Three sturdy triremes waited for the final members of the Senate and Pompey himself. They rocked in the swell as the great oars were greased in their locks and checked for fouling. The wind was running out to sea. It was fitting that Pompey should be the last to leave and he knew it was time, but he couldn’t break the mood that held him on shore.
Had there ever been a choice? He had thought himself clever when he sent the order for Julius to return. Any other general would have come with just a few guards and Pompey would have made a quick, neat end to it. Even now, he could not be sure why Julius had gambled everything on his rush south. Regulus had obviously failed and Pompey assumed he had died trying to fulfil his last orders. Perhaps the man’s clumsy attempt had given Julius the truth of his master. He could not imagine Regulus breaking under torture, but perhaps that was foolishness. Experience had taught him that any man could be broken in enough time. It was just necessary to find the levers into his soul. Even so, he would not have thought there was a lever made to open Regulus.
Pompey saw the last boat from his ship bump against the quayside and Suetonius jump onto the docks. He watched as the younger man marched up the hill, stiff with self-importance. Pompey turned back towards the city he could feel in the distance. Ahenobarbus had not come and Pompey doubted he still lived. It had been a blow to lose the men he had with him, but if he had slowed Julius at all, it would have been worth it. Pompey could not believe how difficult it had been to uproot the senators from their homes. He had been tempted to abandon the endless crates of their possessions on the quayside for the merchant sailors to pick through. Their wives and children had been bad enough, but he had drawn a line at more than three slaves to each family and hundreds had been sent back to the city. Every ship and trireme for a hundred miles up and down the coast had been called in and only a few were left empty and burnt.
Pompey smiled tightly to himself. Even Julius could not conjure a fleet out of nothing. Pompey’s army would have nearly a year to prepare for the invasion and then, well, let them come after that.
As Suetonius approached, Pompey noted the high polish on his armour and approved. The senator had made himself indispensable over the previous weeks. In addition, Pompey knew his hatred of Caesar was absolute. It was good to have a man who could be trusted and Pompey knew that Suetonius would never be one of those who questioned his orders.
‘Your boat is ready, sir,’ Suetonius said.
Pompey nodded stiffly. ‘I was having a last look at my country,’ he replied. ‘It will be a while until I stand here again.’
‘It will come though, sir. Greece is like a second home to many of the men. We’ll end Caesar’s betrayal there.’
‘We will indeed,’ Pompey said.
A waft of smoke from the burning merchant ship passed over both of them and he shivered slightly. There had been times when he thought he would never get out of the city before Caesar’s legions appeared on the horizon. He had not even made the offerings in the temples that he should have, convinced that every minute counted. Now though, even if he saw his enemy riding towards him, he could stroll down into the boat and go to the ships, leaving them all behind. It was his first unhurried moment in the best part of two weeks and he felt himself relax.
‘I wonder if he is already in the city, Suetonius,’ Pompey said softly.
‘Perhaps, sir. He will not be there for long if he is.’
Both men stood staring east, as if they could see the place that had birthed them. Pompey grimaced as he remembered the silent crowds that had lined the streets as his legion marched to the coast. Thousands and thousands of his people had come to watch the exodus. They had not dared to call out, even from the deepest sections of the crowd. They knew him too well for that. He had seen their expressions though and resented them. What right did they have to stare so, as Pompey passed by? He had given them his best years. He had been senator, consul and Dictator. He had destroyed the rebellion of Spartacus and more small kings and rebels than he could remember. Even Romans like Titus Milo had fallen to him when they threatened his people. He had been father to the city all his life and like the children they were, they stood in sullen silence, as if they owed him nothing.
Black cinders floated in the air around the two men, borne aloft by unseen currents. Pompey shivered in the breeze, feeling old. He was not ready to retire from public life, if Caesar would even have let him. He had been forced to this place by a man who cared nothing for the city. Caesar would find out there was a price to pay for ruling Rome. She had claws, and the people who cheered you and threw flowers at your feet could forget it all in just a season.
