‘Seneca, there’s a legion galley heading for Tarentum. I shall ride there. Follow me when you have found provisions.’
Seneca looked at his men and his mouth became a firm line.
‘We have no silver to pay for food,’ he said.
Brutus snorted. ‘This is a port without ships. I’d say the warehouses are full of whatever you need. Take what you want and come after me as fast as you are able. Understood?’
‘Yes, I suppose …’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brutus snapped. ‘Then you salute as if you know what you’re doing, understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Seneca replied, saluting stiffly.
Brutus led his mount over to the well and Seneca watched irritably as he moved amongst the guards with an ease Seneca could only envy. He saw Brutus make some comment and heard their laughter. The general was a hero to men who had done nothing more than keep road forts safe for Rome. Seneca felt a touch of the same admiration himself and wished he could find a way to start again.
As he watched Brutus mount and trot out onto the southern road, Seneca felt the men look to him for orders once more. He realised that few others of his generation had the chance to learn their trade from a veteran of Gaul. He approached the group around the well, as he had seen Brutus do. It had not been his practice to mix with them and they glanced at each other, but then one of them handed him a waterskin and Seneca drank.
‘Do you think he’ll find us a galley, sir?’ one of the men asked.
Seneca wiped his mouth. ‘If he can’t, he’ll probably swim across, towing us behind him,’ he replied, smiling to see them relax. It was such a small thing, but he felt more satisfaction in that moment than he could remember from all his tactical drills.
Brutus galloped across the scrub grass of the southern hills, his eyes steady on the horizon for his first glimpse of the sea. He was hungry, tired and itching under his armour, but if the galley was making only a brief stop at Tarentum, he had to push himself on. He did not dwell on what he would do if the captain had gone. The longer Brutus was on land, the more the danger increased, but there was no point worrying. In his years in Gaul, he had learned the mental trick that allowed him to ignore what he could not control and bring his full weight onto levers he could move. He cleared his mind of the problem, concentrating on making the best speed over rough ground.
It surprised him that he felt responsible for the guards. He knew better than Seneca what would happen if Julius caught them. They had all taken solemn vows not to fight for Pompey and Julius would be forced to make an example. No doubt he would shake his head at the horror of it all before giving the order, but Brutus knew Julius was a general first and a man only rarely, when it profited him. The guards were inexperienced and out of their depth in the power struggle. They could very well be ground into bloody ash between the two sides, casualties of the civil war before it had properly begun. The ship had to be there, waiting for them.
It was easy to dream of the future as Brutus rode, taking the most direct route through rocky fields and valleys. If he arrived at Pompey’s camp with two cohorts, he would have influence from the first moment. Alone, he would have to rely on Pompey’s whim as to whether he was given a command. It was not a pleasant thought. Pompey would not dare to trust him at first and Brutus knew there was a chance he would find himself in the front line as a foot soldier. The silver armour would draw Julius’ Tenth like moths and he would never survive the first battle. He needed Seneca’s men even more than they needed him, perhaps.
The countryside to the south of Rome was a far cry from the lush plains of the north. Small farms survived by growing olives and thick-skinned lemons on twisted wooden skeletons, all wilting in the heat. Thin dogs yapped around his horse whenever he slowed and the dust seemed to coat his throat in a thick layer. The sound of hooves brought people out from the isolated farmhouses to watch suspiciously until he was off their land. They were as dark and hard as the ground they worked. By blood, they were more Greek than Roman, the remnants of an older empire. No one called to him and he wondered if they ever thought of the great city to the north. Somehow, he doubted it. Rome was another world to them.
He stopped at a small well and tied the reins to a stunted tree. He looked for some way of reaching the water, his gaze resting on a tiny house of white stone nearby. There was a man there, watching him from the comfort of a rough bench by his door. A small dog sat and panted at his feet, too hot to bark at the stranger.
Brutus glanced impatiently at the sun. ‘Water?’ he called, holding cupped hands to his mouth and miming drinking.
