The Death Of Kings

CHAPTER 27

Cato wiped a pudgy hand across his brow. Even with the chill of winter still gripping Rome, the Senate building was full and the air heavy with the heat of three hundred of the nobilitas packed into the small space. Cato held up his hands for silence and waited patiently as the babble of noise slowly stilled.

“This Caesar, this reckless young man, has shown nothing but disdain for Senate will. Acting alone, he has caused the deaths of hundreds of Roman citizens, many of them veterans of our legions. As I understand it, he assumed an authority he was never granted and behaved throughout as I would expect a nephew of Marius to behave. I call on the body of the Senate to censure this little cockerel-to show our repugnance at his waste of Roman lives and his disregard of our authority over him.”

He resumed his seat with a satisfied grunt, and the Master of Debate stood, looking relaxed. He was a large, florid man with little patience for fools. Though his authority was nominal, he seemed to enjoy controlling the more powerful men of the Senate.

Cinna had risen at Cato's words, his face flushed in anger. The Master of Debate nodded for him to speak, and Cinna swept the rows with his gaze, holding their attention.

“As many of you know, I am related to Caesar through my daughter's marriage,” he began. “I came here not to speak in his defense, but to take part in what I expected to be our just and proper congratulation.” A wave of muttering from Cato's supporters prevented him from carrying on for a moment, but he waited with icy patience until they subsided.

“Should we not congratulate a man who broke one of the enemies of Rome? Mithridates lies dead, his army dispersed, and some of you speak of censure? It is beyond belief. Instead of counting the lives of his men lost in a battle against a larger force, think instead of those innocents who live because Mithridates was crushed. How many more of our people would have died by the time our cautious legions finally edged close enough to engage the enemy? By the reports, it seems as if they might never have reached the Greek forces at all!”

Another storm of muttering broke out, with jeers and shouts rising over the rest. Many of the senators on both sides rose to speak and fidgeted as they waited. The Master of Debate caught Cinna's eye and raised his eyebrows in question. Cinna gave way with ill grace and resumed his seat.

Senator Prandus stood at Cato's side. He was a tall, spare figure next to the bulk of his patron, and he cleared his throat slightly as he was signaled to speak.

“My son Suetonius was one of those taken by pirates with this Caesar. I have his reports on which to base my opinions, and they point to the danger of this Roman to everything we stand for. He acts without consultation of any kind. He rushes into conflict without a thought for other methods to solve a problem. His first and last answer to everything is blind attack. I have details of executions and torture carried out in his name, unsanctioned by the Senate. He compelled old soldiers into battle for little more than personal glory. I must agree with the honorable Cato that this Caesar should be called here for a just punishment for his actions. We should not forget the allegations of piracy that have been leveled against him by Quaestor Pravitas. If he is commended, as some seem to think would be correct, we may well create another Marius and come to regret our generosity in time.”

Cato pushed a nervous-looking man to his feet. Senator Bibilus almost stumbled as he rose under the pressure of the heavy hands. His face was pale and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his brow. Breaking custom, he began to speak before he had received permission, and his first words were lost in the hoots of derision that followed.

“… should consider the withdrawal of Senate membership,” he said, and gulped saliva from his throat. “Or possibly a ban on holding army rank. Let him be a merchant with the looted gold he has brought back with him.”

As he spoke, the Master of Debate glared stonily at him, and a brief gesture sent Bibilus back to his seat, his face burning with embarrassment. The Master of Debate looked grim and turned to face the opposing benches, clearly determined to redress the balance with his choices. Crassus was given leave to speak. He nodded thanks and stared calmly around the packed rows until there was a proper stillness once more.

“How you do reveal your secret fears!” he snapped. “Another Marius, you say. His nephew! How we must tremble! It sickens me. Did you think our precious Republic could survive without military power? How many of you here have commanded men in successful battles?” His gaze swept the rows, knowing that Cato had served only the two-year minimum to see him up the political ladder. Other heads nodded while Cato stifled a yawn and looked away.

“We have a young man who knows how to lead soldiers,” Crassus continued. “He gathered a small army and routed a force eight or nine times their size. True, he acted without first seeking our approval, but he could hardly have waited a year or two until we had finished discussing it!”

The Master of Debate caught his eye, but Crassus ignored him.

“No, what causes such poisonous spite in some of us is the shameful fact that this young man has shown our choice of legion commanders to be wrong. His success is proof that we did not act with enough energy and speed to defend our possessions in Greece. That is what rankles with these gentlemen. That is the only reason for their anger against him. Let me remind you that he won the oak wreath for his bravery at Mytilene. He is a gifted, loyal soldier of Rome, and it would shame us not to recognize that publicly. I hear Bibilus murmuring about having him stripped of legion rank, and I ask myself, what victories has Bibilus brought to us? Or Cato? And there is Prandus hinting at piracy when he knows the charges were proven idiocy when the full facts came to light. No wonder he skirts such a difficult issue when his own son was one of those accused! We should laud Caesar with honors for what he has done.”

“Enough, Crassus,” the Master of Debate said sternly, satisfied he had allowed enough time to repair the outburst by Bibilus. “Both sides of the debate have spoken. We can move on to a vote.”

Those still standing sat down reluctantly, looking around the hall and trying to gauge the result before it had started. Before the vote could begin, the massive bronze doors to the chamber swung open and Pompey entered, causing a new stir of interest. Since the death of his daughter a week before, he had not been seen anywhere near the forum or the Senate, and there were many whispered questions about his tragedy and what would come of it.

The Master of Debate motioned to Pompey, indicating a seat for him in the rows. Instead of sitting, Pompey walked to his place and stood waiting to be recognized.

Sighing, the Master of Debate raised his hand toward him. All noise ceased as every eye fastened on the new arrival.

Cato in particular watched him with glittering intensity, taking in every detail. The daughter's ashes could not have been long in the ground, but no signs of that grief showed on the man's face. He seemed calm as he looked around at the packed benches.

“Forgive my absences and my lateness, Senators. I have buried my daughter,” he said quietly, without a trace of infirmity in his voice. “I make a vow before you that those responsible will regret using the innocent in games of power, but that is a problem for another day.” He spoke reasonably, but those close to him could see every muscle in his shoulders was rigid, as if he held a great rage barely in check.

“Tell me, what is the vote this morning?” he asked the Master of Debate.

“It is to decide censure or approval for the actions of Julius Caesar in Greece,” the man replied.

“I see. How does Cato stand on the issue?” Pompey asked without looking over to the sprawling figure that straightened suddenly in his seat.

The Master of Debate risked a glance at Cato. “He has argued for censure,” he replied, bewildered.

Pompey joined his hands behind his back and those near him could see the whiteness of the knuckles as he spoke. “Then I shall vote against him.”

For a long moment, he held Cato's gaze in the stillness until everyone there was aware of the new enmity between them. Whispers began as the older ones sat up with fresh interest.

“Furthermore, I call on my supporters to vote against him. I call on every vote owed me in debt. Discharge them here and clear your slate with me.”

The Senate erupted into chatter as they discussed the implications of such a move. It was practically a declaration of war, and Cato set his fleshy mouth in a thin line of irritation as the Master of Debate announced the vote. By calling in all his favors at the same time, Pompey was throwing away years of careful arrangements and alliances, simply to show his contempt in public.

Crassus paled slightly. It was a foolhardy thing for Pompey to do, though he thought he understood it. No one there could doubt that Pompey had subtly identified the man responsible for his daughter's murder. Cato would lose a lot of his power while those around him weighed up this new threat and decided whether to distance themselves. He sighed. At least the vote would be won and Cato damaged by the decision. Though the numbers reflected many long-held obligations to Pompey, it was still difficult for the fat senator to stand almost alone with hundreds of his colleagues ranged against him.

The vote passed quickly and Pompey resumed his seat to engage in the discussion for the legion rank Julius would be given on his return to Senate. With most of the senators wanting to get out of the building into the cool fresh air, it was surprisingly quick and Cato hardly took part, stunned into immobility by the humiliation forced on him.

As they filed out through the bronze doors, Cato grimaced and inclined his head in Pompey's direction, acknowledging the victory. Pompey ignored him and left quickly for home without speaking to anyone.

Tubruk climbed the inner steps up the wall of the estate, thankful for the early warning brought in by the field slaves. He strained to see details of the marching column coming along the road toward them.

“Two or three centuries, it looks like,” he called down to Cornelia, who had come out from the buildings at the summons. “I can't see standards, but they're in full armor. It could be part of the Roman garrison.”

“Will you turn out the men?” Cornelia asked nervously.

Tubruk didn't reply at first, intent on his scrutiny of the approaching force. They were well disciplined and armored, but the absence of standards worried him immensely. The death of Pompey's daughter had brought a tension back to the old families of Rome that had been missing since the death of Sulla. If such a powerful senator could suffer an attack in his own home, then no one was safe. Tubruk hesitated. If he summoned Brutus and his soldiers to guard the gate, it could be seen as provocation, or an insult to a legitimate force. He gripped the hard stone of the wall as he came to a decision. He would rather offend someone than be found vulnerable, and the approaching centuries could be assassins with all legion marks removed.

“Call Brutus. Tell him I need his men out here now!” Tubruk shouted down to Cornelia. She abandoned dignity to run back into the estate buildings.

By the time the approaching column was less than a thousand paces away, Brutus had his men in formation by the gate, ready to rush out into the attack. There were only twenty with him and Tubruk wished they'd had room for more, though he'd laughed at the young commander traveling with even that many at first.

Brutus felt the old anticipation tighten his stomach. For a moment, the child in him wished he hadn't left Renius in the city barracks, but it was a momentary weakness. As he bared his gladius, his confidence swelled and his men responded, their tension giving way to tight smiles. They could all hear the tramp of soldiers moving closer to the estate, but there was not a trace of fear in them.

A small figure ran out of the stables and skidded to a stop almost at Brutus's feet.

“You're not coming with us,” Brutus snapped to forestall the request. He knew very little about the urchin Tubruk had rescued, and at that moment he lacked the patience for an argument. Octavian opened his mouth and Brutus barked an order at him, made angry by the sight of a glinting dagger in the boy's hand.

“Get away from here!”

Octavian froze, his eyes wide, then turned on his heel and stalked away without a word. Brutus ignored him, instead watching Tubruk for news of what was happening outside. It was frustrating to be waiting blind, but Brutus understood that soldiers sent by the Senate should not be met with drawn swords. Bloodshed would certainly follow, even if the original errand was an innocent one.

On the top of the wall, Tubruk squinted as the approaching army came closer, marching steadily along the road to the estate. With a deep expulsion of breath, all the tension went out of him in an instant, unseen by those below.

“Marcus Brutus,” he called down, “I request that you have your men open the gate and go out to meet them.”

Brutus looked up at him quizzically. “Are you sure? If they're hostile, we can defend better from within the walls.”

“Open the gates,” Tubruk replied quietly, with a peculiar expression on his face.

Brutus shrugged and gave the order to the men of Primigenia, who drew their swords as they moved forward. His heart pounded and he felt the wild joy that came from his certainty. There was no one alive who could beat him with a blade, not since a day with Renius in the same yard, many years before.

“All right, you old devil, but if I get killed, I'll be waiting for you when it's your time!”

Julius saw the armed men come out of the gates and stiffened. What had happened?

“Ready weapons!” he snapped suddenly and his men lost their cheerful expressions on the instant. What had seemed a victorious return had suddenly become edged with danger. Cabera jumped at the order, scanning the unknown force with a squint. He reached out a hand to catch Julius's attention, but thought better of it and grinned to himself, raising his dagger and gesticulating furiously with it. He was enjoying himself tremendously, but his mood wasn't shared by the soldiers around him. They had been expecting a hero's welcome after too many hard months of travel and killing. Their expressions were savage as their swords came out one more time.

“Line formation!” Julius ordered, seething. If his house had been taken, he would destroy them, leaving nothing alive. His heart twinged for his mother and Tubruk.

He ran a professional eye over the soldiers deploying before the walls. No more than twenty, though they could have others hidden inside. Legionaries. They moved well, but he would trust his Wolves against any other soldiers anywhere, and they had the numbers. He put all thoughts of his family aside and prepared to give the order to charge.

“Sweet Mars! They're going to attack!” Brutus exclaimed as he saw the column swing out into an offensive formation. As he saw the numbers against him, he was tempted to order his men back into safety, but there wouldn't be time to close the gates and the enemy would cut them to pieces as they retreated.

“Secure the gates, Tubruk!” he bellowed. The old fool had completely misjudged the threat and now there was a price to be paid.

To Brutus's pride, the men of Primigenia didn't falter as they understood the fact of their inevitable destruction. They took their positions close to the estate wall and readied weapons, unstrapping javelins to throw as the charge came. Each man carried four of the long spears, and many of the enemy would fall to them before they were close enough for swords.

“Steady…” Brutus called over the heads of his men. Just a few more paces and the advancing lines would be in range.

Without warning, the order to halt rang out and the opposing ranks shuddered to a disciplined stop. Brutus raised his eyebrows in surprise, scanning the faces of the enemy. He caught sight of Julius and suddenly laughed out loud, to the bemusement of those around him.

“Stand down!” he ordered his twenty and watched as they restrapped their javelins and sheathed their swords. When everything was back in place, he marched them toward the halted soldiers, chuckling.

Julius spoke first.

“Have you any idea how close I just came to carving you up?” he asked, grinning.

“I was thinking much the same thing. My men would have dropped a couple of spears through you before you came ten paces closer. Still lucky, I see.”

“I recognized you,” Cabera interjected smugly.

Brutus whooped to see the old man still alive. All three embraced, to the complete confusion of the battle lines surrounding them. Julius broke away first and noticed the three linked arrows on Brutus's breastplate.

“Gods! That's Primigenia, isn't it?”

Brutus nodded, his eyes bright. “I have command, though we're a little understrength at present.”

“How much understrength?”

“By about four thousand men, as it happens, but I am working on it.”

Julius whistled softly. “We have a lot to talk about. Does Tubruk know I'm back?”

Brutus looked over his shoulder at the white walls of the estate. The figure of the estate manager raised an arm in greeting from the top. Cabera waved back enthusiastically.

“Yes, he knows,” Brutus replied, smiling wryly.

“I'm going to have to find barracks in the city for my men,” Julius said. “They can set up tents on the estate while I see to a few matters, but I need somewhere permanent for them as well as training facilities.”

“I know just the place and the man to train them,” Brutus responded. “Renius came back with me.”

“I'll need him, and you,” Julius replied, already planning.

Brutus smiled. His heart felt light as he looked on his old friend. There were new scars on his face that gave him a harsher look than he remembered, but it was still the same man. On impulse, he put out his arm and Julius gripped it firmly, caught up in the same emotion.

“Is my wife safe?” Julius asked, searching Brutus's face for news.

“She's here, with your daughter.”

“I have a daughter?” Julius's smile stretched right across his face in a foolish beam. “Why are we standing here? A daughter! Come on!”

He called a quick order to set up camp around the walls and rushed off, with Brutus marching his twenty behind, his mind whirling. There was so much to tell Julius. About Sulla's murder, and Pompey's daughter, the Senate gossip his mother told him. Julius would have to meet Servilia! With Julius back, it seemed as if the world was steady again, and Brutus felt his worries lift away. With his old friend there to help him, he would remake Primigenia back to its old strength, beginning with the men Julius had brought with him. Julius made problems seem easy and he of all people would understand why the “Traitor's Legion” had to be reborn.

Brutus laughed as he came face-to-face with Tubruk, who had waited for him inside the gate with a wry expression of amusement.

“Good eyes for a man of your age,” he said to the old gladiator.

Tubruk chuckled. “A soldier pays attention to details, like who the commander is,” he said cheerfully.

Brutus shrugged off his embarrassment. “Where's Julius rushed off to?”

“He's with his wife and daughter, lad. Give him a little time alone with them.”

Brutus frowned slightly. “Of course. I'll take my men back to the city barracks and stay the night there. Let him know where I am.”

“I didn't mean… you don't have to leave, lad,” Tubruk said quickly.

Brutus shook his head. “No. You're right. This is a time for him to be with his family. I'll see him tomorrow.” He turned stiffly and ordered his men into a marching column outside the gates.

Cabera wandered into the estate yard, beaming at everything. “Tubruk!” he called. “You are going to feed us well, yes? It's been such a long time since I had good wine and those civilized little dishes you Romans are so proud of. Do you want me to see the cook? I liked that man, he was a fine singer. Are you well?”

Tubruk lost the frown that had creased his forehead as Brutus marched away. It was impossible not to be touched by the wave of enthusiasm Cabera seemed to bring with him wherever he went. He had missed the old man as much as anyone and came down the steps to greet him.

Cabera saw the old gladiator glance after Brutus and patted his shoulder.

“Let the boy go. He always was a prickly one, remember? They will be like brothers again tomorrow, but Julius has a lot of catching up to do first.”

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks and gripped the slender shoulders of the healer with rekindling enthusiasm. “The cook will despair when he sees how many he has to feed, but I promise you, it will be better than the rations you're used to.”

“Aim much higher than that,” Cabera replied seriously.

Cornelia turned quickly when she heard running footsteps. For a second, she didn't recognize the officer standing there, tanned and thin from his travels. Then his face lit with pleasure and he stepped forward to wrap his arms around her. She held him tightly, breathing in the smell of his skin and laughing as he lifted her to the points of her feet.

“It's been such a long time without you,” he said, his eyes sparkling over her shoulder as he pressed the air out of her. Her ribs ached by the time he let go, but she didn't care at all.

For a long time, Julius was able to forget everything but the beautiful woman in his arms. At last he put her down and stepped back, holding her hand as if unwilling to let her stray from him again.

“You're still gorgeous, wife,” he said. “And I hear we have a daughter.”

Cornelia pursed her lips in irritation. “I wanted to tell you myself. Clodia, bring her in now,” she called, and her nurse entered quickly enough to make it obvious that she had been standing outside waiting for them to finish.

The little girl looked around with interest as she was brought to her parents in Clodia's arms. Her eyes were the same soft brown as her mother's, but her hair was as dark as Julius's own. He smiled at the child and she beamed back at him, her cheeks dimpling.

“She's almost two now and a terror round the house. She knows a lot of words already when she's not too shy,” Cornelia said proudly, taking her from Clodia.

Julius wrapped his arms around both of them and applied a gentle pressure.

“I used to dream of seeing you again at the worst times. I didn't even know you were pregnant when I left,” he said as he released them. “Does she walk yet?”

Both Clodia and Cornelia nodded and smiled at each other. Cornelia set her daughter down and they watched as she trotted around the room, stopping to examine everything she came across.

“I called her Julia, after you. I wasn't sure if you were coming back and…” Cornelia's eyes filled with tears and Julius held her tightly again.

“All right, wife, I made it home. That's an end to it.”

“Things were… difficult for a while. Tubruk had to sell some of the land to pay the ransom.”

She hesitated before telling him everything. Sulla was dead, thank all the merciful gods. It would only hurt Julius to know what she had suffered at his hands. She would warn Tubruk to say nothing.

“Tubruk sold some of the land?” Julius said in surprise. “I had hoped… no, it doesn't matter. I'll get it back. I want to hear everything that has happened in the city since I left, but it will have to wait until I have had a long bath and changed my clothes. We came straight here from the coast without entering the city.” He raised a hand to stroke her hair and she shivered slightly at the touch. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, calling in his men.

Cornelia waited patiently with Clodia and her daughter while Julius's men brought in their packs, piling them in the center of the room. Her husband was still the same whirlwind of energy she remembered. He called for servants to show the men the way to the wine stores with orders to take as much as they needed. More were dispatched on a dozen errands and the house came to scurrying life around him. Finally, he closed the door and beckoned Cornelia over to the leather packs.

She and Clodia let out unwilling gasps as they saw the shine of gold coins inside as he undid one flap. He laughed with pleasure and showed them more and more of them, full of bars or coin in silver and gold.

“All the ransom and four times as much again,” he said cheerfully as he retied the packs. “We will buy our land back.”

Cornelia wanted to ask where he had found such wealth, but as her eyes traveled over the white scars on his dark arms and the deep one on his brow, she stayed silent. He had paid heavily for it.

“Tata?” came a little voice, and Julius laughed as he looked down and found the small figure with her hands upraised to be held.

“Yes, my darling girl. I am your father, come home from the ships. Now I am for a good soak and a fine meal before sleep. The thought of being in my own bed is a pleasure I can hardly describe.”

His daughter laughed at his words and he hugged her.

“Gently! She's not one of your soldiers, you know,” Clodia said, reaching up to take her.

Julius felt a pang as the child left his arms and he sighed with satisfaction as he looked at them all.

“There's so much to do, my darling,” he said to his wife.

Too impatient in the end to wait, Julius had called for Tubruk to report to him while he bathed the dust and filth of the journey from his body. The hot water turned a dark gray after moments of scrubbing, and the heat made his heart thump away some of the weariness.

Tubruk stood at the end of the narrow pool and recited the financial dealings of the estate over the previous three years, as once he had for Julius's father. When Julius was finally clean, he seemed younger than the dark warrior who had first come into sight at the head of a column. His eyes were a washed-out blue, and when the rush of energy from the hot water faded, Julius could barely stay awake to listen.

Before the young man could fall asleep in the pool, Tubruk handed him a soft robe and towels and left him. His step was light as he walked down the corridors of the estate, listening to the songs of the drunken soldiers outside. For the first time since the event, the guilt that had plagued him over his part in the death of Sulla lifted as if it had never existed. He thought he would tell him when all the business of his return to Rome was settled and things were quiet again. The murder had been done in his name after all, and if Julius knew, Tubruk would be able to send anonymous gifts to the families of Casaverius, Fercus, and the parents of the young soldier who had stood against him at the gate. Especially Fercus, whose family were almost destitute without him. Tubruk owed them everything for their father's courage, and he knew Julius would feel the same.

He passed Aurelia's door and heard a low keening from the room inside. Tubruk hesitated. Julius was too tired to rouse and he hadn't yet asked after his mother. Tubruk wanted nothing more than to go to his own bed after a long day, but then he sighed and went in.

CHAPTER 28

The messenger from the Senate arrived the following dawn. It took Tubruk some time to rouse Julius, and when he finally greeted the Senate runner, he was still less than fully alert. After so many months of tension, the one night in his own home had done little to remove the bone-deep exhaustion.

Yawning, Julius rubbed a hand through his hair and smiled blearily at the young man from the city. “I am Julius Caesar. Deliver your message.”

“The Senate requires you to attend a full council at noon today, master,” the messenger said quickly.

Julius blinked. “That's all?” he asked flatly.

The messenger shifted slightly. “That is the official message, master. I do know a little more, from the gossip amongst the runners.”

“Tubruk?” Julius said, and watched as the estate manager passed over a silver coin to the man.

“Well?” Julius asked when the coin had disappeared into a hidden pouch. The messenger smiled.

“They say you are to be given the rank of tribune for your work in Greece.”

“Tribune?” Julius looked at Tubruk, who shrugged as he spoke.

“It's a step on the ladder,” the estate manager replied calmly, indicating the messenger with his eyes. Julius understood and dismissed the runner back to the city.

When they were alone, Tubruk clapped him on the back.

“Congratulations. Now are you going to tell me how you earned it? Unlike the Senate, I don't have messengers to run all over the place for me. All I have heard is that you beat Mithridates and overran an army twenty times your size.”

Julius barked a surprised laugh. “Next week it will be thirty times the size, as the Roman gossips tell the story. Perhaps I shouldn't correct them,” he said wryly. “Come for a walk with me and I'll tell you all the details. I want to see where this new boundary is.”

He saw Tubruk's sudden frown and smiled to ease the man's worry.

“I was surprised when Cornelia told me. I never thought you of all people would sell land.”

“It was that or send the ransom short, lad, and there's only one son of the house.”

Julius gripped his shoulder in sudden affection. “I know, I'm only teasing you. It was the right thing to do and I have the funds to buy it back.”

“I sold it to Suetonius's father,” Tubruk said grimly.

Julius paused as he took this in. “He would have known it was for the ransom. He had to raise one for his son, after all. Did you get a good price?”

Tubruk replied with a pained expression. “Not really. He drove a very hard bargain and I had to let more of it go than I wanted. I'm sure he saw it as good business, but it was”-he screwed his face up as if something bitter had entered his mouth-“shameful.”

Julius took a deep breath. “Show me how much we've lost and then we'll work out how to get the old man to return it to me. If he's anything like his son, it won't be easy. I want to be back for when my mother wakes, Tubruk. I have a… great deal to tell her.”

Something stopped Julius telling Tubruk about the head wound and the fits that came after it. In part, it was shame at the lack of understanding he had shown his mother over the years, which he knew he had to put right. More than that, though, he didn't want to see pity in the old gladiator's eyes. He didn't think he could bear it.

Together, they walked out of the estate and up the hill to the woods that Julius had run through as a boy, Tubruk listening as Julius told him everything that had happened in the years he had been away from the city.

The new boundary was a solid wooden fence right across the path where Julius remembered digging a wolf trap for Suetonius years before. The sight of it on land that had been in his family for generations made him want to break it down, but instead he leaned on it, deep in thought.

“I have enough gold to offer him far more than the land is worth, but that sticks in my throat, Tubruk. I don't like to be cheated.”

“He'll be at the Senate meeting at noon. You could sound him out there. We may be misjudging the man. Perhaps he will offer to return the land for what he paid for it,” Tubruk said, his doubts showing clearly.

Julius knocked his knuckles on the solid fence and sighed. “Somehow I doubt that. Suetonius must be home by now and we fell out about a few things on the ships and in Greece. He won't be wanting to do me any favors, but I am getting my father's land back. I'll see what Marcus thinks.”

“Brutus now, you realize? Did you know he made centurion with the Bronze Fist? He'll be wanting your advice about Primigenia as well.”

Julius nodded and smiled at the thought of being able to talk again with his old friend. “He must be the youngest general Rome has ever had,” he said, chuckling.

Tubruk snorted. “A legate without a legion, then.” He sobered suddenly, his eyes becoming cold with memory. “Sulla had the name struck from the legion rolls after Marius's death. It was awful in Rome for a while. Nobody was safe, not even the Senate. Anyone Sulla named as enemy of the state was dragged out of their home and executed without trial. I thought of taking Cornelia and the baby away, but…” He caught himself, remembering what Cornelia had said to him as he returned to his own room from Aurelia's the night before, while Julius lay deeply asleep.

The old gladiator felt torn between his loyalties to Julius and to Cornelia. His relationship with both of them was far closer to fatherly love than the professional duty of an estate manager. He hated to keep secrets, but he knew that what had happened with Sulla should be hers to tell first.

Julius didn't seem to notice his preoccupation, lost in thought himself.

“Thank the Furies that bastard's dead, Tubruk. I don't know what I'd have done if he'd lived. I suppose I could have written to you to take my family out of the country, but a life in exile would have been the end of me. I can't describe what it felt like to touch my feet on Roman soil again after so long. I hadn't really known the strength of it until I left, you understand?”

“You know I do, lad. I don't know how Cabera can stand to wander as he does. A rootless life is beyond me, but then perhaps we have deeper roots than most, here.”

Julius let his gaze pass over the green-shadowed woods that held so many memories, and his resolve firmed. He would have back what had been taken.

Another thought struck him. “What of Marius's house in the city?”

“It is lost,” Tubruk said without looking at him. “Sold at auction when Sulla was declared Dictator. A great deal of property changed hands by his order. Crassus bought some of it, but for the most part the bidding was a farce, with Sulla's supporters taking the best.”

“Do you know who lives there now?” Julius asked, his voice tight with anger.

Tubruk shrugged. “It was given to Antonidus, Sulla's general, or rather he paid a tiny amount of its worth. They called him Sulla's dog for his loyalty, but he gained a great deal from his master.”

Julius clenched a fist slowly. “That is a problem I can settle today, after the Senate meeting. Does he have many soldiers at his command, this Antonidus?”

Tubruk frowned as he understood, then a smile tugged at his mouth. “A few house guards. He has a nominal rank, which no one has thought to take from him, but he is not linked to a particular legion. You have the men to turn him out if you do it quickly.”

“Then I shall do it quickly,” Julius replied, turning away from the fence and looking back toward the estate. “Will my mother be awake by now?”

“She usually is. She doesn't sleep much these days,” Tubruk replied. “Her illness is the same, but you should know she grows weaker.”

Julius looked with affection on the old gladiator, whose emotions were always closer to the surface than he pretended. “She would be lost without you,” he said.

Tubruk looked away and cleared his throat as they began to walk back to the estate. His continuing duty to Aurelia was not open for discussion, despite the fact that it had been more and more in his thoughts over the previous few months. He thought of her when he looked at Clodia and admitted the affection that had sprung out of nothing to surprise him. Cornelia's nurse was a gentlewoman and she had made it clear that she shared the quiet love he felt for her. Yet there was Aurelia to care for and he knew he could never retire to a small house in the city while there was still that obligation in his life, even if they could buy Clodia free of slavery as she seemed so sure they could. There was little to be gained in worrying about the future, he reflected as they neared the estate. It made a mockery of planning, every time. All they could ever do was be ready for the swift turns and changes it would bring.

Octavian was waiting for them at the gate. Julius looked at him blankly as they drew abreast, pausing in surprise as the small boy bowed deeply to him.

“And who is this?” he said, turning to Tubruk, amazed to see him blushing in embarrassment.

“His name is Octavian, master. I did tell him I would present him to you when there was time, but he has lost his patience yet again, I see.”

Octavian paled slightly at the criticism. It was true that he hadn't been able to wait, but he hadn't disobeyed so much as assumed Tubruk would have changed his mind, which was entirely different, he thought.

“Tubruk is looking after me for my mother,” he said brightly to Julius. “I am learning how to fight with a gladius and ride horses and-”

Tubruk cuffed him gently to stop the recitation, his embarrassment growing. He had meant to explain the situation to Julius, and was mortified to have it thrust on him without a moment to prepare.

“Alexandria brought him,” he said, sending Octavian tottering away with a push in the direction of the stables. “He is a distant relative of yours, from your grandfather's sister. Aurelia seems to like him, but he's still learning his manners.”

“And how to fight with a gladius and ride horses?” Julius asked, enjoying Tubruk's confusion with gentle amusement. Seeing the estate manager flustered was a new experience for him, and he was quite happy to allow it to run for a while.

Tubruk scratched the back of his ear with a grimace and looked after Octavian as the little boy finally took the hint and trotted out of sight.

“That was my idea. He was being hurt by apprentices in the city, and I thought I could show him how to take care of himself. I was going to clear it with you, but…”

Julius cracked with laughter, made worse by Tubruk's stunned expression.

“I've never seen you so nervous before,” Julius said. “I think you have taken a liking to the little puppy?”

Tubruk shrugged, irritated by the change in mood. Typical of Octavian to ignore his orders yet again. Each day seemed to start afresh for him, with his lessons or punishments completely forgotten.

“He has a hardy spirit for a lad so young. He reminds me of you sometimes, now we've cleaned him up a little.”