‘I would not change a single year of my life, Suetonius. If I had them again, I would spend them as fast, even if they left me here, with a ship waiting to take me away.’
He saw Suetonius’ confusion and chuckled.
‘But it is not over yet. Come, we must be at sea before the tide changes.’
Servilia looked at her reflection in a mirror of polished bronze. Three slaves fussed around her, working on her hair and eyes as they had been for three hours before dawn. Today would be special, she knew. Everyone who entered the city said Caesar was coming and she wanted him to see her at her best.
She rose to stand naked before the mirror, raising her arms for the slave girl to add a subtle dust of rouge to her nipples. The light tickle of the brush made them stiffen and she smiled, before sighing. The mirror could not be fooled. Lightly, she touched her stomach with the palm of a hand. She had escaped the sagging belly of the Roman matron with a host of births, but age had loosened the skin, so that she could press it and see it wrinkle like thin cloth, as if nothing held it to her. Soft dresses that had once been used to reveal, now covered what she did not want seen. She knew she was still elegant and riding kept her fit, but there was only one youth to be had and hers was a memory. Without dye, her hair was an iron grey and each year she tortured herself with the thought that it was time to let her age show before her paints and oils were nothing but a tawdry covering, a humiliation.
She had seen women who would not admit they had grown old and hated the thought of joining those pathetic, wigged creatures. Better to have dignity than to be ridiculed, but today Caesar was coming, and she would use all her art.
When she stood still, her skin shone with oil from the massage table and she could believe she retained a trace of her old beauty. Then she would move and the fine web would appear in her reflection, mocking her efforts. It was a tragedy that there were so few years when the skin glowed, before pigments and oils had to do the job in their place.
‘Will he ride into the city, mistress?’ one of the slaves asked.
Servilia glanced at her, understanding the flush she saw on the girl’s skin. ‘He will, I’m sure, Talia. He will come at the head of an army and ride into the forum to address the citizens. It will be like a Triumph.’
‘I have never seen one,’ Talia responded, her eyes downcast.
Servilia smiled coldly, hating her for her youth. ‘And you will not today, my dear. You will stay here and prepare my house for him.’
The girl’s disappointment was palpable, but Servilia ignored it. With Pompey’s legion away, the city was holding its breath as they waited for Caesar. Those who had supported the Dictator were simply terrified that they would be singled out and punished. The streets, never safe at the best of times, were far too restless to allow a pretty young slave to go and watch the entry of the Gaul veterans into Rome. Whether age brought wisdom, Servilia was never sure, but it did bring experience and that was usually enough.
Servilia tilted her head back and held still as another of her slaves dipped a slender ivory needle into a pot and held it over her eyes. She could see the drop of dark liquid forming there, before it shivered and fell. She closed her eye against the sting and the slave waited patiently until it had faded and she could administer the drop of belladonna to the other. The poison could be fatal in any serious dose, but the dilut
ed fluid made her pupils as large and dark as any young woman’s at dusk. The discomfort in bright sunshine was a small price to pay. She sighed as she blinked away tears along her eyelashes. Even those were quickly removed with pads of soft cloth before they could touch her cheeks and ruin the work of the morning.
The youngest of the slave girls waited patiently with her pot of dark kohl, watching as Servilia checked the results in the mirror. The whole room seemed brighter as a result of the belladonna and Servilia felt her spirits rise. Caesar was coming home.
As Caesar had ordered, Ahenobarbus marched into the old barracks of Primigenia, outside the walls of Rome. They had fallen into disuse over the previous decade and he had Seneca set up work details to restore them to cleanliness and order while he was still shaking the dust of the road from his sandals.
Alone for a few precious moments, he entered the main building and sat at the table in the officers’ hall, resting a wineskin in the dust. He could hear his men chatter and argue outside, still discussing what had happened to them. He shook his head, hardly able to believe it himself. With a sigh, he opened the bronze mouth on the wine and tipped it back, sending a line of harsh liquid into his throat.