The man regarded him steadily, his eyes taking in every detail of the armour and uniform. ‘You can pay?’ he said. The accent was hard, but Brutus understood him.
‘Where I am from, we do not ask payment for a few cups of water,’ he snapped.
The man shrugged and, rising, began to move towards his door.
Brutus glared at his back. ‘How much?’ he demanded, reaching for his purse.
The farmer cracked his knuckles slowly as he considered. ‘Sesterce,’ he said at last.
It was too much, but Brutus only nodded and dug savagely amongst his coins. He passed one over and the man examined it as if he had all the time in the world. Then he disappeared into the house and returned with a stitched leather bucket and a length of rope.
Brutus reached for it and the man jerked away with surprising speed. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, walking past him towards the dusty well.
His dog struggled to its feet and wandered after him, pausing only to bare yellow teeth in Brutus’ direction. Brutus wondered if the civil war would touch these people. He doubted it. They would go on scratching a living out of the thin soil and if once in a while they saw a soldier riding past, what did that matter to them?
He watched the farmer bring up the bucket and hold it for the horse to drink, all at the same infuriatingly slow speed. At last, it was passed to Brutus and he gulped greedily. The cool liquid spilled down his chest in lines as he gasped and wiped his mouth. The man watched him without curiosity as he took his waterskin from the saddle.
‘Fill this,’ he said.
‘A sesterce,’ the man replied, holding out his hand.
Brutus was appalled. So much for honest country farmers. ‘Fill the skin or your dog goes down the well,’ Brutus said, gesturing with the sagging bag.
The animal responded to his tone by pulling its lips back in another miserable show of teeth. Brutus was tempted to draw his sword but knew how ridiculous it would look. There wasn’t a trace of fear in the farmer or his mongrel and Brutus had the unpleasant suspicion that the man would laugh at the threat. Under the pressure of the open hand, Brutus swore and dug out another coin. The skin was filled with the same slow care and Brutus tied it to his saddle, not trusting himself to speak.
When he was mounted, he looked down, ready to end the conversation with some biting comment. To his fury, the farmer was already walking away, winding the rope around his arm in neat loops. Brutus considered calling to him, but before he could think of anything, the man had disappeared into his house and the small yard was as still as he had found it. Brutus dug in his heels and rode for Tarentum, the water sloshing and gurgling behind him.
As he headed out of the valley, he caught his first scent of a salt breeze, though it was gone as soon as he had recognised it. It was only another hour of hard riding before the great blue expanse came into sight. As it always had, it lifted his spirits, though he searched in vain for a speck that would mean the galley was out. Seneca and his men would be marching behind him and he did not want to have to dash their hopes when they finally arrived at the port.
The land grew harsher before the coast, with steep tracks where he was forced to lead his horse or risk falling. In such an empty place, he thought it safe enough to remove his armour and the breeze cooled his sweat deliciously as he strode panting up the last slope and looked at the little town below.
The galley was
there, at the end of a thin pier that looked as rickety as the rest of the place. Brutus thanked all the gods he could think of and patted his mount’s neck excitedly before taking a long drink from the skin. The land seemed to suck the moisture out of him and the sun was fierce, but he didn’t care. He mounted again with a whoop and began to trot down the hill. Pompey would understand his value, he thought. Letters would be sent to all the legions mentioning the Gaul general who had chosen honour and the Senate over Caesar. They knew nothing of his past except what he would tell them and he would be careful not to boast or to reveal his old mistakes. It would be a new start, a new life and, eventually, he would go to war against his oldest friend. The sun seemed darker at that thought, but he shrugged it off. The choice was made.
The sun was going down by the time Seneca arrived with his two cohorts. The bustle aboard the galley had increased as the soldiers and crew made ready to sail. It was a relief to see Brutus talking to an officer on the wooden pier and Seneca realised how much he had been depending on the man.