“I won't question anything you have done in my absence, Tubruk. If your judgment was good enough for my father, it will always be good enough for me. I'll see the lad properly when I return this evening or tomorrow. He was a bit small to be fighting on the backstreets of the city, wasn't he?”

Tubruk nodded, pleased Julius hadn't objected. He wondered if it was the right moment to mention that the boy had his own room in the house and his own pony in the stables. Probably not.

Still smiling, Julius went into the main buildings, and Tubruk was left alone in the yard. A flicker of movement from the stables registered in his vision and he sighed. The boy was spying again, probably worried that his pony would be taken away, the only threat that had any effect on him.

Julius sat silently in his mother's dressing room and watched while a slave applied the oils and paints that went some way toward hiding her wasted condition. The fact that she had allowed him to see her without the aids worried him as much as the actual shock of how thin and ill looking she had become. For so long, he had promised himself that he would reveal his understanding of her sickness and achieve a companionship of sorts from the rubble of his childhood. As the moment had come, he couldn't think how to begin. The woman sitting in front of the mirror was almost a stranger to him. Her cheeks had sunk into darkened hollows that resisted the paints the slave applied, showing through the lighter colors like a shadow of death that hung over her. Her dark eyes were listless and weary and her arms were so pitifully thin it made him wince to look at them.

Aurelia had known him, at least. She had greeted him with tears and a delicate embrace that he returned with infinite care, feeling as if he could break the fragile thing she had become. Even then, she gasped slightly as he held her, and guilt swept over him.

When the slave had packed her materials into an elegantly veneered case and bowed out of the room, Aurelia turned to her son and essayed a smile, though her skin crinkled like parchment under the applications of false colors.

Julius struggled with his emotions. Cabera had said his condition was different from his mother's, and he knew she had never suffered a wound like the one that had nearly killed him. Even so, they had something in common at last, though the gulf seemed unbridgeable.

“I… thought of you a great deal while I was away,” he began.

She didn't reply, seemingly transfixed by the examination of her face in the polished bronze. Her long, thin fingers rose to touch her throat and hair as she turned this way and that, frowning at herself.

“I was injured in a battle and ill for a long time,” Julius struggled on, “and afterward a strange fit would come over me. It… reminded me of your sickness and I thought I should tell you. I wish I had been a better son to you. I never understood what you were going through before, but when it happened to me it was like a window opening. I'm sorry.”

He watched her shaking hands smooth and caress her face as he spoke, their movements becoming more and more agitated. Worried for her, he half rose out of his seat and the movement distracted her so that she turned her face to him.

“Julius?” she whispered. Her pupils had widened darkly and her eyes seemed unfocused as they passed over him.

“I am here,” he said sadly, wondering if she had heard him at all.

“I thought you had left me,” she went on, her voice sending a shudder through him.

“No, I came back,” he said, feeling his eyes prickle with grief.

“Is Gaius all right? He's such a willful boy,” she said, closing her eyes and lowering her head as if to shut out the world.

“He is… well. He loves you very much,” Julius replied softly, bringing up his hand to clear the tears that stung him.

Aurelia nodded and turned back to her mirror and her contemplation. “I am glad. Would you send in the slave to tend me, dear? I will need a little makeup to face the house today, I think.”

Julius nodded and stood looking at her for a moment.

“I'll fetch her for you,” he said, and left the room.

As the noon shadow marked the sundial of the forum, Julius entered the great expanse with his guards, taking a direct route to the Senate building. As he crossed the open space, he was struck by the changes in the city since he'd left. The fortifications Marius had raised along the walls had been dismantled, and there were only a few legionaries to be seen. Even they were relaxed, walking with their mistresses or standing in small groups chatting, without a sign of the tension he had expected. It was a city at peace again and a shudder passed through him as he walked over the flat gray stones. He had brought ten soldiers of his command into the city, wanting them close while he was out of armor and in his formal robe. Such a precaution seemed unnecessary and he didn't know if he was pleased or sorry. The battle for the walls was as fresh in his mind as if he had never left, but the people enjoying the spring sunshine laughed and joked with each other, blind to the scenes that flashed into his mind. He saw Marius fallen again and the clash of dark figures as Sulla's forces cut down the defenders around their general.

His mouth twisted in bitterness as he considered how young and full of joy he had been that night. Fresh from the marriage bed, he had seen all their dreams and planning crushed and his own future altered forever. If they had beaten Sulla, if they had only beaten Sulla, Rome would have been spared years of brutality and the Republic might have regained some of its former dignity.

He halted his men at the bottom of the wide marble steps, and despite the contented mood in the forum, he told them to remain alert. After the death of Marius, he had learned it was ultimately safer to expect trouble, even by the Senate building.

Leaving his men to stand in the sun, Julius looked up at the studded bronze doors that had been unbarred for the assembly. Senators stood in pairs and threes, discussing the issues of the day as they waited for the gathering to be called. Julius saw his father-in-law, Cinna, with Crassus and walked up the steps to greet them. They had their heads close together as they talked, and Julius saw anger and frustration on their faces. Crassus was still the thin brown stick of a man Julius remembered, disdaining any sign of his wealth in his simple white robe and sandals. He had seen Cinna last at his wedding to Cornelia, and of the pair of senators, he had changed the most in the intervening years. As he turned to greet Julius, the younger man was struck by the wrinkles that had cut into his face, the visible effects of his worries. Cinna smiled tiredly at him and Julius returned it uncomfortably, never having got to know the man properly.

“‘The wanderer returns to us, his sword and bow at rest,' ” Crassus quoted. “Your uncle would be proud of you if he were here.”

“Thank you. I was just thinking of him,” Julius replied. “Seeing the city again is hard after so long, especially here. I keep expecting to hear his voice.”

“It was forbidden even to mention his name while Sulla was alive, did you know?” Crassus asked, watching him for a reaction.

Only a slight tightening of the mouth betrayed the young man's feelings. “Sulla's desires meant little to me while he lived; less so now,” he said flatly. “I would like to visit the tomb of Marius after the Senate meeting, to pay my respects.”

Crassus and Cinna exchanged glances and Crassus touched him on the arm in sympathy.

“I'm sorry, his remains were taken and scattered. It was some of Sulla's soldiers, though he denied it. I think that was why he left instructions to be cremated himself, though friends of Marius wouldn't stoop so low.”

He dropped his hand as Julius tensed with anger, visibly struggling to remain controlled. Crassus spoke calmly, giving him time to compose himself.

“The Dictator's legacy still plagues us in the form of his followers in Senate. Cato is first amongst them, and Catalus and Bibilus seem content to follow his lead in everything. I believe you know Senator Prandus, whose son you were captured with?”

Julius nodded. “I have some business to discuss with him after the meeting today,” he replied, once again giving the outward appearance of calm. Surreptitiously, he held his right hand in his left, suddenly worried that the emotions that swelled in him would begin a fit on the very steps of the Senate and disgrace him forever. Crassus affected not to notice anything was wrong, for which Julius was grateful.

“Have a care with Prandus, Julius,” Crassus said sternly, leaning in close so that the senators entering the building couldn't overhear them. “He has powerful connections with the Sullans now, and Cato counts him as a friend.”

Julius inclined his head even closer to Crassus and whispered harshly, “Those who were friends to Sulla are enemies of mine.”

Without another word, he turned from the pair to ascend the final steps to the doors and disappear into the shadowed hall within.

Crassus and Cinna looked at each other with guarded surmise as they followed at a slower pace.

“Our aims converge, it seems,” Cinna said quietly.

Crassus nodded curtly, unwilling to discuss it further as they moved amongst their colleagues to their seats, passing enemies and friends alike.

Julius felt the vibrant energy of the gathering as soon as he entered it. There were few vacant places and he had to take a position in the third row back from the speaker's rostrum. He took in the sights and sounds with satisfaction, knowing he had finally returned to the heart of power. Seeing so many strangers, he wished for a moment that he had stayed with Crassus and his father-in-law for them to name the new faces. For the moment, however, he was content just to watch and learn, overlooked by the predators until he had better defenses. He smiled tightly to himself at the vision of battle that the Senate represented to him. It was a false one, he knew. Here, the enemies could be the ones who greeted him most fondly, then set assassins on him as soon as they turned away. His father had always been disparaging of the bulk of the nobilitas, though he'd admitted a grudging respect for the few that held honor above politics.

The assembly became quiet and an elderly consul Julius did not know began the day's oath. As one, they stood for the solemn words: “We who are Rome pledge our lives for her peace, our strength for her own, and our honor for her citizens.”

Julius repeated the chanted words with the others and felt the beginnings of excitement. The heart of the world was beating still. He listened with utter concentration to the agenda of discussions they would undertake, and managed to remain outwardly unaffected as the consul came to “the post of tribune to be awarded to Gaius Julius Caesar for his actions in Greece.” A few of those who knew him turned to watch his reaction, but he showed them nothing, pleased for the warning he had bought from the messenger. He resolved to hire advisers there and then to help him understand every one of the issues of the day. He would need expert jurists to prepare the law cases he would undertake as soon as he was awarded the first post of his political career. He was grimly certain that the first trial before magistrates would be against Antonidus after he took back his uncle's house. That the arguments would have to involve a public defense of Marius gave him a great deal of satisfaction.

Cato was easy to recognise by his bulk, though Julius didn't remember seeing him on his only other visit to the Senate house, years before. The senator was obscenely large and his features almost seemed to have been smothered in the billowing folds of flesh, so that the real man looked out from somewhere deep within the face. He had a coterie of friends and supporters around him, and Julius could see from the deference shown that he was a man of influence, even as Crassus had warned. Suetonius's father was there and their eyes met momentarily before the older man looked away, pretending he hadn't seen. A moment later the man whispered something in Cato's ear, and Julius found himself the subject of a stare that seemed amused rather than worried. With an impassive expression, Julius marked the man in his mind as an enemy. He noted with interest the way Cato's eyes flickered to fasten on Pompey as he entered and took a seat his own supporters had held for him.

Julius too watched Pompey, judging the changes in the man. The tendency toward softness of flesh had gone from Pompey's figure. He looked trim and hard-muscled as a soldier should, a greyhound compared to Cato. His skin was burned dark and Julius remembered he had spent time in Spain overseeing the legions there. No doubt the task of dealing with the rebellious tribes of the provinces had melted the fat from him.

Pompey rose smoothly for the first item and spoke on the need for a force to be sent against the sea pirates, estimating they had a thousand ships and two thousand villages and towns in their control. Given his own bitter experiences, Julius listened with interest, a little shocked that the situation had been allowed to get so far out of hand. He was amazed when others stood to refute Pompey's figures and argue against stretching their forces further.

“I could clear the seas in forty days if I had ships and men,” Pompey snapped in return, but the vote passed against him and he took his seat again, his brows knotted in frustration.

Julius voted in three other matters, noticing Pompey, Crassus, and Cinna matched his views on each occasion. On all three they were defeated and Julius felt his own frustration rise. A slave revolt near Vesuvius had proved difficult to put down, but instead of sending a crushing force, the Senate gave permission for only one legion to deal with them. Julius shook his head in disbelief. He hadn't realized at first how cautious the Senate had become. From his experiences with Marius and his own battles, Julius knew an empire had to be strong to survive, yet many of the senators were blind to the problems facing their commanders around the Mare Internum. At the end of an hour of speeches, Julius had a far better understanding of the annoyance felt by men like Prax and Gaditicus at the ditherers of the Senate. He had expected to see a nobility of action and aspect to match the oath they had taken, not petty bickering and factions opposing each other.

Lost in these thoughts, he missed hearing the next item and only the sound of his own name broke his reverie.

“… Caesar, who shall be awarded the post of military tribune with all rights and honors in our thanks for the defeat of Mithridates in Greece, and the taking of two pirate vessels.”

All the senators stood, with even Cato levering himself ponderously onto his feet.

Julius grinned boyishly as they cheered him and pretended not to notice the ones who stood in silence, though he marked every face as his gaze swept round the packed rows.

He sat down with his heart beating in excitement. A tribune could levy troops and he knew three hundred not far away who would be the first to join his command. Cato caught his eye and nodded to him, testing. Julius returned the gesture with an open smile. It would not do to warn the man he had a new enemy.

As the bronze doors were once again thrown open to admit daylight into the Senate house, Julius moved quickly to intercept Suetonius's father as he made his way out.

“I would like a word, Senator,” he said, interrupting a conversation.

Senator Prandus turned to him, raising his eyebrow in surprise. “I can't imagine that we have anything to discuss, Caesar,” he replied.

Julius ignored the cold tone and went on as if the matter were between friends. “It's the land my estate manager sold you to pay my ransom. You know I was successful in getting the gold back, including your own son's. I would like to meet with you to discuss the price to return it to my family.”

The senator shook his head slightly. “I'm afraid you will be disappointed. I have wanted to expand my holdings for some time, and I have plans to build another house there for my son once those woods have been cleared. I'm sorry I can't help you.”

He smiled tightly at Julius and would have turned back to his companions. Julius reached out and took his arm, only to have his grip shaken off with a quick jerk. Senator Prandus's face flushed with anger at the touch.

“Have a care, young man. You are in the Senate house, not some distant village. If you touch me again, I will have you arrested. From what my son has told me, you are not the sort of person I want to do business with.”

“He may also have mentioned that I am not a good person to have as an enemy,” Julius murmured, keeping his voice low so that it would not be overheard.

The senator froze for a moment as he considered the threat, then turned away stiff-necked to catch up with Cato as he passed through the doors.

Thoughtfully, Julius watched him go. He had expected something similar from the man, though the news of a house to be built on his old land was a blow. At the peak of the hill, it would look down on his estate, a position of superiority that would no doubt give Suetonius enormous satisfaction. He looked around for Crassus and Cinna, wanting to speak to them before they left for their homes. In a way, what Suetonius's father had said was true. Using force in Rome would lead quickly to disaster. He would have to be subtle.

“First is Antonidus, though,” he muttered under his breath. Force would do very well there.

CHAPTER 29

Walking through the city at the head of his ten soldiers sparked painful memories as Julius made his way to the street of Marius's old home. He remembered the excitement he'd felt as the storm of energy around the general had caught him up in its wake. Each street and turning reminded him of that first clattering journey to the Senate, surrounded by the hardest men of Primigenia. How old had he been then, fourteen? Old enough to understand the lesson that the law would bend for strength. Even Sulla had quailed before the soldiers in the forum, on stones made wet with the blood of the heaving crowds. Marius had been granted the Triumph he wanted and the consulship that followed, though Sulla had brought him down at the end. Grief sat heavily on Julius as he wished for just one more moment with the golden general.

None of Julius's men had ever seen Rome before, and four of them were from small villages along the African coast. They struggled not to stare, but it was a losing battle as they saw the mythical city made real before their eyes.

Ciro seemed awed simply by the numbers of people they passed in the bustling streets, and Julius saw the city with fresh eyes through the big man's reactions. There was nowhere like it in the world. The smells of food and spices blended with shouts and hammering, and woven through the crowds were tunics and togas of blue and red and gold. It was a feast of the senses and Julius enjoyed their wonder, remembering how he had ridden at Marius's shoulder on a gilded chariot, every street filled with cheering people. The sweet glory of it was mixed in memory with the pain of what came after, but still, he had been there, on that day.

Even with only the largest roads named, Julius remembered the way without difficulty, almost unconsciously taking the exact route he had taken on his first visit after passing through the forum. Gradually, the streets became less crowded and cleaner as they rose above the valley of winding tenements and climbed the paved hill road that was lined with modest doors and gates, each hiding splendor within.

Julius halted his men a few hundred feet from the gate he remembered, and approached alone. As he drew up to it, a small, stocky figure dressed in a simple slave tunic and sandals came up to the bars to greet him. Although the man smiled politely, Julius noticed his eyes flicked up and down the road with automatic caution.

“I have come to speak to the owner of the house,” Julius said, smiling and relaxed.

“General Antonidus is not here,” the gatekeeper replied warily.

Julius nodded as if he had expected the news. “I will have to wait for him then. He must have the news I carry.”

“You can't come in while-” the man began.

With a jerk of his arm, Julius reached through the bars as he had once seen Renius do. The gatekeeper pulled back as he moved and almost made it, but Julius's fingers found a grip in the tunic and yanked him hard into the bars.

“Open the gate,” Julius said into the man's ear as he struggled.

“I won't! If you knew the man this house belongs to, you wouldn't dare. You will be dead before sunset unless you let me go!”

Julius heaved with his whole weight to jam the man against the bars. “I do know him. I own this house. Now open the door or I will kill you.”

“Kill me then-you won't get in, even so,” the man snapped, still struggling wildly.

He filled his lungs to call for help and Julius grinned suddenly at his courage. Without another word, he reached through the bars with his other hand and took the key to the gate from the man's belt. The gatekeeper gasped in outrage and Julius gave a low whistle for his men to approach.

“Hold this one and keep him quiet. I need both hands to work the lock and bar,” Julius ordered. “Don't hurt him. He's a brave man.”

“Help!” the gatekeeper managed before Ciro's heavy hands clamped his mouth.

Julius fiddled the key into the hole in the plate and smiled as it clicked. He raised the bar and the gate swung open as two guards clattered into the courtyard beyond, their swords raised.

Julius's men moved in quickly to disarm them. Against so many, the two guards dropped their swords as they were surrounded, though the gatekeeper went crimson with rage as he watched. He tried to bite Ciro's hand and was cuffed roughly in response.

“Tie them up and search the house. Do not spill blood,” Julius ordered, watching coolly as his men broke into pairs to search the house he knew so well.

It had hardly changed. The fountain was still there and Antonidus had left the gardens as he had found them. Julius could see the spot where he had kissed Alexandria and could have traced his way to her room in the slave quarters without a guide. It was easy to imagine Marius bellowing laughter somewhere out of sight, and Julius would have given a great deal at that moment to see the big man once again. The sudden sadness of memory weighed him down.

He didn't recognize any of the slaves or servants that were brought out and tied in the courtyard by his men, working with cheerful efficiency. One or two of his legionaries bore scratches on their faces from a struggle, but Julius was pleased to see that none of the prisoners had been harmed even so. If he was to be successful in appealing a law case and reestablish his right to the house as surviving heir, he knew it was important that it was achieved peacefully. The magistrates would be members of the nobilitas, and any stories of bloodshed in the middle of the city would prejudice them against him from the start.

It was quickly done and, without any further discussion, his men lifted the captive bundles out onto the street, the gatekeeper last of all. He had been gagged to stop his shouting, but still champed in anger as Ciro deposited him on the road. Julius closed the gate himself and locked it with the key he had taken from him, winking at the furious figure before he turned away.

His men were in two ranks of five before him. It was not enough to hold the house against a determined assault, and the first thing he had to do was send a couple as runners back to the estate to fetch a full fifty of his best fighters. It was all very well to plan for a court case, but whoever actually held the house in his possession would have a clear advantage and Julius was determined not to lose it when Antonidus returned.

In the end, he sent three of the fastest runners wearing messenger tunics taken from the house stores. His main worry was that they would become lost in the unfamiliar city, and he cursed himself for not bringing someone from the estate to help them find their way back to the Tiber bridge.

When they had gone, he turned to his men, a slow smile spreading on his face.

“I told you I would find you quarters in Rome,” he said.

They chuckled, looking about them appreciatively.

“I need three of you to stay on guard by the gate. The others will relieve them in two hours. Stay alert. Antonidus will come back before the day is much older, I'm sure. Summon me when he arrives.”

The thought of that conversation cheered him immensely as the guards took up their positions. The house would be secure by evening and then he could turn his attention to rebuilding Marius's name in the city, if he had to fight the whole of the Senate to do it.

Brutus and Cabera were at the estate when two of the messengers arrived from Julius, the third some miles behind. Well used to command, Brutus quickly organized a fifty and began the fast march back to the city. Julius couldn't have known that so many soldiers would have been stopped from entering, so Brutus had them remove their armor and swords. He sent them into the city in pairs or threes to gather again out of sight of city guards, who were the eyes of the Senate in Rome. Last to come through was the cart full of their weapons, and Brutus stayed with that to bribe the gate captain. Cabera pulled a bottle of wine from under the coverings to press into the man's hand with coins, and with a conspiratorial wink, they were let through.

“I don't know whether to be pleased or appalled at how easy that was,” Brutus muttered as Cabera whipped the reins on the pair of oxen that pulled the heavy cart. “When this is over, I'll be tempted to go back to that guard and have a word with him. It wasn't even a large bribe.”

Cabera cackled as he made the reins crack in the air. “He would have been too suspicious if it was. No, we paid just enough to make him think of us as wine dealers avoiding the city tariff. You look like a guard and he probably thought of me as the wealthy owner.”

Brutus snorted. “He thought you were a cart driver. That tatty old robe of yours doesn't look much like a wealthy owner to me,” he replied as they wound on through the streets. Cabera snapped the leather reins again in irritation as a response.

The cart blocked the road neatly, with its wheels fitting between the stepping-stones used by the walking crowds. There was nowhere to pass or turn and their progress toward Marius's house was slow, though Cabera enjoyed shouting at the other drivers and shaking his fist at anyone who dared to cross in front of them. Four of Julius's men fell in behind them, obviously pleased to have the cart to follow through the tortuous maze of streets. Neither Brutus nor Cabera dared look back at them, though Brutus wondered how many would still be wandering through the markets at sunset. His directions had been simple enough, he was sure, but then after months of working with Primigenia at their barracks as well as his trips to see his mother, he knew Rome as well as anybody. Pretending to check the wheels under them, Brutus looked around and was relieved to see the number of followers had grown to nine of the men Julius had wanted. He hoped they wouldn't make it too obvious, or the curious people of Rome would quickly be joining them and an impromptu procession would arrive at Marius's old house, with the cart at the head and any attempt at stealth ruined.

As they turned in to the hill that led up to the great house he remembered so vividly, Brutus saw a gesticulating figure shouting at someone inside the gate. At least the road was wide enough so that stopping on it would not bring all the traffic in the area to a shuddering halt, he thought gratefully.

“Get out and check the wheels or something,” he hissed to Cabera, who clambered down with an ill grace and walked around the cart, pronouncing “Wheel” as he came to each one. The shouting man at the gate didn't seem to notice the laden cart that had stopped just down from him, and Brutus risked another glance back, blinking in surprise at the group of men who had assembled behind him. Even worse, they had fallen into ranks and, despite their clothing, looked exactly what they were-a group of legionaries pretending to be citizens. Brutus leapt out of the cart and ran over to them.

“Don't stand to attention, you fools. You'll have every house in the area sending guards out to see what you're doing!”

The men shuffled around uncertainly and Brutus raised his eyes in exasperation. There was no help for it. Already the servants and guards at nearby gates had come right up to the bars for a look at the milling group of soldiers. Distantly, he could hear cries of alarm sounding around them.

“Right. We can forget secrecy. Get your swords and armor from the cart and follow me to the gate. Quickly! The Senate will have a fit when they find we have an army in the city.”

All uncertainty banished, the relieved soldiers grabbed their equipment and laced it tight without any fuss. It took only a few minutes and then Brutus told Cabera to stop the inspection of the cart that had continued without pause, his announcement of each wheel growing increasingly weary.

“Now forward,” Brutus growled, his cheeks flushing at the gathering number of onlookers. They marched toward the gate in perfect ranks, and for a second, he was distracted from his embarrassment by a quick professional assessment of the men following him. They would do very well for Primigenia.

Antonidus was pale with anger by the time Julius had finished explaining his position.

“You dare!” he bellowed. “I will appeal to the Senate. This house is mine by right of purchase, and I will see you dead before you steal it from me.”

“I have stolen it from no one. You had no right to offer money for property that was my uncle's,” Julius replied calmly, rather enjoying the man's fury.

“An enemy of the state, his lands and wealth confiscated. A traitor!” Antonidus shouted. He would have liked nothing better than to reach through the bars and grab the insolent young man's throat, but the guards that watched him within had their swords drawn and his own two were badly outnumbered. He thought through what Julius might find in the rooms of the house. Was there any evidence linking him to Pompey's daughter? He didn't think so, but the thought nagged at him, lending a wild edge of panic to his outrage.

“A traitor named by Sulla, who attacked his own city?” Julius replied, his eyes narrowing. “Wrongly named, then. Marius defended the Senate from a man who would set himself up as Dictator. He was a man of honor.”

Antonidus spat in disgust on the ground, his spittle almost touching the hem of the still-bound gatekeeper.

“That for his honor,” he roared, taking the gate bars in his hands.

Julius motioned one of his men forward and Antonidus was forced to drop his hands away.

“Do not think to put your hands on anything I own,” Julius said.

Antonidus would have replied, but a sudden clatter of legion sandals from down the hill made him pause. He glanced at the sound and a leer stole over his features.

“Now you will see, you criminal. The Senate has sent men to restore order. I will have you beaten and leave you on the street as you have left my men.”

He stepped away from the gate to greet the newcomers. “This man has broken into my house and abused my servants. I want him arrested,” he said to the nearest soldier, flecks of white gathering at the corners of his mouth from his exertions.

“Well, he has a friendly face. Let him keep it,” Brutus replied, grinning.

For a few seconds, Antonidus did not understand, then slowly he took in the numbers of armed men who stood against him and noted their lack of legion insignia.

He backed away slowly, his head coming up in defiance. Brutus laughed at him.

Antonidus went to stand between his two guards, who shifted nervously at being identified as his before so many possible enemies.

“The Senate will hear me,” Antonidus rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting.

“Tell your masters to set a date for a hearing. I will defend my actions within the law,” Julius replied, finally unlocking the gate for Brutus to bring the men in off the street.

Antonidus glared at him, then turned on his heel and strode away, his pair of guards following.

Julius stopped Brutus with a touch on his arm as he passed.

“Hardly the quiet gathering I envisaged, Brutus.”

His friend pursed his mouth, unable for a moment to meet his eyes. “I got them here, didn't I? You have no idea how hard it is to bring armed men into this city. The days of Marius slipping in a fifty here and there are gone.”

Cabera joined them, strolling through the open gate with the last of the soldiers.

“The guards at the city gate thought I was a prosperous merchant,” he said lightly.

Both Julius and Brutus ignored him, their eyes locked together. Finally, Brutus bowed his head slightly.

“All right, it could have gone more smoothly.”

The tension between them disappeared as he spoke and Julius grinned.

“I did enjoy it when he thought you were from the Senate, though,” he said, chuckling. “Just that moment was probably worth the public arrival of the men, I think.”

Brutus still looked rueful, but a smile stole slowly over his face in response. “Perhaps. Look, the Senate will hear from him about you having this many men. They won't allow it. You should think about moving some out to the Primigenia barracks.”

“In a while, I will, but we need to make a few plans first. My other centuries at the estate should be brought in as well.” A thought struck Julius. “How is it that the Senate doesn't object to Primigenia in the city?”

Brutus shrugged. “They're on the legion rolls, don't forget, but the barracks are actually outside the walls on the north side, near the Quirinal gate. I have one of the best training grounds in Rome, and Renius as sword master. You should see it.”

“You've done so much, Brutus,” Julius said, gripping his shoulder. “Rome will not be the same now we're back. I'll bring my men to you as soon as I'm sure Antonidus won't try again.”

Brutus held the arm, his enthusiasm spilling over. “We do need your men. Primigenia has to grow. I won't rest until it's back to the old strength. Marius-”

“No, Brutus.” Julius dropped his arm. “You have misunderstood me. My men are sworn to me alone. They cannot be under your command.” He didn't want to be hard on his friend, but it was better to be clear from the start.

“What?” Brutus replied, surprised. “Look, they aren't part of any legion and Primigenia has less than a thousand men. All you have to do-”

Julius shook his head firmly. “I will help you with recruiting, as I promised, but not with these. I'm sorry.”

Brutus looked at him in disbelief. “But I am rebuilding Primigenia for you. I would be your sword in Rome, remember?”

“I remember,” Julius replied, taking his arm again. “Your friendship means more to me than anything except for the lives of my wife and daughter. Your blood is in my veins, do you remember that? Mine is in yours.” He paused and gripped the held arm tightly. “These men are my Wolves. They cannot be under your command. Let this go.”

Brutus pulled his arm away with a jerk, his face hardening. “All right. You keep your Wolves while I struggle for every new recruit. I will return to my barracks and my own men. See me there when you want to bring your soldiers in. Perhaps we can discuss the fees for their lodging then.”

He turned away and twisted the key in the gate to open it.

“Marcus!” Julius called to his back.

Brutus froze for a moment, then opened the gate and walked away, leaving it swinging behind him.

Even in the company of his two remaining guards, Antonidus kept his hand on the dagger in his belt as he made his way through the dark alleys. Narrow as they were, at night there were too many places for the raptores to lie in wait for him to relax. He breathed through his mouth as he walked, trying to ignore the pools of foul water that had ruined his sandals in the first few steps away from the main streets. One of his men stifled a curse as his foot skidded through a heap that was fresh enough not to be completely cold.

Daylight rarely reached this part of Rome, but at night the shadows took on a fearful aspect. There was no law there, no soldiers who could come, and no citizens who would dare answer a call. Antonidus gripped his dagger even more tightly, starting as something scrambled away from their footsteps as they passed. He didn't investigate, but stumbled on almost blind, counting the corners by feeling them out with his hands. Three corners from the entrance, then four more down to the left.

Even in the night, the alleys carried the foot traffic that the bulk of Rome would never see. There was little conversation between the people they saw, and that muted. Hurrying figures passed the three men without acknowledgment, skirting the filthy pools with their heads down. Where single torches lit the path for a few paces, the people stepped around the light, as if to fall within its scope was to invite disaster.

Only his fury made Antonidus push on and even then it was not without fear. The man he had met had told him never to come uninvited into these streets, but losing his home gave him a courage born in anger. Even that was fading in the dark and the rising discomfort.

At last he reached the point he had found before, a cross path between mildewed walls, somewhere deep in the heart of the warren. He paused to look for his man, his eyes straining in the darkness. Water dripped slowly onto stone nearby and a sudden scuffle of feet made his men spin round nervously, flourishing their own daggers before them, as if to ward off spirits.

“You were told not to seek me out until the last night of the month,” a sibilant voice said by the general's ear.

Antonidus almost fell in panic, his feet slipping on the wet stones as he jumped in horror at the closeness. His dagger cleared his belt in reaction, but his wrist was clamped in a grip that held him helpless.

The man who faced him wore a cloak and hood of dark rough cloth, his features covered, though it was hardly necessary in the inky blackness of the alleyways. Antonidus almost gagged at the strange sweet scent coming from him. It was the smell of disease, of soft corruption masked with perfumed oil, and he wondered afresh whether the cloak hid more than just identity. The dark man leaned so close as to almost touch his ear with the hidden lips.

“Why have you come clattering in here, disturbing half my watchers with your noisy fumbling?”

The voice was a hiss of anger and so close that it carried the sweetness in a rush of warm breath that made Antonidus want to gag. He shuddered in reaction as the hood touched his cheek lightly.

“I had to come. I have more work for you and I want it done quickly.”

