompey’s arm and Pompey grimaced at the touch. Crassus felt a spike of hatred for the man. What right did he have to assume such airs, when Crassus paid the bills of his great houses?

‘I have heard nothing yet, Crassus. If not Cinna, though, we must find another to stand for the second post. Perhaps it is not too soon to begin cultivating a new name.’

As the fourth lap began, Dacius led by a full length, with the Thracian holding position behind him. Paulus was third, with the sea-sick Spanish horses bringing up the rear. The crowd bellowed their approval and every eye was on the teams as they rounded the far corner and galloped through the start for the fifth lap. The wooden egg was removed and the bawling voices were becoming hoarse.

‘Have you considered Julius? His term in Spain is almost over,’ Crassus said.

Pompey glanced over at him, suddenly wary. He still suspected Crassus of a loyalty to the young Caesar that he did not share. Had the man not waived the debts of the Tenth shortly after Julius took control? Pompey shook his head.

‘Not him, Crassus. That dog has teeth. I’m sure you don’t want … disruption any more than I.’

Dacius had increased his lead and Crassus continued to speak, pleased to be able to ruffle the smooth placidity of his colleague.

‘They say Caesar has done very well in Spain. New lands under our control, new cities. I believe there has even been talk of a Triumph for him.’

Pompey looked sharply at Crassus, his brow furrowing.

‘I’ve heard nothing of Triumphs and I have made myself clear. When his posting is over, I will send him somewhere else. Greece, perhaps. Whatever you are planning should be forgotten, Crassus. I witnessed my own men standing in the rain for that one when they saw his oak wreath. My own men, honouring a stranger! You remember Marius well enough. We don’t want another one in the city, especially as consul.’

Crassus didn’t reply for a long moment and Pompey chose to interpret the silence as assent.

Below them on the track, Dacius came up behind the Spanish team and moved to lap them. The faltering driver swerved violently as Dacius passed him, losing control for a split second. It was long enough. With a crash that could be heard over the appalled howl of the crowd, both teams were fouled and the neat lines of horses became screaming chaos in an instant.

The Thracian heaved his reins over to clear the wreckage. His whip snapped at the inner horses, forcing them to shorten their stride for a turn that nearly had him over. The crowd watched in agony as the little man guided them around, but then they were through and clear and many in the circus rose to their feet to applaud his skill.

Pompey swore under his breath as he saw Dacius lying still on the sand. One of his legs was twisted peculiarly. His knee had clearly been shattered and though he still lived, he would not race again.

‘Signal the guards I gave you, Crassus. There will be fighting once they recover from the shock.’

Crassus set his jaw in anger, catching the eye of a centurion and holding up a clenched fist. They moved down amongst the benches and it was not a moment too soon. After the excitement at the destruction of the horses and chariots, the crowd had become aware of their lost bets and howled as one in an orgy of frustration. The final laps went without incident, the Thracian first across the line to general indifference. Fights had already broken out and the legionaries acted swiftly, using the flats of their swords to separate struggling men from each other.

Pompey signalled his personal guard that he was ready to leave and they cleared a path for him. He exchanged a glance with Crassus as he left and saw the man’s dislike, for once unmasked. As he reached the street, Pompey was lost in thought, barely hearing the growing disruption behind him.

Julius dismounted at the edge of the village, his horse gently snickering as it cropped at grass between the stones of an ancient road. He and Servilia had ridden far inland and there was no sign of life in the hills around them. It was a beautiful country, with vast swathes of forest and chalky cliffs that dropped into green valleys. The sun had moved past the noon point before they came to this place. They had seen mottled red deer and boars that ran squealing from their horses.

Julius had taken long, looping trails to avoid all signs of people on their ride. He seemed content to be alone with her and Servilia was flattered. At times, it seemed as if they were the only ones alive. The forests were full of shadows and silence and they passed through the gloom almost as ghosts themselves. Then the trees would give way to bright sunlight and a grassy plain and they would gallop recklessly away from the dark until they were panting and laughing together. Servilia could not remember a more perfect day.

The village Julius led her into was a strange place at the foot of a valley. A river ran close by, but as in the forests, there were no voices to break the stillness. The houses were slumping with age and wild ferns and ivy grew out of windows from within. Everywhere there were signs of decay. Doors that had been hung on stiff leather hinges yawned open at them and wild animals scuttled out of their sight as they led their horses along a street towards the centre. The quiet of the empty village made speech difficult, as if it was an intrusion. Servilia was reminded of the echoing vaults of a temple and wondered why Julius had brought her to it.

‘Why did they leave?’ she asked him.

He shrugged. ‘It could be anything: invasion, disease. Perhaps they just wanted to find a new home somewhere else. I spent days here when I first came, but the houses were looted long ago and there’s little left to show how they lived. It is a strange place, though – I love it. If we ever reach this valley with our bridges and new streets, I will be sad to see it go.’

A faded piece of pottery that could once have been a sign jarred his foot and he knelt to look at it, blowing away the dust. It was blank and so thin that he could snap it in his hands.

‘I suppose it looked like Valentia, once. A market and crops to sell, children running around with chickens. Difficult to imagine now.’

Servilia looked around her and tried to conjure up the image of a place full of bustling people. A lizard ran along a wall near her, catching her eye for a second before it vanished under a sagging eave. There was something eerie in walking through such a place, as if at any moment the streets would fill with life and noise again, the interruption to their lives forgotten.

‘Why do you come here?’ she asked.

He looked sideways at her, smiling strangely. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, turning a corner into a wider road.

The houses here were little more than heaps of rubble and Servilia could see a square beyond them. The sunlight made the air warm and light as they approached it and Julius quickened his step in anticipation as they reached the open ground.

The heavy stones of the square were cracked and lined with creeping grass and wild flowers, but Julius walked across them without looking, his eyes fastened on a broken pedestal and a statue that lay beside it in pieces. The features were almost completely worn away and the white stone was chipped and battered, yet Julius approached it with reverence. He tied their horses to a sapling that had sprung up through the stone of the square and leaned against the statue, tracing the features with his hand. An arm had gone, but she could see the statue had been a powerful figure once. Servilia saw where words had been cut into the heavy plinth and she traced the strange characters with her finger.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘One of the local scholars told me it says “Alexander the King”.’

Julius’ voice was rough with emotion and she felt again the desire to touch him, to share his thoughts. To her astonishment, she saw tears form in his eyes as he gazed at the stone face.

‘What is it? I don’t understand,’ she said, reaching out to him without a thought. His skin felt hot against her hand and he didn’t move away.

‘Seeing him …’ he said softly, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he pressed her hand against him with his own before letting it fall. After another long look at the stone figure, he shrugged, having found control once more.

‘By the time he was my age, he had conquered the world. They said he was a god. Compared to that, I have wasted my life.’

Servilia sat on the ledge next to him, their thighs touching lightly, though she felt every part of the contact. Julius spoke again after a while, his voice distant with memory.

‘When I was a boy, I used to listen to the stories of his battles and his life. He was … astonishing. He had the world in his hand when he was little more than a child. I used to imagine myself … I used to see his path once.’

Again, Servilia reached up to his face, smoothing the skin. He seemed to feel it for the first time and raised his head to look at her as she spoke.

‘It is here for you, if you want it,’ she said, unsure as she spoke whether she was offering more than just a hope of glory, or something more personal. He seemed to hear both meanings in her words and took her hand again. This time, his eyes searched hers at the touch, asking a silent question.

‘I want it all,’ he whispered and she could not have said which of them moved to kiss the other. It simply happened, and they felt the strength of it as they sat at the feet of Alexander.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the days that followed, time seemed to pass more slowly when Servilia could not find an excuse to take the horses out again. The Golden Hand was running well and she had brought two men from Rome large enough to quieten the wildest reveller. Instead of taking pleasure from the success, she found her thoughts constantly drifting back to the strange young man who could be vulnerable and frightening in the same moment. She had forced herself not to ask for him again and then waited for his invitation. When it had come, she had laughed aloud, amused at herself, yet unable to resist the excitement it brought.

She stopped to add another stem to the circlet she was weaving as they walked through a field of swaying corn. Julius paused with her, more relaxed than he had felt for a long time. The depression that had crushed him seemed to vanish in her company and it was strange to think that their first ride into the wilderness had been only a few weeks before. She had seen the parts of his life that mattered most to him and he felt as if he had always known Servilia.

With her, the nightmares he tried to drown like pups in heavy wine had lifted, though he felt them circling still. She was the blessing of Alexander over him, a ward against the shadows that pressed him into despair. He could forget who he had become, dropping the mantle of his authority. An hour or two each day in sunshine that warmed more than his skin.

He looked at her as she straightened, wondering at the force of the feelings she engendered. In one moment she could reveal a knowledge of the city and the senators that would leave him breathless, and in another she could be almost childlike as she laughed or chose another bloom to weave with the rest.

Brutus had encouraged the friendship after that first trip to the village of the broken statue. He saw that Servilia was like a balm to his friend’s troubled spirit, beginning to heal wounds that had festered for too long.

‘Pompey was wrong to have the slaves crucified,’ Julius said, remembering the line of crosses and the weeping, tortured figures on them, waiting for death. The images of the great slave rebellion were still painfully fresh in his mind, even after four years. Crows had gorged until they were too fat to fly and cawed in anger at his men as they kicked out at the staggering birds. Julius shuddered slightly.

‘After the beginning, we didn’t offer the slaves anything but death. They knew we’d never let them run. They were badly led and Pompey had them tied and nailed all the way up the Via from the south. It was not greatness in him, then, responding to the terror of the mob.’

‘You would not have done it?’ Servilia asked.

‘Spartacus and his gladiators had to die, but there were brave men in the ranks who had faced legions and beaten them. No, I would have formed a new legion and salted it with the hardest bastard centurions from all the others. Six thousand brave men, Servilia, all wasted for his ambition. It would have been a better example than putting them all on crosses, but Pompey can see no further than his petty rules and traditions. He holds his line while the rest of the world moves past him.’

‘The people cheered them into the city, Julius. Pompey was the one they really wanted as consul. Crassus took the second seat in his shadow.’

‘Better if they had turned the slaves on their own,’ Julius muttered. ‘They would stand tall then, rather than rushing to kiss the feet of Pompey. Better to grow your crops rather than cry out for men like Pompey to give you food. It’s a sickness in us, you know. We always raise unworthy men to rule us.’

He struggled to find words and Servilia stopped, turning to face him. On such a hot day, she had chosen a stola of thin linen and wore her hair bound back with a silver thread, revealing her neck. Every day he spent with her seemed to bring some facet to his attention. He wanted to kiss her throat.

‘He destroyed the pirates, Julius. Of all people, you should be pleased at that.’

‘Of course I am,’ he said bitterly, ‘though I wanted the task myself. Pompey doesn’t dream, Servilia. There are whole new lands rich with pearls and gold, but he rests and organises games for the people. They starve in the fields while he builds new temples for them to pray for wealth.’

‘You would do more?’ she asked, taking his arm. The touch was warm and his thoughts fled before the onslaught of a sudden passion that surprised him. He wondered if his thoughts showed, as he stammered a reply.

‘I would do more. There is gold enough to raise the least of Rome and the chance is there for us, if we can grasp it. There is nothing in the world like our city. They say Egypt is richer, but we are still young enough to fill our hands. Pompey is asleep if he thinks the borders will remain safe with the legions we have. We need to raise more, and pay for them with new lands and gold.’

She let her hand drop, feeling a shiver of desire raise the soft hairs of her skin. There was such a force in him, when it was not shuttered in grief and despair. She saw the darkness cast away with both awe and pleasure. The man who aroused her with a touch was not the one who had met her first at the gates of the fort and she wondered what would come of the reawakening.

When she felt herself longing for him, it had shocked her, almost frightened her. That was not how it was meant to be. The men who loved her never touched more than the skin they craved. They could spend themselves in her without more than a tremble of real response. Yet this strange young man threw her into confusion whenever his blue eyes caught hers. Such strange eyes, with the dark pupil that hurt him in bright light. It seemed to see all her artifice for what it was, breaking through the smoothness of her ways to the privacy of her.

She sighed as they walked on. She was being foolish. This was no time in her life to be moonstruck by a man her son’s age. She ran her hand along the line of her bound hair unconsciously. Not that her years showed, at all. She oiled her body every night and ate well and carefully. A man could take her for thirty, she had been told, rather than the year shy of forty to which she admitted. Forty-two. Sometimes she felt older than that, especially in the city, when Crassus came to her. Sometimes she would weep for no reason at all, the mood vanishing as quickly as it had come. She knew the young man at her side could have any of the young girls of the city. He would not want one who carried so many marks on her, which no one else could see.

