In only a short time, the vast space of the forum was empty, leaving the still, slumped figures of the dead, already being covered by a dusting of fine flakes. The wind howled along the temples. The legion officers conferred, snapping out orders to their units. Cohorts were dispatched to their posts around the city, and more reports began to come in that the rioting had sprung up in the Esquiline valley. Pompey was there in full armor. He left a thousand men to control the center of the city and took three cohorts north through the streets to enforce the broken curfew.
“Clear the streets,” he ordered. “Get them back inside until we can control the gangs.” Behind him, new fires lit the gray sky and the snow still fell.
That night, the city erupted. Clodius’s body had been carried into the temple of Minerva, and thousands of men stormed the building, wild with grief and anger at the death of their master. The legionaries there were torn apart and fires were set all over the city as those who had followed Clodius hunted for Milo and his supporters. Pitched battles were fought in the streets against Pompey’s men, and twice the legionaries were forced to retreat as they were attacked on all sides and became lost in the maze of alleys. Some were trapped in buildings and burnt with them. Others were caught by large groups and overwhelmed by a savage mob. A city was no place for a legion to fight. Clodius’s officers lured them in by making women scream and then dropped on them, stabbing mindlessly until they were dead or forced to run.
Pompey himself was forced back toward the Senate house by a mass of armed men. He broke them at last with a third shield charge, but there were always more. He thought that every man in Rome had armed himself and was on the streets, and the numbers were simply overwhelming. He decided to retreat to the Senate steps and use that building to coordinate his remaining forces, yet as he clattered back to the open space of the forum, his jaw dropped in horror at the sight of thousands of torches clustered around the building.
They had broken open the bronze doors and Clodius was being carried over their heads into the deeper darkness within. Pompey saw the senator’s bloody corpse jerk and flop as they passed it up the steps.
The forum was full of armed men, shouting and roaring. Pompey hesitated. He had never run from anything in his life, and what he was witnessing was the end of everything he loved in Rome, yet he knew his men would be destroyed if he took them into the forum. Half the city seemed to be there.
Inside the dark Senate house, Pompey saw the flicker of flames. Cheering men came out onto the snow-covered steps, howling as they waved their blades in the air. Gray smoke billowed out of the doorway and Pompey felt tears on his face, warm against his cold skin.
“My theater. Re-form on my theater,” he called to his waiting men.
They backed from the surging crowd around the Curia and finally Pompey turned away from the flames that crackled through the roof, shattering the marble with reports that echoed across the forum. It was a worse pain than he could have imagined seeing the capering figures against the flames. Only the darkness hid his men and he felt a raging frustration at being forced to retreat from the heart of his city. Only dawn would bring an end to it, he knew. The raptores had destroyed the rule of law and were drunk with their new power. But when the morning came, they would be dazed and exhausted, appalled at what they had done. Then he would bring order, and write it in iron and blood.
The weak morning light streamed in from the high windows of Pompey’s theater, illuminating the packed ranks of men he had summoned from all over the city. As well as the Senate themselves, Pompey had sent centuries of his legion to bring in the tribunes, the magistrates, the aediles, quaestors, praetors, and every other rank of power in Rome. More than a thousand men sat on the wide rings around the central stage looking down on Pompey, and they were grim with fear and exhaustion. There were several faces missing from the ranks after the riots, and not one of them failed to appreciate the seriousness of their position.
Pompey cleared his throat and rubbed briefly at the goose bumps that had come up on his bare arms. The theater was not heated and he could see their breath frost the air as they watched him in silence.
“Last night was the closest I have ever come to seeing the end of Rome,” he began.
They sat as still as statues to listen and Pompey saw determination in their expressions. All the petty rivalries had been forgotten in the face of the previous night’s events, and he knew they would give him anything to restore peace in the city before night fell once more.
“You have all heard that Clodius was killed in the fighting, his body burnt in the Curia, itself reduced to ashes. Much of the city has been destroyed by fire, and bodies choke every street and gutter. The city is in chaos, without food or water over great parts of it. By tonight, much of the population will be hungry and the violence could begin once more.”
He paused, but the silence was perfect.
“My soldiers captured Senator Milo at sunrise when he tried to escape the city. I intend to use the daylight hours to search Rome for the rest in their chain of command, but trials would give their supporters time to regroup and rearm. I do not intend to give them another chance, gentlemen.” He took a deep breath. “I have called you here to vote me the powers of Dictatorship. If I remain bound by our laws, I cannot answer for the peace of the city tonight or any other night. I ask that you stand to confirm my appointment.”
Almost as one, the thousand members of the ruling class stood. Some rose to their feet faster than others, but in the end Pompey nodded with fierce satisfaction and waved them back to their seats.
“I stand before you as Dictator. I now declare martial law throughout Rome. A new curfew will be enforced at sunset each evening, and those caught on the streets will be executed immediately. My legion will cut out the leaders and torture will give us the names of the key men from the ranks of the street gangs. I declare this building to be the seat of government until the Senate house is rebuilt. Food will be distributed from the forum and the north and south gates of the city each morning until the emergency is over.”