The grip strengthened on his wrist, almost to the point of pain. Antonidus could not turn his face to look directly at the man, for fear that their faces would touch. Instead, he looked away, trying not to grimace as the sickly odor seemed to taint every breath he took.

The dark figure tutted, a series of tiny clicks. “I have not yet found a way to Crassus's wife. It is too soon for another. In haste, my brothers die. You have not paid enough for me to lose men for you, only for the service.”

“Forget Crassus. He is nothing to me now. I want you to seek out the daughter of Cinna and kill her. She must be your target now. Leave a token with Sulla's name as you did with Pompey's bitch.”

Gently, he felt his wrist guided back toward his belt and, understanding, sheathed his dagger as the pressure was released. He held himself steady as he waited, not daring to show his revulsion openly by moving away. He knew that if an insult was perceived, neither he nor his men would live to see the open streets again.

“She will be well guarded. You will have to pay for the lives of those I will lose in reaching her. Ten thousand sesterces is the price.”

Antonidus clamped his jaw shut over his intake of breath. Cato would cover the debt, he was sure. Was it not his idea to hire these men? He nodded convulsively.

“Good. It will be paid. I will have my guards bring the gold here on the day we discussed, as before.”

“You will have to find other guards. Do not come here uninvited again or the cost will be higher,” the voice whispered, moving swiftly away from him.

Quick footsteps followed and in only a moment Antonidus could feel he was alone. Gingerly, he stepped over to where his men had stood, reaching down with his hands and recoiling as he felt the wetness of their opened throats. He shuddered and walked quickly back the way he had come.

CHAPTER 30

Julius brought his men into the Primigenia barracks an hour before dawn. As Brutus had said, the buildings and training yard were impressive and Julius whistled softly under his breath as he marched in under the outer arch of the main gate, noting the well-spaced sentries and fortified positions within.

The gate guards must have been told to expect them and waved the soldiers through without a halt. Once inside, though, with the heavy gate closed behind them, Julius found himself in a killing ground similar to the one between the walls at Mytilene. Any one of the buildings that faced the main yard could have been lined with archers, and with no way to retreat, the only forward path was a narrow one that was itself interrupted with wall slits for more. Julius shrugged as his centuries halted in order, dressing their ranks until they filled the yard in a perfect square.

Julius wondered how long Brutus would keep him waiting. It was a difficult thing to predict after so long away from his oldest friend. The boy he had known would have been there already, but the man who led the remnants of Primigenia had changed a great deal in their time apart-perhaps enough to bury the boy; he didn't yet know.

With no outward sign of his impatience, Julius stood impassively with his men as the minutes stretched. He did need the barracks, and from what Tubruk had said, they were as good as Brutus claimed. With Crassus behind the purchase, the purse was heavy enough to buy the best in the city, after all. While he waited, Julius considered buying part of the barracks out of Crassus's hands. Privately, he agreed with Tubruk that the relationship the rich senator was fostering could be a thorn for the future, no matter how friendly he appeared at present.

Brutus strode out of the main building with Renius at his side. With interest, Julius saw the capped stump of Renius's left arm, though he kept his face still. Brutus looked furious and Julius's hopes died in him.

As Brutus reached him, he halted stiffly, giving the salute from one equal to another. Julius returned it without hesitation. For a second, Julius felt pain at the space that separated them before his resolve firmed. He would not give way. Brutus wasn't someone he wanted to use his wits to flatter and control. That sort of manipulation was for enemies or formal allies, not for the boy he'd caught a raven with, so many years before.

“Welcome to Primigenia barracks, Tribune,” Brutus said.

Julius shook his head at the formal tone. A touch of irritation spiked in him and he spoke to Renius, ignoring Brutus. “It is good to see you, old friend. Can't you make him understand these men are not Primigenia?”

Renius looked impassively back at him for a moment before replying.

“This is not a time to split your strength, lad. The choosing day on the Campus is over this year-there'll be no extra men for another legion. You two should stop puffing your chests at each other and make peace.”

Julius snorted in irritation. “By the gods, Brutus, what would you have me do? Primigenia can't have two commanders and my men are sworn to me alone. I found them in villages and made them into legionaries from scratch. You can't expect me to hand them over to another commander after everything they've been through with me.”

“I thought… you of all people would want to see Primigenia strong again.”

“As a tribune, I can levy troops for you. I'll send around the country for them. I swear we'll remake Primigenia. I owe Marius as much as you, and more.”

Brutus's eyes searched his own, judging his words. “But will you be building your own legion as well? Will you apply for a new name to be added to the rolls?” he asked, his voice tight with tension.

Julius hesitated and Renius cleared his throat to speak. The habit of years of obedience made them wait for him. He looked Julius in the eye, holding him.

“Loyalty is a rare thing, boy, but Brutus risked his life for you when he had Primigenia put back on the rolls. Men like Cato stand against him now and he did it for you. There's no conflict. Primigenia is your legion, can't you see that? Your men can swear to service under a new oath and still be yours.”

Julius looked at the two men and it was like looking back into his childhood. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “There cannot be two commanders,” he said.

Brutus stared at him. “Are you asking me to take the oath to you? To hand over command?”

“How else could you be my sword, Brutus? But I can't ask you to lay down the rank you always dreamed of having. It is too much.” Julius took his arm gently.

“No,” Brutus murmured, suddenly firming his resolve. “It is not too much. We have older oaths between us and I always swore I would be there when you called. Are you calling now?”

Julius took a long, slow breath, weighing his friend and feeling his heart thud in his chest with a sudden burst of speed.

“I call,” he said quietly.

Brutus nodded firmly, the decision made. “Then I will take the vow with these Wolves of yours, and we will begin this day with Primigenia reborn.”

Keeping a guard of only five of his men, Julius strode through the busy city streets following the directions Tubruk had supplied. His spirits were light as he moved through the crowds. He had his uncle's house safe in his possession and well guarded by twenty soldiers. Even more important, the problem of what to do with Primigenia had been resolved. Silently, he blessed Brutus and Renius for their loyalty to him. Even in his pride, part of him whispered that in the end he had manipulated their love for him as coldly as any enemy. There had been no other way, he told himself, but the inner voice would not be still.

Not far from Marius's house, Julius found Tabbic's shop easily. As he came close to it, excitement filled him. He hadn't seen Alexandria since his wedding day and at first had been frightened to ask Tubruk if she'd survived the vicious fighting that followed his own flight from the city. As he put his hand to the door, he hesitated, experiencing a touch of the old nervousness that had plagued him in her presence. He shook his head in amusement as he recognized the feeling, then went in, his men blocking the narrow walkway outside.

Alexandria was standing only a few paces from the door, and she turned to greet whoever had entered. She laughed at seeing him, with the simple pleasure of meeting an old friend. She was standing with a gold necklace around her throat, with Tabbic working on the catch behind her.

Julius drank in the sight of her. The gold lit her throat with its reflection, and she seemed to have found a poise or a confidence that had been missing when he knew her before.

“You look beautiful,” he said, closing the shop door behind him.

“That's because I'm standing next to Tabbic here,” she said lightly.

Tabbic grunted, looking up from his work. The jeweler took in the man who had entered the shop, and straightened with a hand pressed into the small of his back.

“Are you buying or selling?” he asked, removing the necklace from Alexandria's neck as he spoke. Julius was sorry to see it go.

“Neither, Tabbic. Julius is an old friend,” Alexandria replied.

Tabbic nodded in guarded welcome. “The one who's looking after Octavian?”

“He's doing well,” Julius said.

Tabbic sniffed, quite failing to hide a brief smile of affection. “I'm glad of it,” he said quietly, before going into the back of the shop with the necklace, leaving them alone.

“You are looking thin, Julius. Is that beautiful wife of yours not feeding you?” Alexandria asked artlessly.

Julius laughed. “I've only been back a couple of days. I have Marius's old place as a town house.”

Alexandria blinked in surprise. “Quick work,” she said. “I thought Sulla's general was living there.”

“He was. I'll have to go to the forum court to keep it, but it will give me a chance to clear Marius's name in this city.”

Her smile disappeared at this reminder of harder times, and she busied her hands with removing an apron, cursing as the knot resisted her fingers. Julius wanted to step forward and help her, but resisted with an effort of will. He had been shocked to feel a surge of the old attraction to her as he came into the shop. It worried him enough to stand well clear until she had finished untying the strings herself.

You are a married man, he told himself firmly, yet he found himself blushing as she looked at him again.

“So why have you come to our humble little shop? I doubt it's just to look me up, Julius.”

“It could be. I was pleased when Tubruk said you had survived. I heard about Metella taking her life.” As he always had with her, he found himself fumbling for words, annoyed by his own lack of fluency.

Alexandria turned to him, her eyes glittering. “I wouldn't have left her if I'd known what she was going to do. Gods, I would have taken her with me to Tabbic's place. She was a victim, as much as the men that bastard Sulla killed on the streets. I'm only sorry he died quickly, so they say. I would have wanted it slow, for him.”

“I haven't forgotten, for all the Senate seems to want to,” Julius agreed, his voice bitter. A look of silent communication passed between them, a memory of those they had lost and an intimacy between them that was fresher than they could have guessed.

“You'll make them pay, Julius? I hate the thought of the gutter filth I saw then still roaming free. Rome's a dirtier place than you can see from the forum, I know.”

“I'll do what I can. I'll start by making them honor Marius, which should stick hard in a few throats,” he replied seriously.

She smiled again at him. “Gods, I am glad to see your face after so long. It brings the past back to me,” she said, and his blush returned, making her chuckle with memory. Her confidence as a freewoman had made her almost unrecognizable, but still he felt that she was someone he could trust simply because she had been part of the old times. The more cynical voice in him suspected he was being hopelessly naive. They had all changed and Brutus should have been enough of a reminder of that already.

“I never thanked you for the money you left with Metella for when I was free,” she said. “I bought a part share in this shop with it. It meant a lot to me.”

He waved her thanks away with his hand. “I wanted to help you,” he replied, shifting his feet.

“Did you come to the shop to see how I'd spent it?”

“No, I know I said I could have come to see you just for friendship, but as it happens…” he began.

“I knew it! You want a pendant for your wife, or a beautiful brooch? I'll make you something special to match her eyes.” Her cheerfulness contrasted his more serious mood, so different from the stumbling boy she'd known.

“No, it's for the trial and after. I want to commission bronze shields to honor Marius; his likeness, his battles, even his death when the city fell. I want them to tell the story of his life.”

Alexandria rubbed a hand over her bound hair, leaving a tiny smudge of gold filings on the edge. The flecks caught the light as she moved, and despite himself, Julius would have liked nothing more than to rub his thumb gently against her skin to remove them. He concentrated, irritated with himself.

She frowned in thought, taking a stylus and wax slate from a shelf.

“They should be large, maybe three feet across to be clear at a distance.”

She began to scratch sketches into the pane of wax, squinting one eye almost closed. Julius watched as she brushed back a loose tendril of hair from her forehead. Tubruk had said she was good and the man's judgment was usually to be trusted.

“The first one should be a likeness. What do you think of this?”

She turned the slate around and Julius relaxed as he saw a face he recognized. The features had something of the strength he remembered, though the simple lines could never be more than an echo of the life that had filled Marius.

“It's him. I didn't know you could do that sort of thing.”

“Tabbic loves to teach. I can make your shields for you, but the metal alone will be expensive. I don't want to bargain with you, Julius, but you are talking about months of work. This is the sort of thing that could make my name in the city.”

“The cost isn't important. I'll trust you to set a fair price, but I'll need them in weeks, not months. The Senate won't let the trial wait for long, with Antonidus raging about his lost house. I need the best you can make as fast as you can produce them.”

“Tabbic?” Alexandria called.

The grizzled metalsmith strolled out from the back room, still holding tools. She explained quickly and Julius smiled as the man's face lit with interest. Finally, he nodded.

“I can take the normal work of the shop, but the brooches on order will have to be put off. Mind you”-he rubbed his chin thoughtfully-“it might raise the price of the ones you've finished, which couldn't hurt. We'll have to hire bigger premises and a much larger forge. Let's see…” He took another slate from the shelf and together the two of them wrote and talked in low voices for a long time while Julius watched in exasperation. Finally they reached agreement and Alexandria turned back to him, the gold in her hair still bright against her skin.

“I'll take the work. The price will depend on how many failures we have to recast. I'll have to discuss which scenes you want when you have a couple of hours free.”

“You know where I am,” he said. “You can always come out there if you need to see me.”

Alexandria fiddled idly with her stylus, suddenly uncomfortable. “I'd prefer it if you came to me,” she said, unwilling to explain how the old estate had tested her strength the last time she'd passed through the gate. Julius understood what she didn't say.

“I'll do that. I might even bring that boy in when I come. Tubruk says he's always talking of you and, er… Tabbic.”

“You must. We both miss him around here. His mother goes when she can, but it must be hard on him to be away from her,” she replied.

“He's a terror around the estate. Tubruk caught him riding my horse in the fields a few days ago.”

“He didn't beat him?” Alexandria asked too quickly.

Julius shook his head, smiling. “He wouldn't. Luckily Renius didn't find the boy, though how he could thrash him with only one hand, I don't know. Tell his mother not to worry about him. He's my blood, I'll look after him.”

“He never had a father, Julius. A boy needs one more than a girl.”

Julius hesitated, not wanting the responsibility. “Between Renius and Tubruk, I daresay he'll grow straight.”

“They are not his blood, Julius,” she replied, holding his gaze until he looked away.

“All right! I'll keep him with me, though I haven't had a moment's peace since coming back to the city. I'll look after him.”

She grinned impishly at him. “‘There is no greater exercise to a man's talents than the upbringing of his son,' ” she quoted.

Julius sighed. “My father used to say that,” he said.

“I know. And he was right. There's no future for that boy running on the streets of this city. None at all. Where would Brutus be if your family hadn't taken him in?”

“I have agreed, Alexandria. You don't need to beat it to death.”

Without warning, she raised her hand to touch the white scar that crossed his forehead. “Let me look at you,” she said, standing closer and whistling softly. “You're lucky to be alive. Is that why your eye is different?”

He shrugged, ready to turn the conversation away. Then the story spilled out of him, the fight on Accipiter, the head wound that took months to heal, the fits that remained with him.

“Nothing is the same since I left,” he said. “Or everything is and I have changed too much to see it. Cabera says the fits could be with me for the rest of my life, or stop tomorrow. There is no way of telling.” He held up his left hand and squinted at it, but it was steady.

“I sometimes think life is nothing more than pain with moments of joy,” she replied. “You are stronger than before, Julius, even with the wound. I've found the trick is to wait through the pain and take the moments of happiness without worrying about the future.”

He dropped his hand, suddenly ashamed that he had talked so intimately of his fears. It was not a burden for her, or anyone except himself. He was the head of a family, a tribune of Rome, and the general of Primigenia. Strange how he couldn't muster the sort of pleasure he knew such a dream would once have given him.

“Have you… seen Brutus?” Julius asked after a pause. She turned away and busied her hands with clearing up the tools on Tabbic's workbench.

“We are seeing each other,” she said.

“Oh. I haven't told him we… um…”

Alexandria laughed suddenly, looking at him over her shoulder. “You'd better not. There's enough competition between you two without putting me in the middle.”

To his astonishment, Julius recognized a spike of jealousy enter his thoughts. He struggled with it. She was not his and, except for a frozen perfect moment years before, never had been. She didn't seem to sense the private whirl of his memories as he looked at her.

“Keep him close to you, Julius. Rome is more dangerous than you know,” she said.

Julius almost grinned at the thought of what he had survived just to return to it, but the fact that his life mattered to her at all sobered him.

“I'll keep him close,” he said.

Julius dismounted from his horse to walk the last two miles to the estate outside the city. Plans swirled around his head as he strolled along with the reins wrapped around his arm. Since his return, events had moved too quickly to grasp. Gaining the tribune post, taking Marius's house and command of Primigenia, meeting Alexandria again. Julia. Octavian. Cornelia. She was like a stranger to him. He frowned as he walked along, lulled by the clicking of hooves in the dust at his side. Her memory had helped him through the worst of the captivity. The desire to return to her was a secret strength in him that overcame injury, sickness, and pain. Yet when he had finally held her, it was as if she were someone else. He hoped it would ease with time, but part of him still yearned for the wife he loved, though she was only a mile away and waiting for him.

The law case to come worried him not at all. He'd had more than six months of monotony in a ship cell to hone a defense of Marius, and if Antonidus hadn't given him the chance, he knew he would have forced the issue in some other way. Having his uncle continue as a figure of shame in the city was not something he could stand.

Cornelia came to the gate to meet him and he kissed her. Belatedly, it occurred to him that there were other things between husband and wife that he had neglected in the two nights since his return. Intimacy would restore his love for her, he was sure. With the exhaustion of his travels fast disappearing, he kissed her again, lingeringly, and preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn't notice her stiffen in sudden panic against him. He passed the horse into the care of the slave who waited in attendance.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, close to her ear. The smell of her perfume filled his lungs with coolness.

She nodded silently.

“Is the baby asleep, wife?”

She pulled her head back to look at him. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, fighting to remain calm.

“I'll show you, if you want,” he said, kissing her again. Her skin was pale and beautiful as they walked together into the privacy of the house.

He felt clumsy inside the bedroom, covering his nervousness with kisses between flinging his garments onto the floor. There was something wrong in her responses, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't just the long separation. They had known each other for such a little time, all in all, that he knew he shouldn't expect an easy intimacy and coaxed her to relax by stroking her neck and running his hands lightly down her back as they sat naked together, with only a single dim lamp to make the room gold.

Cornelia bore his kisses and wanted to sob out her grief for what had been hurt in her. She had told no one about what Sulla had done, not even Clodia. It was a shame she had hoped to forget, something she had successfully pressed deep away inside her until it almost hadn't happened. She moved with Julius as he became aroused, but felt nothing except fear as the memories of the final visit of the Dictator flashed into her mind unbidden. She heard again the cry of her daughter in the cot at her bedside as Sulla pressed on her, and tears seeped slowly from her eyes as the cruelty surfaced in her memories with appalling force.

“I don't think I can, Gaius,” she said, her voice breaking.

“What is it?” Julius replied, shocked at her tears.

Cornelia curled against him and he wrapped his arms around her body, resting his head on hers as sobs convulsed her.

“Has someone hurt you?” he whispered, and a great emptiness stole into his chest as he voiced the terrible thought.

She could not answer him at first, but then she began to whisper, her eyes tightly closed. Not the worst of it, but the beginning, the terror of her pregnancy, the helpless anger at knowing there was no one to stop Sulla in all Rome.

Julius felt a great sadness weight him down as he listened. Without warning, tears of rage and frustration came from him at what she had gone through. He controlled himself, viciously biting his lip against the questions he wanted to ask, the pointless stupid questions that would serve nothing except to wound both of them even further. None of it mattered, except for him to hold her and hold her until the sobbing slowly died away into tiny aching shivers.

“He is dead now, Lia. He cannot hurt you or frighten you anymore,” he said.

He told her how her love had kept him strong when he thought he would go insane in the dark cell, how proud he had been at the wedding, how much she meant to his life. His tears dried with hers, and as the moon sank toward dawn, they slept, slipping away from each other.

CHAPTER 31

With the sun only two spans above the horizon, Tubruk found Julius leaning against the outer wall of the estate, a blanket over his bare chest against the morning cold.

“You look ill,” the old gladiator told him. To his surprise, Julius didn't reply and hardly seemed to notice his approach. The young man's eyes were red from too little sleep, and the chill breeze sent shivers over his skin that he ignored. Tubruk could see the white traces of scars against the darker tan, a written script for old pain and struggle.

“Julius?” Tubruk asked gently. There was no response, but Julius let the blanket fall, standing only in his sandals and short bracae leggings that reached halfway down his thighs.

“I need to run for a while,” Julius said, looking up at the woods on the hill above them. His voice was as cold as the breeze and Tubruk narrowed his eyes in worry.

“I'll come with you, lad, if you don't mind waiting for me,” he replied, and when Julius shrugged, Tubruk returned to the house to strip off his heavy tunic and leggings.

When he returned, Julius was stretching his leg muscles slowly, and the estate manager joined him, lacing the leather ankle strips of his sandals high up on his calf.

When they were both ready, they set off together up the hill, Julius making the pace.

Tubruk ran easily for the first mile through the woods, thankful he had not neglected his fitness. Then, when his chest began to burn with the exertion, he glanced over at Julius. He ran lightly over the broken trail, his lungs expanding his chest in long, slow breaths. Tubruk matched him, staying at his shoulder for short bursts of speed, then back to the slower pace over and over. Julius didn't speak as he pushed himself on, the sweat pouring from him in spattering droplets that stung his eyes.

After another mile, they turned out of the cool green dark of the woods and ran along the estate perimeter. Tubruk began to puff out short, painful breaths, his legs protesting. As fit as he was, no man of his age could have matched the punishing pace for long, and Julius showed not a sign of distress as he ran, as if his body's discomfort was ignored or even forgotten. His eyes were fixed in inward concentration and he didn't see Tubruk begin to hurt. The old gladiator understood somehow that it was important to be there when Julius finally ran himself out, but the effort was making flashing lights appear in his vision and his heart pounded painfully along his pulse points, creating waves of heat that added to his growing dizziness.

Julius halted without warning, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. Tubruk stopped instantly, grateful for the respite. He inched over to block the path that Julius followed, hoping he wouldn't just start again after a few seconds' pause.

“Did you know about what happened to Cornelia?” Julius asked him.

Tubruk felt cold, his exhaustion irrelevant. “I knew,” he said grimly. “Clodia told me.”

Julius suddenly swore in violent rage, clenching his fists, his face flushing further in uncontrolled emotion. Tubruk almost took a step away from him and wondered at himself. The young man paced back and forth, his fury making his hands grasp the air for something to hold and kill. His eyes fixed on the estate manager and it took all of Tubruk's will to return the gaze.

“You told me you would protect her,” Julius snarled at him, taking a step toward Tubruk that brought him only inches from the older man's face. “I trusted you to keep her safe!”

Julius raised his fist in sudden spasm and Tubruk held still, accepting the blow to come. Instead, Julius snorted and whirled away.

Tubruk spoke quietly, knowing something of the surging emotions that had stolen Julius's control.

“When Clodia told me, I acted,” he said.

Julius didn't seem to hear him. “That bastard Sulla terrified her, Tubruk. He put his filthy hands on her,” Julius said, and broke into sobs. He went slowly down onto his knees in the scrub grass, one hand covering his eyes. Tubruk crouched and put his arms around the young man, pulling him into his chest with a great heave of strength. Julius didn't resist, his voice a muffled croak.

“She thought I would hate her, Tubruk, can you believe that?”

Tubruk held him tightly, letting the sorrow work its way through. When Julius quieted at last, Tubruk let him go and looked into his face, pale with grief.

“I killed him, Julius. I killed Sulla when I heard,” he said. Julius opened his eyes wide in shock and Tubruk continued, relieved to be able to say it at last, “I took a post as a slave in his kitchens and dressed his food with aconite.”

Julius unfroze as he realized the danger they faced. He grabbed Tubruk's arms in a powerful grip. “Who else knows?”

“Only Clodia. I didn't tell Cornelia, to protect her,” Tubruk replied, resisting the urge to break the hold on him.

“No one else? Are you certain? Could you be recognized?”

Finally angry, Tubruk reached up with his hands and removed Julius's stiff fingers with a grunt. “Everyone who could mark me is dead. My friend of thirty years who sold me into Sulla's household died under torture without giving me up. Except for Clodia and us, there is no one else to make the link, I swear it.” He looked into Julius's hard eyes and spoke slowly and with force through his teeth, guessing at his thoughts. “You will not touch Clodia, Julius. Do not think of it.”

“While she lives, my wife and daughter are in danger,” Julius replied, unabashed.

“While I live as well. Will you kill me too? You will have to if you hurt Clodia, on my word you will, or I will come for you myself.”

The two men stood close, both of them rigid with tension. The silence between them grew, but neither one looked away. Then Julius shuddered and the manic quality went from his eyes. Tubruk remained, glaring at him, needing him to concede the point. Finally, the young man spoke.

“All right, Tubruk. But if the Sullans ever come for her, or for you, there must be no link back to my family.”

“Do not ask me for that!” Tubruk replied, furious. “I have served your family for decades. I will not give my blood and hers as well! I love her, Julius, and she loves me. My duty, my love for you, will not stretch to hurting her. It will not happen.

“In any case, I know there is no path from Sulla to me, or to you. I have blood on my hands to prove it.”

When Julius spoke again, his voice was heavy with weariness. “Then you must leave. I have funds enough to set you up somewhere far from Rome. I can free Clodia and you can take her with you.”

Tubruk clenched his jaw. “And your mother? Who will look after her?”

All the passion faded from the younger man, leaving him exhausted and empty. “There is Cornelia, and I can hire another nurse. What other choice is there, Tubruk? Do you think I want this? You have been with me all my life. I can barely imagine not having you to run the estate, but the Sullans are still searching for the assassins, you know that. Oh gods, Pompey's daughter!”

He froze in horror as the implications of the death hit home. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“They struck blind. Cornelia is already in danger!” he said. Without another word, he scrambled into a run back toward the estate, cutting left to the narrow bridge across the stream. Tubruk swore and raced after him, unable to close the gap on his tired legs. As soon as it had been said, the old gladiator knew Julius was right and panic touched him then. To lose Cornelia after all he had done to protect her made him want to cry out in anger as he forced a faster pace, ignoring the pain.

Cornelia had slept as lightly as her husband, and when the two men arrived panting back at the estate, she was with Clodia and Julia, discussing a trip into the city. She heard Julius calling for his soldiers and rose from the couch, her nervousness evident. Despite the moments of tenderness he'd shown her, he was not the man who'd left Rome in flames behind him years before. His innocence had gone from him, perhaps with the scars that he wouldn't talk about. There were times when she thought there were no more tears inside her for what Sulla had taken from both of them.

When he came storming into the room, her eyes widened nervously.

“What is it?” she asked.

Julius frowned at Clodia in response, knowing as Tubruk had that making Cornelia part of the secret would only increase her risk. Tubruk followed him in and shared a glance with the old nurse, nodding his head a fraction to confirm what she had guessed. Julius spoke urgently, relieved to find her safe. The run home had been an agony for him as he tormented himself with images of assassins creeping through the house to hurt her.

“I think you could be in danger from the friends of Sulla. Pompey lost his daughter and he was close to Marius. I should have thought of it before! It could be that those who seek to avenge the Dictator are striking at his enemies even now, hoping to catch the real assassin in their nets. I will have to send for some of Primigenia to guard you here and get messengers to Crassus. He could be another target. Gods, and Brutus even! Though he's well protected, at least.”

He paced around the room, his bare chest still heaving from the sprint home.

“I will have to use guile against them, but I cannot leave those men alive. One way or another, I will have to break the back of their alliance in Sulla's name. We cannot live expecting the assassin's knife.” He turned suddenly and pointed at the estate manager, standing bathed in sweat by the door.

“Tubruk, I want you to keep my family safe until this is over. If I have to be in Rome, I need someone I can trust to look after my family here.”

The older man straightened with dignity. He would not mention the wild threats Julius had made on the run, but trying to guess the way Julius's constantly spinning mind would change next was beyond him.

“You want me here?” he said, the words carrying a meaning that made Julius stop his pacing.

“Yes. I was wrong. My mother needs you. I need you more than ever. Who else can I trust?”

Tubruk nodded his understanding, knowing the conversation on the hill would not be mentioned again. The young man who paced like a leopard was not one to dwell on the mistakes of the past.

“Who is the threat?” Cornelia asked, holding her head high against the fear that had swelled in her.

“Cato leads them, with his followers. Antonidus perhaps. Even Suetonius's father may be part of it. They will be behind it, or know of it,” Julius replied. Cornelia shuddered at the name of the general she remembered. Her husband swore as a thought struck him.

“I should have killed Sulla's dog when I had the chance. He was just a few feet from me outside Marius's gate. If he had a hand in the murder of Pompey's daughter, he is more of a danger than I realized. Gods, I have been blind!”

“You must see Pompey, then. He is your ally, whether he realizes it or not,” Tubruk said quickly.

“And Crassus, and your father Cinna too,” Julius replied, motioning to Cornelia. “I must meet with all of them.”

As Cornelia sank back onto the couch, Julius went down on one knee and took her hand in his.

“I will not let anything harm you, I promise. I can make this place a fortress with fifty men.”

She saw his need to protect her in his eyes. Not love, but the duty of a husband. She'd thought she had grown numb to loss, but to see his face so cold and earnest was worse than anything.

Forcing a smile, Cornelia pressed a hand to his cheek, still warm from the run. A fortress, or a prison? she thought.

When riders were sighted on the road from the city two days later, Julius and Brutus roused the estate in minutes. Renius had brought fifty of Primigenia from their barracks, and by the time the riders approached the gates, it would have taken an army to breach their defenses. There were archers on every wall and Cornelia was hidden with the others in a new suite of rooms Julius had designated for exactly this purpose. Clodia had taken Julia down without an argument, but precious time had been lost moving Aurelia, who understood nothing of what was happening.

Julius stood alone in the courtyard, watching as Tubruk and Renius took their final positions. Octavian had been sent down with the women, over his furious protests. Everything became still and Julius nodded to himself. The estate was secure.

With his sword sheathed, he climbed the steps to the ledge above the gate and watched as the riders halted at a distance, made wary by the sudden show of force on the walls. A carriage moved up between them, drawn by twin horses who pranced forward a last few reluctant steps, sensing the tension. Julius watched without speaking as one of the riders dismounted and laid a cloth of silk in the dust.

Cato stepped ponderously out onto it, adjusting the folds of his toga with delicate attention. The dust of the road had not touched him, and he looked up into Julius's eyes without expression before motioning to his men to dismount and approach the gate.

Behind his back, Julius raised his fingers to signal the number of strangers. There were too few for an open attack, but Julius was uncomfortable having such a man anywhere near those he loved. He tensed his jaw as they walked into the shadow of the gate. Brutus had told him about Cato's son, but there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. Like Brutus, he would just have to see it through.

A fist thumped against the heavy beams of the gate.

“Who calls on my house?” Julius said, looking Cato in the eye below. The man stared back impassively, content to wait through the formalities. He would know better than anyone what turmoil was going on in Julius's mind. A senator could not be refused.

A soldier at Cato's side spoke loudly enough for his voice to carry into the house. “Senator Cato desires entrance on a private matter. Dismiss your men and open this gate.”

Julius did not reply, instead descending into the yard and conferring quickly with Brutus and Tubruk. The defenders on the walls were brought down and sent into the buildings to await a call to arms. The others were given tasks that allowed them to remain close. It was farcical to see armed men taking horses from the stable and grooming them in the open, but Julius was not in the mood for risk and as he opened the gate himself, he wondered if blood would be spilled in the next hour.

Cato passed through the gate, smiling slightly as he saw the numbers of armed men in the area.

“Expecting a war, Caesar?” he said.