She crossed her arms, almost crushing the circlet of bound flowers. She didn’t doubt she could rouse him to passion if she wanted. He was young and innocent compared to her. It would be easy, and she realised that part of her wanted it, would welcome his hands on her in the long grasses of the meadow. She shook her head slightly. Stupid girl. Should never have kissed him.

She spoke quickly to cover the pause, wondering if he had noticed her distraction, or the flush that had come to her cheeks.

‘You haven’t seen Rome recently, Julius. There are so many poor now. The slave army left almost no one to work the fields and the beggars are like flies. At least Pompey gives them a taste of glory, even when their bellies are empty. The Senate wouldn’t dare to hold him back in anything, in case the mobs rise and consume them all. It was a fragile peace when I left and I doubt anything has improved since then. You couldn’t know how close they are to chaos. The Senate lives in fear of another uprising to rival the battles with Spartacus. Everyone who can afford them has guards and the poor kill each other in the streets with nothing done about it. They are not easy times, Julius.’

‘Perhaps I should return then. I haven’t seen my daughter in four years and Pompey owes me a great deal. Perhaps it is time to call in a few of my debts and make sure I am a part of the work again.’

For a moment, his face lit with a passion that made her heart lift as she saw the image of the man she’d watched at the trial, holding the Senate rapt as he took justice from his enemies. Then, just as quickly, it was gone and he blew air through his lips in exasperation.

‘I had a wife to share it with before all this. I had Tubruk, who was more like a father to me than a friend; my home. The future was rushing on me with a kind of … joy. Now, I’ve nothing but new swords and mines and it seems pointless. I would give anything to have Tubruk come back for one hour to share a drink with me, or the chance to see Cornelia just for a while, long enough to say sorry for breaking my promises to her.’

He rubbed his eyes with his hand before walking on. Servilia almost reached for him then, knowing her touch could bring him comfort. She resisted with an enormous effort of will. The touch would lead to more and though she ached to be held herself, she had the strength not to play the game she knew so well, that she had known all her life. A younger woman might have gathered him in without shame at the moment of his weakness, but Servilia knew too much to try. There would be other days.

Then he turned to her and held her tightly enough to hurt, his mouth pressing her lips to open for him. She gave way to it, unable to help herself.

Brutus slid neatly from the saddle as he passed under the gates of the fort. The Tenth had staged complex manoeuvres out in the hills and Octavian had done well, using the force he had been given to flank Domitius in a skilful display. Brutus didn’t hesitate as he ran into the buildings. The dark moods that had cast a cloud over them all were already a memory and he knew Julius would be pleased to hear how well his young relative was doing. Octavian had the shoulders to command, as Marius used to say.

The guard at the base of the steps was out of position, standing well back from his post. Brutus heard him shout as he clattered up the stairs, but only grinned.

Julius was lying on a couch with Servilia, their faces flushed in panic at the sudden, noisy arrival of Brutus into the room. Julius leapt naked to his feet and faced his friend in rage.

‘Get out!’ he roared.

Brutus froze in disbelief, then his face twisted and he spun around, slamming the door shut behind him.

Julius turned slowly to meet Servilia’s eyes, already regretting his anger. He pulled his clothes on roughly, sitting back on the long couch. Her perfume was heavy in his nostrils and he knew he smelled of her. As he stood, the warmth of the cloth was left behind and he drew away, thinking of what he had to do.

‘I’ll go out to him,’ she said, standing.

Wrapped in bitterness, Julius barely noticed her nudity. It had been madness to fall asleep where they could be found, but there was no point in regretting what was past. He shook his head as he tied his sandals.

‘You have less of an apology to make. Let me find him first,’ he said.

Her eyes hardened for a moment. ‘You won’t apologise … for me?’ she said, her voice deceptively calm.

Julius stood and faced her. ‘Not for a moment of you,’ he said, softly.

She came into his arms then and he found there was something indescribably erotic in holding a naked woman while fully clothed. He broke away with a grin despite his worry for Brutus.

‘He’ll be all right when he’s calmed down a little,’ he said to reassure her, wishing he believed it. With steady hands, he buckled his gladius to his waist. Servilia looked suddenly afraid.

‘I don’t want you to fight him, Julius. You must not.’

Julius forced a laugh that seemed to echo in his empty stomach.

‘He’d never hurt me,’ he said as he left.

Outside the door, Julius’ expression settled into a grim mask as he came down the stairs. Domitius and Cabera were there with Ciro, and he imagined their eyes accused him.

‘Where is he?’ Julius snapped.

‘Training yard,’ Domitius said. ‘I’d leave him for a while if I were you, General. His blood’s running hot and it’ll do no good to have it out now.’

Julius hesitated, then his old recklessness swept through him. He had brought it about and the price was his to pay.

‘Stay here,’ he said curtly. ‘He’s my oldest friend and this is private.’

Brutus stood alone in the empty yard, a gladius by Cavallo glittering in his hand. He nodded as Julius walked towards him and once again Julius almost hesitated at the black glare that followed his every movement. If it came to blood, he could not beat Brutus. Even if he could steal victory, he doubted he could take that life above all others.

Brutus brought the shining blade into first position and Julius emptied his mind with the old discipline Renius had taught. This was an enemy and he could kill him.

Julius unsheathed his sword.

‘Did you pay her?’ Brutus said softly, breaking his concentration.

Julius fought against the spiky anger that came to him then. They had both learned from the same man and he knew better than to listen. They began to circle each other.

‘I think I knew, but I didn’t believe it,’ Brutus began again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t shame me with her, so I didn’t worry.’

‘There is no shame,’ Julius replied.

‘Yes. There is,’ Brutus said and moved.

Of all men, Julius knew his style better than anyone, but he barely managed to parry a blade sent straight at his heart. It was a killing blow and he could not excuse it. Anger rose in him then and he moved a little faster, his step a little firmer on the ground as his senses quickened. So be it.

Julius darted in, ducking under a sweep of silver and forcing Brutus onto his back foot. He pulled his blade to the side to cut, but Brutus skipped away with a sneer, then answered with a rain of blows.

They broke clear, beginning to pant slightly. Julius clenched his left hand into a fist to close a gash across his palm. The blood dripped slowly from it as he moved around, leaving spots like glossy eyes to vanish in the sand.

‘I love her,’ Julius said. ‘I love you. Too much for this.’ With a gesture of disgust, he threw his sword away and stood facing his friend.

Brutus brought the point up to his throat and looked into Julius’ eyes.

‘They all know? Cabera, Domitius, Octavian?’

Julius looked steadily back at him, steeling himself not to flinch.

‘Perhaps. We didn’t plan it, Brutus. I didn’t want you to walk in on us.’

The sword was a still point in a moving world. Julius clenched his jaw, a vast sense of calm settling over him. He relaxed every muscle consciously and stood waiting. He did not want to die, but if it came, he would treat it with contempt.

‘This is no small thing, Marcus. Not for me, not for her,’ he said.

The sword came down suddenly and the manic light died from Brutus’ eyes.

‘There is so much between us, Julius, but if you hurt her, I will kill you.’

‘Go and see her. She’s worried about you,’ Julius replied, ignoring the threat.

Brutus held his gaze for a long moment more before walking away and leaving him alone in the training yard. Julius watched him go, then opened his hand with a wince. For a moment, anger surged again. He would have hanged any other man who dared to raise a sword against him. There could be no excuse.

Yet they had been boys together and that counted. Perhaps enough to swallow the betrayal of a blade aimed at his heart. Julius narrowed his eyes in thought. It would be harder to trust the man a second time.

The next six weeks were filled with almost unbearable tension. Though Brutus had spoken with his mother and given a tight-lipped blessing to the union, he walked the compound with his anger and loneliness like a cloak around him.

Without a word of explanation, Julius began to drill the Tenth himself again. He took them out alone for days at a time and never spoke except to give his orders. For their part, the legionaries struggled through pain and exhaustion just to receive a nod from him and that seemed to be worth more than effusive praise from anyone else.

When he was in the barracks, Julius wrote letters and orders far into the night, cutting deeply into the reserves of gold he’d built up. He sent riders back to Rome to commission new armour from Alexandria’s workshop and caravans of supplies wound their way through the mountains from Spanish cities. New mines had to be cut to supply iron ore for the swords being produced at Cavallo’s design. Forests were felled for charcoal and there was never a moment when any one of the five thousand soldiers of the Tenth did not have two or three tasks that needed doing.

His officers were caught between the pain of being excluded and a kind of joy at seeing Julius rediscover the old energy. Long before Julius summoned his subordinates from their posts around the country, they guessed the time in Spain was coming to an end. Hispania was simply too small to contain the general of the Tenth.

Julius chose the most able of the Spanish quaestors to take his place in the interim until Rome appointed another of her sons. He handed over the seal of his office and then threw himself back into working all day and night, sometimes going without sleep for three days in a row before collapsing in exhaustion. After a short rest, he would rise and begin again. Those in the barracks trod carefully around him and waited nervously for the result of all his labour.

Brutus came to him in the early hours of a morning, when the camp was still and silent all around them. He knocked on the door and entered as Julius called out a muttered response.

Julius sat at a desk strewn with maps and clay tablets, with more on the floor at his feet. He stood as he saw Brutus and for a moment, the coldness between them seemed to prohibit speech. The habit of friendship was rusty for both of them.

Brutus swallowed painfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Julius remained silent, watching him. The face he presented was like a stranger’s, with nothing of the friendship Brutus missed.

Brutus tried again. ‘I was a fool, but you’ve known me long enough to let it go,’ he said. ‘I am your friend. Your sword, remember?’

Julius nodded, accepting him. ‘I love Servilia,’ he said softly. ‘I would have told you before anyone else, but it came too quickly between us. There are no games here, but my relationship is private. I will not answer to you for it.’

‘When I saw you together, I …’ Brutus began.

Julius held up a stiff hand.

‘No. I don’t want to hear that again. It’s done.’

‘Gods, you won’t make this easy for me, will you?’ Brutus said, shaking his head.

‘It shouldn’t be. I care more for you than any man I’ve ever met, and you struck to kill me in the training yard. That is hard to forgive.’

‘What?’ Brutus replied quickly. ‘I didn’t …’

‘I know, Brutus.’

Brutus slumped slightly. Without another word, he pulled up a stool. After a moment, Julius took his own seat.

‘Do you want me to keep apologising? I was raging. I thought you were using her like … It was a mistake, I’m sorry. What more do you want?’

‘I want to know I can trust you. I want all this to be forgotten,’ Julius replied.

Brutus stood. ‘You can trust me. You know it. I gave up Primigenia for you. Let this go.’

As they looked at each other, a smile crept onto Julius’ face.

‘Did you notice how I parried the stroke? I wish Renius could have seen that.’

‘Yes, you were very good,’ Brutus replied sarcastically. ‘Are you satisfied?’

‘I think I could have won,’ Julius said cheerfully.

Brutus blinked at him. ‘Now that’s going too far.’

The tension between them receded to a distant pressure.

‘I’m going to take the legion back to Rome,’ Julius said in a rush, relieved to have his friend to share his plans once again. He wondered if the weeks after the fight had hurt Brutus half as much as they had hurt him.

‘We all know, Julius. The men gossip like a group of old women. Is it to challenge Pompey?’ Brutus spoke casually, as if the lives of thousands didn’t hang on the answer.

‘No, he rules well enough, with Crassus. I will put my name forward to be consul at the elections.’ He watched Brutus for a reaction.

‘You think you can win?’ Brutus replied slowly, thinking it over. ‘You’ll have only a few months and the people have a short memory.’

‘I am the last surviving blood of Marius. I will remind them,’ Julius said and Brutus felt the stirring of the old excitement. He reflected on how his friend had experienced almost a rebirth in the last months. The snapping anger had gone and his mother had played her part in it. Even his dear little Angelina was in awe of Servilia and he could begin to understand why.

‘It’s almost dawn. You should get some sleep,’ he said.

‘Not yet, there’s a lot still to do before we can see Rome again.’

‘Then I will stay with you, unless you mind,’ Brutus said, stifling another yawn.

Julius smiled at him. ‘I don’t mind. I need someone to write as I dictate.’