He looked round at the ranks of his people and smiled tightly. Now it would begin to hurt a little.
“Each of you will deliver a tithe of one hundred thousand sesterces or a tenth of your wealth, whichever is the greater. The Senate treasury was looted and we need funds to put the city back on her feet. You will be repaid when the coffers are full once again, but until then it is a necessary measure.”
The first grumblings of disquiet went around the echoing chamber, but they were a tiny minority. The rest of them had been forced to look hard at the fragility of all they thought solid, and would not balk at paying for their safety. Pompey was sorry Crassus wasn’t there. He would have stung the old man for a huge sum. Sending a begging letter would not have the force of a demand in person, but it could not be helped.
Pompey went on after a brief glance at his notes.
“I will recall a legion from Greece, but until they reach the city, we need every man who can use a gladius. Those of you who employ guards will leave numbers with the scribes as you leave. I must know how many men we can trust to take arms in the event of further rioting. My legion took heavy losses last night and those men must be replaced as a matter of priority if we are to crush the mob before it gains strength once more. I will execute the followers of Milo and Clodius without ceremony or public announcement.
“Tonight will be the most difficult, gentlemen. If we get through that, order will slowly be restored. Eventually, I will levy a tax on all citizens in Roman lands to rebuild the city.”
He still saw numb fear on many of the faces before him, but others showed the first glimmerings of hope at his words. He called for responses and many of them rose to query the details of the new administration. Pompey relaxed as he began to work his way through the questions. Already, the stunned look was fading from their faces as they fell into the routines of the old Senate house. It gave him hope for them all.
CHAPTER 37<
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Brutus eased himself down onto the stump of the old oak he had cut down with Tubruk, laying his stick next to him. In the green woods, it was easy to remember the old gladiator’s smile as he had welcomed him home.
Wincing, Brutus stretched his leg out and scratched the purple line that ran from just above his knee almost to his groin. A similar line of stitching on his collarbone showed how close he had come to being killed in his frenzy. Both wounds had been dirty and he didn’t remember much of the first week back at the estate. Clodia said he was lucky not to have lost the leg, but the lips of the gash had knitted at last, though the stitches itched abominably. Vague images of being bathed with wet cloths came back to him, and he grimaced with embarrassment. Julia had grown into a young woman with more than a touch of her mother’s beauty. He thought Alexandria must have taken her aside for a private word about his care. Certainly, there had been a few days when Julia hadn’t come near him, and when he saw her, her eyes had flashed like Cornelia’s used to when she was angry. After that, only Alexandria had bathed away his sweat and grime.
Brutus smiled ruefully. Alexandria treated him as if he were a sick horse and rubbed him down with a rough detachment that left him glowing. It had been a relief to be finally strong enough to make his own way down to the bathing rooms and wash in privacy. She would have had the skin off him if he had dawdled in bed much longer.
It was peaceful in the woods. A bird sang in the trees nearby, and in the meandering line of the path, his mind’s eye could see two young boys sprinting through the bushes on their way to growing into men. Friendship had been a simple thing then, something he and Julius took for granted. Brutus remembered how they had pressed their bloody hands together as if the whole of life could be reduced to simple vows and actions. It was strange to look back on those days when so much had happened. There were times when he was proud of the man he had become and others when he would have given anything to be the boy again, with all his choices still before him. There were so many things he would change if he could.
They had been immortal in those long summers. They had known Tubruk would always be there to protect them, and the future was simply a chance to carry on their friendship over years and other lands. Nothing would ever come between them, even if Rome herself should crumble.
Taking a knife from his belt, Brutus levered it under the first stitch and snapped the thread. With great care, he tugged the broken end through his skin, working his way down to the final knot. He was silent with concentration, though he was sweating by the time he finished and tossed the sticky cord away into the bushes. A thin trickle of blood worked its way down through the light hairs on his thigh and he wiped it into a smear with his thumb.
He stood slowly and felt light-headed and weak. He decided to leave the stitches on his neck alone for the time being, though they too itched abominably.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Julia said.
He turned to her and smiled at the awkward way she stood. He wondered how long she had been watching. How old was she, sixteen? Long-legged and beautiful. Alexandria would not be pleased to hear they had been talking in the woods together, so he resolved not to tell her.
“I thought I’d try walking a little way. The leg is getting stronger, though it will be a while before I can trust it,” he said.
“When it’s healed, you will go back to my father,” she said.
It was not a question, but he nodded. “In a few weeks at most. The city is calm enough now Pompey is Dictator. We’ll all be leaving you in peace then. This old place will be quiet again.”
“I don’t mind it,” she said hurriedly. “I like having people here, even the children.”
