‘And if I do not? Speak your threats aloud, Cicero, so that we can all hear. Let us know what treason you are considering,’ Pompey said harshly, leaning forward on the rostrum. More murmurs met his words and he saw Cicero look uncomfortable.
‘Your Dictatorship ends in two days, Pompey, as you know. It is better that it lapse until you are healthy enough to continue.’
Cicero met his gaze steadily and Pompey knew he would not dare to suggest that sickness had stolen his courage. He had heard the whispers about him and he scorned them. He would have replied, but he saw Suetonius stand and gestured towards him. He could not carry the vote on his own, and as he and Cicero took their seats he was desperate with hope.
Suetonius cleared his throat. ‘This question should never have been raised,’ he began. Cicero rose immediately and Suetonius fixed him with a glare. ‘I have the floor,’ he said. ‘There are setbacks in every campaign, as those with experience know well. It was at Pompey’s word that the Greek legions gathered. It was he who lured Caesar from the safety of Rome to a better field for war. This is where we want him to be and that was achieved only through Pompey’s skill. Which of you had the vision to see the war must take place in Greece? Pompey has taken hard decisions on our behalf. His Dictatorship was created to withstand threats too great for the common rule of law. He has fulfilled his obligations and to consider removing his authority at this stage is a dangerous gamble.’
He paused to sweep his eyes over the assembled men.
‘I do not know of another general capable of beating Caesar. I do know that Pompey is more than capable. I will vote to continue the Dictatorship. There is no other honourable course.’
He sat down to a strong ripple of approval that gave Pompey some comfort. He felt a spasm build in his stomach and delayed standing for a moment, using a fine cloth to dab his lips. He did not dare look at it as he pushed it inside his toga.
Cicero too hesitated before standing. He knew Pompey’s illness was worse than he pretended. If he were left in command, he could very well hand the victory to Caesar. Perhaps that was the better course, in the end. If Labienus took the field, the two armies could waste their strength against each other and where would Rome be then? He had hoped that after Pompey was removed some new accommodation could be found with Caesar, but now his thoughts were jumbled and he did not know how to bring the Senate round. It was a difficult path to walk. There were many there who wanted Pompey to wage outright war without pause or mercy. That was why they had come to Greece, after all. Cicero could only shake his head at the blindness of such men. He cared little for Pompey and less for Caesar. The future of Rome outweighed them both.
Cicero saw his delay had not gone unnoticed. He spoke quickly to cover the lapse. ‘I speak for the good of Rome, Pompey, can you deny it? I have waited here for you to win this war, but you have not managed to meet the enemy. These are not the “setbacks” of a campaign that Suetonius mentioned. You have killed more of your own men for mutiny than Caesar has managed. Morale is low and you threw away the single chance you had to attack with Labienus.’ He took a deep breath, knowing he was making a dangerous choice. ‘How many more will you shrink from taking?’
‘There it is, at last,’ Pompey said.
He grimaced suddenly and looked down at his hands. Cicero felt a rush of hope that the pain would be revealed to the others. Let him collapse, or cry out and it would all be over.
Pompey raised his head slowly, his eyes glittering.
‘You dare to suggest I have lost my courage, Cicero? Is that what has begun this personal attack? I have built walls to protect a city that was taken once by Caesar. I have sought him out in the field and, yes, he eluded me.’ Pain prevented him from speaking for a moment and he waited for it to pass.
‘You have twice the men and four times the cavalry,’ Cicero interrupted. ‘In better times you would have carried the day by now. Only your illness …’
‘My illness, as you call it, is nothing more than a griping stomach controlled by draughts of chalk and milk,’ Pompey snapped. ‘I will not stand here and have you question me in this way.’
‘Your Dictatorship …’ Cicero tried again.
‘Enough!’ Pompey roared at him. ‘Very well, if you want to see war, I will give it to you! I will take my army out and force an end to this. Is that what you want to hear? I will crush Caesar and bring back his head, or I will die. That is my word. Vote to continue my Dictatorship or not, as you please. By the time it passes, I will be in the field.’