CHAPTER SIX

Renius stood in the dry riverbed and looked up at the bridge. The structure swarmed with Romans and local men, clambering over a skeleton of wood that shifted and creaked as they moved along the walkways. Two hundred feet from the dry riverbed to the stones of the road above. When it was complete, the dam upriver would be removed and the water would hide the massive feet of the bridge, washing around the shaped edges for long after the builders had gone to dust. Just being in the shadow of it was a strange feeling for the old gladiator. When the waters came, no one would ever stand there again.

He shook his head in silent pride, listening to the orders and calls as the winch teams began to raise another of the blocks that would form the arch. Their voices echoed under the bridge and Renius could see they shared his satisfaction. This bridge would never fall and they knew it.

The road above his head would open up a fertile valley in a direct line to the coast. Towns would be built and the roads extended to meet the needs of the new settlers. They would come for the good ground and for trade and most of all for the clean, sweet water issuing from the underground aqueducts that had taken three years to build.

Renius watched as a team of men threw their strength on the heavy ropes as the archstone was swung over to its position. The pulleys squealed and he saw Ciro was leaning out over the rail to guide the block home. Men at his side slathered brown mortar over the surfaces and then Ciro wrapped his arms around it, chanting with the others in a lulling rhythm to the teams below. Renius held his breath. Though the giant’s strength was unmatched among the teams, a slip could easily crush a hand or a shoulder. If the block swung out of position, it was heavy enough to bring the supports crashing down, taking them all with it.

Even so far below, Renius could hear Ciro grunting as he moved the block into place, the mortar squeezing out to fall in wet pats on the riverbed below. Renius shaded his eyes to see if one would come close enough to make him duck away, smiling at their efforts.

He liked the big man. Ciro didn’t say a great deal, but he held nothing back when it came to hard work and Renius would have liked him for that alone. It had surprised him at first to find he enjoyed teaching Ciro the skills more experienced legionaries took for granted. A legion could not be stopped by valleys or mountains. Every man on the scaffolding knew that there wasn’t a river they couldn’t bridge or a road they couldn’t cut in all the world. They built Rome wherever they went.

Ciro had been awed by the water and the miles of tunnels they had cut to bring it down from springs high in the mountains. Now the people who settled in the valley would not face disease every summer, with their wells becoming stale and thick. Perhaps then they would think of the men of Rome who had built them.

The peace of Renius’ thoughts was interrupted by a single rider in light armour guiding his horse over the bank and down to where he stood. The man was sweating in the heat and craned his neck to look up in instinctive fear as he passed under the arches. A heavy hammer dropped from that height could kill the horse as well as the man on it, but Renius chuckled at his caution.

‘You have a message for me?’ Renius asked him.

The man trotted into the shadow of the arch and dismounted.

‘Yes, sir. The general requests your attendance at the barracks. He said to bring the legionary named Ciro with you, sir.’

‘The last arch is nearly finished, lad.’

‘He said to come immediately, sir.’

Renius frowned, then squinted up at Ciro high above him. Only a fool would shout orders to a man carrying a stone almost as heavy as he was, but he saw Ciro was standing back, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. Renius filled his lungs.

‘Come down, Ciro. We’re wanted.’

Despite the sun, Octavian felt chilled as the breeze whipped past his skin. His fifty were at full gallop down the steepest hill he had ever seen. If he hadn’t gone over every foot of it that morning, he would never have dared such a breakneck speed, but the turf was even and none of the experienced riders fell, using the strength of their legs to wedge them in the saddles. Even then, the pommel horns pressed sharply against their groins. Octavian gritted his teeth against the pain as the gallop bruised him unmercifully.

Brutus had chosen the hill with him, to show the reality and power of a charge. He awaited their arrival with a full century of the extraordinarii at the foot of the hill and even at that distance Octavian could see the mounts move skittishly as they instinctively tried to shy away from the thundering fifty coming down.

The noise was incredible, as Octavian shouted for his men to dress the line. The charging rank was becoming a little ragged and he had to roar at his best volume to catch the attention of the wavering riders around him. They showed their skill as the line firmed without slowing and Octavian drew his sword, gripping furiously with his knees. His legs were tortured at such an angle, but he held on.

The ground levelled slightly at the bottom and Octavian barely had time to balance his weight before his fifty were streaming through the wide-spaced ranks that faced them. Faces and horses blurred at appalling speed as they shot through the century and out the other side in what seemed like a single instant of time. Octavian saw an officer looking pale as he flashed past him. If he had held the sword out, the man’s head would have flown.

Octavian shouted in excitement as he called for his men to turn and re-form. Some of them laughed in relief as they rejoined Brutus and saw the tense expressions of the men he commanded that day.

‘With the right ground, we can be terrifying,’ Brutus said, raising his voice for them all to hear. ‘I practically lost my bladder there at the end and I knew you were just going through us!’

The riders under Octavian cheered the admission, though they didn’t believe it. One of them slapped Octavian on the back as Brutus turned to face them, with a leer.

‘Now you’ll get a taste of it. Form up into wide ranks while I take mine up the hill. Hold them steady as we come through and you’ll learn something.’

Octavian swallowed sudden nervousness to grin, still filled with the wild thrill of the charge. Brutus dismounted to lead his horse up the hill and then saw a lone horseman cantering towards them.

‘What’s this, I wonder?’ he murmured.

The soldier dismounted neatly and saluted Brutus.

‘General Caesar is asking for Octavian and yourself, sir.’

Brutus nodded, a slow smile beginning.

‘Is he now?’ He turned to his beloved extraordinarii.

‘What if your officers were killed in the first charge? Would there be chaos? Carry on without us. I will expect a full report when you return to barracks.’

Octavian and Brutus fell in behind the messenger as he wheeled his mount. After a while, they tired of the pace he set and galloped past him.

Cabera ran his fingers along a length of blue silk with childish delight. He seemed to be caught between amazement and laughter at the costly furnishings Servilia had shipped in for the Golden Hand, and her patience was wearing thin. He interrupted her again to dart past and handle a delicate piece of statuary.

‘So you see,’ she tried once more, ‘I would like to establish a reputation for a clean house and some soldiers use chalk dust to cover the rashes they have …’

‘All this for pleasure!’ Cabera interrupted, winking suggestively at her. ‘I want to die in a place like this.’ As she frowned at him, he approached the edge of a pit of silk cushions, set below the level of the floor. He looked at her for permission and Servilia shook her head firmly.

‘Julius said you have a fair knowledge of the diseases of the skin and I would pay well for you to be available to the house.’ She was forced to pause again as the old man jumped into the mass of cushions and scrambled around in them, chuckling.

‘It isn’t difficult work,’ Servilia continued doggedly. ‘My girls will recognise a problem when they see it, but if there’s an argument, I need someone to be able to examine the … man in question. Just until I can find a more permanent doctor from the town.’ She watched astonished as Cabera tumbled around.

‘I’ll pay five sesterces a month,’ she said.

‘Fifteen,’ Cabera replied, suddenly serious. As she blinked in surprise, he smoothed his old robe down with swift strokes from his fingers.

‘I will not go higher than ten, old man. For fifteen, I can have a local doctor living here.’

Cabera snorted. ‘They know nothing and you would lose a room. Twelve, but I won’t deal with pregnancy. You find someone else for that.’

‘I do not run a backstreet whorehouse,’ Servilia snapped. ‘My girls can watch the moon like any other woman. If they do fall pregnant, I pay them off. Most come back to me after the child is weaned. Ten is my final offer.’

‘Examining the rotting parts of soldiers is worth twelve sesterces to anyone,’ Cabera told her cheerfully. ‘I would also like some of these cushions.’

Servilia gritted her teeth.

‘They cost more than your services, old man. Twelve, then, but the cushions stay.’

Cabera clapped his hands in pleasure. ‘First month’s pay up front and a cup of wine to seal the agreement, I think?’ he said.

Servilia opened her mouth to reply and heard a throat delicately cleared behind her. It was Nadia, one of the new ones she had brought to the house, a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes as hard as her body was soft.

‘Mistress, there is a messenger from the legion at the door.’

‘Bring him to me, Nadia.’ Servilia said, forcing a smile. As the woman disappeared, she spun to Cabera.

‘Out of there, now. I will not be embarrassed by you.’

Cabera clambered out of the silken pit, his long fingers slipping one of the cushions under his robe as she turned back to greet the messenger.

The man was blushing furiously and Servilia could see from Nadia’s grin at his shoulder that she had been talking to him.

‘Madam, Caesar wants you at the barracks.’ His eyes swivelled to Cabera. ‘You too, healer. I’m to be your escort. The horses are outside.’

Servilia rubbed the corner of her mouth in thought, ignoring the way the messenger watched her.

‘Will my son be there?’ she asked.

The messenger nodded. ‘Everyone is being called in, madam. I have only Centurion Domitius to find.’

‘That’s easily done, then. He’s upstairs,’ she said, watching with interest as the man’s blush spread down his neck into his tunic. She could practically feel the heat coming off him.

‘I’d leave it a little while, if I were you,’ she said.

As they seated themselves in the long room overlooking the yard, every one of them felt hollow twinges of excitement as they caught each other’s eyes. Julius dominated the room as he stood by the window, waiting for the last to arrive. The breeze off the hills spun slowly through the room and cooled them, but the tension was almost painful. Octavian laughed nervously as Cabera pulled a silk cushion from under his robe and Renius held his wine cup in too tight a grip.

As the guard closed the door and went down the stairs, Brutus drained his wine and grinned. ‘So are you going to tell us why we’re here, Julius?’

They all watched the man who faced them. The familiar tiredness had vanished from his features and he stood straight, his armour shining with oil.

‘Gentlemen, Servilia. We are finished here. It’s time to go home,’ he said.

There was a moment of silence and then Servilia jumped in her seat as the others cheered and laughed together.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Renius said, tilting his cup.

Julius unrolled a map on his desk and they crowded around him as he laid weights at the corners. Servilia felt excluded and then Julius caught her eye and smiled at her. It would be all right.

As Julius discussed the problems of moving five thousand men, she began to calculate. The Golden Hand was barely started and who would run it if she left? Angelina didn’t have the iron in her. She’d be running a free house within a year if Servilia left her in charge. Nadia, possibly. A heart of flint and experienced enough, but could she be trusted not to steal half the profits? Hearing her own name snapped her back from her thoughts.

‘… not by land then, in the time. Servilia gave me the idea when we met the merchant captain she uses. I’ll write orders to commandeer every ship on the passage. That is not to be discussed except between ourselves. If they hear we’re going to use their ships, they’ll put to sea and stay there.’

‘Why are you leaving before you’re finished here?’ Cabera said softly.

The conversation around the table died to nothing and Julius paused with his finger on the map.

‘I am finished here. This is not where I should be,’ he replied. ‘You told me that yourself. If I wait out my term, Pompey will send me somewhere else well away from my city and if I refuse, that will be my last posting anywhere. There are no second chances from that man.’ Julius tapped his finger on the map over the tiny mark of the city he loved.

‘There are elections at the end of the year for two seats as consul. I’m going back to try for one of them.’

Cabera shrugged, still testing. ‘And then? Will you fight a war for the city like Sulla?’

Julius became very still for a moment and his eyes pinned Cabera.

‘No, old friend,’ he said softly. ‘Then I will no longer be posted at Pompey’s whim. As consul, I will be untouchable. I will be at the heart of things again.’

Cabera wanted to let the moment pass, but his stubbornness forced him to speak.

‘But after that? Will you have Brutus drill the Tenth while you write new laws the people will not understand? Will you lose yourself in maps and bridges as you have done here?’

Renius reached out and gripped Cabera by the shoulder to make him stop, but the old man ignored the hand.

‘You can do more than that, if you have eyes to see it,’ he said, wincing as Renius closed his hand on his thin muscles, hurting him.

‘If I am consul,’ Julius said slowly, ‘I will take what I love to the wildest places I can find. Is that what you want me to say? That Spain is too quiet for me? I know it. I will find my path there, Cabera. The gods listen more closely to those who speak from Rome. They just can’t hear me out here.’ He smiled to cover his anger and felt Servilia watching him over Octavian’s shoulder. Renius dropped his hand from the old man’s arm and Cabera scowled at him.

Brutus spoke to smooth the moment over. ‘If we start holding ships tonight, how long before we have enough to move the Tenth?’

Julius nodded his head a fraction in thanks. ‘A month at most. I have already sent word that we need captains for a large cargo. I think no more than thirty ships will be enough to land at Ostia. The Senate would never let me approach Rome with the whole legion as it is, so I’ll need a camp at the coast. I’ll take the gold with me on that first trip. We have enough for what I have in mind.’