“A legion must drill, Senator. I would not like to be caught unprepared,” Julius replied. He frowned as Cato's men entered behind their master. He had to allow it, but he thanked his house gods for his foresight in bringing so many of Primigenia out of the city barracks. Cato's men would be dead in seconds if he gave the order. Their faces showed they understood this as well as anyone as their horses were led away, leaving them exposed in the open courtyard.

Cato looked at him. “Are you now the general of Primigenia, then? I do not recall an application having been made at the Senate house.” His voice was light and without threat, but Julius stiffened, knowing he had to watch every word.

“It has yet to be made official, but I speak for them,” he replied. Courtesy demanded he offer the senator a seat and refreshment after his journey, but he could not bring himself to utter the fictions of politeness, even knowing Cato would take it as a small triumph.

Renius and Brutus moved to Julius's side and Cato looked from one to the other, seemingly unaffected by the men he faced.

“Very well, Julius. I will speak to you of my son,” Cato said. “I have offered gold for him and had it refused. I have come tonight to ask what you do want for him.”

He raised his head and Julius saw his deep-set eyes were bright. He wondered if this man had ordered the killing of Pompey's daughter. Would the risk be lessened from him if he handed Germinius back to his father? Or would it be seen as a weakness that Cato would use to scatter his house in ashes?

“He has taken oath, Senator. There-”

“You are understrength, are you not?” Cato interrupted. “I can have a thousand men here tomorrow morning. Healthy slaves from my own estate to be the backbone of Primigenia.”

Renius growled suddenly, “There are no slaves in the legions, Senator. Primigenia are freemen.”

Cato waved a hand as if it was of no consequence. “Free them after they have taken your precious oath, then. I have no doubt a man like you will find a way, Renius. You are so… resourceful.” As he spoke, a fraction of his spite gleamed through and Julius knew to give way to him would be to invite destruction.

“My answer is no, Senator. The oath cannot be bought back.”

Cato looked at them without speaking for a moment.

“You leave me no choice then. If my son must serve two years with you, I want him alive at the end of it. I will send the men”-he paused-“freed slaves, Renius. I will send them to you to protect my son.”

“When you have freed them, they may not do what you want,” Renius replied, matching the senator glare for glare.

“They will come,” Cato snapped. “Few men are as troublesome to me as you have been.”

“They will not be your son's guards if they come to Primigenia,” Julius said. “Believe me when I say I will not allow it.”

“Will you give me nothing?” Cato said, his voice rising in anger. All movement in the courtyard changed as hands began to creep toward swords.

“If the gods allow, I will give you your son two years from now. That is all,” Julius replied firmly.

“See that you do, Caesar. If he does not survive…” He spoke through clenched teeth, all pretence at calm gone, “Be sure he does.”

Turning on his heel, he signaled to his men to open the gate. The soldiers of Primigenia reached it first and Cato climbed into his carriage without a backward glance.

Brutus turned to Julius as the closing gate hid the view of Cato's men.

“What are you thinking? How many of his ‘freed slaves' will be spies, do you think? How many will be assassins? Have you thought of that? Gods, you have to find a way to stop him.”

“Don't you want a thousand more for Primigenia?” Julius said.

“At that cost? No, I think I'd rather give Germinius back to his father, or have taken the gold. If it was a smaller number, we could have them watched, but a thousand! A full half of Primigenia we can't trust. It's insane.”

“He's right, you know,” Renius added. “A hundred would be more than I'd like to take in, never mind this many.”

Julius looked at both of them. They had not been there when he had scoured the coasts for Roman sons, nor when he'd found his veterans in Greece.

“We will make them ours,” he said, ignoring his own doubts.

Having slept until the sun rose to its greatest height above the wintry city, Cato suffered with a headache that even hot wine could not shift. It throbbed slightly as he listened to Antonidus, hardly able to bear his posturing.

“Ten thousand sesterces is high, even for a death, Antonidus,” he said. He enjoyed watching the prickle of sweat that broke out on the general's brow, knowing as well as the man himself that if the money wasn't paid, a sure death would come from the assassins' spite. Keeping him waiting was a petty response, Cato knew, but still he let the time drag out, tapping his fingers idly on the arm of his couch. Pompey's public enmity was to have been expected, of course, even if the assassin hadn't left a clay token in the little girl's grip, as he had been told to do. Cato could not have guessed the senator would throw away his favors simply to make the point, though he could applaud the subtlety of the move. He had hoped Pompey would act in grief and folly, allowing Cato to have him arrested and removed from the games of power in the Senate. Instead Pompey had shown a restraint that marked him as a more dangerous enemy than he had realized. Cato sighed and scratched the corner of his mouth. If he were judged by his enemies, he was surely a power in Rome.

“I would be tempted to withdraw my support and my funds from your revenge, Antonidus, if it wasn't for the matter of this trial of yours. I have hired Rufius Sulpicius to be your advocate.”

“I can argue against Caesar myself, Senator. It is a simple enough case,” Antonidus responded in surprise.

“No, I want that young cockerel humiliated. From what I have seen, he is young enough and rash enough to be brought down easily. A public embarrassment in front of the magistrates and the plebeians should remove some of the fresh gloss of his tribune rank. We may even demand his death for the wrongs you have suffered.” Cato rubbed his forehead with his eyes closed, his full mouth pursing. “There is a price for my son and he must pay it. Use Sulpicius. There are few better minds in Rome than his. He will appoint the jurists for you and find the precedents in custom. I have no doubt that this Caesar will be well prepared. Have you sent the summons?”

“No, I was waiting for a date to be set. I have applied to the praetor, but there has been no reply as yet.”

“That, Antonidus, is why you need a man like Sulpicius. Meet with him and let him handle the case. He will secure a date for trial in a month or less. That is his business, you know. Your precious house will be back in your hands, for which I expect you to be suitably grateful and indebted to me.”

“I am, Senator. And the money?”

“Yes, yes,” Cato said waspishly, “you will have your funds, both for the court and… the other matter. Now leave me to my rest. The day has been long and tiring.”

Even in the privacy of his own home, he did not speak without care, taking pleasure in the forms of conspiracy that forced him to employ men like Antonidus. He knew that many of the senators saw him as a man only of words, preferring the cut of a reply to their martial posturing. The assassins were a delicious departure from his usual intrigue, and he found the power it gave him quite intoxicating. To be able to point to any man and call down a death on him was a thrill even for a palate as jaded as his own. As the general left, he called for a cool cloth to drape over his face.

CHAPTER 32

The trial began as the sky lightened to the east of Rome, the false dawn that woke the workers and sent the thieves and whores to their own beds. The area in the forum that was set aside for legal proceedings was still torch-lit from the night, and a large crowd had gathered at the boundary, held back only by the solid line of soldiers from the city barracks. Under the direct command of the praetor who would oversee the trial, these were charged with keeping the peace in the event of an unpopular verdict, and the crowd was careful not to come within range of the staffs they carried. Unusually, for a case concerning such an apparently minor matter, the benches on either side of the advocates' square were also full. Many of the people Julius knew from the Senate had come to listen, either at his invitation or the call of Antonidus. His own family had stayed at the estate outside Rome. Cornelia and his daughter had to remain under the protection of Primigenia, and Julius did not want Tubruk anywhere near Antonidus or the senators, for all his assurances that he could not be recognized.

Julius's searching gaze found Brutus in the second row of three, sitting next to a woman who raised her head to look back at him. There was something disturbing in her cool appraisal, and he wondered how she seemed to stand out against the crowd around her, as if she were sitting fractionally closer than anyone else. In a timeless moment, she leaned back slowly, arresting his attention. Her hair was unbound, and before he summoned the will to break the contact, she raised a hand to pull a tendril back from where it had fallen loose over her face.

Forcing himself to relax and concentrate, he breathed in the warm air, going over the points he had prepared with his jurists in the weeks after the formal summons. If the case was judged fairly, he knew they had an excellent chance of winning, but if any of the three magistrates was in the pay of his enemies, the trial could be a mockery, with everything won but the final verdict. His gaze swept over the gathering crowd, all of them oblivious to what was at stake. They had come for the entertainment of oratory, to cheer or curse clever points of debate. Julius hoped too that some had come because of the rumors his jurists had started around the city, that the trial was to be nothing less than a defense of Marius. There did seem to be a lot of the plebeians in attendance, and the sellers of baked fish and steaming bread were doing a fine trade already as the people waited patiently for the magistrates and the praetor to make their entrance.

Julius looked again at the draped shields that Alexandria had completed, and noticed that many of the crowd craned their necks for a glimpse of them as well, pointing and talking amongst themselves. Only Alexandria, Tabbic, and himself knew what was under the thick folds of cloth, and Julius felt a touch of excitement at the response they would get when he unveiled them at last.

Behind him, his three jurists shuffled through their papers and notes one more time, their heads bowed in low mutters. Hiring Quintus Scaevola to help him prepare the case had cost him two talents of gold, but there were few men in Rome with a better command of the twin laws of custom and the Twelve Tables. It had taken such a vast fee just to tempt him out of retirement, but despite his arthritic stiffness, the brain behind the heavy-lidded eyes had turned out to be as sharp as Julius had been told. Julius watched Quintus as he scribbled a footnote to the papers for the trial and caught his eye as he looked upward in thought.

“Nervous?” Quintus asked, waving the sheaf at the court and the shadowed crowds beyond.

“A little,” Julius admitted. “There is a great deal at stake.”

“Remember the point of value. You always leave that one out.”

“I remember, Quintus. We've been over it enough times,” Julius replied. He had grown to like the elderly jurist, although the man seemed to live only for the law and cared nothing for the other concerns of the city. As a joke in their first week of preparation, Julius had asked him what he would do if he found one of his sons setting fire to a house in the city. After a great deal of silent thought, Quintus had said that he would not be able to take the case as the law forbade calling himself as a witness.

Quintus pressed the notes into Julius's hands, his expression stern. “Do not be afraid to consult, remember. They will try to make you speak without thought. If you feel the arguments are slipping from you, turn away and I will advise as best I can. Do you remember the passage from the Twelve Tables?”

Julius raised his eyes in exasperation. “The one we all memorized as children? Yes, I know it.”

Quintus sniffed at the sarcasm. “Perhaps you should recite it again to be sure,” he said, unmoved.

Julius opened his mouth to reply, but a light cheer from the crowd interrupted him.

“It's the magistrates… and the praetor. Only an hour late, Master Scaevola,” one of the younger jurists hissed to Quintus. Julius looked to follow their gaze and saw the group come out of the Senate building, where they had been preparing.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation as the group of four men walked slowly with their guards into the court area. Julius scrutinized them carefully. The praetor was unknown to him, a short red-faced man with a bald crown. He walked with his head bowed as if in prayer, taking his seat on the raised platform that had been assembled for the trial. Julius watched as the praetor nodded to the centurion of the guards and signaled for the magistrates to take their seats next to him.

These men were familiar enough and Julius breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw none of them were faces he recognized from the factions in the Senate. His worst fear was that they would be Cato's creatures, but he brightened as one of them smiled at him. The people's tribune took his place last as the most senior of the magistrates. The crowd let out a ragged cheer for their representative, and the man smiled back at them, raising his hand briefly in acknowledgment. His name was Servius Pella, which was just about all Julius could call to mind about him. His hair was white and cropped close to an angular skull with deep-set eyes that seemed black in the dim light of the torches. Fleetingly, Julius wished he had taken the time to meet the man at one of the Senate meetings, but shoved the thought aside. It was pointless to worry about the magistrates, he knew. If he could deal with the posturing of Antonidus's advocate Rufius, he had a strong enough case. If he was humiliated, he would lose not only the house that had belonged to Marius, but also a great deal of his status in the Senate and the city itself. He could not regret the risks he had taken in forcing the trial. Marius would have expected no less.

Julius glanced over to where Cato sat and found the heavy gaze fastened on him with interest. Bibilus was there at his side, as always, and Catalus. Julius saw that Suetonius was sitting with his father, with the same supercilious smile on each face. Their expressions would have marked them as kin even if he hadn't known it already.

Julius looked away rather than show his anger after the revelations from Cornelia. Cato's supporters would learn to fear in time, as he removed the pillars of their influence, one by one.

Quintus patted Julius's shoulder and sat down with the other jurists. The crowd shuffled and whispered as they sensed the trial was about to start. Julius glanced again at the shields, checking that the drapes hadn't slipped to reveal even a part of them.

The praetor stood slowly, his hands smoothing the folds of his toga. With a motion, he ordered the torches snuffed and everyone present waited as each light was covered, leaving the gray dawn to light the forum.

“This august court is convened on the ninety-fourth day of the consular year. Let the records be marked. I charge all present in the sight of the gods that they shall speak only truth here, under penalty of banishment. If any man declares falsehood in this court, he will be denied fire, salt, and water and sent far from this city, never to return, in accordance with the edicts.”

The praetor paused, turning to catch the eye of first Antonidus, then Julius. Both men dipped their heads to show understanding, and he continued, his voice a sharp ring across the silent rows.

“In this case of rei vindicatio, who is the plaintiff?”

Antonidus stepped forward onto the floor of the court. “I am, sir. General Antonidus Severus Sertorius. I claim wrongful possession of my property.”

“And who will speak on your behalf?”

“Rufius Sulpicius is my advocate,” Antonidus replied. His words created a buzz of excitement in the crowd, causing the praetor to look sternly at them.

“Step forward the defendant,” he said loudly.

Julius stepped off the platform that held the shields, and faced Antonidus across the floor.

“I am Gaius Julius Caesar, the defendant before this court. I claim possession of the property. I speak for myself.”

“Have you brought a part of it for the symbol?”

“I have, your honor,” Julius replied. He turned to the row of draped cloths and deftly twitched one away, revealing the first bronze shield to the court. A gasp went up from the crowd and a pleased whispering commenced.

The shield was all Julius had hoped. Alexandria had given everything to its creation, fully aware that in front of the court and Senate, she could make her name in a single day.

The shield was ringed in bronze beading, but all eyes were fixed on the face and shoulders of the main figure of Marius, a life-size relief that glared out at those assembled. The whispering went on and on and then a cheer started in the crowd as they tried to show their approval for the dead general.

Antonidus spoke in fierce conversation with his advocate, and the man cleared his throat for the attention of the magistrates. The noise from the crowd was too much for the praetor, and he sent a flat hand signal to the centurion of the court guards. As one, the soldiers crashed the butts of their staffs into the paving and the crowd settled, wary of attack. Rufius stood forward, a bony vulture of a man dressed in a dark robe. He pointed with a sneer at the shield.

“Honorable Praetor. My client insists that this… item was not part of the house in dispute. It cannot qualify as the symbol unless it was part of the property.”

“I know the law, Rufius. Do not presume to lecture me,” the praetor replied stiffly. He turned his head to Julius. “Can you answer?”

“It is true that while Antonidus was in unlawful possession of the house of Marius, no such shield hung on the walls, but it was hanging this morning and will do as well as anything as the symbol of disputed ownership. I can produce witnesses to attest this,” Julius said smoothly.

The praetor nodded. “That will not be necessary, Caesar. I accept your point. The shield will be used.”

He frowned as a fresh cheer came from the crowd around them, and almost raised his hand for another signal to the guards. At this, the people fell silent, knowing better than to push his patience too far.

“Plaintiff and defendant, approach the symbol and complete the rite of dispute,” he said loudly.

Antonidus crossed the court floor, a slender spear held in his hand. Julius stepped up onto the platform with him, keeping his face blank of any triumph that would offend the magistrates. Julius touched his spear to the shield with a tiny ring of metal, then stood back. Antonidus brought his own point down and his mouth tightened as someone in the crowd jeered the act. Then he turned his back on Julius and walked back to his station by Rufius, who stood with his arms folded, relaxed and untroubled by the exchange.

“The property has been marked for dispute. The trial may now begin,” the praetor intoned, settling himself in his seat for comfort. His part of the proceedings was now over until the time came to dismiss the court. The three magistrates stood and bowed to him before one of them cleared his throat.

“As plaintiff, your advocate must speak first,” the magistrate said to Antonidus. Rufius bowed to him and took three steps out into the floor to better command the space.

“Praetor, Magistrates, Senators,” he began. “This is a simple case, though the penalties incurred involve the extremes of our law. Five weeks ago, the defendant brought armed men into the city for the purpose of violence. Such a crime is punishable by death or banishment. In addition, the defendant employed his men in breaking into a private house, that of the plaintiff, General Antonidus. The punishment for that is a mere whipping, but after death that may be seen as unnecessary cruelty.” He paused while a titter of laughter ran along the benches of the court. The crowd outside remained silent.

“Rough hands were laid on the servants and guards of the house, and when the owner returned, he was forbidden entry to his own home by the same soldiers.

“He is not a vengeful man, but the crimes against him are many and grave. As his advocate, I call on you to administer the sternest punishment. Death by the sword is the only possible answer to such a flouting of Rome's laws.”

A polite clapping came from the men around Cato, and Rufius nodded briefly to them as he resumed his seat, his bright eyes belying the air of relaxation he pretended.

“And now the defendant,” the magistrate continued. Nothing in his manner showed whether he had been moved by Rufius's words, but still Julius stepped forward with a hollow feeling in his stomach. He had known they could try for death, but hearing it in court made it a reality that shook his confidence.

“Praetor, Magistrates, Senators, people of Rome,” Julius said loudly enough to carry to the crowd. They cheered this, though the praetor frowned at him. Julius ordered his thoughts before continuing. Instinctively, he felt that the defense of Marius would appeal more to the people who had suffered under Sulla than to the silent judges, but playing to them was a dangerous course and could even sway the magistrates against a strong case. He would have to be careful.

“This case has a longer history than five weeks,” he began. “It begins on a night three years ago when the city prepared for civil war. Marius was the legally appointed consul of Rome, and his legion had fortified the city against attack-”

“Your honors, I appeal to you to have him cease this rambling discourse,” Rufius broke in, standing. “The question is the ownership of a house, not the struggles of history.”

The magistrates conferred for a moment, then one stood.

“Do not interrupt, Rufius. The defendant has a right to make his case as he thinks best,” he said. Rufius subsided and sat down.

“Thank you, your honor,” Julius continued. “That Marius was my uncle is well known. He took the defense of the city on himself when Sulla departed to Greece to defeat Mithridates, a task Sulla left rather incomplete.”

The crowd chuckled at this, then fell silent as the praetor swept them with his glare. Julius went on. “Marius was convinced that Sulla would return to the city with the aim of assuming complete power. To avert this, he fortified Rome's walls and prepared his men to defend the people of the city against armed attack. If Sulla had approached the walls without violence, he would have been allowed to resume his consular post and the peace of the city would have remained unbroken. Instead, he had left assassins within the bounds who attacked General Marius in the dark in a cowardly attempt at murder. Sulla's men opened the gates and let their master into the city. I believe it was the first armed attack on her in more than three hundred years.”

Julius paused for breath, looking at the magistrates to see how they were reacting to his words. They regarded him impassively, their expressions giving nothing away.

“My uncle was dispatched by a dagger from Sulla's own hand, and though his legion fought valiantly for days, they too fell to the invader.”

“This is too much!” Rufius cried, leaping up. “He blackens the name of a beloved leader of Rome under the protection of this trial. I must ask you to condemn him for his foolishness.”

The magistrate who had spoken before leaned forward and spoke to Julius. “You are pushing our patience, Caesar. If the case is found against you, be sure we will consider your disrespect when it comes to the sentence. Do you understand?”

Julius nodded, gulping to clear his suddenly dry throat. “I do, though the words must be spoken,” he said.

The magistrate shrugged. “It's your head,” he muttered as Julius took a calming breath before speaking again.

“Much of the rest you know already. As victor, Sulla claimed the title of Dictator. I will not speak of that period in the city history.”

The magistrate nodded sharply at this as Julius continued.

“Though he had defended the city under the law, Marius was declared traitor and his possessions sold off by the state. His house was auctioned publicly and bought by the plaintiff of this trial, General Antonidus. His legion was dispersed and their name struck from the honor rolls in the Senate.”

Julius paused and bowed his head as if in shame at the act. A murmur ran through the senators in attendance as they whispered questions and comments to each other. Then Julius raised his head again and his voice rang out over the judges and the crowd.

“My case stands on three points. The first is that Primigenia has been restored to the legion rolls without dishonor. If they have suffered no stain, then how can their general be called traitor? Secondly, if Marius was wrongly punished, then his possessions should have come to his remaining heir, myself. Lastly, my actions to reclaim my house from the thieves within have been made knowing the court would pardon them in the light of Marius's unjust fate. A great wrong has been committed, but it is against me, not by me.”

The crowd cheered and the guards once again rapped their staffs into the ground.

The magistrates put their heads together for a moment, then one of them motioned to Rufius to speak in reply. He stood, sighing visibly.

“Caesar's attempts to confuse the issue are admirable for their earnestness, but the law sees all things clearly. I am sure the judges enjoyed the journey into history, as I did, but I suspect they realize that the interpretation is colored by the defendant's personal relationship with the general. As much as I would enjoy arguing the vision he has presented as fact, I am in favor of reducing the case to its fundamentals in law and not wasting the time of those present.” He looked at Julius and smiled in a friendly fashion, so that all there could see he forgave the young man for his foolishness.

“In a wholly legal sale, my client bought the house in question at auction as we have been told. His name is on the deed and the bill of sale. To have armed guards steal his property from him is a return to the use of force to settle disputes. I'm sure you all noted the touching of spears to that attractive shield at the start of the trial. I remind you that the symbolic act of struggle is just that. In Rome, we do not draw swords to end arguments without submitting to the law.

“I sympathize with the points young Caesar has raised, but they have no bearing on the case at hand. I'm sure he would want to go back even further and reveal the history of the house right back to its first foundation, but there is no call for such a widening of the issues. I must repeat my call for the sword, though it is with regret that Rome should lose such a passionate young advocate.”

His expression showed sadness for the harsh penalties to come as he took his seat and conferred with Antonidus, who watched Julius with slitted eyes.

Julius stood and faced the magistrates once more. “As Rufius has referred to a deed and bill of sale, I feel he should produce them for the court to examine,” he said quickly.

The magistrates looked over to Rufius, who grimaced. “If the property was a horse or a slave, your honors, then I could of course produce such items for you. Unfortunately, as a house is in question and one taken by surprise and armed force, the documents were inside it, as Caesar is well aware.”

The magistrate who seemed to speak for the others peered at Julius with a frown. “Are these papers in your possession?” he asked.

“I swear that they are not,” Julius replied. “There is no sign of them in the house of Marius, on my honor.” He sat down again. As he had burned the deed and bill of sale the night before under Quintus's direction, his conscience was clear.

“So no ownership papers can be produced by either party?” the magistrate continued evenly. Julius shook his head and Rufius echoed the movement, his face tightening in irritation. He stood to address the magistrates once again.

“My client suspected that such key documents would ‘disappear' before the trial,” he said with a barely concealed sneer in Julius's direction. “Instead, we have a witness who was present at the auction and can attest to the legal sale to General Antonidus.”

The witness stood forward from his seat by Antonidus. Julius recognized him as one of those who sat near Cato in the Senate house. He was a stooped and fragile-looking man, who constantly pulled a lock of his thinning hair back off his forehead as he spoke.

“I am Publius Tenelia. I can attest to the legal sale.”

“May I question this man?” Julius asked, stepping into the floor as he received permission.

“You witnessed the entire auction?” Julius asked him.

“I did. I was there from the start to the finish.”

“You saw the bill of sale being signed in the name of Antonidus?”

The man hesitated slightly before replying. “I saw the name,” he said. His eyes were nervous and Julius knew he was adding to the truth.

“You glimpsed the document briefly, then?” he pressed.

“No, I saw it clearly,” the man replied more confidently.

“What was the amount the general paid?”

Behind the man, Rufius smiled at the ploy. It would not work, as the witness had been thoroughly prepared for such questions.

“It was one thousand sesterces,” the man returned triumphantly. His smile dropped at a sudden chorus of jeers from the crowd outside the court. Many heads turned toward the mass of plebeians, and Julius saw with the judges that the streets had filled as the trial went on. Every available space was taken and the forum itself was full of people. The magistrates looked at each other and the praetor firmed his mouth in anxiety. Such a large audience increased the dangers of disturbance, and he considered sending a runner to the barracks for more soldiers to keep the peace.

When the crowd was quiet, Julius spoke again.

“In preparation for this case, your honors, I had the house valued. If it was sold this morning, a buyer would be likely to pay in the region of a million sesterces, not a thousand. There is a passage from the Twelve Tables that has a bearing on the matter.”

As he prepared to quote from the ancient script, Rufius raised his eyes in boredom and the witness fidgeted, not yet dismissed.

“‘Property may not pass from vendor to purchaser unless value has been paid,' ” Julius said loudly. The crowd cheered the point, with a number of conversations breaking out as it was explained to those around them.

“A thousand sesterces for a property worth a million is not ‘value,' your honors. The sale was a farce of favors, a mockery of an auction. With not even a bill of sale to prove it existed, no legal transaction took place.”

Slowly, Rufius rose. “Caesar will have us believe that any bargain is in breach of the Tables,” he began.

The crowd hooted him and the praetor sent his runner for more soldiers.

“I say again that Caesar attempts to confuse the court with pointless distractions. The witness proves the sale was real. The amount is immaterial. My client is a shrewd bargainer.”

He sat down, hiding his annoyance at the point. He could not admit that the auction had been mere show for Sulla to reward his favorites, though Caesar had made that clear to everyone there, if they didn't know it already. Certainly the crowd hadn't known and many angry stares were turned on Antonidus, who visibly shrank in his seat.

“Furthermore,” Julius continued as if Rufius had not spoken, “as the matter of the value of the house has been raised by Antonidus's own witness, there is another issue I would like to bring to the attention of the court. If the verdict is with me as rightful heir to the property, I will demand the rent for the two years of occupancy by General Antonidus. A generous estimate of that amount is thirty thousand sesterces, which I add to my claim for the house as money denied my family in his time there.”

“What? How dare you ask for that?” Antonidus spluttered in anger, rising from his seat. Rufius pressed him back into it with difficulty, muttering urgently into his ear.

When Antonidus was still, Rufius turned back to the magistrates.

“He adds public scorn to his offenses, your honors, by goading my client. The house was empty when General Antonidus took legal possession after the sale. There is no rent at question here.”

“My family chose to keep it empty, as was their right. Still, the money could have been earned for me if not for the tenant you represent,” Julius snapped at him.

The magistrate cleared his throat, then bent his head to listen to the other two before speaking. After a conference that stretched on for a minute or more, he spoke again.

“The case is clear enough, it seems. Have either of you anything to add before we deliberate on the verdict?”

Julius racked his brain, but everything he wanted to say had been said. His gaze strayed over to the bronze shields that were still covered, but he resisted the urge to unveil them for the crowd, knowing the judges would see it as a cheap display. He wasn't at all sure which way the verdict would go, and when he turned to look at Quintus, the old man simply shrugged blankly.

“Nothing more, your honors. I rest,” Julius said.

The crowd cheered him and called insults to Rufius as he too ended his case. The three magistrates stood and bowed to the praetor before leaving for the Senate building, where they would thrash out their final verdict. The extra soldiers that had come running from the barracks cleared the way for them, armed not with staffs but swords.

When they had left, the praetor stood to address the crowd, pitching his powerful voice to carry over their heads.

“When the judges return, there will be no disturbance, whatever the outcome. Be sure that any hostility will be met with quick and final punishment. You will depart peacefully and any man who does not will suffer my displeasure.”

He took his seat again, ignoring the baleful stares that were focused on him from the people of Rome. The silence held for only a few seconds, then a lone voice called “Ma-ri-us!” and was quickly joined by those around him. In a few moments, the whole crowd was stamping and yelling the name, and the assembled members of the Senate looked around them nervously, suddenly aware that only a thin line of soldiers stood between them and the mob.

Moving with stately slowness, Julius decided the moment was right to reveal the rest of Alexandria's work. He caught her eye on the benches as he grasped the rough cloth that covered the first and saw she was grinning with excitement. Then he whipped it away and the crowd cheered raucously. It was the three crossed arrows of Primigenia, Marius's beloved legion. On the benches, Brutus stood on impulse to cheer as wildly as the crowd, and others close by him followed his lead.

The praetor snapped out some order to Julius, but it went unheard over the unruly crowd and Julius moved to the others, pulling away the coverings one by one. With each the crowd grew louder in their roaring as those who could see shouted out descriptions to those behind. Small children were hoisted to their parents' shoulders to see, and fists punched the air in raucous enjoyment. Scenes from Marius's life were shown, his battles in Africa, the Triumph through the streets of the city, his proud stance on the walls as he waited for Sulla.

Julius paused dramatically as he reached the last one, and the crowd quietened as if at an unseen signal. Then he pulled the cloth away to reveal the last shield. It shone in the morning light, completely blank.

Into the silence, Julius spoke. “People of Rome, we cast the last image on this day!” he cried, and they erupted into a bellow of cheering and shouts that had the praetor on his feet, shouting to his guards. The space between the crowd and the court was widened, with the soldiers using their staffs to push the people back. They moved away in confusion, yelling defiance and jeering Antonidus. The name of Marius began again as a chant and it seemed as if all Rome was shouting the name.

Cornelia watched in the gray light as Tubruk leaned toward Clodia and kissed her. He was so gentle, it almost hurt to watch, but she could not look away. She hid from their sight in a dark window, and felt more alone than ever. Clodia would ask for her freedom, she was sure, and then she would have no one.

Cornelia smiled bitterly as she probed the tender places of her memories. It should have been different. Julius seemed so full of life and energy as he took Rome in his hands, but none of it was for her. She remembered the words that used to pour out of him when Marius was still alive. She'd had to put a hand over his mouth to stop her father's servants from hearing as he talked and laughed with her. There had been such joy in him then. Now he was a stranger and though once or twice she had caught him looking at her with the old fire, it had gone as soon as she recognized it. There had been times when she'd gathered courage to demand that he make love to her, just to break the ice that was forming between them. She wanted it, even dreamed of him, but each time the memory of Sulla's rough fingers took her resolution and she slipped alone into her nightmares. Sulla was dead, she told herself, but she could still see his face and sometimes in the wind she thought she could smell his scent. Then terror would curl her into the bedclothes against the world.

Tubruk put his arm around her nurse and Clodia rested her head on his shoulder, whispering to him. Cornelia heard his deep chuckle for a moment and envied them what they had found. It was not in her to refuse if Clodia asked, though the thought of being the forgotten wife while Julius gloried in his city and his legion was unbearable. She had seen them before, those poisonous Roman matrons with nurses for their children and slaves to work in the houses. They spent their days buying rich cloth, or organizing a social circle that Clodia saw as a kind of death. How they would pity her when they clawed out the truth of a loveless marriage.