Cicero paled as the bulk of the Senate cheered the announcement. Of all things, he had not meant to sting Pompey into being so rash. The last thing he wanted was an outright confrontation.
‘For the good of Rome …’ he called, but he was ignored.
The Senate rose to their feet. Pompey accepted their approval with a last poisonous glare at Cicero and descended the rostrum, making his way out. Suetonius and the other tribunes fell in behind him and Cicero was left to sink slowly into his seat, staring at nothing.
Brutus stood with his arms outstretched, taking long, slow breaths. His body had been oiled and scraped and his skin shone with health. His mind was on the battle to come and he hardly noticed the silent slaves as they raised his tunic over his head and tugged it into place, gathering it in a knot tied at the nape of his neck. His armour hung on a wooden tree in the tent and he looked it over with a critical eye, noting where old scratches and dents had been hammered and polished out. The silver had not lost its lustre with use and though it was a softer metal than iron, he knew its white gleam could be seen across a battlefield. Julius would see it as soon as the armies met.
While he stood motionless, the slaves buckled a wide leather belt around his waist, drawing in the folds of dark linen. Before they could proceed, he flexed his shoulders and checked he was still free to move. The ritual was carried out in silence and Brutus took comfort from its familiarity. Nothing he wore was new and the woollen bracae and tunic had been part of his kit in Gaul. The colours were faded from being washed a thousand times, but they were comfortable as new, itchy material could never be. He bowed his head as the slaves tied a light scarf around his throat to protect his neck from chafing. He loosened it slightly with two fingers and stared at nothing, thinking of facing Julius.
Pompey had come back from the Senate meeting with a fire under him at last. There would be no rest for any of them until their enemies were beaten in Greece. It was as Brutus had wanted from the beginning and he knew his four cohorts would be first in the line of battle.
That was the thought that sent a shudder of fear down his spine. For all his training, if Julius sent in the Tenth as his front line, it would be hard and bloody work. Brutus had seen them fight enough to know they would not give ground except over their dead. They were the surviving veterans of countless battles and the Greek legions had nothing like their experience.
‘We have the numbers,’ Brutus murmured, causing the dress slaves to pause and look at him inquiringly. ‘Go on,’ he said to them.
One of the men knelt at his feet to tie the laces of his sandals, checking they were taut with elaborate care as he crossed them up to Brutus’ ankles. The soft woollen cloth under them bulged against the restraining net of leather and Brutus splayed his toes comfortably. He raised his arms again as a leather kilt was tied around his waist to protect his groin and felt a thrill of anticipation as both men turned towards the armour at last.
The chestplate brought back bittersweet memories as he thought of the hands that had made it. Alexandria had loved him when she worked on the design and her care showed. It was a beautiful thing, with a representation of muscle overlaid by carved figures of Mars and Jupiter, joining hands at his throat. Brutus took a deep breath as it was fastened to its mate at his back, releasing the air as the buckles were pulled tight. It would not restrict him. He moved his head from side to side and felt the beginning of excitement that wearing it always brought. The shoulder pieces were
joined at his throat and made secure and again he tested it, checking for snags in movement. He brought his left leg forward to have the silver greave attached and then took the helmet and lowered it onto his head. It too was a marvel of light design and shone even in the dimness of the tent. It would draw the enemy to him, he knew.
He secured the buckle that held the cheek-guards and enclosed his head in metal.
Seneca entered the tent as Brutus stood there testing every one of the knots and buckles the slaves had tied. Seneca knew better than to interrupt the ritual, but Brutus looked at him and smiled.
‘Are you ready?’ he said.
‘I am, but that is not why I’ve come here. There is a stranger from the city who has come to see you.’
‘Send him away,’ Brutus replied immediately. ‘Whatever it is can wait. We’re marching at dawn.’
‘I would have, but when I told him to go back he gave me this.’
Seneca held up a ring Brutus knew very well. It was a simple gold seal and his hand shook slightly as he took it.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he said.