Servilia watched them argue and wrangle as the sun set behind them. They barely noticed the guard enter the room to light more lamps. After a while, she left to begin her own arrangements, the night air of the yard making her feel alive after the heat of the room.

She could still hear their voices as she walked across the yard and saw the gate sentries stiffen as they saw her.

‘Is it true we’re going to Rome, madam?’ one of them said as she passed him. It came as no surprise to find the man had heard a rumour. Some of her best information in Rome came from the lower ranks.

‘It’s true,’ she said.

The man smiled. ‘It’s about time,’ he said.

When the Tenth moved, they moved quickly. Ten of the largest ships in Valentia port had guards preventing their escape within a day of the meeting in the long room. To the fury of the merchant captains, their precious cargoes were unloaded and left in the warehouses on the docks to make more room for the vast stores of equipment and men that made up a legion.

The gold at the fort was crated and taken out to the ships, with fully armed centuries attending every foot of the journey. The forges of the swordmakers were dismantled and tied on huge wooden pallets that took teams of oxen to lift into the dark holds. The great war ballistae and onagers were reduced to spars and the heavy ships sank lower and lower in the sea as they were filled. They would need the highest tide to sail out of the harbour and Julius set the day exactly one month after he had made the formal announcement. If all went well, they would reach Rome just over a hundred days before the consular elections.

The quaestor Julius had promoted was ambitious and Julius knew he would work like a slave to keep his new post. There would be no loss of discipline in the provinces when the Tenth had gone. The quaestor brought two cohorts to the east under Julius’ orders, some of them local men who had joined the Roman forces years before. It was enough of a force to keep the peace, and Julius took pleasure from the fact that the problem was no longer his.

There were a thousand things to organise before the ships could throw their lines from the dockside and move out to sea. Julius pushed himself to exhaustion, sleeping only one night in two, at best. He met with local leaders from all over the country to explain what was happening and the gifts he left them ensured their aid and blessing.

The quaestor had been quietly amazed when Julius told him how productive the new mines had become during his term. They had toured them together and the man took the opportunity to secure a loan from the coffers of the Tenth to be paid back over five years. No matter who ended up in the position of praetor, the debt would stand. The mines would be developed and no doubt part of the new wealth would be declared. Not before the post was made permanent, Julius thought wryly. It would not do to excite the hunger of men like Crassus in Rome.

As Julius walked out into the courtyard, he had to shade his eyes against the fierce sun. The gates were open and the fort had a vacant feel that reminded him of the village with the statue of Alexander. It was a strange thought, but the new cohorts were expected the following dawn and the fort would come back to life then.

In the glare, he did not see the young man standing by the gate, waiting for him. Julius was crossing to the stables and was jerked out of his reverie as the man spoke. His hand dropped to his gladius in reflex.

‘General? Do you have a moment?’ the man said.

Julius recognised him and narrowed his eyes. His name was Adàn, he remembered, the one he had spared.

‘What is it?’ he said impatiently.

Adàn approached him and Julius kept his hand near his hilt. He didn’t doubt he could handle the young Spaniard, but there could be others and he had lived long enough not to drop his guard too easily. His eyes scanned the gate, watching for moving shadows.

‘The Mayor, Del Subió, told me you need a scribe, sir. I can read and write Latin.’

Julius looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did Del Subió mention the fact that I am about to leave for Rome?’ he asked.

Adàn nodded. ‘Everyone knows it. I would like to see the city, but I do want the work.’

Julius looked him in the eye, weighing him. He trusted his instincts and he could sense nothing hidden in the man’s open face. Perhaps the young Spaniard was telling the truth, though Julius couldn’t help but suspect his motives with the legion about to set sail.

‘A free trip to Rome, then you disappear in the markets, Adàn?’ he said.

The young man shrugged. ‘You have my word. I can offer nothing else. I work hard and I want to see more of the world. That is all.’

‘Why come to work for me, though? It wasn’t long ago you had Roman blood on your hands.’

Adàn coloured, but raised his head, refusing to be cowed. ‘You are an honourable man, General. While I would rather Rome did not lay its hand on my people, you made me curious. You would not regret hiring me, I swear it.’

Julius frowned at him. The man seemed unaware of the danger of his words. He remembered the way he had stood before Julius’ men in the long room, struggling to control his fear.

‘I must be able to trust you, Adàn, and that will come only with time. What you hear from me will be worth money to those who pay for information. Can you be trusted to keep my business secret?’

‘As you say, you will know in time. My word is good.’

Julius came to a decision and his frown cleared.

‘Very well, Adàn. Go up to my rooms and fetch me the papers from the desk. I will dictate a letter to you and judge your hand. Then your time is your own to say goodbye to your family. We leave for Rome in three days.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brutus vomited helplessly over the side into the heaving sea.

‘I’d forgotten about this,’ he said miserably.

Ciro could only moan in reply as the last cups of wine they’d taken in Valentia came surging back. The wind gusted and blew some of the foul liquid spattering over both of them. Brutus froze in disgust.

‘Move away from me, you ox,’ he shouted over the gale. Though his stomach was empty, the painful spasms began again and he winced at the bitterness in his mouth.

The clouds had swept in from the east as the Spanish mountains sank behind them. The ships had scattered before the storm, forced away from each other. Those with oars kept some semblance of control, though the rolling decks had the long blades completely out of the water on one side and then another. The merchants who depended on their sails were trailing sea anchors, great bundles of canvas and spars to slow their progress and give the heavy rudders something to work against. It was little help. The storm brought the darkness early and they lost sight of each other, every ship suddenly alone to fight the waves.

Brutus shivered at the stern as another wild roll brought water over the side in a great rush of whiteness. He gripped the rail hard as it frothed around his knees and then poured away. The oars slapped and skipped over the mountains of dark water and Brutus wondered whether they would strike land in a sudden crash.

The blackness was absolute and even a few paces from him he could barely make out Ciro’s bulk. He heard the big man moan softly and Brutus closed his eyes, just wanting it all to stop. He’d been fine until they cleared the coast and the big rolling waves sent them heeling over. Then the sickness had begun with a bout of belching and the sudden urge to head for the rail. He’d known enough to aim out over the stern, though the men below had not had that luxury. Packed tight as they were in the hold, it was a scene from nightmares.

The small part of his mind that could think of anything except his discomfort realised they would have to anchor off Ostia for a day or two before going in, if only to wash the ship down and restore the polish to the Tenth. If they reached port at that moment, the dockworkers would think they were refugees from some terrible battle.

Brutus heard a step behind him. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, craning his head forward to make out the man’s features.

‘Julius,’ came a cheerful voice. ‘I have water for you. It’ll give you something to bring up, at least.’

Brutus smiled weakly, accepting the skin and pressing the bronze pipe to his lips. He swilled and spat twice before allowing some of the liquid to trickle down his throat. Ciro took it from him then and gulped noisily.

Brutus knew he should be asking about the men or the course they were cutting to take them between Sardinia and Corsica, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. His head felt heavy with sickness and he could only manage to wave an apologetic hand to Julius before he was hanging over the rail again. It was almost worse when he wasn’t vomiting. Then there was nothing to do but give way to it.

All three of them staggered as the ship rolled at a frightening angle and something fell with a clatter in the hold. Julius lost his footing on the slippery deck and was saved by grabbing Ciro’s arm. He pulled in a deep, appreciative breath.

‘I have missed this,’ he said to them. ‘Out of sight of land in the dark.’ He leaned closer to Ciro.

‘You’re on the late watch with me, tomorrow. The stars will take your breath away when the storm blows itself out. The sickness never lasts more than a day, or two at most.’

‘I hope so,’ Ciro managed doubtfully. As far as he was concerned, Julius was pushing the bounds of friendship by being so obscenely cheerful while they waited for death to take them. He would give a month’s pay for just a single hour of calm to settle his stomach. Then he could face anything, he was sure.

Julius worked his way around the rail to speak to the captain. The merchant had settled into surly acceptance of his new role, even going so far as to speak to the soldiers as they packed onto his ship. He’d warned them to have one hand for the ship and the other to save themselves at all times.

‘If you go over,’ he’d told the legionaries, ‘that’s the end of you. Even if I turn back, and I won’t, a man’s head is almost impossible to spot even when the sea is calm. If there’s a bit of wind, you might as well suck in a lungful and go under. It’ll be faster that way.’

‘Are we on course, Captain?’ Julius asked as he came up to the dark figure, hunched against the wind in heavy oilcloth.

‘We’ll know if we hit Sardinia, but I’ve made the run enough times,’ the captain replied. ‘The wind is coming from the south-east and we’re running across it.’

Julius couldn’t see his features in the pitch dark, but the voice didn’t seem worried. When the first gales had slapped at the ship, the captain had lashed the steering oars down to a few degrees of arc and taken his post, occasionally shouting orders to the crew as they moved invisibly around the deck.

With the railing at his back, Julius swayed with the roll, enjoying himself immensely. His time on Accipiter with Gaditicus as captain seemed a lifetime before, but if he let his mind drift he could almost have been back there, on a different sea in the dark. He wondered if Ciro ever thought of those times. They’d gambled their lives on countless occasions in the hunt for the pirate who had destroyed the little ship.

Julius closed his eyes as he thought of the ones who had died in the chase. Pelitas in particular had been a good man, now long gone. Everything had seemed so simple then, as if his path was waiting for him. Now there were more choices than he wanted. If he found a seat as consul, he could stay in Rome or take his legion to a new land anywhere in the world. Alexander had done it before him. The boy king had taken his armies east into the rising sun, to lands so distant they were little more than legends. Part of Julius wanted the wild freedom he had known in Africa and Greece. No one to persuade or answer to, just a new path to cut.

He smiled in the dark at the thought. Spain was behind them and all his worries and routines and meetings were lifted from his shoulders with the storm.

As he leaned against the rail, a patter of footsteps brought another one out to lose his last meal. Julius heard Adàn’s exclamation as he found the way blocked by Ciro and swore in frustration.

‘What is this, an elephant? Make room, heavy one!’ the young Spaniard snapped and Ciro chuckled weakly, pleased at the chance to share his misery with another.

Rain began to fall in torrents and somewhere ahead, a spike of lightning made them all jerk round at the sudden brightness.

Unseen, Julius raised his hands in a silent prayer to welcome the storm. Rome was somewhere ahead and he felt more alive than he had for years.

The rain poured from the dark sky over the city. Though Alexandria tried to take comfort from her two guards, she found that she was frightened as night fell early under the clouds. Without the sun, the streets emptied quickly as families barred their doors and lit the evening lamps. The stones of the roads were quickly lost under a slow moving tide of filth that swirled and clutched at her feet. Alexandria almost slipped on a hidden cobble and grimaced at the thought of getting it on her hands.

There were no lights on the streets and every dark figure out in them looked threatening. The gangs of raptores would be looking for easy victims to rape and rob and Alexandria could only hope Teddus and his son would put them off.

‘Stay close, miss. Not long now,’ Teddus said from ahead of her.

She could barely make out his shape as he limped along, but the sound of his voice helped to steady her fear.

The wind carried the smell of human excrement in a sudden, ripe gust and Alexandria had to swallow quickly as she gagged. It was difficult not to be afraid. Teddus was far from his best years and an old injury to his leg gave him a staggering gait that looked almost comical. His sullen son almost never spoke and she didn’t know if she could trust him.

As they moved through the empty street, Alexandria could hear the doors she passed being bolted with grunts as families made themselves secure. The good people of Rome had no protection from the gangs and only those with guards dared the city after dark.

A huddled group appeared at a corner ahead of them, shadows that watched the three figures and made Alexandria shudder. She heard Teddus draw his hunting knife, but they would either have to cross the street or go through the group and she controlled the urge to run. She knew she would die if she broke away from her guards, and only that thought held her steady as they approached the corner. Teddus’ son moved to her side, brushing her arm, but bringing no feeling of safety.

‘We’re nearly home,’ Teddus said clearly, more for the benefit of the men at the corner than Alexandria, who knew the streets as well as he did. He sounded unworried, and kept the long blade at his side as they moved past them. It was too dark to see their faces, but Alexandria could smell the dampness of wool and sour garlic. Her heart thudded as a shadow jarred her shoulder, making her stumble. Teddus’ son guided her away with his sword hand, showing them the blade as he did. They didn’t move and Alexandria could feel the threatening stares as the moment hung in the balance. One slip and they would attack, she was sure, her heart beating at painful speed.

Then they were through and Teddus took her arm in a tight grip, his son on the other side.

‘Don’t look back at them, miss,’ Teddus muttered softly.