Cornelia rubbed angrily at her eyes. She was too young to be destroyed by this, she told herself. If it took a year to recover, then she would wait out the healing. Though he had changed in his prison, there was still the young man she'd known in Julius. The one who had risked life and her father's anger to come to her room over the slippery rooftops. If she could only keep that man in mind, she would be able to talk to him again and perhaps he would remember the girl he'd loved. Perhaps the conversation would not become an argument and neither of them would leave the other alone.

A shadow moved in the courtyard and Cornelia raised her head to see. It could have been one of the soldiers on his rounds, she thought, then let out her held breath as the graying night revealed him. Octavian, spying on the lovers. If she called to him, the moment of privacy Clodia and Tubruk had found would be spoiled, and she hoped the boy would have the sense not to get too close.

Julius too had grown up inside the walls and once had been as fascinated by love as Octavian.

She watched in silence as Octavian crouched behind a water trough and peered at Tubruk. The couple kissed again and Tubruk reached down to the ground, his fingers searching as he chuckled again. When he had found what he wanted, Cornelia saw his arm go back and jerk forward, sending a pebble clattering toward where Octavian hid.

“Go back to bed,” Tubruk called to the boy. Cornelia smiled, turning away to take the advice herself.

“The Senate doors are opening!” Quintus said at Julius's shoulder. Julius turned to see the magistrates returning.

“That was fast,” he said nervously to the jurist.

The old man nodded. “Fast is not good in a property case, I think,” he muttered ominously.

Julius tensed in sudden fear. Had he done enough? If the decision went against him and the judges accepted the call for a death penalty, he would be dead before the sun set. He could hear their sandals on the forum stones, as if they marked off his last moments. Julius felt sweat trickle down his side under his toga, cold against his skin.

With the rest of the court, he stood to receive the magistrates, bowing as they entered. The soldiers who had accompanied them from the Senate building took up their posts in a second line between the crowd and the court, their hands on their swords. Julius's heart sank. If they were expecting trouble, it could be the magistrates had warned them of the verdict already.

The three judges moved to their seats with slow dignity. Julius tried to catch their eyes as they settled, desperate for some clue of what was to come. They gave nothing away and the crowd became silent as the tension grew, waiting for them.

The magistrate who had spoken throughout the proceedings rose ponderously to his feet, his expression grim.

“Hear our verdict, Rome,” he called. “We have searched for truth and speak as law.”

Julius held his breath unconsciously and the silence that surrounded them seemed almost painful after the crashing cheers and chants before.

“I find in favor of General Antonidus,” the man said, his head and neck stiff. The crowd roared in anger, then a hush fell again as the second judge rose.

“I too find in favor of Antonidus,” he said, his gaze swinging over the unruly chaos of the crowd. A fresh bellow of jeers followed his words and Julius felt suddenly dizzy with reaction.

The tribune stood and looked over the crowd and the bronze images of Marius, his gaze at last falling on Julius.

“As tribune, I have the right to veto the judgments of my fellow magistrates. It is not a path I would choose lightly, and I have weighed the arguments with care.” He paused for emphasis and every eye was on him.

“I exercise that veto today. The judgment is with Caesar,” he said.

The crowd went berserk with joy and the chant of “Ma-ri-us” could be heard again, louder than ever.

Julius collapsed in his chair, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Well done, lad.” Quintus smiled toothlessly at him. “There's a lot of people who will know your name if you ever stand for higher office. I did enjoy the way you used those shields of yours. Showy, but they like that. Congratulations.”

Julius let out a long slow breath, still light-headed from being so close to catastrophe. His legs felt shaky under him as he crossed the floor to where Antonidus sat. Loudly enough for the magistrates to hear him over the crowd, he took the first part of his revenge for Cornelia.

“I lay hands on you for the sum of thirty thousand sesterces,” he said, gripping Antonidus's robe roughly.

The man stiffened in helpless rage, his eyes searching out Cato in the crowd on the benches. Julius too turned, still keeping his grip. He saw Cato meet the general's eyes and then slowly shake his head, his expression one of distaste. Antonidus seemed dazed at the turn in his fortunes.

“I do not have the money,” he said.

Rufius interrupted at Julius's side. “It is customary to allow thirty days to pay such a large debt.”

Julius smiled without humor. “No. I will have the money now, or the general will be trussed and sold as a slave in the markets.”

Antonidus struggled violently in his grip, unable to break it.

“You can't! Cato! You cannot allow me to be taken!” he shouted as Cato turned his back on him and prepared to leave the court. Pompey was in the crowd, watching the scene with avid interest. The general retained enough sense to stop his mouth from blurting out the secrets of the assassins. Either Pompey or Cato or the assassins themselves would have him tortured and killed at such a revelation.

Brutus stepped from his bench to stand by Julius. He carried a rope in his hands.

“Bind him, Brutus, but gently. I want to get as much as I can for him on the slave blocks,” Julius said harshly, letting his anger and contempt spill out for a moment.

Brutus completed the task with quick efficiency, finally gagging Antonidus to muffle his roaring. The magistrates looked on without a reaction, knowing the action was within the law, though the pair that had voted against Julius were red with silent anger.

When the job was done, Rufius caught Julius's attention with a hand on his arm.

“You spoke well, Caesar, but Quintus is too old to be a choice of jurist for the future. I hope you will remember my name if you need an advocate yourself?”

Julius stared at him. “I am unlikely to forget you, I think,” he said.

With Antonidus bound and claimed for slavery, the praetor dismissed the court and the crowd cheered again. Although Cato had moved first, most of the other senators stepped quickly down from the benches, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such a large mob of the citizens they represented.

Together, Julius and Brutus dragged the prone general over the floor of the court, depositing him roughly against the platform that held the shields.

Alexandria stepped around the milling senators to reach Julius, her eyes bright with the triumph.

“Well done. I thought they had you there for a moment.”

“So did I. I must thank the tribune for what he did. He saved my life.”

Brutus snorted. “He's one of the people, remember. They would have torn him apart if he'd judged against you like the others. Gods, look at them!” Brutus waved his arm at the citizens who clustered as close as they could to catch a glimpse of Julius.

“Stand up by the shields and acknowledge them,” Alexandria said, beaming at him. Whatever else happened, she knew her work would be in demand and fetch huge prices from the good and the great of Rome.

Julius stood and the crowd cheered him. A new chant started and a pleased flush started across his cheeks as he heard his own name slowly supplanting that of Marius.

He raised an arm in salute and knew what Quintus had said was right. The name of Caesar would stay in their minds, and who knew where that could take him?

The morning sun had risen to light the forum and gleam off the surfaces of the bronze shields Alexandria had created. They glowed and Julius smiled at the sight of them, hoping Marius could see them, wherever he was.

CHAPTER 33

The first warmth of spring was in the morning air as Julius ran through his beloved woods, feeling his legs stretch away the tensions of the days. With the excitement of the trial behind him, he spent most of his time with Renius and Brutus at the Primigenia barracks, returning home only to sleep. The men he had recruited in Africa and Greece were shaping well, and there was a new excitement amongst the original survivors as they saw Marius's beloved legion alive once more. The men Cato had procured for them were young and unscarred. Julius had been tempted to question them about their pasts, but resisted the impulse. Nothing before their oath mattered, no matter what Cato held over them. They would learn that in time. Renius spent every waking hour with them, using the experienced men to help him drill and train the new ones.

Though they were still at less than half strength, the word had been sent out to other cities and Crassus had promised to pay as many as they could call to the Primigenia standard. The debt to him was at a dizzy level, but Julius had agreed to it. For all the gold from Celsus, it took a fortune to make a legion, and Crassus stood against the Sullans, as he did. The vast sums simmered at the back of Julius's mind, ignored. Every day brought footsore travelers from all over the country, lured by the promises of scouts in distant provinces. It was an exciting time and as the sun set each evening, Julius left them reluctantly, looking forward only to the coldest of welcomes at his home.

Though they shared a bed, she jumped when he touched her and then she would rage at him until his temper snapped or he left to find a couch in another room. Every night was worse and he went to sleep tormented by longing for her. He missed her old self and sometimes he turned to her to share a thought or a joke only to find her face filled with a bitterness he could not begin to understand. At times, he was tempted to take another room and have a slave girl brought to him just to give him ease. He knew she'd hate him then and he suffered through the long nights until a constant snapping anger colored his waking hours and sleep was the only peace. He dreamed of Alexandria.

Though it shamed him, he had brought Octavian into the city on three occasions just to give him an excuse to stop at Tabbic's shop. On the third occasion, Brutus had been there, and after the three of them had stuttered through a few minutes of embarrassment, Julius had vowed not to go again.

He paused, panting as he crested the hill that overlooked his estate, not far from the new boundary fence hammered in by Suetonius's father. Perhaps it was time to do something about that, at last. With good clean air filling his lungs and a light sweat from the run, he felt a lift in spirits as he surveyed the land that was his. Rome was ready for change. He could feel it even as he felt the subtle shift of seasons that would bring back the heat of summer to the streets and fields.

A thunder of hooves jolted him out of his reverie, and Julius stepped off the path as the noise grew louder. He guessed who it was before he caught sight of the little figure, perched high on the back of the most powerful stallion in the stables. Julius noted the boy's balance and skill even as he forced a frown that brought Octavian to a shuddering stop in the damp leaves of the woods.

The stallion snorted and danced at being held back, tugging at the reins in a clear signal to go on. Octavian slid off his bare back with one hand buried in his mane. Julius said nothing as he approached.

“I'm sorry,” Octavian started, flushing with embarrassment. “He needed a run and the stable lads don't like to stretch him. I know I said-”

“Come with me,” Julius interrupted.

They walked in silence down the hill, a forlorn Octavian leading the stallion behind Julius. He knew a beating was likely or, worse, he could be sent back to the city and never see a horse again. His eyes filled with tears that he wiped quickly away. Julius would despise him if he saw him weeping like a baby. Octavian resolved to take his punishment without tears, even if it was to be sent away.

Julius called for the gate to be opened and marched Octavian over to the stables. Some of the horses had been sold when Tubruk raised the ransom, but the estate manager had kept the best bloodlines to let them rebuild the stock.

The sun was rising as Julius entered the shadowy stalls, bringing a blessed breath of warmth. Julius hesitated as the horses turned their heads to welcome him, sniffing the air with soft noses. Without a word of explanation, he crossed to a young stallion Tubruk had raised and trained from a foal and ran his hand over the powerful brown shoulder.

As Octavian looked on, Julius buckled the reins and chose a saddle from the rack on the stable wall. In silence, he led the gently snickering horse out into the morning sun.

“Why don't you take your pony out anymore?” he asked.

Octavian stared at him, completely at a loss. “He's too slow,” he said, patting his stallion's neck without noticing. The powerful horse towered over him, but stood calmly at the touch, showing nothing of the temper that irked the stableboys of the estate.

“You know you're kin to me, don't you?” Julius asked.

“My mother told me,” the boy replied.

Julius thought for a moment. He suspected his father would have taken a stick to his son if he had risked his best stallion galloping around the woods, but Julius didn't want to spoil the mood of optimism that had come to him. He had promised Alexandria, after all.

“Come on then, cousin. Let's see if you're as good as you think you are.”

Octavian's face lit up as Julius led the horses out together and watched as the boy leapt lightly onto his stallion's back. Julius mounted at a more sedate pace, then whooped suddenly and kicked his mount into a gallop up the hill.

Octavian watched him openmouthed for a moment, then a smile stole across his face as he pressed his heels and yelled a response, the wind making his hair fly.

When Julius came back into the house, Cornelia longed to embrace him. Flushed from the ride and with his hair made wild with dust, he looked so young and full of life that it broke her heart. She wanted to see him smile at her and feel the strength of his arms as he gathered her into them, but instead she found herself speaking angrily, the bitterness spilling uncontrollably even as part of her cried for softer words she could not find.

“How much longer do you expect me to live here as a prisoner?” she demanded. “You have your freedom, while I can't eat or walk anywhere without a group of your Primigenia bastards following me!”

“They are there to protect you!” Julius replied, shocked at the depth of her feelings.

Cornelia glared at her husband. “For how long, Julius? You know better than anyone that it could be years before your enemies cease to be a danger. Would you have me confined for the rest of my life? What about your daughter? When did you hold her last? Do you want her to grow up alone? Those soldiers even searched friends of my father's when they came to visit. They won't be back, you can be sure.”

“I have been working, Cornelia, you know that. I'll make time for her, I promise. Perhaps Primigenia has been overcautious,” Julius admitted, “but I told them to keep you safe until I have broken the threat of assassins.”

Cornelia swore, surprising him.

“All this based on what happened to Pompey's daughter! Has it occurred to you that there might not be any danger? For all we truly know, Pompey was attacked for something that had nothing to do with the Senate, yet as a result, I am forbidden even short trips into the city to break the monotony. It is too much, Julius. I cannot stand it.”

The words would not be held, though she writhed in confusion. This was not how it was meant to be. He must see her love, yet he was pulling away.

Julius looked at her, his expression hardening. “Do you want me to leave my family open to attack? I cannot. No, I will not. Already I am moving against my enemies. I broke Antonidus in full view of Cato and his supporters. They will know I am dangerous to them, and that increases the risk to you many times over. Even if their killers strike at me alone, they could stumble into you.”

Cornelia took a deep breath to slow her pounding blood. “Is it to save us, then, or to save your pride that we are prisoners in our own home?” She watched as his eyes tightened in anger, and she ached for him.

“What do you want me to say?” he snapped. “Do you want to go back to your father? Then go, but Primigenia will travel with you and make that place a fortress. Until my enemies are dead, you must be safe.”

He pressed his hands deeply into his eyes, as if to hold back the frustration that swept over him. He reached out to her and gathered her stiff body into his embrace.

“My pride has nothing to do with it, Cornelia. There is nothing more important in my life than Julia and you. The thought of someone hurting you is… unbearable. I must know you are safe.”

“That's not true though, is it?” she whispered. “You care more for the city than your own family. You care more for your reputation and the love of the people than for us.” Tears came from her and he held her tightly, resting his head on hers. Her words appalled him and he struggled with an inner voice that noted a kernel of truth in them.

“No, wife,” he said, forcing a lighter tone. “You are more than all the rest.”

She held herself away from him, looking up into his eyes. “Then come away with us, Julius. If that is true, take your gold and your family and leave this ugly dispute behind you. There are other lands to settle in, where Rome is too distant to trouble us and your daughter can grow without fear of knives in the night. She has nightmares even now, Julius. I fear more for what the confinement is doing to her than for myself. If we mean so much to you, then leave Rome.”

His eyes closed in grief. “You cannot… ask me for that,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. As he spoke, she broke his grip and stood apart from him and though his arms ached to hold her again, he could not. Her voice was harsh and loud, filling the room.

“Then don't preach to me about how much you care for us, Julius. Don't ever say that again. Your precious city keeps us in danger and you wrap yourself in lies of duty and love.” Tears of anger spilled from her red eyes once again, and she flung open the door, shoving roughly past the soldiers of Primigenia who kept station on the other side. Their faces were pale at what they had heard, but both men kept their gaze fastened on the floor as they followed Cornelia at a distance, fearful of provoking her any further.

In moments, Julius was left alone in the room and he sank numbly onto a couch. It was the third time they had argued in the three days since the trial, and the worst. He had come home full of the excitement of his triumph, and as he told her, it had somehow brought her feelings to a head, making her speak with an anger he had never seen before. He hoped Clodia was on hand. Only the old nurse seemed to be able to calm her. Anything he said made it worse.

Glumly, he thought back over the argument. She didn't understand the work he had undertaken in the city, and he clenched his fists in sudden irritation at himself. She was right: he had wealth enough to take them all away. The estate could be sold to his avaricious neighbors, and he could leave the struggles of the Senate and the dominions to others. Tubruk could retire and it would be as if the family of Caesar had never played a part in the greatest city.

A memory flashed into his mind of Tubruk pressing his fingers deep into the black earth of the fields when Julius was a little boy. Julius was of the land and could never leave it, though hurting Cornelia shamed him. She would see, when his enemies were broken, that this was simply a passing grief, and they would be able to watch their daughter grow in peace, in the arms of Rome. If Cornelia could only endure for the present, he would make it up to her in time. At last he shrugged off the dark lethargy that plagued him and stood. It was approaching noon, and with a Senate meeting scheduled for the early evening, he would have to be quick to complete his business with the house of Suetonius before making his way to the city.

Octavian was in the stables helping Tubruk to mount. The stallion Julius had ridden that morning gleamed from the brush. Julius patted the boy on the shoulder in thanks as he threw his leg into the saddle, the memory of the exhilarating ride easing his anger for a moment. Guiltily, he realized he was pleased to get away from the estate, from her.

The lands owned by Suetonius's father were closer to the city than Julius's own, with a great stretch that touched his own borders. Though the senator had no military rank, he employed a number of guards, who challenged the two travelers as soon as they passed the border, then accompanied them to the main buildings with professional caution and speed. Messengers were sent ahead as Julius and Tubruk approached the house entrance, and the two men exchanged glances at the efficiency.

The place where Suetonius had grown up was a sprawling mass of white-walled enclosures, nearly twice the size of the one Julius had inherited. The same stream that fed his own land ran through the Prandus holdings, and the grounds were lush with growth and color. Ancient pines shaded the entrance, and the path up to it was cool from the shadows cast by overhanging branches. Tubruk sniffed in disapproval.

“Impossible to defend, this place,” he muttered. “The trees give too much cover and it needs a good outer wall and gate. I could take it with twenty men.”

Julius didn't reply, thinking of his own home, with the cleared land all around it. He hadn't realized before what a mark Tubruk's influence had left, especially after the slave riots years before. Suetonius's house was beautiful and made his own seem stark and bare in contrast. Perhaps Cornelia would find time passed more easily if her surroundings were less like a soldiers' barracks.

They dismounted to pass through the entrance, a tiled arch leading into an open garden where they could hear the rush of running water hidden by flowering bushes and plants. Julius removed the heavy packs from the horses and shouldered his, with Tubruk taking the other, passing the reins into the hands of the slaves that came to greet them. They were shown to seats in a cool outer chamber and told to wait.

Julius settled himself comfortably, well aware that the senator could ignore their presence for a good part of the day. Tubruk went to a window to look at blooms that Julius thought might appeal to Cornelia around their own home.

A young male slave entered from the inner house and approached the two men.

“Senator Prandus welcomes you, Tribune. Please follow me.”

Tubruk raised his eyebrows in surprise at the speed of the response. Julius shrugged and the two of them followed the slave into a far wing, where the man opened a door for them and bowed as they entered.

Senator Prandus stood with his son in a room that resembled a temple more than a place to live. Rich, swirling marble lined the walls and floor, with the house shrine set into the far wall. The air smelled lightly of a soft and fragrant incense, and Julius breathed it in appreciatively. There was no doubt changes would have to be made at his estate. Every step of his feet brought new and interesting details to the eye, from the bust of an ancestor in the shrine to a collection of Greek and Egyptian relics on a wall that he itched to examine. It was a calculated display of wealth, but Julius took it all in as a guide to the changes he would make and missed the intended effect completely.

“This is unexpected, Caesar,” Prandus began.

Julius dragged his attention from his surroundings and smiled openly at the pair watching. “You have a beautiful home, Senator. Especially the gardens.”

Prandus blinked in surprise, then frowned as he was forced into courtesy. “Thank you, Tribune. I have worked many years to make it so, but you have not said why you are here.”

Julius lifted the pack from his shoulder and dropped it onto the marble floor with an unmistakable chink of coins.

“You know exactly why I am here, Senator. I have come to buy back the land that was sold to you during my confinement with your son.” Julius glanced at Suetonius as he spoke and saw the younger man had his features fixed into an arrogant sneer. Julius did not respond to it, keeping his own face blank. It was the father he would have to deal with.

“I had hoped to build my son a house on that land,” the senator began.

Julius interrupted him. “I remember you saying. I have brought the price you were paid and a quarter again to compensate you for the loss. I will not bargain with you for my land. I will not offer again,” he said firmly, untying the bag to reveal the gold.

“That is… a fair settlement,” Prandus said, looking at the bags. “Very well, I will have my slaves remove the boundary.”

“What? Father, you can't just…” Suetonius began angrily.

The senator turned to his son and gripped his arm tightly. “Be silent!” he snapped.

The younger man shook his head in disbelief as Julius approached to take his father's hand to seal the agreement. Without another word, Julius and Tubruk departed, leaving Suetonius alone with his father.

“Why did you do that?” he asked in furious amazement. His father's mouth twisted to mirror his own sneer.

“You are a fool, my son. I love you, but you're a fool. You were there at the trial with me. That man is not someone you want as an enemy. Is that clear enough for you?”

“But what about the house you were going to build? Gods, I've spent days with the architects already.”

Senator Prandus looked at his son, his eyes showing disappointment that hurt the younger man worse than a blow. “Trust me, Suetonius. You would have died in that house so close to his lands. Whether you realize it or not, I have kept you alive. I do not fear him for myself, but you are my eldest son and he is too dangerous for you. He frightens Cato and he should terrify you.”

“I'm not scared of Caesar, or his soldiers!” Suetonius shouted.

His father shook his head sadly. “That, my son, is why you are a fool.”

As Julius and Tubruk guided their horses through the estate gate, they heard a shout from the main building. Brutus ran out to meet them and their cheerful greetings died on their lips as they saw his expression.

“Thank the gods you've come back,” he said. “The Senate is calling everyone in. Primigenia has to be ready to move.” As he spoke, a slave brought his own mount out and he swung himself into the saddle.

“What's happening?” Julius snapped as Brutus took up his reins, feeling a surge of excitement.

“A slave rebellion in the north. Thousands of them and hundreds of gladiators who killed their keepers. Mutina has been overrun,” Brutus replied, his face pale under the road dust.

“That's not possible! There are two legions there,” Tubruk broke in, horrified.

“That was the report. The messengers are out all over, but I thought you'd want the news as fast as I could bring it.”

Julius turned his horse's head and gripped the reins tightly. “I can't take away the men guarding my wife, not with the danger of another rebellion spreading here,” he said flatly.

Brutus shrugged. “The order was to have every available soldier ready to march north, Julius, but I'll forget those ones,” he replied, reaching out to clap his friend's shoulder in support.

Julius gathered in his reins, ready to dig his heels into the horse's flanks. “Make the house secure, Tubruk,” he ordered. “If the rebellion spreads, we may come to appreciate the way you have set up the defenses after all. Keep my family safe, as you have done before.”

They shared a moment of private understanding as Tubruk looked into Julius's eyes. So Brutus couldn't hear, Julius leaned down over the shoulder of his stallion and whispered into Tubruk's ear.

“I know what I owe you,” he said. Sulla's death had saved them all.

“Don't worry. Now go!” Tubruk replied gruffly, slapping Julius's horse on the rump. The two young men bent low over the saddles as they kicked their mounts into a full gallop, raising a mist of dust on the road to Rome.

CHAPTER 34

The Senate building was buzzing with activity as Julius and Brutus approached. They dismounted at the edge of the forum and led their mounts toward the clustered groups of senators who were coming in from all directions, summoned to the emergency meeting from all over the city and beyond.

“How did you get the news so quickly?” Julius asked his friend as they crossed the space. Brutus looked uneasy, then his head came up.

“My mother told me about it. She has a number of… contacts in the Senate. She was probably one of the first to know.”

Julius noted a wariness in Brutus's manner and wondered at it. The young man had been pressing for a meeting between Servilia and himself, and Julius sensed how important it was to him.

“I really will have to see this mother of yours,” he said lightly.

Brutus flashed him a look, searching for mockery, and then relaxed, satisfied. “She is very interested in meeting you, after that trial. I want you to know her. She is like no one else I've met.”

“Perhaps tonight, then, if there's time,” Julius replied, hiding his reluctance. Tubruk had already offered a number of opinions on the woman, but he owed it to Brutus, if it was something he wanted.

Brutus took the reins of the two horses in one hand as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Come to the barracks afterward, if you can. I'll have Primigenia ready to march on your orders,” he said. His eyes were bright with an excitement that made Julius chuckle.

“As soon as I'm free,” he said, walking up the steps and into the gloom beyond.

The Master of Debate and the consul were still on their way, so no official discussion had begun as Julius entered the Senate building. Instead, half the full number of his colleagues were clustered in anxious knots, shouting questions and comments to each other in a clatter of noise that only served to heighten the impression of an emergency. There was no order to it, and Julius took the time to visit those he knew, picking up the details that Brutus had not heard.

Pompey was with Crassus and Cinna, engaged in a heated argument. They acknowledged Julius with a nod as he reached them, then the fast-talking continued.

“Of course you'll have command, my friend. There is no one else of note and even Cato won't hesitate with only the forces at Ariminum guarding the south,” Crassus said to Pompey.

The sun-dark commander shrugged, his face full of bitter knowledge. “He'd do anything to stop me taking military control, you know that. He must not be allowed to put up his own people. Look what happened in Greece! And the pirates that roam at will, attacking our merchants. If these gladiators are the same ones we failed to put down at Vesuvius, then Mutina was lost because of our timid policy since Sulla's death. All because Cato blocks the Senate from sending out a general equal to the task. You think this time will be any different?”

“It may be,” Cinna answered him. “Cato has holdings in the north that must be under threat from the slaves. They could even turn south and attack the city. Cato wouldn't be such an idiot as to ignore a threat to Rome. They must send you out. At least we have the legions back from Greece to join the others.”

“There is the consul, coming in. He must use his veto against Cato if the fat fool interferes. This is more than a personal matter between us. The safety of the north is at stake. The safety of Rome herself.”

Pompey left them, shoving rudely through the gathering senators to speak to the consul as he entered. Julius watched as he met the man, an elder elected to the position as a compromise between the Senate factions. As Pompey spoke to him, his hands moving with his words, the man looked nervous and intimidated. Julius frowned, tapping his fingers against his stomach in tension as the consul turned his back on the gesturing Pompey to step up to the rostrum.

“Take your seats, Senators,” the consul called.

The meeting oath was quickly taken and then the consul cleared his throat to address the tense ranks before him.

“You have been summoned for an emergency meeting to debate a response to the uprising. I have the latest reports with me and they are worrying. It was a revolt of gladiators from a ring school at Capua. At first the local praetor looked as if he could handle it, but he failed to contain the rebellion. It seems they have managed to gather a slave army and flee north. They have plundered a number of towns and estates, killing hundreds and burning anything they could not steal. The legate at Mutina engaged the slaves and the garrison was destroyed with no survivors.”

He paused. Those senators who had not heard the news gasped and shouted in outrage, and the consul raised his hands to calm them.

“Senators, this threat cannot be overstated. The legions at Ariminum have been told to secure the city, but with Mutina gone, the north is completely open. The estimates I have are varied, but they may have as many as thirty thousand slaves under their command, with more coming in as they ravage each town. I can only assume they overwhelmed the Mutina legions with vast numbers. They must be met with the largest force we can muster while still keeping our southern borders secure. I need not tell you that we cannot strip garrisons from Greece without dire risk so soon after their own rebellion.

“At present, they show no sign of turning toward Rome, but if they do so, there are more than eighty thousand slaves who could rally to their cause by the time they reach the south. This is a grave threat and our response must be swift and final.”

The consul glanced quickly at Cato, then Pompey.

“I ask at this time that you put aside your grievances for the good of the city and Roman lands. I call on the Master of Debate to hear the responses.”

The consul sat down, wiping his brow nervously, obviously relieved to be able to pass the meeting to another. The Master of Debate had held his post for a number of years, his experience giving him a detachment that served to cool the hottest tempers. He waited patiently for quiet before choosing his first speaker.

“Pompey?”

“Thank you. Senators, I ask to be given command of the legions sent against these rebels. My record speaks for me as qualification and I urge you to vote quickly. Every soldier of Rome within a hundred miles has been called back to the city. Within a week, we should have an army of six legions to send against the slaves, joining with the two at Ariminum when we reach it. If we delay, this slave army will grow further until it may be impossible to stop. Remember that they outnumber us, Senators, even in our own homes. Grant me the command and I will destroy them in the name of the Senate.”

Pompey sat down to scattered cheers and stamping of feet. He did not respond to the noise, his gaze fixed on the figure of Cato, who had risen slowly, his face flushed.

“Cato to speak,” the Master of Debate confirmed.

“Pompey's record is indeed a fine one,” Cato began, smiling at the stone-faced senator across the benches. “I agree with him that a force must be assembled and sent to strike quickly before the fire of the rebellion burns the north. However, there are other choices for men to command the force we send, others who bear the rank of general and have experience in fighting for Rome. It strikes me that a man who puts himself forward may not be suitable for such a role. Better we appoint a general who is acceptable to all of us for this difficult task. I confess Pompey's eagerness makes me uneasy given our recent city history, and instead I suggest the command is handed to Lepidus, fresh returned from Greece.” He sat down in silence before a babble of angry shouts and conversation broke out, with both factions abusing the other.

“Be silent, gentlemen. You do not serve Rome with your spite,” the Master of Debate said across them, bringing a restless stillness back to the benches. He looked around at the seated senators and nodded to Julius, who had risen at the end of Cato's speech.

“I was a witness to the caution of Lepidus against Mithridates. He was late to engage and had barely moved beyond his landing place when I came upon him to hand over the body of the Greek king. I have seen too many such compromises in this Senate. Lepidus is a poor choice, when we need to move quickly and crush the rebellion before it grows out of control. We must put aside our grievances and factions to grant the command to the one who will achieve most and fastest. That is Pompey.”

The Master of Debate nodded his agreement, dropping his usually impartial stance, but was then compelled to recognize Cato as the man stood again.

“I am concerned that the threat against us is being used as a blind for ambition, Senators. Lepidus will never endanger us when the battles are over, but Pompey may well have his eyes on a future even as we discuss this choice. My vote will be for Lepidus.” The man lowered himself carefully back into his seat, glaring at Julius for a moment.

“Are there any other candidates? If so, let them rise, or we will go directly to a vote.” The Master of Debate waited, his gaze sweeping the rows.

Crassus stood stiffly, ignoring the surprise of Cato's supporters. He received the nod to speak and crossed his hands behind his back, like a tutor addressing his wards.

“Senators, I fear that politics will bring us to the wrong choice for the city. I do not know who would win a vote between Pompey and Lepidus as commanders, but if it is Lepidus, that could only lead to disaster. I put myself forward as a third candidate to prevent the waste of lives that would surely result from any command by Lepidus. Though I have devoted myself to business in recent years, I too rest on my previous record with the legions, for your approval.”

Once again, the noise of conversation broke out all over the Senate hall as Crassus sat. Pompey was amazed at the revelation from his friend and tried to catch his eye without success as Crassus looked away from him. As the noise died, Pompey stood, his hands tightening into fists unconsciously.

“I withdraw my name from consideration in favor of Crassus,” he said bitterly.

“Then we will move to a vote without further delay. Rise for your choice, gentlemen,” the Master of Debate replied, as surprised as anyone by the turn of events. He waited a few moments more for the senators to make up their minds, then began to call the names.

“Lepidus!”

Julius craned his neck with everyone else still seated to judge the numbers, then breathed out in satisfaction. There were not enough to carry the vote.

