“My Tenth have brought new honor for you,” Julius said, his voice ringing over them. “If they can see your worth, I will not refuse them this. The Third are no more and their name will be removed from the Senate rolls in Rome on our return. I cannot give you back your history. I can only offer a new start and a new name. You will be the Fourth Greek legion. You know that name from the men we faced last night. We will take it from them, and when we meet in war we will take back our honor with it.”
The soldiers who had been freed raised their heads in relief. Many of them shook with the power of their deliverance and Julius was satisfied he had made the right choice.
“General Domitius is free of blame and will command the Tenth to show the honor I place in him. General Octavian has asked to be given the new Fourth and I have accepted. Remember that your lives have come from the honor of my Tenth and you carry that honor with you. Do not shame them.”
He swept his gaze over the thousands before him and felt that some of the shame of the previous night had indeed been washed away. He knew now that Pompey had lost his courage. He could be beaten.
Labienus stood still on the training yard at Dyrrhachium. More than two hundred of Caesar’s Third legion were on their knees in the red dust, their hands bound behind them. The wind whipped across the yard, coating them in grit so that they were forced to lower their heads and blink out the stinging grains.
Labienus was still furious with the man who watched the proceedings from the back of a fine Spanish gelding. He knew his duty, however, and he would not hesitate to give the order for the execution to begin. A dozen officers were under guard in another barracks and would be tortured for information. The rest were simply an example to be made.
Labienus glanced at Pompey, waiting for his nod. He could not escape the feeling that the three legions Pompey had assembled hardly needed to see more Roman blood. They had witnessed enough of their own being shed to learn anything new from the process. This was not for them, he thought. This was for Pompey. Perhaps there was a part of the old man who knew what a fool he had been in holding back the extraordinarii the night before. Labienus had sent out his trackers at dawn and they had found no sign of any larger force. Labienus knew the information would seep out and morale would sink even lower.
As Pompey met his eyes, Labienus realized he had been staring and saluted hurriedly to cover his embarrassment. Pompey looked as if the stiff breeze could blow him down and his skin was taut and yellow across his bones. Labienus thought he was dying, but until the Senate revoked his Dictatorship, he had the power of life and death over them all.
Pompey nodded sharply and Labienus turned to the five men who had been chosen for the task. He could see they did not relish it, though he had picked the most brutal killers under his command.
“Begin,” Labienus said.
Four of them walked forward, their knives held ready, but the fifth hesitated.
“Sir, these are Roman. It’s not right.”
“Stand still,” Labienus snapped at him. “Centurion! Come to me!”
The soldier shook his head in terror as his officer approached. “I’m sorry, sir. I only meant . . .”
Labienus ignored him. The centurion who had come at his order was pale and sweating, he saw.
“This man has refused my order. He will join the others,” Labienus said.
The soldier opened his mouth to cry out and the centurion struck him hard with his fist before he could add to the shame he had brought to his legion. Two more crashing punches forced the dazed soldier to his knees and Labienus watched dispassionately as he was disarmed and trussed at the end of the line of prisoners. They did not look at him.
Labienus expelled a slow breath, stilling his racing pulse. Pompey had witnessed the incident, but it seemed he chose to ignore it. Labienus clenched his fists behind his back, trying not to show the tension he felt. In calmer days, he might have had the man whipped for insolence, but Pompey was capable of executing the entire century for the idiocy of one man. That had been averted at least and Labienus offered up a silent prayer to see him through the day.
The four remaining men of the execution party went to work with swift efficiency. They walked behind the kneeling prisoners with knives reaching to encircle their throats. One quick jerk and then a shove to send dying men onto their faces and they moved on. The dust grew darker with blood until the ground was full and could take no more. Then lines of it moved sluggishly out in twisting branches, like a red tree drawn on the ground.
Pompey waited until the last of the prisoners fell twitching before he summoned Labienus to his side.
“The Senate has demanded a meeting with me, General. It is strange that they should ask so soon after the events of last night, is it not? I wonder if there is someone amongst your ranks who could be passing information to them?”
Labienus met his stare without daring to blink. He thought of the letter he had written and left unsigned, but no sign of guilt showed in his face. It was done and he could not regret it.
“Impossible, sir. They have been under my eye ever since we came back.”
Pompey grunted and shrugged. “Perhaps it is just to confirm my Dictatorship then. It is due for renewal in two days, though it is just a formality. Your men must return to work on the walls, General. As soon as these bodies have been burnt.”
Labienus watched Pompey leave the parade ground and wished he could be present to hear what the Senate would say to him. He suspected the future would be shaped by it.
CHAPTER 18
My health is not at issue here!” Pompey shouted, red in the face. “You dare to suggest I am incapable?”
The sinews on his hands stood out like wires as he gripped the rostrum and faced the Senate. The meeting hall was packed and many were on their feet to speak. It was chaotic without the ordered traditions of Curia debates. Pompey had already been interrupted twice and a vein throbbed visibly in his temple as he considered stalking out and leaving them. He would have done so if he had had even a month in hand before his Dictatorship was to be renewed. They knew the leverage they had and seemed determined to extract its value.
Cicero dropped his gaze to scan a parchment in his hand. Pompey would have given a great deal to know its author. As Cicero looked up again, the rest fell silent with a discipline they had not shown to Pompey.
“Your health is at issue when illness prevents you from acting in the best interests of Rome,” Cicero said, glancing infuriatingly at the parchment once more. “You should stand down until you are well, Pompey. If it was another man, you would be among the first to say it.”
Pompey glared at him, feeling the gaze of them all batter at his defenses. The pain in his gut was a wild red thing and it took every grain of his strength not to let it show.
“You were not so insolent when Rome was burning and I was granted my Dictatorship,” Pompey said. “I kept order then, when no one else could. I broke Spartacus when his army threatened us all; do you remember that? And you dare to suggest I am not fit for my command? Why don’t you read that paper in your hand, Cicero, instead of hinting at its contents? I fear no criticism from you or any man. My record speaks for me.”
There was a murmur of approval from the benches and Pompey was pleased to see Cicero did not have the complete support of the others in the hall. Many of them would be horrified at an attempt to end the Dictatorship on such grounds. If they had been in Rome, it could not have been contemplated, but Pompey knew the campaign had not been going well. There were too many in the Senate who understood nothing of war and were suffering without the comfort and respect they enjoyed in their own city. He knew he had to find words to move them.
“Your record is without equal,” Cicero said, “but you are sweating now, Pompey, because you are in agony. Stand down for a month and we will have the best healers brought to you. When you are well, you will resume the war.”
“And if I do not? Speak your threats aloud, Cicero, so that we can all hear. Let us know wh
at 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 toward 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 honorable 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 drafts 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 armor 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 luster 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 woolen bracae and tunic had been part of his kit in Gaul. The colors 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’s ankles. The soft woolen 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 toward the armor 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 forwa
rd 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 armor, 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?
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