She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. Were they following, trotting behind them like wild dogs? She ached to look over her shoulder, but Teddus bore her on through the streets, pulling her away. His limp was getting worse and his breath was laboured with pain as they left the corner behind. He never spoke of it, but his right leg had to be rubbed with liniment each night just to hold his weight in the morning.

Above them, the rain pounded on the roofs of houses packed with people who knew better than to be out on the streets after dark. Alexandria risked a glance behind, but could see nothing and wished she hadn’t. Anger stirred in her then. The Senate did not have to fear as she did. They never moved without armed guards and the raptores avoided them, recognising the presence of a greater threat than they could deal with. The poor had no such protection and even in the daylight there were thefts and sudden skirmishes in the streets that left one or two dead and the rest walking stiffly away, knowing they would not be caught or even chased.

‘We’re nearly there, miss,’ Teddus said again, this time meaning it.

She heard the relief in his voice and wondered what would have happened if the group had drawn their knives. Would he have died for her, or left her to the mercy of the gang? It was impossible to know, but she calculated the cost of hiring another guard to join them. Who would watch him?

Another two turnings brought them to her own street. The houses were larger than the maze they had walked through, but the slurry of filth was thicker if anything, swollen by the rain. She grimaced as a splash of it reached up under her stola to her knee. Another pair of sandals ruined. The leather would never smell clean again, no matter how often she soaked them.

Grunting slightly in pain, Teddus reached her door first and thumped on it. They waited in silence, the two men glancing up and down the street in case anyone was waiting to rush in after them. That had happened to someone only a few nights before in a street not far away from where she lived. No one had dared to come out to help.

Alexandria could hear footsteps approach from the other side.

‘Who’s there?’ came Atia’s voice and Alexandria breathed out slowly in relief at being home. She had known the woman for years and though she lived in the house and cooked for her, Atia was the closest thing she had to family in Rome.

‘It’s me, Ati,’ she said.

Light spilled out as the door opened and they moved in quickly, Teddus waiting until she was off the street before following. He replaced the locking bar carefully and then finally sheathed his knife, the tension easing out of his shoulders.

‘Thank you, both of you,’ Alexandria said.

The son was silent, but Teddus grunted a reply, patting his hand against the solidity of the door as if for reassurance. ‘It’s what we’re paid for,’ he said.

She saw his weak leg was slightly raised as he stood without putting weight on it and her heart went out to him. There were different kinds of courage.

‘I’ll bring you a hot drink after you’ve seen to your leg,’ she said.

To her surprise, he blushed slightly. ‘No need for that, mistress. Me and the boy will look after ourselves. Perhaps later.’

Alexandria nodded, unsure whether she should try again. Teddus seemed uncomfortable with anything approaching an offer of friendship. He appeared to want nothing more from her than regular pay and she had accepted his reserve. Tonight though, she was still shaken and needed people around her.

‘You must be hungry and there’s cold beef in the kitchen. I’d be pleased if you would eat with us when you’re ready.’

Atia shifted her feet and Teddus looked at the floor for a moment, frowning slightly.

‘If you’re sure, mistress,’ he said at last.

Alexandria watched as the two men made their way to their own rooms. She looked at Atia and smiled at the woman’s stern expression.

‘You are too kind to those two,’ Atia said. ‘There’s little good in either of them, father or son. If you let them have the run of the house, they’ll take advantage, I’m sure of it. Servants should not forget their place, nor those who pay them.’

Alexandria chuckled, the fear of the evening beginning to ease. In theory, Atia was a servant herself, though they never mentioned it. Alexandria had known her first when she went looking for clean rooms in the city, and when her jewellery business had grown Atia had come with her to the new house to run it for her. The woman was a tyrant with the other servants, but she made the place feel like a home.

‘I’m glad they were with me, Atia. The raptores were out early with the storm and a cup or two of hot wine is fair pay for safety. Come on, I’m starving.’

Atia sniffed rather than reply, but overtook her in the corridor as they walked towards the kitchen.

The senate building was filled with the light of dozens of spluttering lamps around the walls. The echoing hall was warm and dry despite the muted drumming of the rain outside and few of the men present relished the thought of getting wet on the way to their homes. The afternoon had been taken over with the reports on the city budget, with a string of votes to approve vast sums for the legions keeping the Pax Romana in distant lands. The sums were daunting, but the reserves were healthy enough to tide the city over for another year. One or two of the more elderly senators had let the warmth lull them to dozing and only the storm outside held them from making their way to late meals and their own beds.

Senator Prandus stood at the rostrum, his gaze sweeping along the semicircular rows of benches, looking for support. It annoyed him that Pompey sat muttering to a colleague while Prandus announced his candidacy for the seat of consul. It was at Pompey’s request that he had agreed to put his name forward and the least the man could do was look attentive.

‘If I am elected to the post, I intend to gather the coin makers under a single roof and establish a currency on which the citizens can depend. There are too many coins that only claim to be gold or pure silver and every shop has to have its own scales to weigh the money they are given. A single senate mint will end the confusion and restore trust.’

He saw Crassus frown and wondered if he was responsible for some of those false coins that caused so much damage. It would not surprise him.

‘If the citizens grant me the right to sit as consul, I will act in the interests of Rome, restoring faith in the authority of the Senate.’ He paused again as Pompey looked up and Prandus realised he had made a mistake. Someone chuckled and he felt himself growing flustered.

‘… greater faith in the Senate,’ he added. ‘Respect for authority and the rule of law. Justice that must be seen to be free of bribery or corruption.’ He paused again, his mind going blank.

‘It will be an honour to serve. Thank you,’ he said, stepping down from the rostrum and taking his seat in the front bench with evident relief. One or two of the men closest to him clapped him on the shoulder and he began to relax. Perhaps the speech hadn’t been too bad, after all. He glanced at his son Suetonius to see how he had taken it, but the young man was gazing stonily ahead.

Pompey walked down between the benches and smiled at Senator Prandus as he passed him. Those who had begun whispered conversations fell silent as the consul stepped up to the rostrum. He looked relaxed and confident, Prandus thought with a touch of irritation.

‘I thank the candidates for their words,’ Pompey said, allowing his eyes to rest on the men in silent recognition before continuing. ‘It gives me hope that this great city can still find those willing to devote their lives to her without thought of personal gain or ambition.’ He waited through the appreciative chuckle, leaning forward and resting on his arms.

‘The election will give my builders a chance to enlarge this place and I am willing to give the use of my new theatre while the work goes on. It should be adequate, I think.’ He smiled at them and they responded, knowing the theatre was twice as large as the senate building and at least twice as luxurious. There were no objections.

‘As well as those we have heard here, any other candidates must declare before the feast of Volturnalia, ten days from now. Let me know in good time, please. Before we dare the rain, I must announce a public gathering in the forum a week from now. The trial of Hospius will be postponed for a month. Crassus and I will give the consuls’ address to the people then. If any of the other candidates would like to add their voices to ours, you should see me before I leave tonight.’

Pompey caught Prandus’ eye for a brief moment before moving on. It had all been arranged and Prandus knew his candidacy would be strengthened by association with the more experienced men. He had better practise his speech. For all Pompey’s promises, the crowds of Rome could be a difficult audience.

‘The day is at an end, senators. Rise for the oath,’ Pompey said, his voice raised to be heard over the rain that battered the city.

The storm lasted for three days, sweeping the scattered ships towards their destination. When it had passed, the fleet carrying the Tenth slowly gathered again, each one a hive of activity as they made repairs to sails and oars and heated tar to dribble between the wide planks of the decks where water had leaked through. As Brutus had predicted, Julius signalled the fleet to anchor outside Ostia and the small boats moved between them, carrying supplies and carpenters and making sure that they would stand up under scrutiny. The sun baked the decks dry and the Tenth washed out the holds of the ships, cleaning away the smell of vomit with seawater and white grease.

When the anchors were winched up and scrubbed clean of clay, they moved into the port, with Julius at the bow of the first ship. He stood with one arm wrapped around the high prow, drinking in the sight of his homeland. Looking back over his shoulder showed him the white wings of the oared vessels making an arrowhead behind him, with the sails of the others bringing up the rear. He could not have put his feelings into words if he’d been asked and didn’t try to examine them. His headaches had vanished in the fresh sea wind and he had burnt incense in a brazier in thanks to the gods for the safe passage through the storm.

He knew the Tenth could make a permanent camp in the fields beyond the port while he took the road to the city. The men were as excited as the officers at the chance to see families and friends again, but there would be no leave granted until the camp was set up and secure. Five thousand men were too many to descend on his estate. Just feeding such a number caused problems and the prices were better at the docks. Like locusts, the Tenth could eat away the gold he had brought if he let them. At least they would be spending their own pay in the city inns and whorehouses.

The thought of seeing his estate brought a mixture of grief and excitement to him. He would see how his daughter had grown and walk by the river his father had dammed to flow through the estate. Julius’ smile faded as he thought of his father. The family tomb was on the road into the city and before anything else, he had to see the graves of those he had left behind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Crassus breathed in the steam from the pool as he eased himself in up to his waist. The marble sill was icy against his shoulders as he sat on the inner step and the contrast was exquisite. He felt the knots of tension in his neck and waved a hand to summon a bath slave to massage them away while he talked.

The other men in the pool were all his clients and loyal beyond the monthly stipend they received. Crassus closed his eyes as the slave’s hard thumbs began to worry at his muscles and sighed with pleasure before speaking.

‘My term as consul has made little mark on the city, gentlemen.’ He smiled wryly as the men with him shifted in consternation. Before they could protest, he continued. ‘I thought I would have done more in my time. There are too few things I can point to and say “That was mine, alone.” It seems renegotiated trade agreements are not what stirs the blood of our citizens.’

His expression became tinged with bitterness as he looked at them and traced a swirl in the surface of the water with a finger.

‘Oh, I gave them bread when they said they had none. But when the loaves were gone, nothing had changed. They have had a few race days from my purse and seen a temple restored in the forum. I wonder, though, if they will remember this year, or ever think of me when I was consul.’

‘We are for you,’ one of the men said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the others.

Crassus nodded, breathing his cynicism into the steam. ‘I have won no wars for them, you see. Instead, they fawn on Pompey and old Crassus is forgotten.’

The clients did not dare to meet each other’s faces and see the truth of the words reflected there. Crassus raised his eyes at their embarrassment before going on, his voice firming with purpose.

‘I do not want my year to be forgotten, gentlemen. I have bought another day at the racetrack for them, which is a start. I want those who rent from me to be given first choice of tickets, and try to get families.’ He paused to reach behind his head for a cup of cool water and the slave interrupted his kneading to pass it into the bony fingers. Crassus smiled at the lad before continuing.

‘The new sesterces with my head on them are ready. I will need you all to manage the distribution, gentlemen. They are to go only to the poorest of homes and no more than one to each man and woman. You will have to employ guards and take only small amounts with you at a time.’

‘May I mention an idea, Consul?’ a man asked.

‘Of course, Pareus,’ Crassus replied, raising an eyebrow.

‘Hire men to clean the streets,’ he said, the words spilling out too quickly under the consul’s gaze. ‘Much of the city is stinking and the people would thank you for it.’

Crassus laughed.

‘If I do as you say, will they stop throwing their filth on the roads? No, they will say, let fly, for old Crassus will come after us with buckets to clean it up again. No, my friend, if they want clean streets, they should get water and cloths and clean them up themselves. If the stench grows too bad in summer, they may be forced to, and that will teach them to be clean.’ Crassus saw the man’s disappointment and spoke kindly, ‘I admire a man who thinks the best of our people, but there are too many who lack the sense not to foul their own steps. There is no sense in courting the goodwill of such as they.’ Crassus chuckled at the thought for a moment, then fell silent.

‘On the other hand, if it was popular … no. I will not be known as Crassus the cleaner of shit. No.’

‘The street gangs, then?’ Pareus went on stubbornly. ‘They are out of control in some areas. A few hundred men with permission to break the gangs would do more for the city than …’

‘You want another gang to control the others? And who would keep them in control? Would you ask for a still larger group to handle the first?’ Crassus tutted to himself, amused by the man’s persistence.

‘A legion century could …’ the man stammered.

Crassus sat up, sending a ripple out over the pool. He held up a hand for silence and his clients shifted nervously.

‘Yes, Pareus, a legion could do many things, but I do not have one at my call, as you should perhaps have remembered. Would you have me beg more soldiers from Pompey to patrol the poor areas? He asks for fortunes just to have guards at the races and I have had my fill of bolstering his reputation with my gold.’ Crassus swung his hand out and knocked the metal cup spinning over the tiles of the bath-house.

