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?
“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 toward 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 armor and he cursed as they formed beads over the oil. It would have to be rubbed clean once more.
CHAPTER 19
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’s 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 honorable 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 alone.
Julius looked over his shoulder at the ranks he had sent marching farther south. He could catch them on horseback easily enough and had stayed behind to make his own judgment 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 armor. 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.
Brutus yanked savagely on his reins as the order to halt split the air. He could see Julius’s legions still marching ahead and every mile lost would be another to make up the following day. It was strange to think how well he knew the men in those ranks. He had fought with them for years and he could imagine the voices of friends and colleagues as they dressed their lines. Part of him ached for that old familiarity, but there was no going back. Julius was somewhere in the mass of men and Brutus would see him dead by the time they were done. He was hungry for the confrontation and his men walked carefully around him as he gazed over the hills.
By the time the walls were up and the trenches dug, darkness had fallen and the first lamps had been lit. Pompey had ordered a single camp to enclose his entire army. It was a city in the wilderness, and inside its safe barriers the Greek legions put a last edge to their swords and ate without talking, sitting around watch fires. Many made their wills and those who could write earned a few extra coins copying for their friends. There was no laughter and Brutus felt uneasy as he listened to them in the night. They outnumbered the enemy and they should have been raucous and loud with boasting. There were no songs sung in the camp and the sour mood seemed stifling.
Brutus strode over to where Seneca stared into the flames of a watch fire, chewing idly on a last piece of roasted sausage. The men who had crowded to the warmth moved aside at his approach and Brutus sat down with a sigh, looking around. The silence was strained and he wondered what they had been saying before he came.
“Well, this is a cheerful group,” Brutus said to Seneca. “I would have thought I’d hear a bit of singing at least.” Seneca smiled, but did not reply and Brutus raised his eyebrows. “I’ve done a great deal for you, you know. I found a galley to take you to Greece, didn’t I? I’ve given you my time and experience. Have any of you polished my armor or passed on a little of your pay out of gratitude? No. Have any of you even offered me wine?”
Seneca chuckled, looking at the man who sat in his silver armor.
“Would you like a little wine, General?” he said, reaching behind him for an amphora.
“No. Not a little,” Brutus replied, taking a tin cup from the man next to him as he held it out. The man blinked in surprise.
“We’re going to win, you know,” Brutus said, holding out the cup to clink it against Seneca’s. Seneca emptied his without a word. “He can’t stop us flanking him with our cavalry, can he? And once we’re behind his lines, they’ll roll up like an old carpet. You heard how they ran from Labienus? How do you think they’ll do against the rest of us?”
He watched as Seneca nodded reluctantly, seeming to lose a little of his heavy mood. When Brutus had heard the news of his old legion being routed, he had been sure it was some clever plan. He had ridden out at the first light of dawn to read the ground, but there had been no print or trace of an ambushing force. He could still hardly credit it. In a way, it was a twisted comfort: the Third had never run while he commanded them. Perhaps Julius was losing his touch.
Draining his own wine, Brutus reached inside his armor to produce a bag of dice. He chose two without looking and rattled them in the cup. The sound worked like magic on the faces of the men around him, making them look up with sudden interest.
“Ah, I have your attention now,” Brutus said cheerfully. “Shall we have a little game before we turn in? I’m thinking about buying a new horse and funds are low.”
An hour later, Labienus passed the group and saw Brutus at the center of them. The laughter and shouting had drawn in many more to watch and other games had started on the fringes. Labienus let out a slow breath as he watched Brutus scoop up a pile of coins, cheering his own success without embarrassment. The camp stretched away into the darkness around them and Labienus smiled to himself before moving on.
At dawn, Pompey rose from his bed and summoned his healer. His stomach was hard and swollen, the skin so tight as to send spasms of pain at the slightest touch. He gritted his teeth as he probed it with stiff fingers, letting anger shield him from the pain until he gasped. Should he allow the physician to cut him? There were nights when it was bad enough for Pompey to take a knife to it himself out of sheer desperation. Each morning, he fantasized about a thin blade to let out all the wind and pus that was making it swell, but then he would force himself to dress, binding the swollen mass himself so that no one else could see.
He rubbed a rough hand across his face, seeing it come away shining with night sweat. His eyes were sticky and sore and he rubbed at them, furious with the body that had let him down.
Pompey sat on the edge of his pallet, doubled over the bulging skin. His physician entered and frowned at his sickly color. In grim silence, the man laid down his bag of materials, crossing to him. A cool palm was pressed against Pompey’s forehead and the healer shook his head.
“You are running a fever, General. Is there blood in your stools?”
“Make your mixtures and get out,” Pompey snapped without opening his eyes.
The healer knew better than to respond. He turned away and laid out his mortar and pestle with a row of stoppered bottles. Pompey cracked open an eye to watch him as he added ingredients and ground them into a white paste. The healer sensed the interest and held up his bowl to show the milky mucus that lined the sides.
“I have hopes for this preparation. It is a bark I found in Dyrrhachium, mixed with olive oil, water, and milk. The man I bought it from swore it would help with any illness of the stomach.”
“It looks like semen,” Pompey said through clenched teeth.
The healer flushed and Pompey gestured irritably, already tired of the man.
“Give it to me,” he said, taking the bowl and using his fingers to scoop the mixture into his mouth. It tasted of nothing, but after a time it did seem to ease him a little.
“Make another batch. I can’t be running to you whenever the pain worsens.”
“It’s working, is it?” the healer said. “If you would only let me release the poisons in you, I could—”
“Just seal another dose of it under wax so I can take it later,” Pompey interrupted. “Two doses, and one more of your usual muck.”
He shuddered as he thought of stomach wounds he had seen in the past. When he was little more than a boy, he had killed a rabbit and slit its guts as he tried to remove the skin. Stinking black and green curds had stained his hands, tainting the good meat. He had been forced to throw the whole rabbit away and he could still remember the stench. Pompey had seen simple spear punctures bruise with filth once the stomach was open to the air. Death always followed.
“As you wish, General,” the man replied, offended. “I have more of the bark in my own tent. I’ll have it sent to you.”
Pompey only glared until he left.
When he was alone, Pompey levered himself to his feet. The legions would be ready to march, he knew. The light was already brightening at the flap of the command tent and they would be in ranks, waiting for his appearance. Still, he could not summon his dress slaves until he had bound his stomach. Only the healer had seen the expanse of angry flesh he hid with strips of clean linen, and even he knew nothing of the blood Pompey spat during the night. When he was in public, he swallowed the gummy mass back each time it rose into his throat, but it grew more difficult each day.
As he stood, a wave of dizziness struck him and he swore softly to himself, waiting for it to pass. More itching sweat dripped down his face and he found his hair was wet with it.
“Give me just a few more days,” he whispered and did not know if it was a prayer to the gods or to the sick growth that consumed him.
He reached for the sweat-stained strips he had placed over the end of his pallet and began to wind them around his torso, constraining the swelling with savage jerks that left him trembling. His fingers were clumsy on the knots, but at last he was able to stand straight and took a series of deep breaths. He crossed to a water bucket and splashed it on himself before tugging a tunic over his head.
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