“Crassus!” the Master of Debate intoned, smiling to himself.

Julius stood with Pompey and the others who had judged the choice correct. The Master of Debate nodded to the consul, who stood and gripped the rostrum before him.

“Crassus is appointed general of the north armies assembling and is ordered to take the field against the rebellion and destroy it utterly,” the consul said.

Crassus stood to thank the senators.

“I will do my utmost to preserve our lands and the city, gentlemen. As soon as the legions are brought together in the Campus Martius, I will move against the rebels.”

He paused for a moment and smiled slyly.

“I will keep the legates in place under me, but I must have a second-in-command should I fall. I name Gnaeus Pompey as that second.”

Curses and cheers broke out all over, with the calls for quiet from the Master of Debate ignored. Julius laughed at the stroke and Crassus inclined his head toward him in acknowledgment, clearly enjoying himself.

“Keep silence!” the Master of Debate bellowed above them, finally losing his temper. The babble subsided under his glare, but slowly.

“We should move on to the details, Senators,” the consul said, shuffling through his papers. “Our runners report that the slaves are well armed after Mutina, having outfitted themselves with legionary supplies and armor. One of our people claims to have seen the gladiators training the slaves in sword and spear work, mimicking our formations on the field. After Mutina, they should not be underestimated.” The consul licked his fingers nervously as he scanned the sheaf of parchments in front of him.

“Do they have officers?” Pompey called out.

The consul nodded as he read. “It seems they have a structure based on our own legions in every way. I have the original message from the owner of the barracks where the gladiators escaped. It's here, somewhere.”

The senators waited patiently as the consul found the paper he was looking for.

“Yes, there were seventy of them and all the guards were killed. The barracks slaves went with them, though whether they were willing or forced, the man does not know. He claims to have barely escaped with his own life. It seems these gladiators form the officer class of the army.”

“Who leads this rabble of gladiators?” Pompey demanded, uncaring that his tone went some way to confirm the fiction of Crassus's leadership.

The consul searched through the papers again, and licked his fingers more than once to separate them.

“Yes, I have it. They are led by a gladiator named Spartacus, a Thracian. He began it and the rest followed him. There is nothing more, but I will pass anything further to Crassus as the reports come in.”

“With your permission, gentlemen, I would like to leave with my second to prepare for the march ahead of us,” Crassus said.

As he turned, he tapped his hand on Julius's shoulder. “I want Primigenia with me when we go, Julius,” he said quietly.

“They will be ready,” Julius promised.

Crassus lay back in the warmth of the sunken bath, allowing the difficulties of the day to slide away from him. Darkness had come early outside, but the bathing room was lit with softly flickering lamps and candles, the air thick with steam from the water. He rested his arms along the marble sill, enjoying the coolness against his skin. The water came to his neck, but with the smooth stone seat under the surface, he could relax completely. He exhaled slowly, wondering why the pool in his own estate could never be as comfortable.

Servilia sat naked in the water across from him, only her shoulders above the surface. When she moved, the swelling curves of her breasts eased into view for tantalizing moments before they slid down again, blurred by the sweet oils she'd poured for them both. She'd known it was what he wanted as soon as he came to her from his generals, tired and irritable. That had all gone as her fingers worked away the painful spots from his neck before he stepped into the deep pool, set into the floor of a private part of her home. She could always sense his mood.

She watched as the tension of the day left Crassus, amused by his sighs and groans. She knew what hardly anyone else suspected of the aging senator, that he was a terribly lonely man who had accumulated fortunes and influence without holding on to the friends of his youth. He rarely wanted anything more from her than the chance to talk in privacy, though she knew the sight of her nakedness could still arouse him, if she let it. It was a comfortable relationship, without the sordid worry of payment to spoil the intimacy. He offered her no coin but the conversations, though they were sometimes worth much more than gold.

The oils glittered on the surface of the pool, and she traced patterns in them with a finger, knowing he would be enjoying the sight of her.

“You have brought Primigenia back,” she said. “My son is wonderfully proud of the men he's found for the name.”

Crassus smiled slowly. “If you'd known Marius, you would understand why it gave me such pleasure to do it.”

He chose not to remind her of the part Pompey and Cinna had played, preferring not to hear their names in her house. That was another thing she understood without it having to be said.

Servilia raised herself out of the water, laying her slender arms out to the sides, so that her breasts were fully visible. She was very vain about them and she moved without embarrassment. Crassus smiled appreciatively, completely comfortable with her.

“I was a little surprised to hear he'd given command to Julius,” he said.

Servilia shrugged, which fascinated him. “He loves him,” she replied. “Rome is lucky to have sons like those two.”

“Cato would not agree, my dear. You must be wary of him.”

“I know, Crassus. They are both so very young. Too young to see the danger of mounting debts, even.”

Crassus sighed. “You came to me for help, remember? I have set no limit on Primigenia's purse. Would you have me cancel the debt? I would be laughed at.”

“For raising Marius's legion back from the ashes? Never. You have acted as a statesman, Crassus; they will know that. It was a noble thing to do.”

Crassus chuckled, resting his head back on the cool stone and staring up at the ceiling where the steam hung in a cooling mist.

“You are flattering me rather obviously, don't you think? We are not discussing a small sum, for all the pleasure it brought me to see Primigenia back on the rolls.”

“Have you thought that Julius may pay the debt? He has the gold for it.” As the air cooled on her skin, she shivered slightly and sank back into the water. “So much better for you to make a gift of it, a grand gesture to shame the petty men in the Senate. I know you care nothing for money, Crassus, which is why you have so much. It is the influence it brings that you love. There are other kinds of debts. How many times have I passed on information that you used for profit?”

She shrugged in answer to her own question, making the steaming water ripple away from her. Crassus lifted his head with an effort, letting his gaze play over her. She smiled at him.

“It is a part of my friendship and it has given me pleasure to help you once in a while. My son will always think kindly of you if you gift the money to him. Julius will support you in anything. You could not buy such men with coins, Crassus. They have too much pride, but a forgiven debt? That is a noble act and you know it as well as I do.”

“I will… think about it,” he said, his eyes closing.

Servilia watched him as he sank into light sleep and the water cooled around her. He would do as she wanted. Her own thoughts drifted back to seeing Julius at the trial. Such a forceful young man. When her son had passed over Primigenia to him, she wondered if they had considered the debt to Crassus. It would not be a burden now. Odd how the thought of her son's gratitude was a minor pleasure compared to Julius knowing she had been a part of the gift.

Idly, she let her hands slide over her stomach as she thought of the young Roman with the strange eyes. He had a force in him that was no more than echoed in the sleeping Crassus, though it was the old man who would take the legions north.

One of her slaves entered the room in silken silence, a beautiful girl Servilia had rescued from a farm in the north.

“Your son is here, madam, with the tribune,” the girl whispered.

Servilia glanced at Crassus, then signaled the girl to take her place in the warm water. If he woke, he would not be pleased to find himself alone, and the girl was attractive enough to catch even his interest.

Servilia pulled a robe around her still-wet skin and shivered slightly in anticipation.

She paused for a moment in front of a huge mirror set into the wall and pushed her damp hair back from her forehead. Her stomach felt light with a surprising tension at the thought of meeting Julius at last, and she smiled at herself in amusement.

Brutus sat with Julius in a chamber that had nothing of the artistry she employed for her business rooms. It was simply furnished and the walls were covered in subtly patterned cloth that gave a feeling of warmth. A fire flickered in the grate and the light was golden as both of them rose to greet her.

“It's good to see you at last, Caesar,” she said, extending a hand. Her robe clung to her damp skin exactly as she had hoped it would, and his expression gave her pleasure as he struggled not to stare at her.

Julius felt overwhelmed by her. He wondered if Brutus was troubled by the fact that she seemed almost naked, despite the thin cloth that covered her skin. He saw she had been bathing and his pulse thumped at the thought of what might have been going on before his arrival. Not beautiful, he thought, but when she smiled, there was something utterly without pretense in her sensuality. He was dimly aware that he hadn't slept with a woman for so long he had almost forgotten, and even then, he didn't remember Cornelia or Alexandria stirring him as this one did so effortlessly.

He flushed slightly as he took her hand.

“Your son speaks very highly of you. I'm glad we could meet, even for just a moment before I return home. I'm sorry I can't stay longer.”

“Primigenia will be mustering to put down the rebellion,” she said, nodding. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her words. “I won't keep you and I should return to my bath. Just remember you have a friend if you ever need me.”

Julius wondered if there really was a promise in the eyes that looked so warmly back at him. Her voice was low and soft and he could have listened to it for a long time. He shook his head suddenly, as if to break a trance.

“I will remember,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he considered her. As she looked at Brutus, he stole a glance to where the lines of damp cloth curved around her breasts, and flushed again as she caught his glance and smiled with obvious pleasure.

“You must bring him again, Brutus, when you have more time. My son speaks highly of both of us, it seems.”

Julius looked at his friend, who was frowning slightly.

“I will,” Brutus replied. He led Julius away and left her looking after them. Her fingers brushed lightly over her breasts as she thought of the young Roman, the hard nipples having little to do with the air on her skin.

Brutus found Alexandria's home easily, despite the dark of the streets. In the armor of Primigenia, he was an uninviting target for the raptores who preyed on the weak and the poor. Octavian's mother, Atia, answered the door with a look of fear that vanished as she recognized him. He entered behind her, wondering how many others lived in terror of soldiers coming for them in the night. While the senators surrounded themselves with guards, the people of Rome could afford no protection other than the doors they barred against the rest of the city.

Alexandria was there and Brutus was struck with embarrassment as Octavian's mother prepared their evening meal only feet away.

“Is there somewhere more private for us to talk?” he asked.

Alexandria glanced at the open doorway to her room, and Atia tightened her mouth to a thin line.

“Not in my house,” she said, frowning at Brutus. “The two of you aren't married.”

Brutus flushed. “I'm leaving tomorrow. I just wanted to…”

“Oh, yes, I understand very well what you wanted, but it's not happening in my house.” Atia went back to cutting vegetables then, leaving Brutus and Alexandria to stifle giggles that would only have confirmed her suspicions.

“Would you come outside with me, Brutus? I'm sure Atia can trust you in the view of the neighbors,” Alexandria said. She pulled on her cloak and followed him out into the night as Atia upended her chopping board into the stewpot, unmoved.

Alexandria stepped into his arms and they kissed. Though it was dark, the streets were still crowded. Brutus looked around him in irritation. The little doorway hardly offered shelter from the wind, never mind the kind of privacy he wanted.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, and in fact he had been hoping for exactly the kind of meeting Atia had prevented. He was leaving to fight on distant battlefields, and it was almost a tradition to find a welcoming bed for the night before.

Alexandria chuckled, kissing him on the neck, where his armor made his skin cold.

“Pull my cloak around us,” she whispered into his ear, quickening his pulse. He arranged the cloth so that it wrapped them both and they were breathing each other's breath.

“I'm going to miss you,” he said wistfully, feeling her body press closely against him. He had to grip the cloak with one hand, but the other was free to slide against the warmth of her back and, when his fingers had warmed, under her stola and against her flesh. She gasped slightly.

“I think Atia was right,” she whispered, not wanting the woman's sharp ears to hear them. With his broad hand on her hip, she felt as if she were naked with him, and the crowds rushing by in the darkness only added to her excitement. The cloak formed a warm space against the cold and she held him tightly, feeling the hard lines of his armor. He was bare-legged, as always, and it was with a shocking sense of daring that she put her hands on his thighs, feeling the smooth strength of them.

“I should call her to protect me from you,” she said, moving her hands upward. She found soft cords and loosened them to feel the heat of him against her hand. He groaned softly at the encircling touch, glancing around him to see if anyone had noticed. The crowds were oblivious in the dark and suddenly he didn't care if they could be seen or not.

“I want you to remember me while you are away, young Brutus. I don't want you looking wistfully at those camp whores,” she whispered. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“I wouldn't… oh gods. I've wanted you for such a long time.”

Under the cloak, she unbuttoned her stola and eased him into her, her eyes shuddering closed with the movement. He lifted her weight easily and, together, they braced against the doorway, unaware of anything else around them as they moved in silence. The crowd jostled near them, but no one stopped and the night swallowed them.

Alexandria bit her lip in pleasure, gripping the cloak tighter and tighter around them until it almost cut into her throat. His chestplate pressed coldly against her, but she didn't feel the discomfort, just the heat of him inside her. His breath was hot on her lips as she shuddered and felt him begin to tense.

It seemed to last a long time before they became aware again of cramping muscles and the cold. Alexandria moaned softly as he eased out of her. Brutus stayed close in the darkness, stroking the skin he couldn't see in some sort of wonder. Heat swirled into the air, made by them. He looked into her eyes and they gazed back at him. There was a vulnerability there, for all her outward confidence, but it did not matter. He would not hurt her. He struggled to find words to tell her what she meant to him, but she put a hand over his mouth to still the babble.

“Shhh… I know. Just come back to me, my handsome man. Just come back.”

She arranged the cloak to cover her disarray beneath it and, after kissing him one last time, opened the door onto light that vanished with her, leaving him alone.

Brutus spent a moment arranging himself to be decent enough to walk the streets. Every nerve tingled with the touch of her and he felt completely alive with the intensity of what had happened. He swaggered a little as he walked back to the barracks, and his step was light.

CHAPTER 35

Gasping slightly in the cold air, Julius turned to look back at the glittering snake that wound down the Via Flaminia below the high pass. The first three days had been hard on him, before the fitness of his time in Greece began to return. Now his legs had hardened into ridges of muscle, and he relished the pleasure that comes from simple exertion with a body that feels inexhaustible. By the end of the tenth day, he was enjoying the march to Ariminum with the legions at his back. In the evenings in camp, he practiced the gladius with the experts Crassus had brought along, and though he knew he would never be a master, his wrists were strengthening day by day and only the sword teachers themselves could break through his guard.

The wind gusted around the marching column and Julius shivered slightly. Although he'd seen many different lands in his time away from Rome, the cold of the Apenninus peaks was new and he bore it with a grim dislike that was mirrored in many of the soldiers around him.

To break the taste of dust in his throat, Julius took a gulp from his waterskin, shifting the heavy weight of his equipment to pull the stoppered mouth toward his lips. The column stopped only twice a day: briefly at noon and then the evening halt, which began with three hours of exhausting work to prepare the camp boundary against ambush or attack. He looked back again at the legion column and marveled at the length of it. From the high pass through the mountains, he could see a huge distance in the clear air, but the invisible rear guard of cavalry was more than thirty miles behind him. As Crassus was pushing a fast pace of twenty-five miles from dawn till dusk, it meant those at the rear were a day behind the front and would only catch up at Ariminum. Each halt had to be relayed along the column by the cornicens, with the blared notes dwindling with distance until they could not be heard.

Ranging up the steep slopes around were the units of extraordinarii horsemen, scouting the forward line. Mounted on sturdy breeds and advancing in crisscrossing patterns, they covered three or four times the distance the column marched. It was a standard tactic, Julius knew, though anyone who dared to attack a column of their strength would have to be suicidal.

At the head was the vanguard legion, chosen by lot each day. With Primigenia understrength, they could not take part in the changeovers and were permanently stationed ten miles back, lost to view in the center of the column. Julius wondered how Brutus and Renius were finding the march. Cabera was older than some of the veterans who had fought Mithridates with him. Back in Rome, Julius had thought it would be important to be close to Crassus, but he missed his friends. No matter how he strained his eyes, he couldn't pick out the Primigenia eagle standard from the smudge of banners behind. He watched the legion cavalry ranging up and down the column like the soldier ants he'd seen in Africa, always looking outward for an attack, which they would bear while the fighting lines formed.

Julius marched with the vanguard, within shouting distance of Crassus and Pompey, who rode at walking pace with the men they led. With more than four thousand men ahead of them when the night halt sounded, the generals had arranged it so that the main camp was laid out and the tents erected as they reached it. They were able to begin their discussions and meal while the rest dug the huge earthworks around them, creating a perimeter capable of stopping almost anything.

The three camps were marked out with flags in exactly the same way each evening. By the time the sun finally set behind the mountains, the six legions were enclosed in huge squares complete with main roads: towns sprung from nothing in the wilderness. Julius had been astonished at the organization the older soldiers took for granted. Each night, he hammered in the iron tent pegs with the others at the place marked for them. Then he joined the units digging the trench and staking the top of the earthworks that formed the outer wall of the safe ground, unbroken except for four gates complete with guards and watchwords. Though his tutors had taught him a great deal about the legion routines and tactics, the reality was fascinating to Julius, and from the first, he saw that part of their strength came from mistakes learned in the past. If Mithridates had established a border like the one the legions put down, he knew he could still be in Greece, looking for a way in.

The path for the stones of the Via Flaminia had been cut through a narrow gorge between slopes of loose scree. Though the light was already fading, Julius guessed Crassus would keep the soldiers marching until the van reached clear ground wide enough for the first camp. One of the legions would have to move back onto the plains below for safety, which would leave the pass free except for the guards and extraordinarii who stayed on mounted patrol through darkness. No matter what happened, the legions could not be surprised by any enemy, a precaution they had learned more than a hundred years before, fighting Hannibal on the plains. Julius remembered Marius's admiration for the old enemy. Yet even he had fallen in the end to Rome.

Though the land may once have been savage, now the wide capstones of the Via Flaminia cut through the mountains, with guard posts every twenty miles along its length. Villages had often sprung up around these as people gathered under the Roman shadow. Many found employment in maintaining the road and sometimes Julius saw small groups of laborers, on the grass verge, pleased to be idle for once.

At other times, Julius passed merchants forced off the road, who regarded the soldiers with a combination of anger and awe. They could not move toward Rome while the legions marched, and those that carried spoiling goods watched with dark expressions as they calculated the loss to come. The legionaries ignored them. They had built the trade arteries with their hands and backs and had first call on their use.

Julius wished Tubruk were with him. In his time, he had traveled the same route through the mountains and right across the vast plains in the north where Crassus hoped to engage the slave army. The estate manager would not have wanted another campaign, even if Julius could have spared him from the task of keeping Cornelia safe.

His mouth tightened unconsciously as he thought of the parting. It had been bitter, and though he'd hated having to leave with the anger still fresh between them, he could not delay joining Primigenia in the midst of the great host on the Campus Martius, standing ready to march north.

The memories of the last time he had left the city were still raw in him. Rome had burned on the horizon behind him as Sulla's men hunted down the remnants of Primigenia. Julius grimaced as he marched. The legion lived, while Sulla's poisoned flesh was reduced to ash.

The trial had gone some way to restoring Marius's name in the city, but while Sulla's friends still lived and played their spiteful games in the Senate, Julius knew he could not build the sort of Rome that Marius had wanted. Cato was safe enough while his main opponents were in the field, but when they returned, Julius would join forces with Pompey to break him. The general understood the need as few others could. For a moment, Julius considered the fate of Cato's son. It would be too easy to put him in the first rank of every charge until he was killed, but that was a cowardly sort of victory over Cato. He vowed if Germinius died, it would be as any other soldier, at the whim of fate. Pompey's daughter had been found with Sulla's name on a clay token in her limp hand, but Julius would not stoop to killing innocents, though he hoped Cato would be terrified for his son. Let him lose sleep while they fought for Rome.

Long, bitter months of campaign had to come first. Julius knew he'd be lucky to see the city walls again in less than a year, and much longer if the slaves were as well led as the reports claimed. He could be patient. Only an army could take his estate, and Cornelia's father, Cinna, had remained behind to block Cato in the Senate. They had formed a very private alliance and Julius knew that with the strength of Pompey and the wealth of Crassus, there was little they couldn't achieve.

The cornicens blew the halt sign as Julius marched through the pass into fading sunlight. He could see the Via Flaminia stretching down into a deep valley before working up the heights of a distant black peak that was said to be the last climb before Ariminum. He wished Brutus could be with him to see it, or Cabera, who traveled with the auxiliaries even farther down the column. His tribune rank had allowed him to take station close to the front, but the march in battle order was not a place for friends to idle away the time.

With the sun setting, the first watch took positions, leaving their shields with their units from long tradition. Order was imposed on the broken landscape. Ten thousand soldiers ate quickly and bedded down in the miniature town they had made. Through the night, they were woken in turns to stand their watches, the returning sentries taking the still-warm pallets with relief after the mountain cold.

Julius stood his watch in darkness, looking over the wall of earthworks at the harsh land beyond. He accepted a wooden square from the hands of a centurion and memorized the watchword cut into it. Then he was left alone in the dark, with the camp silent at his back. With a wry smile, he understood why the guards were denied shields: it was too easy to rest your arms on the top rim, then your head on your arms, and doze. He stayed alert and wondered how long it had been since a sentry had been found asleep. The punishment was being beaten to death by your own tentmates, which tended to keep even the weariest soldier from closing his eyes.

The watch was uneventful and Julius exchanged places with another from the tent, willing sleep to come quickly. The problems with Cornelia and Cato seemed distant as he lay with his eyes closed, listening to the snores of the men around him. It was easy to imagine there wasn't a force in the world to trouble the vast array of might that Crassus had marched north from Rome. As he passed into sleep, Julius's last thought was the hope that he and Brutus would have the chance to make a beacon of the name Primigenia in the bloodshed to come.

Octavian yelled a high-pitched cry of challenge to the swarm of adversaries all around him. They hadn't realized that he was a warrior born and every blow he struck left another one dying, calling for their mothers. He lunged to spear the leader, who bore a strong resemblance to the butcher's apprentice in his fevered imagination. The enemy soldier fell with a gurgle and beckoned Octavian close to his bloody mouth to hear his final words.

“I have fought a hundred battles, but never met an opponent so skilled,” he whispered with his last breath.

Octavian whooped and ran around the stables, whirling the heavy gladius over his head. Without warning, a powerful hand gripped his wrist from behind and he yelped in surprise.

“What do you think you are doing with my sword?” Tubruk asked, breathing hard through his nose.

Octavian winced in expectation of a blow, then opened his eyes slowly when it didn't come. He saw the old gladiator was still glaring at him, waiting for an answer.

“I'm sorry, Tubruk. I just borrowed it for practice.”

Still holding the little boy's wrist too firmly to permit escape, Tubruk reached over and took the sword from unresisting fingers. He brought the blade up and swore in anger as he looked at it, making Octavian jump. The boy's eyes were wide with fear at the expression that crossed Tubruk's face. He had not expected him to return from the fields for another few hours, and by that time the sword would have been back in its place.

“Look at that! Have you any idea how long it will take to get an edge back on it? No, of course you haven't. You're just a stupid little fool who thinks he can steal anything he wants.”

Octavian's eyes filled with tears. He wanted nothing more in the world than to have the old gladiator approve of him, and the disappointment was worse than pain.

“I'm sorry. I just wanted to borrow it. I'll sharpen it so you can't see the marks!”

Tubruk looked again at the blade. “What did you do, smash it deliberately? That can't be sharpened. It needs to be completely reground, or better still, thrown away for scrap. I've carried that sword through bouts in the gladiator ring and three wars, and all that is undone by one thoughtless hour with a boy who can't keep his hands away from other people's belongings. You've gone too far this time, I swear it.”

Too furious to speak further, Tubruk threw the sword onto the ground and let go of the snivelling child, storming out of the stables and leaving him alone with his misery.

Octavian picked up the weapon and ran his thumb over the edge, which had been folded right over in some places. He thought if he could find a good sharpening stone and disappear from the estate for a few hours, by the time he returned Tubruk would have calmed down and he could give him the sword back. A vision of the old gladiator's surprise as Octavian handed him the restored blade came into his mind.

“I thought it couldn't be done!” he imagined Tubruk saying as he examined the new edge. Octavian thought he might not say anything then, but simply assume a humble expression until Tubruk ruffled his hair, the incident forgotten.

The daydream was interrupted by Tubruk's return, and Octavian dropped the sword in fear as he saw the old gladiator had a heavy leather strap in one hand.

“No! I said I was sorry! I'll fix the sword, I promise,” Octavian bawled, but Tubruk kept a fierce silence as he dragged him out of the stables into the sunlight. The little boy struggled hopelessly as he was pulled across the courtyard, but the hand that held him was rigid with an adult strength he couldn't break, for all the growing he'd done.

Tubruk heaved open the main gate with the hand that held the strap, grunting with the effort.

“I should have done this a long time ago. There's the road back to the city. I suggest you take it and make sure I don't lay eyes on you again. If you stay here, I am going to beat your backside until you know better. What's the word? Leave or stay?”

“I don't want to go, Tubruk,” the boy cried, sobbing in terror and confusion. Tubruk firmed his mouth, deaf to his pleas.

“Right then,” he said grimly, and took hold of Octavian by his tunic, bringing the strap down on his bottom with a snap that echoed around the yard. Octavian pulled madly to get away and yelled incoherently in a wail, but Tubruk ignored him, raising the strap again.

“Tubruk! Stop that!” Cornelia said. She had come out into the yard to see the source of so much noise and now faced the pair of them, her eyes blazing. Octavian used the moment to yank his tunic from Tubruk's grasp and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her and hiding his head in her dress.

“What are you doing to the boy, Tubruk?” Cornelia snapped.

The estate manager didn't reply, stepping close to her to grab hold of Octavian once again. Even with his head pressed deep in the cloth of her dress, Octavian sensed him coming and skittered out of the way behind her. Cornelia used her hands to hold Tubruk at bay in a frantic surge of energy that made him take a step back, his chest heaving.

“You will stop this at once. He's terrified, can't you see?” Cornelia demanded.

Tubruk shook his head slowly, his eyes flickering up to hers. “It'll do him no good when he's grown if you let him hide behind you now. I want him to remember this and I want it to come back to him the next time he thinks of stealing something.”

Cornelia bent down and took Octavian's hands in hers. “What did you take this time?” she said.

“I only borrowed his sword. I meant to put it back, but it went blunt and before I could sharpen it, Tubruk came back,” Octavian wailed wretchedly, watching Tubruk out of the corners of his eyes in case he made another attempt to lay hands on him.

Cornelia shook her head. “You damaged his sword? Oh, Octavian. That's too much. I have to give you back to Tubruk. I'm sorry.”

Octavian screamed as she detached his fingers from her dress with firm strength and Tubruk took hold of his tunic again. Cornelia chewed her bottom lip unhappily as Tubruk brought the strap down four more times, then let Octavian run away into the soothing darkness of the stables.

“He's terrified of you,” Cornelia said, looking after the boy as he ran.

“Perhaps, but it was called for. I've let him get away with things I never would have stood from Julius or Brutus when they were boys. He spends half his time in a dream world, that one. It won't have done him any harm to have his bottom warmed. Maybe next time he looks to steal, it will slow his hands a little.”

“Is the sword ruined?” Cornelia asked, still unsure of herself around this man who had known Julius when he was as young as Octavian.

Tubruk shrugged. “Probably. But the boy won't be, which is more than I could say if he'd gone his happy way in the city for much longer. Leave him in the stables for a while. He'll have a good cry and then come in to eat, as if nothing had happened, if I know him.”

Octavian did not turn up for the evening meal and Clodia brought out a bowl of food as darkness fell. She couldn't find him in the stables and a search of the estate brought no sign of the little boy. He and the gladius had gone.

“You're too ugly to be a good swordsman,” Brutus said cheerfully as he moved lightly on the balls of his feet around the angry legionary. As the light faded, the men had gathered in the center of the camp as they had for the previous three nights to watch the bouts Brutus had started.

“You need a certain skill, it's true, but being handsome is also important,” Brutus continued, watching the man with a close scrutiny belied by the banter. The legionary turned to face him, gripping his practice sword a little too tightly with tension. Although the wooden weapons were hardly lethal, a solid blow could break a finger or put out an eye. The wood was hollow all along the thick blade and had been filled with lead, making it heavier than a gladius. When the soldiers took up their real swords, they felt almost miraculously light in their hands.

Brutus turned in place to avoid a lunge, letting the blade pass only inches from him. He'd started the bouts at the end of the sixth evening, when he realized he wasn't anywhere near as tired as he'd expected. They had quickly become the main item of entertainment for the bored soldiers, attracted by Brutus's cocky assurance that there wasn't one of them who could beat him. He often fought three or four legionaries in a row, and even the gambling games had ceased in the camp after the second night, with all the money placed in bets on or against Brutus. If he could keep winning, he would end the march with a small fortune.

“People like handsome heroes, you see. You hardly qualify,” Brutus announced, turning a sudden attack with a grunt as he finished. “It's not something obvious like a nose or a peculiar mouth…” He launched a spinning combination that was fended off desperately, and Brutus stepped back to let the man recover. The legionary had been just as cocky in the beginning, but now sweat spattered from his hair as he dodged and attacked. Brutus squinted at his face, as if judging his features.

“No, it's accumulated ugliness, as if nothing sits right at all,” he said.

The soldier snarled and aimed a blow with enough force to split Brutus's skull if it landed. It sailed past and as the soldier followed it, Brutus tapped his own sword at the base of the man's neck, just enough to force him to overbalance. He went flat and scrambled up with his chest heaving as he spoke.

“Tomorrow? I think I could beat you if I had another chance, ugly or not.”

Brutus shrugged and pointed to the line of waiting soldiers. “There's a few ahead of you, but I'll try to have Cabera put you at the front tomorrow evening, if you're willing. You're still holding on too tightly, you know.”

The soldier examined his grip and nodded.

“Work on your wrists,” Brutus continued seriously. “If you can trust their strength, you'll be able to loosen up a little.”

The man retired to the crowd, moving the wooden sword slowly in concentration. Cabera brought up the next, ushering him forward like a favorite child.

“This one says he's good. He was champion of his century a few years back. The quartermaster wants to know if you're going to let the bet ride again. I think you've got him worried.” Cabera grinned at Brutus, well pleased that he had eased himself into the Primigenia ranks after the first dull evening near the back.

Brutus looked the latest opponent up and down, noting the powerful shoulders and slim waist. The man ignored the inspection, spending the time stretching his muscles.

“What's your name?” Brutus asked him.

“Domitius. Centurion,” the man replied.

There was something about him that caused Brutus to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“Century champion, were you? How many years ago?”

“Three. Legion champion last year,” Domitius replied, carrying on with the exercises without looking at the younger man.

Brutus exchanged a quick glance with Cabera and took in the fact that the crowd around them had grown to the point where everyone except the sentries must have been there. Renius had joined them and Brutus frowned at the sight of him. It was difficult to relax while the man who had taught you was shaking his head in apparent disbelief. He gathered his confidence.

“The thing is, Domitius, I'm sure you are competent enough, but in every generation, there has to be someone who is better than everyone else. It's a law of nature.”

Domitius slowly stretched the muscles of his legs. He appeared to think it over.

“You're probably right,” he replied.

“I am right. Someone has to be the best of his generation and I'm almost embarrassed to say that person is me.” Brutus watched Domitius for a reaction.

“Almost embarrassed?” the man murmured as he loosened the muscles in his back.

Brutus felt irritated by the legionary's calm. Something about the almost hypnotic stretching nettled him.

