To fight a war with subtlety and propaganda was dangerously intoxicating. Julius seized on every tiny detail of Pompey’s strengths and weaknesses, anything that might be used. He had sent men to undermine the Dictator in his own camp, knowing they could be killed. It was a vicious sort of war they had carried to Greece, but he had come too far and lost too much to lose it all.
His somber thoughts were interrupted as the gate fell with a clang on the stones of the street. The noise had woken the house and lamps were being lit inside, acting as a spark for the local inhabitants as they roused and sought light to banish terror.
As he had expected, the sound of marching feet came quickly behind the hammer blows and it was only moments before the space in the wall filled with grim soldiers. Julius did not speak at first, watching with professional interest as they locked their shields to prevent a sudden rush.
“You are late, gentlemen,” he said, dismounting. “I could have been inside by now if I hadn’t waited for you.”
Five hundred of his Tenth were stretched along the street and he could feel their tension in the biting air. A single word from him and they would cut the defenders down. He looked into the eyes of the centurion guarding the gate and was intrigued to find no sign of fear there. The officer did not bother to answer and merely returned his stare. Pompey had chosen well.
“I am a consul of Rome,” Julius said, taking a step forward. “Do not dare to block my way.”
The men in the gateway shifted uncomfortably, the words pulling at everything they had been taught from childhood. The centurion blinked and Julius saw him reach out to one of the defenders, settling him.
“My orders are from Pompey, Consul,” the centurion said. “This house is not to be touched.”
Julius frowned. It would not be a good beginning for his new policies if he butchered decent men doing their duty. With the restrictions he had imposed on himself, it was an impasse.
“Will you allow me entry on my own? I will come unarmed,” he said, stepping into range of the weapons held before him.
The centurion narrowed his eyes and Julius heard a hiss of breath from the soldiers of the Tenth. His legion would not like him walking into danger, but he could see no other choice.
A voice sounded from within the grounds. “Let me through!”
Julius smiled as he recognized it. A low murmur of protest came from somewhere out of sight.
“The man you have kept waiting is my father. I don’t care what your orders are, you will let me through to him!”
Once again the soldiers at the gate shifted, this time in excruciating embarrassment. Julius laughed at their predicament.
“I don’t think you can stop her coming out to me, can you, gentlemen? Will you lay hands on Pompey’s own wife? I think not. My daughter walks where she chooses.”
Though he spoke to all of them, his eyes held those of the centurion, knowing the decision was his. At last the man spoke a few curt words and the shields were pulled back.
Julia stood there, her son in her arms. Julius breathed in deeply and noticed the fragrance of the garden for the first time, as if she had brought the scent with her.
“Will you invite me in, Julia?” he asked, smiling.
Julia cast a scornful glance at the soldiers around the gate, still standing awkwardly. Her face was flushed and Julius thought his daughter had never looked more beautiful than in the light of the single lamp.
“You may stand down, Centurion,” she said. “My father will be tired and hungry. Run to the kitchens and have refreshments brought.”
The centurion opened his mouth, but she spoke again before he could voice any objection.
“I want the best sausage, fresh bread, hot wine from my husband’s cellar, cheese and a little fruit.”
The beleaguered soldier looked at father and daughter for a long moment before he gave up. With stiff dignity, he retreated at last.
“My home is yours, Consul,” Julia said, and from the way her eyes sparkled, Julius knew she had enjoyed the clash of wills. “Your visit is an honor.”
“You are kind, daughter,” he replied, enjoying the mock formality. “Tell me, are the families of the Senate still in the city?”
“They are.”
Julius turned to his men, noting the nervous figure of the Greek who had guided them in from the walls. The man shook with fear as Julius considered him.
“You will lead my men to the families,” Julius said. “They will not be harmed, I swear it.” The Greek bowed his head as Julius addressed his men. “Gather them . . .”
He paused to look at his daughter. “I do not know this city. Is there a Senate building, a meeting hall?”
“The temple of Jupiter is well known,” Julia replied.
“That will do very well,” Julius said. “Remember, gentlemen, that my honor protects them. I will hang you for a single bruise. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” his centurion replied for all of them.
“Send men to General Domitius and tell him to begin loading the supplies onto our carts. I want to be able to leave quickly in the morning.”
The soldiers of the Tenth marched away, the noise of their steps fading slowly in the echoing street.
“So this is my grandson,” Julius said. The little boy was still half asleep and did not stir as Julius laid a hand gently on his head. “Am I truly welcome here, Julia?” he said softly.
“How could my father not be?” she asked him.
“Because I am at war with your husband and you are caught between us.”
She reached out to touch the man who had been absent for all of her childhood and most of her life. He had escaped showing her the normal faults of fathers. She had never seen him beat a dog or fall down drunk or show some petty spite. She knew him only as the general of Gaul, a consul of Rome. It was true that she had hated him with all the passion of a young girl when he first offered her to Pompey as a wife, but the habit of adoration was too strong for that to last. Brutus had brought her into her father’s conspiracies for the first time, and it was a heady joy to be valuable to this man. It was too much to put into words and instead she decided to give the only proof of loyalty that she had.
