Ahenobarbus bellowed at his recruits to stand still. The ranks and files had twisted beyond recognition until they were just a crowd of angry, bewildered men. Seneca had given up shouting and looked as lost as any of them. There was nothing in the manuals to answer this. Panting, Ahenobarbus grimaced, waiting for the attack. Though it was hopeless, many of those around him raised their swords in defiance and he was proud of their courage in the face of defeat.
Ahenobarbus watched as riders approached. Part of him raged at the thought of having to meet such men. He did not want to look them in the eye and be humiliated, but anything that delayed the killing was welcome. Every moment had become precious.
He saw that two of them held shields ready for the third and knew he was looking at the man who had beaten Gaul and now threatened their own city. The rider wore no helmet and simple armor with a dark red cloak that was crumpled under him, spilling down his mount’s flank. In a crowd, Ahenobarbus might not have noticed him, but after the maneuvers that had broken his guards without a single spear or sword thrust, the man seemed like some creature from the dark river, come to taunt him. It was easy enough to imagine the Roman blood that would stain his cloak.
Ahenobarbus stood straighter. “When he comes close, lads, we rush him on my order. Pass the word. We might not be able to beat these bastards, but if we can kill the general, we haven’t been wasted.”
Seneca stared at him and Ahenobarbus held his eyes long enough to force him to look away. The young man still thought this was some elaborate tactical game, with Rome open behind them. Some of them knew better and Ahenobarbus saw nods of assent spread out from him. Sometimes a man could forget that his life was not the most important thing in the world, that there really were things worth dying for. In the chaos and fear, Ahenobarbus had been almost resigned to surrender, before the truth came back to him. This was an enemy, Roman or not.
Seneca came close, so as not to be overheard by the men. “Sir, we cannot attack now. We must surrender,” the young man said into his ear.
Ahenobarbus glanced at him and noted the fear. “Go back, lad, and let them see you stand. When he comes close enough, we’ll cut him down.”
Seneca opened his mouth, unable to understand the dark ferocity he saw in his commander. It had never been there before and it shocked him into silence as he moved away.
Ahenobarbus chuckled to himself. He looked at the grim legions facing him. They too had halted after their display and, grudgingly, he admitted their superiority. It had been impressive enough to see the way they dismantled his rough formations. The horsemen looked eager to be sent in and the sight of those cold killers sent a shiver through his frame. On the backs of their mounts, the riders seemed enormous and Ahenobarbus knew their reputation as well as anyone else who had read the reports from Gaul. It gave the enemy a glamour he could not deny and it was hard to think of those veterans charging in amongst his inexperienced soldiers.
“Who has led you here? Let that man step forward!” a voice carried over the field.
Faces turned to Ahenobarbus and he smiled mirthlessly as he made his way through the ranks to the front. The sun shone and his vision seemed unnaturally clear, as if the edges of things had sharpened.
Ahenobarbus stepped out from his men, alone. He felt the eyes of thousands on him as the three horsemen rode closer. Gently, he drew his sword and took a deep breath. Let them come in and get his answer, he thought to himself. His heart hammered, but he felt calm and strangely detached as Julius Caesar glared down at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Julius roared, red-faced in anger. “What is your name?”
Ahenobarbus almost took a step back in surprise. “Ahenobarbus,” he replied, stifling the urge to add “sir.” He felt the men behind jostle and readied himself to give the order to attack.
“How dare you bare your sword to me, Ahenobarbus? How dare you! You have abused the trust placed in you. Be thankful none of your men or mine have been killed or I would see you hanged before sunset.”
Ahenobarbus blinked in confusion. “I have orders to—”
“Orders from whom? Pompey? By what right is he still Dictator in my city? I stand before you as a loyal Roman and you mutter about your orders. Do you want to be killed? Who do you think you are to be throwing away so many lives, Ahenobarbus? Are you a lawmaker, a senator? No, you’ve been let down, General. You should not be here.” Julius removed his gaze from Ahenobarbus in disgust, raising his head to address the guards who watched him. “I am returning to my city to stand as consul once more. I break no laws in doing so. I have no quarrel with you and I will not shed the blood of my people unless I am forced to.”
Ignoring Ahenobarbus, Julius walked his mount along the line, his accompanying riders moving in formation with him. For a split second, Ahenobarbus considered shouting for an attack, but then he caught the eye of one of the riders and saw him grin and shake his head as if he had heard the thought. Ahenobarbus remembered that Caesar had called him “General” and the words died in his throat.
Julius’s voice echoed across them. “I am within my rights to have you disarmed and sold into slavery for what you have done today. I see bared swords and spears in your ranks even now! Do not force my hand, gentlemen. I am a loyal general of Rome. I am the commander of Gaul and in my person I am the Senate and the law. Do not think to raise your weapons against me.”
Every man in the guards stood appalled as his words washed over them. Ahenobarbus saw them lower swords and spears as Julius wheeled his mount and came back along the line.
“I have not come back from ten years of war to struggle against my own people here. I tell you that you have been misled. I give you my word that not one of you will be killed if you put away your weapons now.” He swept his gaze over the men. “You have a choice, gentlemen. I will treat you with honor if you make good your mistake. Look around you. I do not need to be merciful. After this, I will consider you traitors to Rome.”
He had reached Ahenobarbus once more and the guard was forced to look up into the sun to meet his eyes. Julius was dark against the light as he waited for a response.
“Well? Your idiocy has brought them here,” Julius said softly. “Will you see them all killed for nothing?” Mutely, Ahenobarbus shook his head. “Then stand them down and bring the officers to me, Ahenobarbus. We must discuss the terms of the surrender.”
“You did break a law when you crossed the Rubicon, sir,” Ahenobarbus said stubbornly.
Julius’s eyes flashed. “And Dictatorships are meant to be temporary. Sometimes a man must act according to his conscience, General,” he replied.
Ahenobarbus looked away at his men for a moment. “I have your word that there will be no punishment?” he said.
Julius did not hesitate. “I will not shed Roman blood, General. Not unless I must. You have my word.”
Being addressed as an equal was such a small thing, but the urge to throw away his life had faded like a memory. Ahenobarbus nodded. “Very well, sir. I will stand down.”
“Give me your sword,” Julius said.
The two men locked eyes for a moment before Ahenobarbus held it up and Julius’s hand closed over the scabbard. The symbolic gesture was seen by all the guards.
“The right choice, at last,” Julius said, quietly, before cantering back to his own lines.
CHAPTER 3
Pompey stood on the docks at Ostia and looked back in the direction of Rome. The port town was quiet and he wondered if the inhabitants understood what they were seeing. It was possible, but over his time in the Senate he had come to realize that there were thousands of citizens who barely noticed the work of their masters. Their lives went on just the same. After all, no matter who was consul, the bread had to be baked and the fish brought in.
The last of the merchant ships crackled into flame behind him, making him turn and look out to sea. There were lives who would be affected, he thought. The owners would be beggared at a stroke, to make sure th
at Caesar would not have a fleet to follow before Pompey was ready. Even at a distance, the roar of flames was impressive, and Pompey watched as they reached the sail and engulfed the tarry cloth in an instant. The small ship began to settle and he hoped his men had the sense to get well clear on the boats before she sank.
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 with the tide. 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 fulfill 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 toward 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 armor 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 toward 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’s 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 gray, 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 sl
ender 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 diluted 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.
Conn Iggulden - Emperor 04 Page 3