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 c
harcoal 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.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 91