“If your blood did not run true in me, I would have given Brutus away,” she whispered into his ear.
Time stood still for Julius as his mind raced. He struggled to remain calm.
“What did he tell you?” he said.
She blushed a little and he could not help the suspicion that came into his thoughts.
“That his betrayal is part of your planning.” She saw that he closed his eyes for a moment and misunderstood. “I told no one. I even helped him get another two cohorts from my husband.”
She raised her chin with fragile pride that wounded him. He felt the exhaustion of the long march north as if it had been waiting for just such a moment. He swayed slightly as he looked at her, and put out his hand to the wall.
“Good . . . good,” he said absently. “I did not think he would tell you that.”
“He trusted me,” Julia said. “And I trust you to let my husband live, if it falls to your hand by the end. That is the choice I made, Father. If you win, both of you will survive.” She looked at him with pleading eyes and he could not bear to tell her there was no secret agreement with Brutus. It would destroy her. “The pardon at Corfinium was news here for months,” she went on. “Can you do less for him?”
With infinite tenderness, Julius took her hand. “Very well. If it is in my gift, he will live.”
The temple to Jupiter in Dyrrhachium was very nearly as cold as the streets outside. Julius’s breath was a streamer of mist as he entered, his men taking places along the walls with clattering efficiency.
All noise ceased as he walked down the long central aisle toward the great white statue of the god. His sandals clicked and echoed, and at the end he saw the families of the Senate still blinking in the light. They resembled refugees after their hasty summons by ar
med guards. The benches were packed with them and more sat on the cold marble floor. They fluttered with renewed fear at the sight of the general their men had come to Greece to destroy.
Julius ignored their beady-eyed scrutiny. He halted before the statue of Jupiter and went down briefly onto one knee, bowing his head. It was an effort to concentrate and he had to smother the worry and fear his daughter had caused him. Brutus was a practiced seducer, and it was easy to see how vulnerable she would have been. Yet to involve her in such a way was breathtakingly callous. It was no comfort to know that Julius had given her to Pompey with as little compunction. That was his right as her father. The general who knelt in the lamplight added the information to what he knew of Pompey’s forces. Brutus was a little in love with risk and perhaps that could be used. The father and the man were so angry he could barely reason.
“So will you close the doors and have us killed?” a harsh voice came, shattering his reverie.
Julius looked up sharply as he rose, recognizing Cicero’s wife, Terentia. She looked like a raven swathed in black, with sharp features and sharper eyes.
Julius forced himself to smile, though the effect caused some of the younger children to start bawling, grating on his ears.
“I am a consul of Rome, madam. I do not make war on women and children,” he said coldly. “My honor keeps you safe.”
“Are we to be hostages then?” Terentia demanded. Her voice had a particularly shrill note that made Julius wonder what Cicero saw in her.
“For tonight. My men will make you as comfortable as they can in this building.”
“What are you planning, Caesar?” Terentia said, narrowing her eyes. “Pompey will never forget this, do you realize that? He will not rest until your armies are butchered.”
Julius felt anger surge through him. “Be silent,” he snapped, his voice rising in volume. “You know nothing of my business, or Pompey’s. Leave your threats for your sisters. My men fight because they love Rome and because they love me. Don’t speak of them.”
Bitter shame flooded him as he saw the fear in their faces. He was sickened by his own weakness. With a huge effort, he took control, clasping his shaking hands behind his back.
Terentia raised her head in defiance. “So you are one of those men, Caesar,” she said, sneering. “You put swords into your enemies and you think it is something wonderful. A butcher might as well sing songs about the pigs he kills each day.” One of the other women put a hand on her arm but she shook herself free. “You are here because you chose to be, Caesar, do not forget that! You could have gone back to Gaul with those legions that ‘love’ you. If you valued their lives, you would have saved them then.”
Fear became palpable as the rest froze. Something in Julius’s own pale fury made her realize she had gone too far, and she looked away, biting her lip. After a long pause, he spoke with terrible force.
“Men will die, but they give their lives because they understand more than you ever could. We are here to make the future, woman, nothing less. We will not be ruled by kings. For your safety, for our citizens in Spain and Greece and Gaul, we are here to remake the Republic. It’s a worthy dream. What makes us different from the tribes of Gaul, or the men of Greece? We eat, we sleep, we trade. But there is more, Terentia. More than comfort and more than gold. More even than family, which must eat at you. You sneer because you cannot see there must be a time when a man looks up from his work and says, ‘No. This is too much to bear.’ ”
Terentia might even then have replied if the women around her had not whispered harshly in warning. She subsided under Julius’s glare and would not look at him again.
“If you have sense,” Julius went on, “you will tell the Senate that I have only one enemy in Greece and I have offered him exile rather than this conflict. I have shown my honor at Corfinium. Tell them to remember that I am consul by the same citizens who granted their authority. Rome is with me.” He looked at their hard faces and shrugged. “Make your personal needs known to my men, within reason. I will be on the walls. I will send word to your husbands and fathers that you are safe and unharmed. That is all.”