He halted the cohorts, painfully aware of the scrutiny of the galley crew as they coiled ropes and heaved the last of the fresh-water barrels up the planking and into the hold. This time, his salute was as perfect as he could make it and both men turned to him.
‘Reporting, sir,’ Seneca said.
Brutus nodded. He seemed angry and a glance at the galley captain told Seneca he had interrupted an argument.
‘Captain Gaditicus, this is Livinius Seneca, my second in command,’ Brutus said, formally.
The captain didn’t bother to look his way and Seneca felt a surge of dislike amidst the pleasure at his new title.
‘There is no conflict here, Captain,’ Brutus continued. ‘You were heading for Ostia to pick up men such as these. What does it matter if you cross to Greece from here?’
The captain scratched his chin and Seneca saw the man was unshaven and looked exhausted.
‘I was not aware that Caesar had come back to Rome. I should wait for orders from the city before …’
‘The Senate and Pompey gave you orders to join them, sir,’ Brutus interrupted. ‘I should not have to tell you your duty. Pompey ordered these men to Ostia. We would be with him now if we had not been forced to cut across country. Pompey will not be pleased if you delay my arrival.’
The captain glared at him.
‘Don’t flaunt your connections, General. I have served Rome for thirty years and I knew Caesar when he was just a young officer. I have friends in power I can call on.’
‘I don’t recall him mentioning your name when I served with him in Gaul,’ Brutus snapped.
Gaditicus blinked. He had lost that particular contest. ‘I should have known from the armour,’ he said slowly, looking at Brutus in a new light. ‘But you’re going to fight for Pompey?’
‘I am doing my duty. Do yours,’ Brutus said, his temper fraying visibly. He had had about enough of the opposition that seemed to spring up at every stage of this endless day. He looked at the galley rocking gently in the waves and ached to be leaving the land behind.
Gaditicus swept his eyes over the column of men waiting to board. All his life he had followed orders and though it smelled wrong, he knew he had no choice.
‘It will be tight, with so many. One storm and we’ll go down,’ he said, with the last of his resistance.
Brutus forced a smile. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said, turning to Seneca. ‘Take them on board.’
Seneca saluted again and went back to his men. The pier shivered underfoot as the column approached and the first ranks began to clamber up the gangplank onto the wide deck.
‘So why will you be fighting against Caesar? You did not say,’ Gaditicus murmured.
Brutus glanced at him. ‘There is bad blood between us,’ he replied, with more honesty than he had intended.
Gaditicus nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like to face him myself. I don’t think he has ever lost a battle,’ he said thoughtfully.
Brutus responded with a flash of anger, as Gaditicus had hoped he would. ‘The stories are exaggerated,’ he replied.
‘I hope so, for your sake,’ Gaditicus said.
It was a little revenge for having been forced to back down, but he did enjoy Brutus’ expression as he looked away. Gaditicus remembered the last time he had been in Greece, when a young Caesar had organised attacks on the camp of Mithridates. If Brutus had seen that, he might have thought twice before choosing Pompey as his master. Gaditicus hoped the arrogant general in his silver armour would be taught a harsh lesson when the time came.
When the last of the guards were on board, Gaditicus followed them, leaving Brutus alone on the dock. The sun was setting in the west and he could not look in the direction of Rome. He took a deep breath as he straightened and stepped onto the deck, gently moving on the swell. He had left them all, and for a while he could not speak for the memories that overwhelmed him.
The ropes were coiled and hung as the galley moved out onto the waters, the chant of the slaves at their oars like a lullaby beneath his feet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The city was closed while the voting went on, the gates sealed. The crowd on the Campus Martius were raucous and cheerful, as if electing consuls was a public holiday rather than a rejection of Pompey and his Senate. The sun beat on them all and there were many enterprising young families charging a bronze coin to enjoy the shade of an awning they had carried out to the great field. The smell of sizzling meat, the conversations, the laughter and the shouts of vendors all mingled into a sensual cacophony that felt very much like life and home.