“Right. Cabera? Go to the quartermaster and tell him I'll let the bet ride for one more bout with Domitius here.”

“I don't think…” Cabera began, looking doubtfully toward the newcomer. Domitius was almost a head taller than Brutus and moved with control and an ease of balance that was rare.

“Just tell him. One more and I'm coming to collect.”

Cabera grimaced and trotted away.

Domitius rose as if he were uncoiling and smiled at Brutus. “That's what I was waiting for,” he said. “My friends have lost a lot of money betting against you.”

“And that didn't tell you something? Let's get on with it, then,” Brutus said curtly.

Domitius sighed. “You short men are always so impatient,” he said, shaking his head.

Octavian wiped his nose along his arm, leaving a silvery trail on the skin. At first the city had seemed a different place. It had been easy enough to slip past the gate guards, using a cart as cover, but once inside, the noise and smells and sheer hurry of the crowds were disconcerting. He realized the months on the estate had made him forget the energy of the city, even at night.

He hoped Tubruk was worried about him. In a day or two, Octavian thought, he would be welcomed back with open arms. Especially if he could persuade Tabbic to grind the blade back to a good edge. All he had to do was stay out of trouble until morning, when the little shop opened. The blade was wrapped in a horse cloth and held under his arm. He wouldn't have got far with it otherwise, he was sure. Some public-spirited citizen was sure to stop him, or, worse, a thief could snatch it for the money it would bring at one of the cheaper shops than Tabbic's.

Almost unconsciously, Octavian let his footsteps take him in the direction of his mother's house. If only he could spend the night there, he would see Tabbic and be back in the estate in a day or two with Tubruk pleased with him again. He thought of her likely reaction at seeing him and winced. The sword would be discovered and she would think he had stolen it. For a mother, she was not very trusting, he admitted sadly to himself. She never believed him, even when he was telling the truth, which was always infuriating.

Perhaps he should try to signal Alexandria, get her out to see him without disturbing the rest of the house. She might understand better than his mother what he had to do.

He trotted through the night crowd, dodging around the street sellers and resisting the urge to grab at the hot food that filled the air with tantalizing smells. He was starving, but the empty feeling in his stomach took second place to his need to make things right with Tubruk. Getting himself caught by an angry stall-keeper would spoil things as badly as a conversation with his mother.

“It's the rat!”

The sudden exclamation jarred him from his miserable thoughts. He looked up into the surprised eyes of the butcher's apprentice, and panic flared in him. He jumped down into the street to avoid hands that clutched from behind. They were all there! Desperately, he threw open the blanket roll and got a hand on the hilt of Tubruk's gladius. He brought it up in front of him as the butcher's boy moved in on him, hands clutching in anticipation. A wild swipe nearly touched the outstretched fingers, and the apprentice swore in surprise.

“You're going to die for that, you little Thurin bastard. I've been wondering where you went to. Been stealing swords now, have you?”

As the boy growled at him, Octavian could see the others edging to block his retreat. In a few moments he was surrounded and the bustling crowd moved around them without noticing the scene, or too afraid of violence to interfere.

Octavian held the sword in first position, as Tubruk had taught him. He couldn't run, so he vowed to get a good cut in before they rushed him.

The butcher's boy laughed, closing the space. “Not so cocky now, are you, rat?”

He looked enormous to Octavian and the sword suddenly felt useless in his hands. The butcher's boy approached with his hand held out to knock away any sudden attack, his face lit with feral excitement.

“Give it to me and I'll let you live,” he said, grinning.

Octavian gripped the hilt even tighter against this threat, trying to think what Tubruk would do in his position. It came to him as the apprentice stepped inside the range of the wavering sword.

Octavian yelled and attacked, swiping the edge across the outstretched hand. If it had been sharp, the boy could have been crippled. As it was, he yelped and danced backward out of range, swearing and gripping the hurt hand in the other.

“Leave me alone!” Octavian shouted, looking for a gap to run through.

There wasn't one and the butcher's boy inspected his cut hand before his face twisted evilly. Reaching behind himself, the apprentice took a heavy knife from his belt and showed it to Octavian. It was rusty with the blood of his trade, and Octavian could hardly tear his eyes from it.

“I'm going to cut you, rat. I'm going to put your eyes out and leave you blinded,” the older boy snarled at him.

Octavian tried to flee but, instead of holding him, the other apprentices laughed and pushed him back toward the butcher's boy. He raised the sword again and then a shadow loomed over the apprentices and a heavy hand connected solidly with the butcher boy's head, knocking him flat.

Tubruk reached down and picked up the knife from where it had fallen on the stones of the street. The butcher's boy began to rise and Tubruk closed his fist and punched him down into the filth of the street, where he scrabbled, dazed.

“Never thought I'd see the day when I was fighting with children,” Tubruk muttered. “Are you all right?” Octavian watched him with openmouthed astonishment. “I've been looking for you for hours.”

“I was… taking the sword to Tabbic. I didn't steal it,” Octavian replied, tears threatening again.

“I know, lad. Clodia guessed you were heading that way. Looks like a good thing I came to find you, doesn't it?” The old gladiator glanced at the ring of apprentices who stood nervously around, unsure whether to run or not.

“If I were you, lads, I'd get away before I lose my temper,” he said. His expression made the consequences quite clear and they wasted no time disappearing.

“I'll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?”

Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn't have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

“Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,” Octavian said.

Tubruk turned with a frown. “What is it now?”

Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

“Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn't sporting when a man is down.”

“Maybe not, but I owed it to him.”

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

“Maybe you did, lad.”

Brutus couldn't believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he'd almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he'd never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack, and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn't seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.

Brutus had regained some ground when he shifted into the fluid style he'd learned from a tribal warrior in Greece. As he'd hoped, the different rhythms had broken Domitius's attack and he caught the man's forearm with a rap that would have taken his hand off at the wrist if there were an edge on the blade.

Domitius had stepped away then, looking surprised, and Brutus had used the moment to force his anger into a calm to match his opponent's. Domitius was hardly breathing heavily and he seemed completely relaxed.

In case it muffled the sound of an enemy attack, the watching soldiers were forbidden to cheer or shout by camp order. Instead, they hissed or gasped as the fight moved around the circle, waving clenched fists and baring their teeth in repressed excitement.

Brutus had a chance to punch as the swords were trapped together, but that too was forbidden, in case the soldiers injured each other too badly to fight or march the following day.

“I… could have had you then,” he grated.

Domitius nodded. “I had the chance myself earlier. Of course, I have a longer reach than you.”

The attack came again and Brutus blocked twice before the third broke through his guard and he looked down at the wooden point pressing painfully into his chest under the ribs.

“A win, I think,” Domitius said. “You really are very good. You nearly won with that style you used halfway through. You'll have to show it to me sometime.” He saw Brutus's crestfallen expression and chuckled.

“Son, I have been legion champion five times since I was your age. You're still too young to have your full speed, and skill takes even longer. Try me again in a year or two and there might be a different result. You did well enough and I should know.”

Domitius walked away into a crowd of soldiers, who clapped him on the back and shoulders in congratulation. Cabera approached Brutus, looking sour.

“He was very good,” Brutus muttered. “Better than Renius or anyone.”

“Could you beat him if you fought again?”

Brutus thought about it, rubbing his chin and mouth. “Possibly, if I learned from this time.”

“Good, because I collected the winnings from the quartermaster before the fight started.”

“What? I told you to let it ride!” Brutus said with an amazed grin. “Ha! How much did we make?”

“Twenty aurei, which is the original silver doubled for the seven bouts you won. I had to leave a few on you against Domitius, out of politeness, but the rest is clear.”

Brutus laughed out loud, then winced as he began to feel the bruises he'd taken.

“He only challenged me to let his friends win back their money. It looks like I'll get another chance after all.”

“I can set it up for tomorrow, if you like. The odds will be wonderful. If you win, there won't be a coin in camp.”

“Do it. I'd like another crack at Domitius. You clever old man! How did you know I was going to lose?”

Cabera sighed, leaning close as if to impart a secret. “I knew because you are an idiot. No one beats a legion champion after three other bouts.”

Brutus snorted. “Next time, I'll let Renius put the bets on,” he retorted.

“In that case, I'll take my share out before you start.”

CHAPTER 36

Julius thought he had seen busy ports in Africa and Greece, but Ariminum was the center of the grain trade across the country and the docks were crammed with ships loading and unloading cargoes. There was even a central forum and temples for the soldiers to make their peace and pray for safe delivery in the coming conflict. It was a little Rome, built on the edge of the great Po plain and the gateway to the south. Everything from the north that ended up in Rome passed first through Ariminum.

Crassus and Pompey had commandeered a private home on the edge of the forum, and it was to this that Julius made his way on the second night, having to ask directions more than once. He traveled with ten of the Primigenia soldiers as a precaution in a strange city, but the inhabitants seemed too concerned with trade to have time for plots or politics. Whether the huge force camped in a ring around the city troubled them, he could not tell. The ships and grain caravans went in and out and business continued without interruption, as if the only threat of war was the possibility of raised prices in the markets.

Julius passed easily through the rushing crowds with his men, listening to their chatter as they struck deals while walking, barely noticing the soldiers they stepped around. Perhaps they were right to feel secure, he thought. With the two northern legions they had met at the city, the assembled army approached forty thousand seasoned soldiers. It was difficult to imagine a force that they couldn't handle, for all the shock the Spartacus rebellion had caused after running amok at Mutina.

He found the right place by the sentries that guarded the steps up to the door. Typical of Crassus to find such an opulent house, Julius thought with a smile. For all his personal restraint, he loved to be surrounded by beautiful things. Julius wondered if the true owner would find a couple of empty spaces amongst his treasures when the Romans had left. He remembered Marius saying Crassus could be trusted with anything except art.

Julius was guided in by a soldier and entered a room dominated by a creamy statue of a naked girl. Crassus and Pompey had planted chairs at her feet and more seats in a ring facing them.

Six of the eight legates were already there, and as the last two entered, Julius sat with his hands on his lap and waited. The last to enter was Lepidus, who had accepted the body of Mithridates from him in Greece. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the man still had the same bland, unconcerned expression as he nodded to Julius vaguely and began to clean the nails of one hand with the other.

Pompey leaned forward, the back legs of his chair leaving the floor.

“From this point on, gentlemen, I will expect to see you every night after the sentries are posted. Rather than have a vulnerable line of four camps, I have given orders for only two, with four legions in each. You should be close enough to reach the command position two hours before each midnight.”

There was a murmur of interest from the legates as they digested this. Pompey continued over it.

“The latest reports suggest the slave army is heading north as fast as they can. Crassus and I believe there is a danger they will reach the Alps mountains and Gaul. If we cannot catch them before then, they will disappear. Gaul is vast and we have little influence there. They must not be allowed to win free, or next year will see another rebellion of every slave still on Roman lands. The destruction and loss of life would be huge.”

He paused for comment, but the assembled generals were silent, watching him. One or two glanced at Crassus, clearly wondering about the Senate command, but Pompey's companion was sitting relaxed in his chair, nodding as Pompey rattled through the points.

“Your orders are to march west along the plains road until I give the signal to cut north. It's a longer route overall, but we'll make better speed on the road than across country. I want thirty miles a day, then twenty, then another thirty.”

“For how long?” Lepidus interrupted.

Pompey froze and let the silence show his irritation.

“Our best estimates are for five hundred miles west and then some distance north that we cannot gauge without knowing the exact whereabouts of the enemy. It depends, of course, on how close to the mountains they get. I expect-”

“It can't be done,” Lepidus said flatly.

Pompey paused again, then stood to look down on the general.

“I am telling you what will happen, Lepidus. If your legion cannot match the pace of the others under my command, then I will remove your rank and give it to someone who can make them march.”

Lepidus spluttered in indignation. Julius wondered if he had been told how close he had come to outright control of the legions. But for a few votes in the Senate, their positions would have been reversed. Watching Lepidus closely, Julius suspected he knew that very well indeed. No doubt Cato had let the word slip out to him while they gathered in the Campus Martius, in the hopes of fomenting trouble later.

“My men have covered three hundred miles at a hard pace on this trip already, Pompey. They could do it again, but I'll need two weeks to rest them and no more than twenty, twenty-five miles a day afterward. Any more will lose men.”

“Then we lose men!” Pompey snapped. “Every day we wait in Ariminum is another that brings this Spartacus closer to the mountains and freedom in Gaul. I am not staying here for a day longer than it takes to load up provisions. If we have a few dozen sprains and limps by the end, it is a price worth paying. Or even a few hundred, if it is the difference between catching them and watching them escape punishment for the Roman blood on their hands. Nine thousand dead at Mutina!” Pompey's voice had risen to a shout and he leaned toward Lepidus, who looked back with an infuriating calm.

“Who is in command here?” Lepidus demanded, waving a hand toward Crassus. “I was given to understand that it was Crassus the Senate chose over me. I do not recognize this business of ‘second-in-command.' Is it even legal?”

The other legates did not miss the point that Lepidus could have led, any more than Julius did. Like cats, they watched the speakers with claws carefully hidden, waiting for the outcome. Crassus too rose from his seat to stand beside Pompey.

“Pompey speaks with my voice, Lepidus, and that is the voice of the Senate. Whatever you may have heard, you should know better than to question the command.”

Pompey's face was tight with anger. “I tell you now, Lepidus. I will have you stripped of rank the first moment you make a mistake. Question an order of mine again and I will have you killed and left on the road. Understood?”

“Completely,” Lepidus replied, apparently satisfied.

Julius wondered what he had hoped to gain by the exchange. Did the legate hope to undermine Crassus? Julius knew he could not serve under such a man, no matter how he twisted and turned to gain authority. The threat Pompey had made was a dangerous one. If Lepidus commanded the kind of personal loyalty Julius had seen with Primigenia and Marius, then Pompey had taken a risk. In Pompey's position, Julius thought it would have been better to have Lepidus killed immediately and his legion sent back to Rome in shame. Losing the men was a lighter penalty than marching with ones who might betray them.

“We will march in two days, at dawn,” Pompey said. “I have spies out already on the road with orders to meet the main force when we get close. Tactics for the battle will have to wait on better information. You are dismissed. Tribune Caesar, I'd like a word with you, if you could stay.”

Lepidus stood with the other legates, beginning a conversation with two of them as they passed out of the room. Before their voices had faded, Julius heard him laugh at some witticism and saw Pompey stiffen in irritation.

“He's the eyes and ears of Cato, that one,” Pompey said to Crassus. “You can be sure he's taking little notes of everything we do to report back when we come home.”

Crassus shrugged. “Send him back to Rome, then. I'll put my seal on it and we can beat the rebels with seven legions as easily as eight.”

Pompey shook his head. “Maybe, but there are other reports I haven't mentioned. Julius, this is to go no further, understand? There's no point having the rumors all over the camp before tomorrow, which is what would happen if I told the others, especially Lepidus. The slave army has grown alarmingly. I'm getting reports of more than fifty thousand. Hundreds of farms and estates have been stripped. There is no way back for them now and that will make for desperate fighting. They know how we punish escaped slaves and the rebellion won't end without a massive show of force. I think we're going to need every legion we have.”

Julius whistled softly. “We can't depend on a rout,” he said.

Pompey frowned. “It doesn't look like it, no. I'd expect them to fold and run on the first attack except for the fact that they have women and children with them and nowhere to go if they lose. Those gladiators have brought off more than one success already, and they must be more than a rabble.” He snorted softly. “If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if Cato was hoping to see us lose, but, no, that's too much even for him. They could still turn south again, and from Ariminum the whole country is open. They have to be crushed and I need good commanders to do it, Julius.”

“I have more than two thousand under the Primigenia eagle,” Julius replied. He chose not to mention that Cato had supplied half of them to protect his son. Renius had trained them to exhaustion, but they were still of poor quality compared to the established legions. He wondered how many were waiting for the right moment to put a knife in him. Such men at his back didn't inspire confidence, for all his assurances to Renius that they would become Primigenia.

“It's good to see that name in the field again. I can't tell you how much,” Pompey replied, losing his grimness for a moment and looking surprisingly boyish as he smiled. Then the mantle of his continual anger settled on him again, as it had ever since his daughter's death. “I want Primigenia to march flank to Lepidus. I don't trust any man who has Cato as his sponsor. When it comes to the fighting, stay close to him. I'll trust you to do whatever has to be done. You'll be my own extraordinarii, I think. You did well in Greece. Do well for me.”

“I am at your command,” Julius confirmed with a quick bow of his head. He met Crassus's eyes, including him even as he began to plan. Brutus would have to be told.

As he left, with the soldiers of Primigenia falling in around him, Julius felt a touch of excitement and pride. He had not been forgotten and he would make certain Pompey didn't regret the trust.

The slave sank his hoe into the hard ground, splitting the clods of pale earth with a grunt. Sweat dripped from his face to leave dark marks in the dust, and his shoulders burned with the effort. At first he did not notice the man standing near him, as he was too wrapped up in his own misery. He raised the tool again and caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He did not react immediately, his surprise covered in the motions of his work. The blisters on his hands had broken again and he laid down the hoe to tend them, aware of the man, but not yet willing to give his knowledge away. He had learned to guard the slightest advantage from his masters.

“Who are you?” the dark figure asked softly.

The slave turned to him calmly. The man was wrapped in a rough brown robe over a ragged tunic. His face was partially covered, but the eyes were alight with interest and pity.

“I am a slave,” he said, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Even in the vine rows, it beat down on his skin, burning and blistering him. His shoulders were mottled with raw redness and loose, flaking skin that itched all the time. He scratched idly at the area while he watched the newcomer. He wondered if the man knew how close the guards were.

“You should not stay here, friend. The owner has guards in the fields. They'll kill you for trespassing if they find you.”

The stranger shrugged without shifting his gaze. “The guards are dead.”

The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn't rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.

“I… have to get back,” he muttered.

“The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don't have to go anywhere. Who are you?”

“I am a slave,” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The stranger's eyes creased in such a way that he knew he was smiling under the cloth.

“No, my brother. We have made you a freeman.”

“Impossible.”

The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.

Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.

“Whoever you are, let me go. I won't tell anyone you were here,” he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.

The first man laughed. “There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?”

“What about…” He could not bring himself to say “master” in front of these men. “The owner and his family?”

“They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?”

The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.

“Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.”

The man laughed again and it was not a pleasant sound. “Such hatred, yet I understand it. Can you handle a sword? I have one here for you, if you want.” He held it out as a test. A slave was forbidden to bear arms. If he took it, he was marked for death with the rest of them.

The slave reached out and gripped the gladius firmly, rejoicing in the weight.

“Now who are you?” the stranger said softly.

“My name is Antonidus. I was once a general of Rome,” he said, straightening his back subtly.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Spartacus will want to meet you. He too was an army man before… all this.”

“Will you let me have the family?” Antonidus asked impatiently.

“You will have your hour, but then we must move on. There are more to be freed today and our army needs the grain in the stores here.”

Antonidus smiled slowly at the thought of what he would do to the people who had called themselves his masters. He had only seen them at a distance as he worked, but his imagination had provided the sneers and slights he could not see. He ran his thumb across the edge of the blade.

“Take me there first. After I have had my satisfaction, I am yours.”

The warren of filthy streets seemed closed off from the life and light of Rome. The two men Cato had sent trod warily through the refuse and excrement, trying not to react to the scrabbling sounds of rats and larger predators in the dark alleyways. Somewhere a child screamed and then the sound was cut off as if stifled. The two men held their breaths waiting for it to start again, wincing in understanding after the silence went on too long. Life was cheap in that place.

They counted the number of turnings at each stage, occasionally whispering to each other whether a tiny gap between the tenements was part of the count. These were sometimes less than a foot wide and filled with a dark mass they didn't dare to investigate. One of them had a dead dog half sunk in refuse that seemed to lean toward them as they passed, shuddering slightly as the buried part was eaten away by unseen mouths.

The two men were desperately uneasy by the time they reached the crossroads where Cato had told them to wait. It was nearly deserted, with only a few scurrying people moving past them without acknowledgment.

After a time, a shadow detached itself from the darkness under an overhang and moved silently toward them.

“Who do you seek here?” a voice whispered.

Both men swallowed in fear, their eyes straining to make out features in the gloom.

“Look away from me!” the voice snapped.

They turned as if pushed, staring down the rubbish-strewn lane. A sickening smell washed over them as the dark figure stepped close enough to touch.

“Our master told us to mention the name of Antonidus to whoever came,” one of them said, breathing through his mouth.

“He has been sold as a slave, far north. Who is your master now?” the voice returned.

One of the men suddenly remembered the smell from when his father had died, and he vomited, bending over and spilling his last meal into the unrecognizable slop that covered the lane. The other spoke haltingly, “No names, we were told. My master wishes to continue the association with you, but there must be no names.”

A warm scent of rot sighed over them.

“I could guess it, you fools, but this is a game I know how to play. Very well then, what would your master have of me? Deliver your message while I still have patience for you.”

“He… our master said you were to forget the one Antonidus asked for, now that the general has been taken for slavery. He will have other names for you and will pay your price. He wants the association to continue.”

The figure let out a soft grunt of regret. “Tell him to name them and I will decide. I will not promise service to any man. As for the death bought by Antonidus, it is too late to call back the men I have sent. That one is dead, though she still walks unknowing. Now go back to your master and take your weak-stomached companion with you.”

The pressure disappeared and Cato's servant took a deep breath in reaction, preferring the stench of the street to the soft odor that seemed to have sunk into his clothes and skin as they talked. It lingered with the two men as they made their way back to the open streets and a world that laughed and shouted, unaware of the festering alleys so close to them.

CHAPTER 37

A crest of white-topped mountains lined the horizon. Somewhere between the teeth were the three passes they hoped to use to escape the wrath of Rome. The cold peaks brought an ache of homesickness as Spartacus looked up at them. Though he hadn't seen Thrace since his childhood, he remembered scrambling on the lower slopes of the great range there. He had always loved high places where the wind was a constant force against the skin. It made a man feel alive.

“They are so close,” he said aloud. “We could cross them in a week or two and never see a Roman uniform again.”

“Until they come next year and tear Gaul apart looking for us, if I know them,” Crixus said. The man had always been blunt compared to the gladiator he followed. Crixus reveled in the reputation of being a practical man, allowing no dreams or wild schemes to detract from the leaden reality of what they had achieved. He was a short squat figure next to Spartacus, who still retained the litheness that suggested speed even when he was standing still. Crixus had no such grace. Born in a mine, the man was as ugly as he was strong and the only one of the gladiators who could wrestle Spartacus to a draw.

“They couldn't find us, Crix. The Gauls say the land over the mountains is filled with battling tribes. The legions would have to wage war for decades and they haven't the stomach for that. Now Sulla's gone, they haven't a decent leader in the whole pack of them. If we cross the Alps, we'll be free.”

“Still the dreamer, Spartacus?” Crixus said, his frustration evident. “What sort of freedom do you see that is such a prize? Freedom to work harder than we ever did as slaves, scratching out a few crops on land threatened by the locals? They won't want us any more than the Romans do, you can be sure of that. It'll be a backbreaker, this freedom of yours, I know it. Get the women and children clear, that's all. Leave a hundred men to take them through the passes and we can finish what we started.”

Spartacus looked at his second-in-command. Crixus had a thirst for blood in him that had only been whetted in the triumph at Mutina. After what he had lived through at Roman hands, that was easy enough to understand, but Spartacus knew there was more to it.

“Is it their soft life you want, Crix?” he said.

“And why not?” Crixus demanded. “We have turned over their hive, now the honey should be ours for the taking. You remember the civil war and so do I. Whoever has Rome has their balls. If we could take the city, the rest of them would fall over. Sulla knew that!”

“He was a Roman general, not a slave.”

“That doesn't matter! Once you're in, you can change the rules to suit you. There are no rules except what you choose when you have the strength. I tell you, if you miss this chance, you will throw away everything we've done. In ten years, the scribes will say the garrison at Mutina were the rebels and we were loyal Romans!

“If we take the city, we'll be able to shove their history and their pride down their throats and make them accept the new order. Just give the word, Spartacus. I'll see it done.”

“And the palaces and great estate houses?” Spartacus probed, his eyes narrowing.

“Ours! Why not? What is there in Gaul but scrubland and villages?”

“You'll need slaves to run them, Crixus, have you thought of that? Who will take in your crops and tend your vines?”

Crixus waved his scarred fist at the man he loved above all others. “I know what you're thinking, but we won't do it like those cursed bastards. It doesn't have to be like that.”

Spartacus watched him in silence and he went on angrily. “All right, if you want an answer, then I'll have the Senate work my fields and I'll even pay the bastards a wage.”

Spartacus laughed. “Who's dreaming now, Crix? Look, we've come this far. We've reached a place where we can leave all that behind, make a new start to our lives. No, go back to our lives as they should have been. They may come for us in the end, but as I said, Gaul is big enough to hide more than one army. We'll keep going north until we find a place where Rome is just a word, or not even known at all. If we turn south again, even without the women and children, we risk losing everything we've won. And for what? So you can sit in a marble house and spit at old men?”

“You'd let them chase you out of their land?” Crixus asked bitterly.

Spartacus gripped his arm with one of his powerful hands. “You'd wait for them to kill you?” he said gently. The anger went out of Crixus at his words.

“You don't understand, you Thracian whoreson,” he said with a tight smile. “This is my land too, now. Here I am your general, the slave hammer who broke a legion on its own ground and two more at Mutina. In Gaul I'm just another tribesman in badly tanned furs. You would be as well. We'd be mad to turn away from all that wealth and power just to spend our remaining years hoping they never find us. Look, we have Antonidus now. He knows where they're weak. If I didn't think we could win, I would turn my arse to them and vanish before I ever saw another legionary, but we can win. Antonidus says they're tied up on every one of their borders, in Greece, Africa, everywhere. There aren't enough legions in the country to take us. Gods, the north is open, you've seen that. Antonidus says we can put three men in the field for every legionary. You won't find better odds than that, not in this life. Whatever they have, we can beat, and after them, Rome, the cities, the country, the wealth-it's all ours. Everything.”

He put out his hand and whispered the words that had marked each stage of their rebellion, from the first wild days to the dawning belief that they could break the order that had existed for centuries. “All or nothing, Spartacus?” he said.

The gladiator looked at the hand and the bond of sworn friendship it represented. His gaze strayed to the Mutina eagle where it leaned against the wall of his tent. After a moment of silent contemplation, he let out his breath.

“All right, all or nothing. Get the women and children clear away and then I want to see Antonidus before putting it to the men. Do you think they will follow us?”

“No, Spartacus, but they will follow you anywhere.”

Spartacus nodded. “Then we will turn south and strike at the heart of them.”

“And rip the bastard out.”

Pompey had ordered Lepidus to the head of the column with his legion, forcing them to set the pace. Behind them, Primigenia marched with Crassus and Pompey at the head. The message was clear and the first hundred miles had been covered at the speed Pompey wanted without losing a man to injury.

The evenings were quieter times in the two great camps than they had been on the Via Flaminia. The pace sapped the energy of the legionaries, and by the time the halt was called, they were ready to eat and sleep and little more. Even Brutus had ceased his sword bouts, claiming a draw with two losses and two wins against Domitius by the end. At intervals, Cabera would bring up the money they had lost with some bitterness.

Riders from the extraordinarii reported back each day, scouting far ahead of the main force. The messages they brought were worryingly brief, with no sign of the slave army within their range. Pompey sent out more and more of the scouts with orders to move north and west to find them. It wasn't said aloud, but the worry was that in such vast country the rebels could slip past them and move against the unprotected south.

Each night, the generals' meeting was fraught with argument and snapping tempers. Rather than take it as proof of Pompey's displeasure with him, Lepidus seemed to delight in leading the column, and Pompey grew less and less willing to hear his complaints. By Lepidus's account, only his authority could force the pace Pompey wanted from the legions, and each night he claimed the final price could be disastrous for them. He was a master at knowing when to stop pushing at Pompey's patience, and the meetings had become almost a battle of wills between the two men, with Crassus powerless to intervene. Julius hoped Lepidus could fight as well as he could argue.

After two weeks on the western road, Lepidus reported triumphantly that men had fallen and been left at the guard posts or in villages with orders to rejoin when they had healed. Every night was an agony of blisters and sprains for hundreds of the legionaries all the way down the column. The legions were approaching exhaustion and the other legates had begun to side with Lepidus in their call to rest the men. Pompey acceded reluctantly rather than see his authority undermined, standing them down for four days. Only the extraordinarii were denied rest as Pompey sent them all out in a last bid to find the slave army.

At last the riders came galloping back into camp with sightings. The rebels were moving south and east back from the mountains to the plains. Pompey gathered his generals that evening to give them the grim news.

“They are striking back toward Rome and the scouts say they have more than eighty thousand men on the march. Every slave in the north has gone over to them.”

There was little point in holding back the worrying figures from the generals, with the rebels only a few hundred miles away. Now that the scouts had found them, they would not be allowed to escape. Regardless of numbers, it only remained to choose the best place of attack.

“If they're coming south, we can either march to meet them or wait for them to reach us,” Pompey continued. “No matter what happens, they cannot pass or we'll lose Rome. Make no mistake, gentlemen, if they break through our line, Rome will fall and all we love will die, like Carthage before us. We will make a stand here to the last man if need be. Make that clear to your men. There is nowhere to retreat to, no safe haven where we can regroup and strike again. The Republic stands with us alone.”

Lepidus looked as shocked as the others. “Eighty thousand! I have as much confidence as anyone in our soldiers, but… the legions in Greece and Spain must be recalled. The Senate didn't know the size of the threat when they sent us out.”

For once, Pompey bore his outburst without a rebuke. “I have sent messages back to Rome, but we are here now. Even if the borders could be stripped without losing everything we've gained in a hundred years, those legions couldn't reach us in time to make a difference to this battle.”

“But we could mount a fighting retreat until support arrives. Eighty thousand could overwhelm us. We'd be flanked and broken in the first hour of fighting. It's impossible!”

“Speak like that in front of the men and that's exactly what will happen,” Pompey barked at the general. “These are not trained soldiers we're facing, Lepidus. They could have escaped across the mountains in all likelihood, but instead they are after riches and plunder, while our men fight for our home city and the lives of everyone in it. They will break for us. We will stand.”

“The commander at Mutina probably said the same thing,” Lepidus muttered, not quite loudly enough for Pompey to be forced to answer, though he glared at the legate.

“My orders are to engage and destroy, gentlemen. We will do exactly that. If we wait for them, they could go right round us, so we will carry this war to them. Make the men ready to march north. Lepidus, you will take the left flank and keep a wide line to prevent encirclement. They have little in the way of cavalry except a few stolen mounts, so use ours to hold the wings steady. Julius, I want you on the left to support Lepidus if that becomes necessary. Crassus and I will take the right flank as always and I will concentrate the bulk of the cavalry there to prevent them spilling round us and making south and east toward Ariminum. They must not be allowed to reach that city.”

One of the two legates from Ariminum cleared his throat.

“I would like to take the right flank with you, sir. Many of my men have families in Ariminum. I do myself. They will fight all the harder knowing what could happen if the right breaks.”