They shared a look of understanding and Brutus chuckled. Despite the best efforts of Tabbic and his sister, the young ones had been running wild around the estate after only a few days, enthralled by the woods and the river. Clodia had saved one from drowning on three occasions in the deep pool. It was strange how quickly the young had recovered from the nightmare of their trip out of the city. Brutus guessed that when they looked back on that strange year of their lives, they would not remember seeing men killed, or if they did, it would be nothing to their first ride on a horse around the yard, with Tabbic holding them in the saddle. Children were a strange breed.
Julia had inherited some of her mother’s grace, he could see. Her hair was long and bound with a strip of cloth at the nape of her neck. She seemed to focus on his face with a peculiar intensity whenever he spoke, as if every word was valuable. He wondered what her childhood had been like, growing up on that estate. He had always had Julius, but apart from her tutors and Clodia, it must have been lonely for his daughter.
“Tell me about my father,” she said, coming closer.
Brutus felt an ache begin in his leg, and before the muscles could spasm, he took his stick and levered himself back onto the stump. He looked into the rooms of memory and smiled.
“He and I used to climb this tree when we were young,” he said. “Julius was convinced he could climb anything and he used to spend hours in the lower branches trying to work out a way of going higher. If I was with him, he could step into my cupped hands, but even then the next branch was too far to reach without jumping. He knew if he missed he’d come down on his head, perhaps bringing me with him.” He broke off to chuckle as the memories returned.
Julia came to sit next to him on the farthest edge of the wide stump. Even from there, he could smell the flower oil she used in bathing. He didn’t know the bloom, but the scent reminded him of summer. He breathed deeply, and just for a moment he let his mind play with a picture of kissing the cool skin of her neck.
“Did he fall?” she said.
Brutus snorted. “Twice. The second time, he pulled me out of the tree and I sprained my hand. He had a great bruise on the side of his face like he’d been slapped, but we still went up one last time and he reached that branch.” He sighed to himself. “I don’t think he ever climbed the old oak again. For him, there was nothing more to do.”
“I wish I had known you then,” she murmured, and he looked at her, shaking his head.
“No you don’t. We were a difficult pair, your father and I. The surprising thing is that we survived at all.”
“He’s lucky to have you as a friend,” she said, blushing slightly.
Brutus thought suddenly of how Alexandria would view the scene if she wandered into the woods. The girl was far too attractive for him to be playing the game of the dashing young soldier, back from the wars. In a moment or two, he’d be asking for her arm to steady him on the trip back to the house and stealing a kiss or two on the way. The scent of flowers filled his lungs and he took a grip on his wayward thoughts.
“I think I’ll be getting back, Julia. You must be cold.”
Completely without his conscious control, his gaze swept over her neck and the swell of her breasts. He knew she had seen and was furious with himself. He looked away into the woods as he stood up.
“Are you coming in?” he said. “It will be dark soon.”
“Your leg is bleeding again,” she said. “It was too soon to take out the stitches.”
“No. I’ve seen enough wounds to judge. From now on, I’ll walk or ride every day to build my strength.”
“I’ll keep you company if you want me to,” she said. Her eyes were wide and dark and he cleared his throat to cover his hesitation.
“I don’t think a pretty girl should . . .” Oh, wonderful. He stammered to a stop. “I’ll get by on my own, thank you.” He walked stiffly back down the path through the woods toward the house, cursing himself silently with all the energy he could muster.
Under the cold stars, Brutus walked his mare across the main yard toward the stables, panting slightly after his ride. He thought of Alexandria asleep in her room and frowned to himself. Nothing was as simple as he liked it to be, especially with the women in his life. If he’d wanted argume
nts and tense silences, he would have taken a wife. He smiled wryly at the thought, looking up at the moon and enjoying the silence. They had both suffered over the long, empty weeks at the estate, with nothing to do but heal and forget the ugliness of the riots. There were times when he itched to gallop, or fight, or take her to bed for an afternoon. His wound made him furious then. It didn’t help that their lovemaking was limited by his inability to kneel, and he hated to be weak.
He thought he loved her, in his way, but there were too many days when they would bicker over nothing until they were both sullen and hurt. He hated the long silences more than anything. Sometimes he wondered if they were only really in love when he was in another country.
The stable was warm, despite the chill of the night air and freezing stars. The light of the moon came through a high window, giving a pale gleam to the oak stalls. It was a peaceful place with only the dark shapes of the horses for company.
He was still sweating from the exertion of the ride and grimaced at how far he had fallen from peak condition during his illness. Just a couple of miles across country had brought him close to exhaustion.
The straw crackled behind him as he rubbed down the mare, and he froze for a moment, wondering who else was up at that hour. He turned awkwardly to see Julia leaning against a post, her face pale in the dim light.
“Did you go far this time?” she murmured. She looked as if she had come from her bed, her hair loose on her shoulders. She had a soft sheet wrapped around her and he saw how it drew tightest over her breasts, wondering if she could see where his eyes lay.
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