Julius and Mark Antony climbed the steps up to the platform the legion carpenters had made for them. They stood together in white togas trimmed with purple. Julius wore the laurel wreath of a successful general, the dark leaves fresh-bound in gold wire. He was rarely seen in public without it, and there were some who suspected the attachment was in part to conceal the balding head beneath.
The Tenth were polished and shining as they stood guard on the new consuls. They held their spears and shields ready to signal for silence, but Julius was content simply to stand there, gazing over the heads of the vast crowd.
‘The last time I was made consul in this place, I had Gaul ahead of me,’ he said to Mark Antony. ‘Pompey, Crassus and I were allies. It seems more than a lifetime ago, now.’
‘You did not waste the time,’ Mark Antony replied and they shared a smile as they remembered those years. As always, Mark Antony had a polished look, as if he were carved from the best Roman stone. It sometimes irked Julius that of all the men he had known, Mark Antony looked most like a consul should look. He had a strong face and a powerful frame, coupled with a natural dignity. Julius had heard that the women of Rome fluttered and blushed in his wake.
Julius looked up at the taller man, knowing he had made the right choice in having him stand to lead the Senate. He was loyal, but not as Regulus was loyal, where a careless word might send death on quick wings to an enemy. Mark Antony cared deeply for the old Republic and would make it live while Julius went to Greece. He had shown a disdain for wealth that only those born to it could assume. He could be trusted and it was a relief for Julius not to have to worry that his precious city would suffer while he was away. Of all men, he knew the fragility of apparent peace, and the lessons of Milo and Clodius had not been lost on him, even as far away as Gaul. Rome needed a steady hand and peace to grow. Pompey could never have given that to her.
Julius smiled wryly, knowing he too was not the man to run a peaceful city. He had loved the conquest of Gaul and Britain too much to consider spending his latter years in sleepy debates. He cared enough for the law when he could change it to match his vision, but the tedious administration that followed would be a slow death. Like Pompey, he preferred to tear through the skin of comfort and find new places, new struggles. It was somehow fitting that the last lions of Rome should be facing each other at last. If Pompey had not been there to try him, Julius thou
ght he would still have found himself handing power to Mark Antony, at least for a while. He would have gone to conquer Africa, perhaps, or to follow the footsteps of Alexander to the strange lands he had described in the east.
‘Shall we address our people, Consul?’ he said, signalling a centurion of the Tenth.
The soldiers around the platform crashed their spears into their shields three times and then there was silence and they could hear a breeze whisper across the field of Mars. The crowd stood respectfully, before some of them started cheering and the rest joined in before Julius could speak. The sound was carried upwards by thousands of throats as the sun beat down.
Julius looked at Mark Antony and was surprised to see there were tears in his eyes. He did not feel it so strongly himself, perhaps because his mind was already on the campaign to come, or because he had been a consul once before. He envied his companion, understanding without sharing the emotion.
‘Will you speak first?’ he asked softly.
Mark Antony inclined his head in thanks for the offer. ‘After you, General. They are yours.’
Julius rested his hands on the wooden rail his men had made for him, exactly at the height he wanted. He took a deep breath and flung out his voice.
‘The centuries have voted today and their mark has been made in the soil of our fathers. Mark Antony and I stand before you as consuls and Pompey will hear your voices even in Greece. He will know his absent Senate has been replaced. That is our message to him. No man is more than Rome, no single man more than those I see before me today.’
They cheered and stamped to show their pleasure at his words.
‘We have shown that Rome can survive the loss of those who care nothing for her. We have shown that there can be law without corruption. Have I fulfilled my promises to you?’
They roared incoherently in what may have been agreement.
‘I have,’ Julius told them, firmly. ‘The courts have been cleansed and bribery punished openly. There will be no secret deals in my city by those who rule. The workings of the Senate will be published each day at sunset. Your votes are a loan of power, but only to work in your interests, not to press you down. I have not forgotten this, as some have. Your voices sound with me each day and I will take their echoes to Greece to pass them to the armies there.’
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 144