‘Enough for now, gentlemen. You have your tasks for the moment and I will have more for you tomorrow. Leave me.’

The men climbed out of the pool without a word, hurrying away from their irascible master.

Julius was pleased to leave the noise of the port behind him as he and Octavian took the road to the city. With Brutus overseeing the unloading of men and equipment, the work would be quickly finished. The centurions had been chosen personally and they could be trusted to keep the men on a tight rein until the first groups were allowed to take their leave.

He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.

They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.

The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.

The sun was rising towards the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.

The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile further on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.

‘This is the one,’ Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.

His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.

The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.

‘Do you have the wine, Octavian?’ Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hand he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honour those he loved the most.

On the top of the tomb, a shallow bowl had been cut into the marble, leading to a hole no larger than a copper coin. As Julius broke the seal on the wine, he wondered if Clodia ever took his daughter out to feed the dead. He didn’t think the old woman would have forgotten Cornelia, any more than he could.

The dark wine sloshed into the bowl and Julius could hear it dripping down to fall inside.

‘This cup for my father, who made me strong,’ he whispered. ‘This for my mother, who gave her love. This last for my wife.’ He paused, hypnotised by the swirling wine as it vanished into the tomb. ‘Cornelia, whom I loved and honour still.’

When at last he returned the amphora to Octavian, his eyes were red with weeping.

‘Bind the neck securely, lad. There is another grave to see before we go home to the estate and Tubruk will want more than just a cupful.’ Julius forced himself to smile and felt some of his grief lighten in him as he remounted, the gelding’s hooves clattering enough to break the stillness of the line of tombs stretching away.

Julius approached his estate with something like fear gnawing at him. It was a place of so many memories and so much pain. The eye of his childhood noted the rough weeds among the straggling crops and saw a subtle air of decay in every overgrown track or poorly repaired wall. The low drone of the hives could be heard and he felt his eyes prickle at the sound.

The white walls around the main buildings caused an ache to start in him. The paint was mottled with bare patches and he felt a stab of guilt at his lack of contact with them. The house had been a part of every wound in memory and not a single letter had come from his hand to his daughter or Clodia. He gripped the reins and slowed his mount, each step bringing more pain.

There was the gatepost where he had watched for his father coming back from the city. Beyond it would be the stables where he had tasted his first kiss and the courtyard where he had almost died at the hand of Renius, years before. Despite its run-down appearance, it was still the same where it counted, an anchor in the changes of his life. Yet he would have given anything for Tubruk to come out to greet him, or for Cornelia to be there.

He paused before the gate and waited in silence, lost in memories that he clutched to him as if they could remain real until the gate opened and everything changed again.

A man he did not know appeared above the wall and Julius smiled as he thought of the steps hidden from view. He knew them as well as anything else in the world. His steps. His home.

‘What is your business here?’ the man asked, keeping his voice neutral. Though Julius wore the simplest of armour, there was nonetheless an aura of authority in his silent appraisal of the walls and the man sensed it.

‘I have come to see Clodia and my daughter,’ Julius replied.

The man’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before he disappeared to signal those within.

The gate swung open slowly and Julius rode through into the courtyard with Octavian behind him. Distantly, he heard someone calling for Clodia, but the moment of memory held for him and he took a deep breath.

His father had died defending that wall. Tubruk had carried him on his shoulders under the gate. Julius shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. There were too many ghosts in that place. He wondered if he would ever be truly comfortable there, with every corner and turn reminding him of his past.

Clodia came out of the buildings in a rush and froze as she saw him. As he dismounted, she went down into a low bow. Age had not been kind to her, he thought, as he took her by the shoulders and raised her into his embrace. She had always been a large, capable woman, but her face was lined by more than time. If Tubruk had lived she would have married him, but that chance for happiness had been stolen away by the same knives that had taken Cornelia.

As she raised her face to him, he saw fresh tears and the sight seemed to pull his private grief closer to the surface. They had shared a loss together and he was unprepared for the rawness of his feelings as the years vanished and they were standing again in the yard while the slave rebellion tore through the south. She had promised to stay and raise his daughter then, the last words they had spoken before he left.

‘It’s been so long without hearing from you, Julius. I didn’t know where to send the news about your mother,’ she said. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she spoke and Julius held her tightly.

‘I … knew it was coming. Was it hard?’

Clodia shook her head, wiping at her eyes.

‘She spoke of you at the end and took comfort from Julia. There was no pain for her, none at all.’

‘I’m glad,’ Julius said softly. His mother had been a distant figure to him for so long that he was surprised at how much he missed the chance to see her and sit on her bed to tell her all the details of Spain and the battles he had seen. How many times had he come to tell her what he had done with his life? Even when her illness had stolen her reason, she seemed to hear him. Now there was no one. No father to run to, no Tubruk to laugh at his mistakes, no one who loved him without limit left in the world. He ached for them all.

‘Where is Julia now?’ he said, stepping back.

Clodia’s face changed slightly as pride and love suffused her features. ‘Out riding. She takes her pony into the woods whenever she can. She looks like Cornelia, Julius. The same hair. Sometimes, when she laughs, it’s like thirty years have gone and she’s there again with me.’ She saw the tension in him and misunderstood. ‘I never let her ride alone. She has two servants with her, for safety.’

‘Will she know me?’ Julius asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at the gates as if speaking of Julia could bring her into sight. He remembered only a little of the daughter he had left in her care. Just a fragile girl he had comforted while her mother was laid out in the darkness. The memory of her tiny hands wrapped around his neck was strangely powerful.

‘She will, I’m sure. She’s always asking for stories of you and I’ve told her all I can.’ Clodia’s gaze strayed past him to Octavian as he stood stiffly by the horses.

‘Octavian?’ she said, wondering at the changes in him.

Before he could resist, Clodia ran to him and administered a smothering hug. Julius chuckled at his discomfort.

‘There’s dust in our throats, Clodia. Will you keep us standing out here all day?’

Clodia let Octavian escape her.

‘Yes, of course. Give your horses to one of the boys there and I’ll see to the kitchen. There’s only a few of the slaves and me now. Without the papers in your name, the merchants wouldn’t deal with me. Without Tubruk to run the place, it’s been …’

Julius flushed as the woman came close to tears again. He had not done his duty by her, he realised, wondering at his own blindness. She was making little of hard years and, to his shame, he could have eased the burden. He should have replaced Tubruk before he left and signed the control of funds over to her. Clodia seemed suddenly flustered at the thought of Julius seeing the house she had come to think of as her home and he laid a hand on her arm to ease her.

‘I could not have asked for more,’ he said.

Some of the tightness in her eased. As the horses were led away to be brushed and fed, Clodia bustled before them into the house and they followed, Julius swallowing dryly as they passed from the courtyard into the rooms of his childhood.

The meal Clodia brought to them was interrupted by a high sweet call outside as a clatter of hooves marked Julia’s return. With his mouth filled with bread and honey, Julius leapt to his feet and strode out into the sun. He had thought he would let her come in to him and greet her formally, but the sound of her voice overrode his patience and he couldn’t wait.

Though she had seen only ten summers, she was the image of her mother and her dark hair was worn long in a braid down her back. Julius laughed at the sight of the girl as she jumped down from her pony and fussed around him, pulling thorns and snags from his mane with her fingers as a comb.

His daughter started at the sound of the strange voice and looked around to see who dared to chuckle at her in her own home. When her eyes met Julius’, she frowned in suspicion. Julius watched her closely as she walked over to him, her head tilted to one side in silent enquiry in a way he remembered Cornelia doing.

She walked with confidence, he noted with pleasure. A mistress of an estate come to meet visitors. She was dressed in a threadbare cream tunic and leggings for riding and with her hair tied back and no sign of breasts under the cloth, she could almost have passed for a boy. He saw a simple silver bangle at her wrist and recognised it as one of his mother’s.

Clodia had come out to witness the meeting and smiled at them both with maternal pride.

‘This is your father, Julia,’ she said. The little girl froze in the act of rubbing dust from her sleeve. She looked up at Julius with a blank expression.

‘I remember you,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you back to stay?’

‘For a while,’ Julius replied as seriously.

The little girl seemed to digest this and nodded.

‘Will you buy me a horse? I’m getting too big for old Gibi and Recidus says I would do well on a mount with a bit of spirit.’

Julius blinked at her and some of the past seemed to melt away in his amusement.

‘I will find you a beauty,’ he promised, rewarded with a smile that thumped his heart for the woman he had lost.

Alexandria stood back from the heat of the forge, watching as Tabbic removed the cup of molten gold and positioned it over the pouring holes in the clay.

‘A steady hand now,’ she cautioned unnecessarily, as Tabbic began to rotate the long wooden handle without a tremor. Both of them gave the liquid metal the respect it deserved as it hissed and gurgled into the cast. A single splash would burn flesh to the bone and every part of the process had to be slow and careful. Alexandria nodded in satisfaction as vapour whistled out of the air holes in the clay and the deep gulping sound began to rise in tone until the structure was full. When the gold had cooled, the clay would be painstakingly removed to reveal a mask as perfect as the face of the woman it represented. At a senator’s bidding, Alexandria had performed the unpleasant task of taking a cast from his dead wife only hours after her death. Three lesser masks had followed in clay as Alexandria altered the lines of the face to smooth away the ravages of disease. With infinite care, she had rebuilt the nose where sickness had eaten the flesh and at last the man had wept to see the image death had taken from him. In gold, she would be preserved forever young, long after the man who loved her was ashes himself.

Alexandria touched a hand to the clay, feeling the heat constrained within and wondering if a man would ever love her enough to keep her image all his life.

Lost in thought, she did not hear Brutus enter the workshop and only the stillness as he gazed at her made her turn, sensing something she could not have named.

‘Break out the good wine and take your clothes off,’ he said. His eyes were on her and he didn’t even notice Tabbic standing there with his mouth open. ‘I’m back, girl. Julius is back and Rome will be turned on its head when we’re done.’

CHAPTER NINE

Brutus patted Alexandria’s thigh, enjoying the feel of her as they rode through the dusk out to the estate. After spending the day in bed with her, he felt more relaxed and at ease with the world than he could remember. He wished all his homecomings were of that quality.

Not used to riding, she held him tightly and he could feel the whip of her hair as it struck his bare neck, something he found extraordinarily erotic. She had grown strong while he was away, her body taut with health and strength. Her face too had altered subtly and her forehead was marked with a scar from a splash of hot metal, almost in the shape of a tear.

Her black cloak snapped around him for a moment in the wind and he gripped the edge of it, pulling her in closer. She wrapped her arms around his chest and breathed deeply. The air was warm as the land gave back the heat of the sun and Brutus only wished there was someone there to witness how magnificent they must look as he cut across the fields to the estate.

He saw it from far away, the light of torches blurring together to make the walls a crown of light in the growing darkness. He slowed at the end and for a moment he thought it was Tubruk waiting for him by the open gate.

Julius stayed silent as he watched them slow to a walk, guessing at Brutus’ thoughts and understanding them. He put aside his impatience and gave silent thanks for his friend’s arrival. It was right that he be there, and they shared a private smile of regret as Brutus turned in the saddle to help Alexandria down and then jumped to the ground beside her.

Julius kissed Alexandria on the cheek. ‘I’m honoured to have you at my home. The servants will take you in while I have a word with Brutus,’ he said. Her eyes sparkled, he thought, wondering if her mind ever strayed back to one particular evening as his did.

When she had gone inside, Julius took a deep breath and clapped Brutus on the shoulder in affection.

‘I can’t believe Tubruk isn’t here,’ Julius said, looking out over the fields.

Brutus glanced at him in silence for a moment, then reached down and picked up a handful of dust.

‘Do you remember when he made you hold this?’ he said.

Julius nodded, copying the action. Brutus was pleased to see him smile as he let the dust trickle into the breeze.

‘Fed with the blood of those who have gone before us,’ Julius said.

‘And our blood. He was a good man,’ Brutus replied, letting his own handful lift away and bringing his hands together in a sharp clap. ‘You’ll have to find someone else to get the fields ploughed under again. I’ve never seen the place so ragged. Still, you’re back now.’

Julius frowned at him. ‘I was going to ask where you had disappeared to, but I see you found something better than seeing to the camp at Ostia.’

Julius could not bring himself to be angry with his friend, though he had intended to make the point very clearly.