It would not be long, he thought, before someone came to ask questions. The city had scouts out for miles and he knew his movements had been seen and reported. He wondered to whom they would report, now that Pompey had gone. Rome was without a government for the first time in centuries and memories of the chaos under Clodius and Milo would still be fresh in many minds. Fear would keep them in their houses, he suspected, while they waited for the new master to come in.
A clatter of iron-shod sandals made him look up and grunt at Seneca as the young man put his head around the doorway.
‘Come in and have a drink, lad. It’s been a strange day.’
‘I have to find …’ Seneca began.
‘Sit down and have a drink, Sen. They’ll get by without you for a little while.’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
Ahenobarbus sighed. He’d thought some of the reserve between them had been broken down, but with the city walls in sight Seneca had once again begun to think of his future, like every other young Roman of the times. It was the disease of the age.
‘Have you sent runners out? We’d better be sure Pompey isn’t still waiting at the coast for us.’
‘No! I didn’t think of it,’ Seneca replied, beginning to rise.
Ahenobarbus waved him back to his seat. ‘That will wait as well. I’m not even sure we could join him now.’
Seneca suddenly looked wary and Ahenobarbus watched as the young man pretended to be confused.
‘You gave the oath to Caesar, just as I did, lad. You won’t be telling me you didn’t understand what it meant.’
He thought the young man might lie, but Seneca raised his head and returned his gaze.
‘No. I understood it. But I swore another oath to fight for Rome. If Pompey has taken the Senate to Greece, I must follow him.’
Ahenobarbus gulped at the wine before passing it over.
‘Your life belongs to Caesar, lad. He told you enough times. If you take the field against him after what happened, there’ll be no mercy from him, not again.’
‘My duty is with Pompey,’ Seneca replied.
Ahenobarbus looked at him and blew air out in a long sigh. ‘Your honour is your own, though. Will you break the oath to Caesar?’
‘An oath to an enemy does not bind me, sir.’
‘Well it binds me, lad, because I say it does. You want to think whose side you would rather be on. If you go to Pompey, Caesar will cut your balls off.’
Seneca stood, flushed with anger. ‘As he did yours?’ he said.
Ahenobarbus slammed his fist onto the table, making the dust rise in a cloud. ‘Would you rather he had killed all of us? That’s what Pompey would have done! He said he was coming to restore order and law and then he proved it, Seneca, by letting us go and trusting our oath. He impressed me, lad, and if you weren’t so busy looking for your next promotion, you’d see why.’
‘I can see he did impress you. Enough to forget the loyalty you owe the Senate and the Dictator.’
‘Don’t lecture me, boy!’ Ahenobarbus snapped. ‘Look up from your precious books and see what’s happening. The wolves are out, do you understand? Ever since Caesar came south. Do you think Pompey’s interested in your loyalty? Your noble Senate would crush you for a jug of wine, if they were thirsty.’
For a moment of strained silence, both men faced each other, breathing heavily.
‘I used to wonder why a man of your years was given no more than a road fort to command,’ Seneca said stiffly. ‘I understand it now. I will lecture any Roman soldier who does not give his life into the hands of his superiors. I would expect no less from those who follow me. I won’t sit this out, Ahenobarbus. I would call that cowardice.’
His contempt was written in every line of his young face and Ahenobarbus suddenly felt too tired to go on.
‘Then I will pour a little wine into your grave when I find it. That’s the best I can offer you.’
Seneca turned his back without saluting and left the room, his footprints visible in the dust behind him. Ahenobarbus snorted in anger and lifted the wineskin, pressing his fingers in deeply.
A stranger entered only a few minutes later, finding him drawing idly in the dust on the table, lost in thought.
‘Sir? I have been sent by my master to hear if you have any news,’ the man said without preamble.