Seneca shook his head and Brutus rubbed his fingers over the crossed arrow design that had once belonged to Marius. It felt hot in his hand and he thanked his gods that Seneca had not understood its significance. If Pompey had seen it, or any of the older men, it would have meant his death.
‘Bring him to me,’ he said, dismissing the slaves. Seneca looked curiously at his general, but he saluted and left him alone without a word.
Brutus found himself sweating as he waited. After consideration, he walked to where his weapons lay on a table and took up the gladius he had won in the tournament for all Rome. Like his armour, it was beautiful, finely balanced and made of the best iron in the world. He would have liked to draw the blade to check for flaws as he had a thousand times before, but at that moment Seneca returned, bringing the stranger.
‘Leave us alone, Seneca,’ Brutus said, staring at the newcomer. He was not an inspiring sight and looked like any other Greek peasant who thronged the city. For a moment, Brutus wondered if he had found the ring and hoped to claim a reward, but why would he bring it to him, of all people?
‘Where did you find this?’ he asked, holding the ring up between them.
The man looked nervous and before he spoke he rubbed sweat from his forehead. ‘It was given to me, sir. By his hand, it was.’
‘Say his name,’ Brutus whispered.
‘Caesar,’ Caecilius replied. ‘I am his spy.’
Brutus closed his eyes for a moment, feeling danger loom over him. Was this another test from Labienus? The general was easily cunning enough to have thought of it. He could be waiting outside with a century of men to take him for questioning. Surely he would have seen some nervousness in Seneca, some signal that something was wrong?
‘Why did you bring it to me?’ Brutus asked him. He dropped his hand to his sword pommel, more for the comfort of its touch than any threat. Caecilius saw the motion and seemed to twitch.
‘I was sent to report on Pompey’s army, sir. Before I left, I found out that you were still loyal. I have seen you many times in the city, but I did not approach in case it put you in danger.’
‘Why now then?’ Brutus said. Games within games, he thought. If the man were truly a spy, why would Julius have lied to him? It made no sense.
‘I am leaving Dyrrhachium, sir. Someone must carry a warning to Caesar and I believe I am the only one of his spies left alive. I do not expect to return here and I thought you would want me to take a word from you to him.’
‘Stay there,’ Brutus snapped, striding to the flap of the tent and throwing it open. He stood in the light, staring around him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Men scurried everywhere as they prepared to march. Orders were being shouted, but there was no sign of Labienus or Pompey, or any threat to him. He shook his head in confusion and let the flap fall.
If the little man was an assassin, Julius had made a poor choice, Brutus thought. Without warning, he grabbed hold of Caecilius and searched him roughly and thoroughly. The thought crossed his mind that Pompey would appreciate having a spy brought before him, but Brutus crushed the idea even as it formed. The man believed Brutus was playing some elaborate double role. It would not do to have that suspicion brought to Pompey just before he marched. He would be likely to leave Brutus behind.
Something of these thoughts showed in his face and Caecilius flinched before his gaze.
‘Sir, if there is no message, I will leave. I have barely enough time as it is, even if I start now.’
Brutus examined him closely. The man seemed genuine, but Julius had misled him deliberately and that was a mystery. Unless Pompey was meant to discover him. Under torture, the man would have his knowledge exposed and Brutus would have been finished. He chuckled as he saw he had it at last and walked over to his weapons, picking up the silver-handled dagger and unsheathing its blade.
Caecilius watched his every movement with growing discomfort. ‘Sir, I should leave. I must carry the warning.’
Brutus nodded, walking smoothly towards him. ‘I understand,’ he said. In a sharp movement, he grabbed Caecilius by the hair and whipped the knife across his throat, dropping him to the floor. The little spy clawed at the wound in agony.