‘Renius had it all in hand and it’s a good thing I did,’ Brutus replied. ‘Alexandria told me there will be a public debate tomorrow in the forum and I rode straight here to tell you.’

‘I know about it. Servilia told me as soon as she heard. Still, I’m glad you came. I would have sent for you even if you hadn’t disobeyed my orders.’

Brutus looked at his friend, trying to judge how seriously he was being criticised. The strain and exhaustion of the time in Spain had left Julius’ face and he seemed younger than he had for a long time. Brutus waited for a moment.

‘Am I forgiven?’ he said.

‘You are,’ Julius replied. ‘Now come inside and meet my daughter. There’s a room ready for you and I want you with me to plan a campaign. You are the last to come in.’

They walked together through the courtyard, the only sound the snap and flutter of the lamps along the wall. The breeze cut across them for a moment as the gate was shut and Brutus felt the hairs lift on his arms, making him shiver. Julius opened a door into a room of life and chatter and he ducked his head to go in, feeling the first touches of excitement.

Julius had summoned them all, Brutus saw as he looked round the room and greeted his friends. With Alexandria, everyone he cared about was in that one room and they had the bright eyes of joyful conspirators, planning how to rule a city. Servilia, Cabera, Domitius, Ciro, Octavian, all the ones Julius had gathered to his side. The only stranger was the young Spaniard who had come with them as Julius’ scribe. Adàn looked from face to face even as Brutus did and when their eyes met, Brutus nodded to him, acknowledging him as Julius would have wanted.

Brutus saw that Alexandria was standing stiffly amongst them and moved to her side instinctively. Julius caught the movement and understood it.

‘We need you here, Alexandria. No one else has lived in the city for the last few years and I want that knowledge.’

She blushed prettily as she relaxed and Brutus squeezed her buttock, unseen by the others. His mother looked sharply at him as Alexandria slapped his hand away, but Brutus only smiled at her before looking back at Julius.

‘Where is this daughter of yours?’ Brutus asked. He was curious to see the girl.

‘She’ll be out in the stables,’ Julius said. ‘She rides like a centaur, you know. I’ll call her in before she’s ready to sleep.’ For an instant, pride touched his features as he thought of his daughter and Brutus smiled with him. Then, Julius cleared his throat, looking round at them all.

‘Now, I need to decide what I am to do tomorrow morning, when I walk into the forum and declare for the consul’s post.’

Everyone tried to speak at once and the knock at the door went unheard for the first few moments. Clodia opened it and her expression brought quiet as they saw her.

‘There is … I could not stop him,’ she began.

Julius took her by the arm. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

He froze as he caught sight of the figure behind her and stood back with Clodia to let the door swing open.

Crassus stood there, dressed in a toga of startling white against his dark skin. A gold clasp glittered at his shoulder and Alexandria blinked as she recognised her own work, wondering if it was coincidence or subtle proof of his understanding of the relationships in the room.

‘Good evening, Caesar. I believe your post of tribune was never revoked. Should I address you by that title now that you have left the praetorship of Spain behind you?’

Julius bowed his head, struggling to hide the anger he felt at the man’s casual entry into his home. His mind spun with sudden thoughts. Were there soldiers outside? If there were, Crassus would find it harder to leave than to enter, he swore silently. Julius released his grip on Clodia’s arm and she left the room quickly without looking back. He did not blame her for letting Crassus into his home. Though she had run the house as its mistress, she had been too many years a slave not to be frightened by one of the most powerful men in the Senate. No door could be barred against a consul of Rome.

Crassus saw the tension in the young man he faced and continued. ‘Put yourself at ease, Julius. I am a friend to this house, as I was to Marius before you. Did you think you could land a legion on my coastline without word reaching me? I would imagine even Pompey’s feeble ring of spies has heard you are back by now.’ Crassus caught sight of Servilia in the room and lowered his head slightly in greeting.

‘You are welcome here,’ Julius said, trying to unbend. He knew he had hesitated too long and suspected the older man had enjoyed every moment of the confusion he had created.

‘I am glad,’ Crassus replied. ‘Well, if someone will fetch another chair, I will join you, with your permission. You will need a strong speech tomorrow if you mean to have a consul’s robe next year. Pompey will not be pleased to hear of it, but that is the sweetness to the sauce.’

‘Are there no secrets from you?’ Julius asked, beginning to recover.

Crassus smiled at him. ‘Confirmed by your own mouth! I thought there could be no other reason for you to leave the post as praetor. I trust you appointed a replacement before you sailed for Rome?’

‘I did, of course,’ Julius replied. To his surprise, he found he was enjoying the exchange.

Crassus took the chair Octavian vacated for him and settled himself, using his long fingers to tweak his toga into neatness. The tension in the room began to ease as they accepted him amongst them.

‘I wonder, did you think you would just stride through the forum and ascend the speakers’ platform?’ Crassus asked.

Julius looked blankly at him. ‘Why not? Servilia tells me Prandus will be there to speak. I have as much right as he.’

Crassus smiled, shaking his head. ‘I believe you would have done, at that. Better to come at my invitation, Julius. Pompey will not be asking for you to join us, after all. I look forward to seeing his face when you enter your name onto the lists.’

He accepted a cup of wine and sipped at it, wincing slightly.

‘You realise Pompey may claim you have abandoned your duty by leaving before your term in Spain was finished?’ he said, leaning forward in his seat.

‘I am immune from prosecution as tribune,’ Julius replied quickly.

‘Unless it is a crime of violence, my friend, though I suppose deserting your post is safe enough. Pompey knows your protection, but how will it look to the people? From now until the elections, Julius, you must not only act well, but be seen to act well, or the votes you need will be wasted on another candidate.’

Crassus looked around at the others in the room and smiled as his eyes met Alexandria’s. His fingers caressed the gold clasp at his shoulder for an instant and she knew he recognised her and experienced a thrill of danger. For the first time since Brutus had found her in the workshop, she realised that Julius collected as many enemies as he did friends and she was not yet sure which Crassus was.

‘What do you gain by helping me?’ Julius said suddenly.

‘You have a legion I helped to rebuild, Julius, when it was still named Primigenia. I have been … persuaded of the need for men in the city. Trained men who cannot be bribed or tempted away by the gangs of raptores.’

‘You claim a debt from me?’ Julius replied, tensing himself to refuse.

Crassus glanced at Servilia and exchanged a look of understanding that Julius could not fathom.

‘No. I waived any debts too long ago to mention. I am asking freely for your help and in return my clients will help to spread your name in the city. You do have only a hundred days, my friend. Even with my aid, that is a short time.’

He saw Julius hesitate and went on: ‘I was a friend to your father and Marius. Is it too much to ask for trust from the son?’

Servilia tried to will Julius to look at her. She knew Crassus better than anyone else in the room and hoped Julius would not be fool enough to refuse him. She watched the man she loved with something like pain as she waited for his reply.

‘Thank you, Consul,’ Julius said formally. ‘I do not forget my friends.’

Crassus smiled in genuine pleasure.

‘With my wealth …’ he began.

Julius shook his head. ‘I have enough for this, Crassus, though I thank you.’

For the first time, Crassus looked at the young general with the beginning of real respect. He had been right in his judgement, he thought. He could work with him and infuriate Pompey at the same time.

‘Shall we toast your candidacy, then?’ Crassus asked, raising his cup.

At Julius’ nod, the rest of them took wine and held the vessels awkwardly as they waited. For a moment, Julius regretted finishing the Falernian, but thought better of it. Tubruk could raise a cup of it to them, wherever he was.

Julia sat out in the darkness of the stables, enjoying the warm comfort that the horses brought. She walked down the stalls and patted their soft muzzles, speaking softly to each one. She paused at the enormous gelding her father’s friend had brought that woman on. It was strange to use the word. Her father. How many times had Clodia told her about the brave man who had been sent away from the city by a consul’s whim? She had made her own pictures of him, telling herself he was held by the bonds of duty and could not return for her. Clodia always said he would come back in the end and everything would be all right, but now that he was there, Julia found him more than a little frightening. As soon as he had put his foot in the dust of the yard, everything had changed and the house had a new master.

He seemed so stern, she thought as she reached up to rub her nose against the gelding’s velvet nostrils. The horse whickered gently in reply and pushed at her, blowing warm air against her face. He was not as old as she had expected. She’d imagined him with grey hair at the temples and the quiet dignity of a member of the Senate.

The night air carried a gust of noise from where the new people had gathered. So many of them! The house had never been so full of visitors, she thought, wondering at them. From her perch on the outer wall, she had watched them come in and shaken her head at so many strangers.

They were a different breed to the visitors Clodia invited, especially the old woman with diamonds at her throat. Julia had seen her father kiss her when he thought no one could see and Julia had felt her throat tighten with dislike. She had tried to tell herself it was just a friendship, but there had been something intimate in the way the woman relaxed against him and Julia’s cheeks had become hot with embarrassment. Whoever she was, she vowed they would never be friends.

She whiled away a little time imagining the woman trying to win her affection. She would be very cool towards her, Julia thought. Not rude; Clodia had taught her to despise rudeness. Just enough to make the woman feel unwelcome.

A heavy cloak hung on a peg by the gelding’s stall and Julia recognised it as the one that had draped the last pair. She remembered the man’s laughter as it carried over the fields. He was very handsome, she thought. Shorter than her father, he walked like the man Clodia had employed to teach her to ride, as if he had so much energy that he could only barely stop himself from dancing with the pleasure of it.

Julia thought his companion must love him, from the way she had draped herself against his back. They always seemed to be touching, almost by accident.

She stayed in the stables for a long time, trying to get to the root of what felt different since her father had arrived. She always came there when there was a problem or when she had upset Clodia. Amongst the smell of leather and straw, in the shadows, she had always felt safe. The main house had so many empty rooms that were cold and dark at night. When she crept through them to climb the wall under the moonlight, she could imagine her mother walking there and shiver. It was too easy to think of the men who had killed her, padding up behind until Julia would spin in terror and back away from phantoms she could never see.

A burst of laughter carried to her from the house and she raised her head to listen. The sound faded into a deeper silence and she blinked in the darkness as she realised that having her father’s friends here made her feel safe. There would be no assassins creeping over the wall for her tonight, no nightmares.

She patted the gelding’s nose and took the cloak from its peg, letting it fall onto the dusty floor in a moment of spite. Her father’s friend deserved better than that one, she thought, hugging herself in the gloom.

Pompey paced with his hands clasped tightly behind him. He wore a toga of thick white cloth that left his arms bare and the muscles moved visibly as he worked his fingers against each other. The lamps in his city home had begun to gutter, but he did not call for slaves to refill the reservoirs. The dim light suited the mood of the consul of Rome.

‘Only standing in the elections could repair the damage of leaving his post. Nothing else is worth the risk he has taken, Regulus.’

His most senior centurion stood to attention as his general paced the floor. He had been loyal to him for more than twenty years and knew his moods as well as any man.

‘I am yours to command, sir,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

Pompey looked at him and what he saw seemed to satisfy him.

‘You are my right arm, Regulus, I know it. However, I need more than obedience if Caesar is not to inherit the city from my hands. I need ideas. Speak freely and fear nothing.’

Regulus relaxed slightly with the command. ‘Have you considered drafting a law to allow you to stand again? He could not take the post if you were the alternative.’

Pompey frowned. If he thought for a moment that such a thing was possible, he would have considered it. The Senate, even the citizens, would revolt against even the suggestion of a return to those old days. The irony of having helped to bring about the very restrictions that now held him was not wasted on him, but such thoughts brought him no closer to a solution.

‘It is not possible,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘Then we must plan for the future, sir,’ Regulus said.

Pompey stopped to look at him with hope in his eyes. ‘What do you have in mind?’

Regulus took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Let me join his legion. If there is ever a time when you need him to be stopped, you would have a sword close to him.’

Pompey rubbed his face as he considered the offer. Such loyalty, coupled with so violent a man. Though part of him was repelled by the thought of such a dishonourable course, he would be a fool to refuse a weapon for the years to come. Who knew what the future held, for any of them?

‘You would have to enlist in the ranks,’ Pompey said, slowly.

The centurion breathed hard as he saw his idea was not to be dismissed without a hearing.

‘That will be no hardship for me. My promotions came on the battlefield, from your hand. I have been there before.’

‘But your scars, they will know you for what you are,’ Pompey replied.

‘I will say I’m a mercenary. I can play the part easily enough. Let me get close to him, Consul. I am your man.’

Pompey considered, objections coming and going in his thoughts. He sighed. Politics was a practical business, after all.

‘It could be years, Regulus. Will you be missed?’