Ahenobarbus looked up at him. ‘Who is left to be sending anyone anywhere? I thought the Senate had all gone with Pompey.’
The man looked uncomfortable and Ahenobarbus realised he had not given his master’s name.
‘Some of the Senate did not see the need to travel, sir. My master was one of those.’
Ahenobarbus grinned. ‘Then you’d better run back and tell him Caesar is coming. He’s two, maybe three hours behind me. He’s bringing back the Republic, lad, and I wouldn’t stand in his way.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The extraordinarii stood by their mounts, heaving at the great doors of the Quirinal gate in the north of the city. It had been left unbarred and the walls were empty of soldiers to challenge them. Now that the moment had come, there was a hush over the city and the streets by the gate were deserted. The Gaul riders exchanged glances, sensing eyes on them.
The tramp of the four legions was a muted thunder. The extraordinarii could feel the vibration under their feet and dust shimmered in the cracks between the stones. Fifteen thousand men marched towards the city that had declared them traitor. They came in ranks of six abreast and the tail of the column stretched back further than the eye could see.
At the head came Julius on a prancing dark gelding of the best bloodlines in Spain. Mark Antony and Brutus rode a pace to the rear, with shields ready in their hands. Domitius, Ciro and Octavian made up the spearhead and all of them felt the tension of the moment with something like awe. They had known the city as a home and a distant mother and as a dream. To see the gates open and the walls unguarded was a strange and frightening thing. They did not talk or joke as they rode in and the marching men of the column kept the same silence. The city waited for them.
Julius rode under the arch of the gate and smiled as its shadow crossed his face in a dark bar. He had seen cities in Greece and Spain and Gaul, but they could only ever be reflections of this place. The simple order of the houses and the neat lines of paving spoke to something in him and made him sit straighter in the saddle. He used the reins to turn his Spanish mount to the right, where the forum waited for him. Despite the solemnity of the moment, he was hard-pressed to keep his dignity. He wanted to grin, to shout a greeting to his people and his home, lost to him for so many years.
The streets were no longer empty, he saw. Curiosity had opened the doors of homes and businesses to reveal dark interiors. The people of Rome peered out at the Gaul legions, drawn by th
e glamour of the stories they had heard. There was not a man or woman in Rome who had not listened to the reports from Gaul. To see those soldiers in the flesh was irresistible.
‘Throw the coins, Ciro. Bring them out,’ Julius called over his shoulder and he did grin then at the big man’s tension.
Like Octavian beside him, Ciro carried a deep bag tied to his saddle and he reached into it to grasp a handful of silver coins, each bearing the face of the man they followed. The coins rang on the stones of the city and Julius saw children run from their hiding places to snatch them before they could come to rest. He remembered standing at Marius’ side in a Triumph long ago and seeing the crowd dip in waves to receive the offerings. It was more than the silver that they wanted and only the poorest would spend the coins. Many more would be kept for a blessing, or made into a pendant for a wife or lover. They carried the face of a man who had become famous through his battles in Gaul and yet was still a stranger to all but a very few.
The shrill excitement of the children brought out their parents. More and more of them came to reach for the coins and laugh with relief. The column had not come to destroy or loot the city, not after such a start.
Ciro and Octavian emptied the bags quickly and two more were passed forward to them. The crowd had begun to thicken, as if half of Rome had been waiting for some unseen signal. They did not all smile at the sight of so many armed men on the streets. Many of the faces were angry and dark, but as the column wound its way through the city, they grew fewer, lost amongst the rest.
Julius passed the old house of Marius, glancing through the gates to the courtyard he had seen first as a boy. He looked behind him for Brutus and knew that he shared the same memories. The old place was shuttered and bare, but it would be opened again and given life. Julius enjoyed the metaphor and tried to frame it into something appropriate for the speech he would make, choosing and discarding words as he rode. He preferred to be seen as a spontaneous speaker, but every phrase had been written in the wheatfields, with Adàn.
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