Without another word, Julius spun on his heel and strode back toward the great doors to the temple. His eyes itched with exhaustion and the thought of collapsing into a soft bed drew him with the force of lust. He knew his battered body would carry him on for a little longer, but then he would run the risk of pushing himself into a fit on this crucial night. He still rode the knife edge and a single slip could cost him the war.
As he reached his guards, the centurion met his eyes for an instant and nodded briefly, proving he had been listening. Julius returned the gesture with a tight smile as he went outside into the cold dark. Dawn was still far away and the stunned city was silent with fear. The invader walked amongst them.
Pompey looked up at the walls of the city, thankful for the darkness that hid his despair. He had dismissed Labienus with only the barest attempt at civility, furious that they had not reached Dyrrhachium before Caesar was safe to strut inside. The pain in his stomach felt like he was being eaten alive from within. The chalky gruels that had helped in the beginning now seemed almost useless. A soft moan came from his mouth as he kneaded his gut with a fist. He had wiped blood from his lips before coming out and viewed the red specks that stained the white cloth with sick dread. His own body was turning on him and he shoved hard fingers into his flesh as if he could dig the sickness out by force. He could not afford to be ill and he thought the Senate demands had become more strident with the worsening pain. It was as if they scented his weakness and were ready to tear him apart.
Only the stern resistance of his soldiers had kept Cicero and his colleagues from reaching him in his tent. What was there to be gained from another bickering discussion with them? Pompey couldn’t bear the thought of having to be polite to those frightened men as they bleated about their precious wives and slaves.
He did not know what Caesar would do with the city. Of course, the stores would disappear into the ravening maw of his legions. Pompey had listened to Labienus’s dispassionate appraisal of their own supplies now that Dyrrhachium was closed to them. He thanked his gods that he had found the foresight to shift tons of it before the war started. At least his own men would not starve while Julius grew fat on salt beef and black treacle.
He heard the sound of hooves in the darkness and looked up at the shadowy figure of Labienus approaching. With an effort, Pompey stood straighter to receive him, letting his hand fall. The pain in his stomach seemed to intensify, but he would not show it to his general.
“What is it now?” he snapped as Labienus dismounted.
“A messenger from Caesar, sir. He has come under a flag of truce,” Labienus replied.
Both men thought of the three centurions Julius had used before and wondered if this man too would sow discord in the camps.
“Have him brought to me in my tent, Labienus. Inform no one if you value your commission.”
Pompey struggled to maintain his impassive expression as a spot writhed in his stomach. Without waiting for a reply, he walked past his guards and seated himself in his tent, ready to hear what Caesar wanted.
He had barely settled when Labienus brought the man into his presence. Sweat broke out on Pompey’s brow despite the cold and he mopped at it with a cloth, unaware of the brown stain of old blood.
The messenger was a tall, thin soldier with close-cropped hair and dark eyes that took in every detail of the man he faced. Pompey wondered if his illness would be reported and it took all his strength to ignore the pain he suffered. No sign of it must reach Caesar.
“Well?” he demanded impatiently.
“General. My master wishes you to know that the Senate families are unharmed. He will return them to you at dawn. The city of Dyrrhachium will be yours by noon. He has forbidden looting or damage of any kind.”
Pompey saw Labienus blink in surprise. It was unheard of for an army to give up the advantage
they had won so easily.
“What does he want?” Pompey said, suspiciously.
“Three days, sir. He offers you the families and the city for the supplies within and three days of truce to get clear. He asks that you accept these terms.”
“Labienus,” Pompey said, “take him away while I think.”
In the moments of precious privacy, Pompey leaned forward, wincing. By the time Labienus returned, he was upright again and his face was bright with sweat.
“Are you ill, sir?” Labienus asked immediately.
“A passing discomfort. Tell me what you think of these terms.”
Pompey’s mind felt clouded and the pain made it almost impossible to plan. As if he understood, Labienus spoke quickly.
“It seems generous, though once again our men will see Caesar act the role of statesman. They will see the families released and the truce days will be another victory as we are forced to follow his lead.” Labienus paused. “If the stakes were not so high, I would attack at dawn, as the gates are opened to release the families.”
“They could be killed in such a venture,” Pompey snapped.
Labienus nodded. “That is a risk, though I doubt it. Caesar would have been denied the chance to show his generosity to us all. Morale is low in our camps and three more have been caught trying to desert.”
“I was not informed!” Pompey said angrily.
Labienus held his gaze for a moment. “You were not available, sir.”
Pompey remembered his earlier dismissal and flushed.
“Make it known that any deserters will be killed in front of the rest. I will remind them of their duty with the blood of those men.”
“I thought we might question them first, sir, and—”
“No. Kill them at dawn as a lesson to the others.” He hesitated, anger struggling against the need to send the man away and tend his pain. “I will grant the truce, Labienus. I have no choice if my Dictatorship is to be renewed. The Senate families must be kept from harm.”
The Gods of War Page 18