‘No, sir. I am alone.’

‘Then it is my order to you, Regulus. Go with my blessing.’

Regulus struggled to find words. ‘It … it is an honour, sir. I will be close to him if you call. I swear it.’

‘I know you will, Regulus. I will reward you when …’

‘It is not necessary, sir,’ Regulus said quickly, surprising himself. He would not usually have dared to interrupt the consul, but he wanted to give some sign that the trust was well placed. He was gratified when Pompey smiled.

‘If only I had more like you, Regulus. No man is better served than I.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Regulus replied, his chest swelling. He knew he faced years of hard discipline and reduced pay, but it worried him not at all.

CHAPTER TEN

Rome was never still, and as dawn came the vast space of the forum had filled with a shifting mass of citizens, constantly changing as currents moved through them. Fathers held children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the consuls, just to say they had seen the men who defeated Spartacus and saved the city.

To Julius, the crowd seemed faceless and intimidating. Should he stare into space as he spoke, or fix his gaze on one unfortunate citizen? He wondered if they would even hear him. They were silent for Pompey, but Julius didn’t doubt the consul had salted the crowd with his clients. If they shouted and jeered when Julius followed him, it would be a poor start to his candidacy. He went over and over the speech in his mind, praying he wouldn’t stumble or lose his place. There could be questions when he was finished, perhaps from men in the pay of the consuls. He could be humiliated. Carefully, Julius rested his damp palms on his knees, letting the cloth soak up the sweat that clung to them.

He sat on the raised platform with Crassus and Suetonius’ father without looking at either of them. They were listening attentively as Pompey made a witticism and held up his hands to quiet the laughter. There was no hesitation in him, Julius saw. Pompey’s skill as an orator could be read in the crowd’s reactions. They raised their faces to the consul almost in worship and Julius felt an awful tightness in his gut at the thought of being next to speak.

Pompey’s voice became grave as he recounted his service in the consular year and the crowd spattered applause. The military successes were interspersed with promises of free grain and bread, games and commemorative coins. Crassus stiffened slightly at the last. He wondered where Pompey would find the funds to have his face struck in silver. The worst of it was knowing the bribes were unnecessary. Pompey held the crowd, moving them to laughter and stern pride in moments. It was a masterful performance and when it finished, Julius stood and had to force a smile onto his face as Pompey stepped back and gestured to him. Julius gritted his teeth in annoyance at the outstretched hand, as if he was being brought to the front by a fatherly sponsor.

As they passed, Pompey spoke quietly to him. ‘No shields in cloaks, Julius? I thought you would have something prepared.’

Julius was forced to smile as if the words were some playful comment rather than a barb. Both of them remembered the trial he had won in that forum, where shields depicting scenes from Marius’ life were revealed to the crowd.

Pompey took his seat without another word, appearing calm and interested. Julius stepped close to the rostrum and paused for a moment, looking over the sea of faces. How many had gathered to hear the consuls give their yearly address? Eight thousand, ten? With the rising sun still hidden behind the temples that bordered the great square, the light was grey and cold as his gaze swept over them. Julius took a deep breath, willing his voice to be steady and strong from the first. It was important that they hear every word.

‘My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, nephew of Marius, who was consul seven times in Rome. I have written my name in the senate house for the same post. I do it not for the memory of that man, but to continue his work. Do you want to hear me make promises of coins and bread to be handed to you? You are not children to be offered pretty things for your loyalty. A good father does not spoil the child with gifts.’

Julius paused and began to relax. Every eye in the forum was on him and he felt the first touch of confidence since ascending the platform.

‘I have known those who break their backs growing wheat for your bread. There are no fortunes in feeding others, but they have pride and they are men. I have known many who fought without complaint for this city. You will see them sometimes on the streets, missing eyes or limbs, passed by the crowds as we look aside, forgetting we can laugh and love only because those soldiers gave so much.

‘We have grown this city on the blood and sweat of those who have gone before, but there is still much to do. Did you hear Consul Crassus talk of soldiers to make the streets safe? I give my men to you without regret, but when I take them away to find new lands and riches for Rome, who will keep you safe then, if not yourselves?’

The crowd shifted restlessly and Julius hesitated for a moment. He could see the idea in his head, but he strained for a way to make them understand.

‘Aristotle said a statesman is anxious to produce a certain moral character in his citizens, a disposition to virtue. I look for it in you and it is there, ready to be called forth. You are the ones who took to the walls to defend Rome from the slave rebellion. You did not hide from your duty then and you will not now, when I ask it of you.’ He went on, louder than before. ‘I will set aside funds for any man without work if he cleans the streets and keeps the gangs from terrorizing the weakest of us. Where is the glory of Rome if we live in fear at night? How many of you bar your doors and wait behind them for the first scratching of the murderer or the thief?’

Silently, he thanked Alexandria for what she had told him and saw from the nodding heads that he had struck a chord with many of the crowd.

‘Consul Crassus has appointed me aedile, which means I am the one to whom you should complain if there is crime or disorder in the city. Come to me if you are wrongly accused and I will hear your case and defend you myself if I cannot find representation for you. My time and strength are yours now, if you want it. My clients and my men will make the streets safe and I will make the law fair for all. If I am consul, I will be the flood that clears Rome of the filth of centuries, but not alone. I will not give you a better city. Together, we will make her new.’

He felt a giddy joy in him as they responded. This was what it was like to be touched by gods. His chest swelled as his voice poured over the crowd and they strove to meet his eye.

‘Where is the wealth our legions have brought back to the city? In this forum alone? It is not enough, I think. If I am made consul, I will not shy from the smaller things. The roads are blocked by traffic so that trade is stifled. I will make them move by night and silence the endless shouting of the ox-drivers.’ They chuckled at that and Julius smiled back at them. His people.

‘Do you think I should not? Should I use my time to build another fine building you will never use?’

Someone shouted ‘No!’ and Julius grinned at the lone voice, enjoying the ripple of laughter that spread through them.

‘To that man who shouted, I say yes! We should build great soaring temples and bridges and aqueducts for clean water. If a foreign king comes to Rome, I want him to know we are blessed in all things. I want him to look up – but not tread in anything horrible when he does.’

Julius waited for the laughter to fade before going on. He knew they listened for the simple reason that his voice rang with conviction. He believed what he said and they heard him and were lifted.

‘We are a practical people, you and I. We need drains and safety and honest trade and cheap prices for the food to live. But we are also dreamers, practical dreamers who will remake the world to endure a thousand years. We build to last. We are the inheritors of Greece. We have strength, but not just that of the body. We invent and perfect until there is nothing so fine as Rome. One street at a time, if need be.’

He took a deep, slow breath and his eyes filled with affection for the people listening.

‘I look at you all and I am proud. My blood has helped to make Rome and I do not see it wasted when I look on her people. This is our land. Yet there is a world outside it that has yet to know what we have found. What we have made is great enough to take into the dark places, to spread the rule of law, the honour of our city, until anywhere in the world one of us can say “I am a Roman citizen” and be assured of good treatment. If I am made consul, I will work for that day.’

He had finished, though they didn’t know it at first. They waited patiently to hear what he would say next and Julius was almost tempted into continuing before an inner voice of caution told him to simply thank them and step down.

The silence broke in a roar of appreciation and Julius flushed with the excitement of it. He was unaware of the men on the platform behind him and could see only the people who had listened, each one hearing him alone and taking in the words. It was better than wine.

Behind his back, Pompey leaned over to Crassus and whispered as he applauded.

‘You made him aedile? He is no friend of yours, Crassus. Believe it.’

For the benefit of the crowd, Crassus smiled back at his colleague, his eyes glittering angrily.

‘I know how to judge a friend, Pompey.’

Pompey stood then and clapped a hand to Julius’ shoulder as he came abreast of him. As the crowd saw the two men smile at each other, they cheered again and Pompey raised his other arm to acknowledge them, as if Julius was his pupil and had done well to please them.

‘A wonderful speech, Caesar,’ Pompey said. ‘You will be like a fresh wind in the Senate if you are successful. Practical dreamers, a wonderful concept.’

Julius clasped the offered hand before turning to call Crassus to the front. The other consul was already moving, too astute to let the opportunity pass without his presence.

The three men stood together while the crowd cheered, and from a distance their smiles looked genuine. Senator Prandus also rose, but no one noticed.

Alexandria turned to Teddus at her side as the crowd cheered the men on the platform.

‘Well, what did you think of him?’ she said.

The old soldier rubbed the bristles on his chin. He had come because Alexandria had asked him, but he hadn’t the slightest interest in the promises of the men who ruled his city and didn’t know how to say that without offending his employer.

‘He was all right,’ he said, after reflection. ‘Though I didn’t hear him offer to have a coin stamped like the others. Promises are all very well, mistress, but a silver coin buys you a good meal and a jug.’

Alexandria frowned for a moment, then snapped open the heavy bangle she wore on her wrist, sliding a denarius out in her hand. She gave it to Teddus and he accepted it, raising his eyebrows.

‘What’s that for?’ he said.

‘You spend it,’ she replied. ‘When it’s gone and you’re hungry again, Caesar will still be there.’

Teddus nodded as if he understood her, carefully tucking the coin into the hidden pocket of his tunic. He glanced around to see if anyone had noted where he kept his money, but the crowd seemed focused on the raised stage. Still, it paid to be careful in Rome.

Servilia watched the man she loved as Pompey clapped an arm on his shoulders. The consul could scent a changing wind as fast as any of the other men in the Senate, though she wondered if Pompey knew Julius would not allow even the semblance of control from the outgoing consuls.

There were times when she hated the shallow games they all played. Even giving Julius and Prandus the chance to speak at the formal consuls’ address was part of it. She knew of two more candidates on the senate list and there were still a few days to go before the lists were closed. None of those had been allowed to cheapen the consuls’ address with their tin promises.

The crowd would remember only three men and Julius was one of them. She let out a breath of tension. Unlike most of those in the forum, she had not been able to relax and enjoy the speeches. While Julius stood to face them, her heart had pounded in fear and pride. He hadn’t slipped. The memory of the man she had found in Spain was simply that now. Julius had recaptured the old magic and it touched even her as she listened and saw his bright eyes sweep over her without stopping. He was so young; could the crowd see that? For all their skill and wit, Pompey and Crassus were fading powers compared to him, and he was hers.

A man stepped a little too closely to her as he wound his way through the crowd and Servilia caught a glimpse of a hard, scarred face, damp with sweat. Before she could react, a strong hand fastened on the man’s arm, making him cry out.

‘Be on your way,’ Brutus said softly.

The man yanked hard to free himself and retreated, though he paused to spit when he was safely out of range. Servilia turned to her son and he smiled at her, the incident forgotten.

‘I think you have backed the right horse, Mother,’ he said, looking up at Julius. ‘Can’t you feel it? Everything is in place for him.’

Servilia chuckled, caught by his enthusiasm. Without his armour, her son looked more boyish than usual and she reached up to ruffle his hair affectionately.

‘One speech doesn’t make a consul, you know. The work starts today.’ She followed his gaze up to where Julius was turning away at last to make his way into the crowd, taking outstretched hands and responding to the citizens as they called to him. Even at a distance, she could see his joy.

‘But it is a good start,’ she said.

Suetonius walked with his friends through empty streets away from the forum. The stalls and houses were shut and barred and they could still hear the muted sound of the crowd behind the rows of houses.

Suetonius didn’t speak for a long time, his face stiff with bitterness. Every cheer from the tradesmen had eaten at him until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Julius, always Julius. No matter what happened, the man seemed to have more luck than any three others. A few words to a crowd and they fawned on him, sickeningly, while Suetonius’ father was humiliated. It was appalling to see them swayed by tricks and words while a good Roman went unnoticed. He had been so proud when his father allowed his name to be entered for consul. Rome deserved a man of his dignity and his honour, not a Caesar, out for nothing more than his own glory.

Suetonius clenched his fists, almost growling at what he had witnessed. The two friends with him exchanged nervous glances.

‘He’s going to win, isn’t he?’ Suetonius said without looking at them.

Bibilus nodded, a pace behind his friend, then realised the gesture couldn’t be seen.

‘Perhaps. Pompey and Crassus seem to think so, at least. Your father could still take the second post.’

He wondered whether Suetonius was going to march them all the way back to the estate outside Rome. Good horses and comfortable rooms awaited them in the other direction as Suetonius stalked along, blind with his hatred. Bibilus hated to walk when horses were available. He hated riding as well, but it was easier on his legs and he sweated less.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.