‘But I do not want him warned,’ Brutus said, wiping the knife between two fingers. There were spots of blood on his armour and he cursed as they formed beads over the oil. It would have to be rubbed clean once more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ten miles south of Dyrrhachium, Julius stood on the saddle of his horse, watching the distant column. His cloak snapped and fluttered like a live thing, tugging at the clasp that held it around his neck. Octavian stood with reins in one hand, gripping Julius’ ankle with the other. Both men were gritty with dust and hungry from marching all day.
‘He’s coming straight at us,’ Julius said. ‘No word from Caecilius?’
‘None. Unless he’s in Pompey’s camp, he’s been left behind by now,’ Octavian replied. He shifted from one foot to the other in impatience. ‘What can you see?’
From so far away, Pompey’s column was a black smear across the landscape, with tiny figures of outriders like crawling insects.
‘I can’t tell if he has his entire force in the field. Gods, there are a lot of them,’ Julius said. ‘Has our beloved Dictator lost patience with us, do you think?’
‘We can lose him after dark,’ Octavian said.
Julius glanced down at the general holding him in position. ‘That’s not why I came to Greece, lad. I won’t have my legions run from Pompey, not after the shame of the men you now command. We have food enough and we are strong again. I would put our veterans against an army twice the size of this one and expect to win.’
Julius fell silent as he stared at the numbers ranged against him. He had always known Pompey would eventually leave the safety of the walls around Dyrrhachium, but something had forced him out before they were finished and once again both armies were close enough to threaten war. Julius pretended a confidence he did not feel. It was true that he had done what he could to sap the morale of the Greek legions. Every one of them would have heard his offers to Pompey and those who had been caught deserting would have had friends and colleagues. They had seen Dyrrhachium returned whole with the Senate families and Julius knew the act would have struck to the heart of the Greek legions. They were honourable men, living and working far from the intrigues and plotting of Rome. If he could only have had an hour with them to make his case! Everything Julius had done had been to sow doubt amongst their ranks and he hoped Pompey’s ruthlessness would have tested their loyalty even further.
The sight of so many bent on his destruction should have been frightening, but Julius felt a slow anger grow. Pompey was arrogant with such a following, but those who marched with him were not his men. They were soldiers of Rome, doing their duty as they saw it. The veteran legions from Gaul belonged to Julius a
lone.
Julius looked over his shoulder at the ranks he had sent marching further south. He could catch them on horseback easily enough and had stayed behind to make his own judgement of the army they faced. It still awed him to see so many legions in the field. Closer now, the ranks fluttered with flags, and bronze eagles shone in the setting sun. If they had not been enemies, he would have gloried in the sight. In all his experience, he had never seen so many of Rome’s warriors and it moved him. The army of the Helvetii had been far larger, but these were legionaries, with the same blood and the same armour. The same history. It would be like fighting brothers, and he knew there could be bitterness for years when they were done. His Tenth would never forgive Romans who had stood against them.
‘We can take these,’ Julius said. Octavian stared upwards and saw a smile twist at the corners of his mouth. ‘They’ve seen Pompey humbled at Dyrrhachium. They’ve seen him waste the chance he had with Labienus. They will not want to die for such a man, Octavian, and that will weaken them.’
He watched the column approach, knowing he would have to move soon or fall into the range of their scouts.
‘Come to me,’ he said, almost too softly for Octavian to understand. Both of them could hear the closest riders sound their tinny horns as they sighted them.
‘We should go,’ Octavian said.
Julius did not move and Octavian watched nervously as the scouts kicked their horses into a gallop and began to converge on their position.
‘Sir, we should go now.’
‘They have the numbers, Octavian,’ Julius said. ‘Just matching their front line will leave us thin on the ground, but this is why we came. This is why we crossed the Rubicon. We have nowhere else to go, General. Find me a place to stand and we’ll break them.’
To Octavian’s relief, Julius lowered himself into his saddle and took the reins once more. Octavian leapt onto the back of his own gelding and they galloped clear of the approaching scouts, racing long shadows beneath them. A few of Pompey’s riders stayed on their trail for a mile before wheeling back, their horns sounding mournful regret as they faded behind.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 157