Pompey nodded. “All right. The Ariminum legions will be the core of the right flank. The rest of you make the center. I want the hastati maniples on the front line instead of the velites. We need weight more than speed to break them on the first charge. Bring the triarii up quickly if the advance is slowed or turned. I've yet to meet a force that can withstand our veterans.”

It was dawn before the meeting ended, and the day was spent breaking the camp ready for the march. Julius stayed with Primigenia, passing on the orders and positions to Brutus and the centurions. By that evening, every man knew the seriousness of the battle to come, and many of the injuries they had taken on the march were forgotten or ignored in the thoughts of the conflict they welcomed. Even with the rumors of huge numbers of the enemy, every soldier was determined they would not leave Rome and their families open to the invader. Better than anyone, they knew that their discipline and skill were unmatched, no matter who came against them, or how many.

The army of Spartacus was sighted at sunset. The order signals went out to create a hostile camp, with the borders twice the normal height and every soldier sleeping on short watches ready to repel a night attack. The soldiers spent the time awake checking their armor and swords, oiling leather and polishing metal. Spears were sharpened or replaced with fresh-cast heads from the smithy. Heavy ballistae and onagers were assembled and stone shot made ready for the dawn, their bulk leaving ruts in the soil. The slave army had nothing like the great war machines, and though they had but one range, the “mule's kick” onager could cut swaths through an enemy charge.

Brutus woke Julius from a light sleep by shaking his shoulder.

“Is it my watch?” Julius said sleepily, sitting up in the dark tent.

“Shhh. Come outside. I want to show you something.”

Vaguely irritated, Julius followed Brutus through the camp, stopping twice to give the watchword of the day to alert sentries. Within striking range of the enemy, the camp was far from quiet. Many of the men who couldn't sleep sat outside their tents or around small fires taking quietly. Tension and fear tightened their bladders through the night, and Julius and Brutus saw the urine trench was sodden and stinking already as they passed it.

Julius realized Brutus was making straight for the praetorian gate in the north wall of the camp.

“What are you doing?” he hissed to his friend.

“I need you to get us out of the camp. They'll let a tribune through if you order it.” He whispered his idea and Julius squinted at his friend in the darkness, wondering at the wild energy that seemed such a part of him. He considered refusing and going back to his tent, but the night air had cleared his head and he doubted he would be able to sleep again. He didn't feel tired. Instead, his muscles trembled with nervous energy, and waiting idle would be worse than anything.

The gate was guarded by a century of extraordinarii, still dusty from their scouting rides. The commander trotted his horse over to them as they approached.

“Yes?” he said bluntly.

“I want to leave the camp for a couple of hours,” Julius replied.

“Orders are no one leaves camp.”

“I am the legate of Primigenia, a tribune of Rome, and the nephew of Marius. Let us pass.”

The centurion wavered in the face of the order. “I should report it, sir. If you leave, you are disobeying Pompey's direct order.”

Julius glanced at Brutus, silently cursing him for putting him into this position.

“I will clear it with the general when I return. Report as you see fit.”

“He will want to know what you are doing, sir,” the centurion continued, wincing slightly. Julius could admire his loyalty, though he dreaded what Pompey would say if the man carried out his threat to report.

“There is a spike of rock that overlooks the battleground,” he said quietly. “Brutus believes it would give us a view of the enemy force.”

“I know it, sir, but the scouts say it's too steep to be climbed. It's practically sheer,” the man replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

“It's worth a try at least,” Brutus said quickly.

The centurion looked at him for the first time, his expression brooding. “I can delay reporting it until the watch changes in three hours. If you're not back by then, I'll have to name you as deserters. I'll give that much for a nephew of Marius, but that's it.”

“Good man. It won't come to that. What's your name?” Julius asked him.

“Taranus, sir.”

Julius patted the horse on his quivering neck.

“Julius Caesar, and this is Marcus Brutus. There are your names. We'll be back before the new watch, Taranus. On my word, we will.”

The guards moved aside to let them pass on Taranus's order, and Julius found himself on the rocky plain, with the enemy somewhere ahead of them. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he rounded on Brutus.

“I can't believe I let you persuade me into this. If Pompey hears about it, he'll take the skin of our backs at least.”

Brutus shrugged, unconcerned. “He won't if we can climb that rock. His scouts are horsemen, remember. They think anywhere they can't take a horse can't be climbed. I had a look at it before the light faded and the top will give us a good view. There's enough moonlight to see the enemy camp, and that will be useful, no matter what Pompey says about us leaving camp.”

“You'd better be right,” Julius said grimly. “Come on, three hours isn't long.”

The two young men broke into a run toward the black mass they saw silhouetted against the stars. It was a forbidding crag, a tooth in the plain.

“It's bigger close up,” Brutus whispered, removing his sandals and sword for the climb. Though it would hurt their feet, the iron-shod sandals would slip and clatter on the stones and could alert the enemy. There was no way of telling how close they were to the patrols, but they had to be near.

Julius glanced at the moon and tried to estimate how long they had before it sank.

Unhappy with the calculation, he removed his sword and sandals and took a deep, slow breath. Without speaking, he reached for the first handhold, jamming his hand into a crack and heaving, his bare feet searching for grip.

Even with the moonlight to help them, it was a difficult and frightening climb. All the way up, Julius was tormented by the possibility that some slave archer would see them and spit them with shafts that would send them down to break on the rocky plain below. The spire of rock seemed to get taller as they climbed, and Julius was sure it was more than a hundred feet high, even two. After a time, his feet became numb blocks, barely able to hold him. His fingers were cramped and painful and he began to worry that they would never make it back to camp before being reported.

By his best guess, it took almost an hour to reach the barren crest of the rock, and for the first few moments, he and Brutus could do nothing more than lie panting, stretched flat as they waited for their tortured muscles to recover.

The top was an uneven space, lit almost white in the moonlight. Julius raised his head and then pulled himself into a sudden crouch, horror flooding through him.

There was someone else there, only feet away from them. Two figures sat watching as Julius's hands scrabbled for where his sword usually hung, almost cursing aloud as he remembered leaving it below.

“Looks like you two had the same idea we had,” a deep voice chuckled.

Brutus swore and rose fully, caught in sudden fear as Julius had been. The voice spoke in Latin, but any thoughts that it might have belonged to one of their own were quickly dispelled.

“You won't have managed that climb with swords, lads, but I brought a dagger along and when you're this high and barefoot, it's a good idea to keep peaceful. Move slowly over here and don't make me nervous.”

Brutus and Julius looked at each other. There was no way to retreat. The two figures rose and faced them, seeming to fill the tiny space. They too were barefoot and wore only tunics and leggings. One of them waved his dagger at them.

“I guess this makes me king for the night, lads. I see by your clothes that you're Romans. Come to see the view, eh?”

“Let's kill them,” his companion said.

Brutus looked him over with a sinking feeling. The man was as powerfully built as a wrestler and the moonlight revealed an expression without mercy. The best he could hope for was to carry the man over the edge with him, which wasn't a thought that gave him any comfort. He edged away from the drop at his back.

The other man placed a hand on his friend's chest, holding him still.

“No need for that, Crix. There'll be time enough at the battle tomorrow. We can all shed each other's blood then, roaring and threatening as the mood takes us.”

The wrestler subsided with a grunt and turned his back on the two Romans. He was almost close enough to touch, but something about the man's alert stance warned Brutus he was expecting it. Possibly he was hoping they would try.

“Are you armed?” the first man said pleasantly, gesturing them closer. When they didn't move, he inched closer to Julius with the dagger held ready. Behind him, the shorter man had turned back and was glaring at the young men, daring them to try something.

Julius allowed himself to be patted down and then stood aside as Brutus too was checked for hidden blades. The man was careful and his own shoulders looked powerful enough to give him an edge even without the dagger.

“Good lads,” he said when he was sure they were helpless. “It's only because I am a dangerous old sod that I carried one myself. Will you be fighting tomorrow?”

Julius nodded, unable to believe what was happening. His mind raced, but there was nothing to be done. When he realized that, he finally relaxed and laughed, making Brutus jump. The man with the dagger returned it, chuckling softly as he looked at the young Roman.

“You might as well laugh, lad. This is a tight space for a bit of a struggle. Do what you came for; it won't make any difference. There won't be much stopping us tomorrow, no matter what you report back.”

Watching the man for sudden movement, Julius sat down, his heart hammering at the thought of one quick push sending him over the edge. The situation was strange to say the least, but the man with the knife seemed to be enjoying it. Whoever he was, he seemed completely relaxed, removed from the struggle they would all face back on the ground.

From the top of the granite spike, the rebel camp seemed incredibly close, almost as if a good leap would have them land in the center of it. Julius looked it over and wondered if they would be allowed to return before the watch centurion reported them missing.

The man with the knife put it away in his tunic and sat next to Julius, following his gaze. “Biggest army I ever saw,” he said cheerfully, motioning toward the rebel camp. “Tomorrow will be hard on you, I should think.”

Julius said nothing, unwilling to be drawn. Privately, he had the same impression. The enemy camp was almost too large to take in and looked as if it could swallow the eight legions without trouble.

Brutus and the wrestler had remained standing, keeping a close eye on each other's movements. The man with the knife grinned at the pair of them.

“Sit down, you two,” he said, gesturing with a flick of his head. Reluctantly, they edged together and sat close, as tense as wires.

“You must have what, thirty, forty thousand men?” the wrestler asked Brutus.

“Keep guessing,” Brutus replied curtly and the man began to rise, held down with the lightest touch from his companion.

“What does it matter now? We'll send the Romans running, no matter how many they have.” He grinned at Julius, clearly hoping he would rise to the barb.

Julius ignored him, busy memorizing the few details of the camp he could make out in the dim light. He noted the moon had sunk lower and stood slowly so as not to alarm his strange companions.

“We should be going back now,” he said. The tension returned to him then, tightening his sore muscles.

“Yes, I suppose we all should,” the man with the knife replied, rising smoothly to his feet. He was easily the tallest of all of them and moved with an efficiency of motion that marked a warrior. Brutus had it and perhaps it was that unconscious recognition that had raised the hackles of the one with a wrestler's build.

“This has been… interesting. I hope you and I don't meet tomorrow,” Julius said.

“I hope we meet,” Brutus added to the wrestler, who snorted in disdain.

The man with the knife stretched his back and winced. Then he clapped Julius on the shoulder and smiled.

“In the hands of the gods, lads. Now, I think my friend and I should climb down first, don't you? I don't really want you thinking better of our little soldier's truce when you have your swords again. Get right over where you climbed up and we'll be away in no time.”

The two older men scrambled from sight with casual agility and were gone.

Brutus let out an explosion of breath. “I thought we were dead.”

“So did I. Do you think that was Spartacus?”

“Possibly. When I tell the story, it certainly will be.” Brutus began to laugh simply to release the awful tension of the meeting.

“We'd better move, or that guard will serve us up to Pompey on a platter,” Julius said, ignoring him. They climbed down quickly and bore the scrapes and bruises of the descent without a sound. Their sandals were where they had left them, but the two swords had been taken. Brutus looked for the weapons in the bushes, but came back empty-handed.

“Bastards. There's just no honor anymore.”

CHAPTER 38

The legions broke camp and formed the battle line two hours before dawn. As soon as it was light enough to see, the cornicens sounded their wailing notes and the huge squares of legionaries moved forward, shrugging off the stiffness and cramp of the morning as they marched. There was no idle chatter in the ranks with the army of Spartacus filling the plain and seeming to stretch to the horizon. Even the crash of their sandals was muffled in the turf, and each man loosened his shoulders as he came closer and closer to the moment when the silence would rupture into chaos.

All along the legion lines, the heavy onagers and catapults were heaved into position. At colossal range, stones, iron balls, and arrows the weight of three men could be sent smashing into the enemy. The men around them cheered as the heavy horse-hair springs were winched back into firing position.

Julius marched with Brutus and Ciro at his side and Renius one step behind him. Although it would be suicide for any of Cato's recruits to try an attack, the three men around Julius were alert for the possibility. There was no place there for Cabera, who had remained behind in the camp with the rest of the followers, despite his complaints. Julius had been firm with him, but even if the old man had been willing to don armor and carry a gladius, he had never fought in formation before and would disrupt the routine of the Romans around him.

Deep in the eighth rank behind the armored hastati, the four of them were surrounded by the best of the Primigenia, men whom Renius had trained and hardened to be ready for such a day. None of Cato's recruits were in striking range.

Though many ached to charge, they matched the pace of the forward line, teeth bared unconsciously as they left everything of the world behind them. Every violent urge they had to restrain in the cities was welcome in that line, and some of the men choked back laughter as they remembered the strange freedom of it.

The order to halt came and seconds later the air was split with the thunder of the war engines, great arms crashing into their rests as they sent their loads flying. The slaves could not avoid the hail of stone and iron and hundreds were smashed into rags of flesh. Slowly, the arms were winched back again and Pompey waited to give the signal, licking dry lips.

At the third volley, the order came again to advance. One more would be fired over their heads before the lines would join.

As the armies closed, the legionaries shrugged away the smooth skin of civilization, leaving only the discipline of the legion to hold their line against the rising desire to kill. Through the gaps in the ranks, they could catch glimpses of the enemy that waited for them, a dark wall of men who had come to test the strength of the last defenders of Rome. Some carried the gladius, but others wielded axes and scythes, or long swords stolen from the barracks of the legion at Mutina. Bloody smears on the soil marked the wide cuts of the onager stones, but they were quickly swallowed by the men behind them.

Julius found himself panting with excitement and fear, responding to those around him as they became linked and pulses began to pound, filling them with strength and reckless energy. Someone shouted in excitement, close.

“Steady, Primigenia!” Julius bellowed, feeling the urge to run forward himself. He saw Brutus too was filled with the strange joy where every moment before the first jolt of pain was longer than all he had lived before. It was a hundred years to cross the plain, and then sound pierced the calm as the front two ranks heaved their spears into the air with a grunting cough that merged into a roar of defiance. They began to run, even as the spears made the air black and the first of the slaves were cut down by them.

The enemy howled enough to fill the world and raced at the legionaries. The first meeting was a crash that numbed the sounds that came after. The heavy Roman shields were smashed upright into the charging line and the impact punched hundreds of slaves from their feet. Then the swords were plunging into bodies and blood spattered blindingly, until the whole of the first rank were covered in it, their arms and faces wet as the swords cut limbs and life from the men they faced.

With Brutus on Julius's right, Julius could work around his friend's shield, as Ciro stood in the protection of his own. Only the ingrained discipline held the ranks back from the front line, free to watch the carnage only feet from them. Stinging droplets of blood touched them as they saw the hastati storm forward through the slaves. Ciro smashed anything that stood against him with tireless strength. Julius and Brutus moved forward at the pace of the advance, sinking their swords into the bodies as they passed, making certain of the kills. By the time the rear ranks passed over the corpses, they would be little more than white bone and tattered flesh as every soldier blooded his sword on them.

The hastati were the spine of the army, men with ten years of solid experience. There was no fear in them, but after a while, Julius began to feel a slight change in the pace as the advance faltered. Even the hastati tired against such a host, and many in the ranks moved forward to fill gaps, stepping over the writhing bodies of men they knew and counted as friends. Renius walked with them, his shield strapped to his body with heavy buckles. He killed with single strokes, taking blows on the shield to allow him the counterstrike, over and over. It buckled and cracked under the repeated impacts, but held.

The cornicens blew a series of three notes over and over, and all along the vast line there was a shimmering as the maniples of Rome moved with a discipline unmatched in the world. The hastati brought their shields up to protect themselves and moved smoothly back through the ranks as the triarii moved forward. They were panting and tired but still filled with a savage pleasure, and they shouted encouragement to the twenty-year veterans who ran to make the new front line. These were the best in the line, and apart from Renius, Primigenia had only a handful, making up the numbers with Cato's fresh troops. The slaves threw themselves at the legions and Primigenia bore the worst toll of dead, the new recruits dying faster than the experienced men around them. Renius held the Primigenia line steady as they fought to move forward.

The advance surged again through the bodies of the slain. The only way was over the dead as neither side wavered or stepped back from the bloody gash that was the front rank. The triarii were the best of the legionaries, men at their fullest strength. Their family and friends were the legions they served and they were soon splashed as redly as the hastati before them.

Julius stood waiting in the fifth rank, with Primigenia straining to attack. Arms and swords shook in anticipation as they stood close enough to the cutting to have more and more of the blood droplets spatter over them like rain, running down their shining armor.

Some armies broke on the hastati, others when the triarii were brought in to crush the will of the enemy. The bodies they walked over and speared so casually numbered in the hundreds, perhaps thousands along the line, but they had only begun to cut away the outer layers of the army of Spartacus, and soon every man knew they would have to take their place. Once they saw it was inevitable, the nerves settled even in the weakest as they waited to reach the first rank.

“Primigenia-second spears!” Julius ordered, repeating the shout to his left and right. The ranks behind him launched without pause over the heads of their own men and the shafts landed unseen on the mass of the enemy. All along the line the action was repeated, and only distant screams told of the lives the points had taken.

Julius craned onto his toes to see what was happening on the flanks. Against so many, the cavalry had to prevent encirclement. As the line of Spartacus's army bowed before the Romans, a memory flashed into Julius's head of a distant schoolroom and a lesson of Alexander's wars. Huge as it was, the Roman army could be swallowed and destroyed unless the flanks remained strong.

Even as he started to look, he felt the change on his left. He saw the line buckle into Lepidus's legion and the enemy pour into the breach. It was too far away to see detail and as Julius paced forward with Brutus, he lost sight of it and swore.

“Brutus, can you see Lepidus? They're breaking through over there. Can you see if they're holding?”

Brutus stretched up on his toes to see. “The line is broken,” he said in horror. “Gods, I think they're turning!”

Julius almost stumbled into the man behind him as his pace shortened. He looked at the line four ranks ahead. The triarii were crushing the slaves there and didn't look like tiring. His thoughts were desperate and fear rushed into him. If he moved Primigenia left to support as he had promised Pompey, he left the triarii vulnerable. If their line was thinned or cut down, the reinforcements they would expect would be missing and the slaves would have two breaches to pour into, cutting the Roman line into islands of men that would shrink and vanish as they were killed.

As he hesitated, he saw the left flank was compacting as the breach widened and some of Lepidus's men turned away from the enemy, beginning to flee. It would spread like plague as those who ran fouled the ranks behind them and infected them with their cowardice. Julius made his choice.

“Primigenia! Saw left into the flank!” As before, he repeated the order twice and the front ranks heard him though they could not turn. They would know there was no one behind to bolster them and would fight all the harder in the time they were vulnerable.

Primigenia moved fast across the line of advance, a few stumbling into the soldiers who had not heard the order. It was a dangerous maneuver to try in the middle of a battle, but Julius knew he had to use his men to stiffen the legion of Lepidus before the whole left flank crumbled. He raced through the ranks with the others, leaping over corpses and continuing to shout orders to keep them in close and moving. At best he had seconds to prevent the rout.

Brutus arrived first, deliberately knocking a fleeing legionary over with his shield. Julius and Ciro took his sides and together they made the core, with Primigenia forming a wall of grim soldiers around them that the retreating Romans would have to cross to get away. Renius had vanished in the press, separated from them by hundreds of waiting soldiers.

“Level swords!” Julius roared, his face twisted into an animal mask of rage. “No soldier crosses this line alive! Show this Lepidus what we are!”

The spread of panicking men skidded to a halt as the ranks of Primigenia ranged before them, blocking the retreat. The light of panic went out of their eyes as they took in the swords held ready to cut them down. There was no question they would be used. The men of Primigenia understood as well as Julius that they would all die if Lepidus's legion ran from the slave flank. They would be overwhelmed.

In moments, something of order had returned to the disorganized rabble Lepidus's men had become. The centurions and optios used the flats of their swords and thick oak staffs to bully the soldiers back into formation. They were barely in time.

The slave army had sensed the weakness and they screamed orders, pushing hundreds into the gap to widen it. Julius was caught between moving forward through the ranks and having Primigenia seal the breach or holding his position in case Lepidus's men broke again. He knew the recovery was still weak, with the terrified soldiers barely controlling the fear of death that had broken them once. It would be easier the second time.

“Julius?” Brutus asked him, waiting for the order.

Julius glanced at his friend and saw his eagerness. There wasn't a choice after all. They had to take the front themselves and just pray Lepidus's men didn't leave them naked behind.

“Primigenia! Forward to the line!” he shouted, and the seven hundred men under his command jogged forward with him, holding their formation perfectly.

The last of Lepidus's men turned to run from the slaves and Primigenia cut them down before they could take the panic back with them. They did it with a vicious efficiency that should have warned the slaves who struggled to seize the advantage they had created.

The shields of Primigenia smashed into the breach and the swords rose and fell as quickly as they could, with every man sacrificing care for speed. They crunched over the wounded, leaving them screaming and often alive, but Primigenia shoved forward at such a pace that they were in danger of leaving the whole front rank behind and being cut off. Renius matched them, bringing the line up with bellowed orders.

Julius fought in a frenzy. His arm ached and one long wound had scored his skin in a red line from wrist almost to shoulder. A blade had skidded off him before he killed the owner. A powerful-looking slave wearing Roman armor leapt at him, but was knocked from his feet as Renius reached the position, stabbing the slave in the side through a gap in the plates.

Julius killed the next man who faced him, but then three more stabbed at him. He was grateful for the thousands of hours of practice that made him move before he had begun to think. He stepped to the side of the outer man and shoved him into the others, giving up the kill for the need to entangle them. The man stumbled into the path of the second and Julius took his throat out from the side, then lunged over his falling body to sink his gladius into the heaving chest of the middle man. It wedged in the ribs and he almost cried out in frustration as his bloody grip slipped completely from the sword as he pulled on it, leaving him unarmed in an instant.

The third man facing him brought a legionary gladius around in a hard, chopping sweep and Julius had to throw himself flat to avoid the blade. He felt panic then as he expected to feel the metal enter him and send his blood mixing with the slippery mess under him. The man died with Ciro's sword in his mouth and Julius scrabbled for his own blade, pulling a body off it and heaving until it came free with a crack of parting bone.

Brutus was a pace ahead and Julius saw him kill two more with a speed and ease Julius had never seen in anyone, never mind the boy he had known all his life. There seemed to be a peaceful space around Brutus and his face was calm, almost serene. Anything alive that came within the range of his sword died in one blow or two, and as if the slaves sensed the boundary, they gave him room and did not press the young soldier as closely as the rest.

“Brutus!” Julius called. “Gladiators in front!”

Racing toward Primigenia were men dressed in gladiator's armor. They wore full helmets that covered their faces, leaving only eyeholes that gave them a look of inhuman ferocity. Their arrival seemed to lift the slaves around them, so that Primigenia staggered to a halt, planting their shields into the soft ground.

Julius wondered if any of them were the men he'd met the night before. It was impossible to be sure in the clash of metal and bodies. They were fast and trained and Julius saw Renius shoulder one down as the ranks closed and another swung at him. Julius brought his shield high with a jerk, feeling twin shocks as his return blow dented armor. His shield entangled the man's sword arm as Julius hammered and hammered at the iron helmet until at last it split and he could move on, panting. His muscles ached and his breath seemed to scorch his throat.

Brutus waited in a pool of stillness that was untouched by the press of bodies all around him. The gladiator he faced feinted once and Brutus read it easily, swaying aside from the real blow. His own sword darted out in response and nicked the man's neck. Blood poured out and, a pace away, Julius heard the soft sound of surprise the gladiator made as he put his hand up to it in astonishment. It was no more than a nick, but a major vein had been severed and his legs collapsed under him. He struggled to rise, panting and groaning like a wounded bullock, then the life went out of him.

Julius hacked his gladius into an exposed neck, and was then knocked over backward as yet another fell against his shield, tearing the straps against his arm. He let it fall and grabbed blindly to hold his attacker long enough with his left hand to sink the gladius into his flesh with the other, though he felt a sting along his back as the man tried to bring a point to bear. He could smell the garlic of the man's last meal as he died.

The men of Primigenia were falling around him and he could see more of the gladiators rushing to take advantage of a breach that still wavered. He glanced behind him and saw with a gasp of relief that Lepidus's legion had re-formed and stood ready to move forward.

“Primigenia! Maniple order. Re-form on the fifth!” he shouted and killed two more raging slaves as they tried to take advantage of the change, charging wildly at the line of Primigenia and dying as quickly. There were so many of them, and without moving fresher men to the front, Primigenia would have been overwhelmed.

Brutus fell back with him and Julius was oddly pleased to see him breathing heavily. For a time, his friend had seemed untouchable by the battle, and it was reassuring to know he could become as tired as the rest of them. Julius watched with approval as Lepidus's men took up the attack and the advance pushed on. It was time to move back to the original position. The left flank was secure.

“Sir?” a voice said at Julius's side. He turned his head sharply in reaction, too tense to see anything except threats. A centurion stood there, without a helmet. A spreading bruise along his cheek and bloody forearms showed he had been in the thick of the battle.

“What is it?” Julius replied.

“General Lepidus is dead, sir. There is no one to command the left.”

Julius closed his eyes for a second, willing away the tiredness that had seeped into his aching muscles with every pace away from the fighting. He glanced at Brutus, who smiled.

“Still lucky, Julius,” he said with a trace of bitterness.

Julius took his friend's hand in a strong grip, a silent acknowledgment of what he had given up, then he turned to the waiting soldier.

“Very well, Centurion. I will assume command. Get the eagle over to me so the men know where to look for orders. Spread the word that if they break for me, I will crucify every last one of them when this is over.”

The centurion blinked as he looked into the young commander's eyes. Then he saluted and ran to fetch the standard-bearer. Four ranks ahead of them, the battle raged on without a pause.

Pompey and Crassus watched the unfolding battle from the high vantage point of their mounts. The sun was rising in the sky and still the hills around swarmed with the slave army. Pompey had ordered the onagers and catapults to keep firing over the front lines until they had exhausted their missiles. They had fallen silent after the first three hours and the battle had only grown in ferocity since then.

The senators could observe in relative safety, more than a hundred feet back from the front ranks of the right flank. A century protected the position, allowing only the extraordinarii messengers through to the two commanders. After so long, the horses arrived at the command point with white sweat and spittle lathering their skin. A rider trotted up to the senators and saluted smartly despite his tiredness.

“The breach is closed, sir. Caesar commands the left. General Lepidus is dead,” he said through heavy breaths.

“Good,” Pompey replied shortly. “That saves me the task of killing the fool after the battle. Get over to Martius and tell him to bring a thousand to support Caesar there. Leave him in command. I'd say he's earned it.”

The horseman saluted and galloped through the guards, his weariness showing in the loose way he sat his mount. Pompey signaled another of the extraordinarii to approach and stand ready for the next order. He scanned the battle, trying to judge the progress.

He knew the Romans should have routed the slaves. Thousands had fallen, but they seemed possessed and the legions were becoming exhausted. No matter how they rotated their front lines with the maniple orders, there was no lack of fresh enemies to sap their strength and will. He had left standing instructions with his archers to send shafts at anyone they could see in gladiatorial armor, but hitting individual targets was almost impossible.

Crassus looked over the right flank, where the cavalry of two legions was struggling to hold the ground they had gained in the first charge. Horses were screaming in pain and already men were spilling around them.

“Pompey, the right!” he snapped at his colleague.

Pompey took in the risk and sent the messenger away to bring in reinforcements. It was dangerous to take too many men from the center. If a breach came there, the army would be cut in half and that would be the finish. Pompey found a sense of desperation growing in him. There was no end to these slaves. For all the Roman skill and discipline, he could not see how to bring them victory. His men killed until they became exhausted and then were cut down in their turn, over and over.

Pompey signaled to the cornicens for another maniple order. He had lost count of the number of times he had sent the call and could imagine what his men were feeling as they were rotated back to the front before they had fully recovered from the last time. He had to keep the intervals short to spare them, but that meant less time to regain their strength.

Pompey and Crassus turned as a warning shout came from the right. The slaves had cut through the last of the cavalry and were surging forward, creating panic in the Roman lines as they threatened to envelop the flank or even hit them from behind. Pompey swore and summoned another rider.

“Right to retreat in battle order. Left to come forward. We have to turn the whole field before they get round us. The cornicens to sound ‘Right Wheel.' Go.”

The man galloped away and the two generals abandoned dignity to kneel on their saddles for a better view of the developing action. Pompey's hands were cramped and white on the reins as he knew the whole battle rested on the decision. If the retreat turned into a panic, the slave army would spill around and encircle the Romans. His mouth was dried by the cold air as he breathed in hissing gasps.

The orders took a long time to reach up and down the line. Shouts echoed nearby and the right began to give way in order, shifting the line to a red diagonal across the plain. Pompey clenched his fists as he saw the left push forward to compact the slaves.

The whole battle began to turn and Pompey was frantic with worry. It was the only way to save the overwhelmed right flank, but as the thousands wheeled, the slaves were free to peel off and head for Ariminum if their commanders saw the chance.

Spartacus stood on the saddle of his horse and swore softly as he saw the legions were holding. For a moment, he thought Antonidus was right and the wing would be overwhelmed, but somehow they had swung round, eight legions moving as one, to turn the battle toward the east. He whistled softly in admiration, even as he saw their dreams come to dust on the field. The legions were everything he'd known they could be, and for a moment, he remembered his own days as a soldier with them. It had been a grand brotherhood before it had soured for him. A drunken brawl and an officer dead and nothing had been right since. He'd run because he knew they'd put him up before the man's friends and sentence him to death. There was no justice for a man like him, little more than a child when he'd been recruited in Thrace. Not a true Roman, to them, and little better than an animal. Those were different and bitter memories: capture and slavery, then the gladiatorial school, where they were treated like violent dogs to be chained and beaten into ferocity.

“Morituri te salutamus. We who are about to die salute you,” he whispered to himself as he watched his people die. He looked at the sun and saw it had risen past noon, cold and pale on the end of winter. The days had barely begun to lengthen and it would only be a few more hours until dark.

He watched the battle for a long time, hoping to see the legions break, but they stood strong against the multitude and he despaired. Finally, he nodded to himself. When the Romans pulled back to their camps for the night, he would make for Ariminum. His men hadn't eaten in four days and the Roman city was filled with food to make them strong again.

“We're going to have to run, Crix,” he murmured.

His friend stood with Antonidus, holding the reins in his hand.

“They could still break before dark,” Crixus replied bitterly.

Antonidus growled and spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground in anger. He had promised them a victory and he felt his influence slipping away with the toll of their dead.

Spartacus shook his head. “No. If we haven't beaten them by now, they'll not run from us. They'll move back into those forts of theirs and eat heartily before coming out to finish the work tomorrow. We won't be here when they do.”

“Why won't they break, though?” Crixus demanded angrily to the air.

“Because if they break, Rome falls to us,” Antonidus snapped. “They know the stakes, but we can still win. Pull back the front lines and put in fresh men. Move to surround the left wing. Whether they run or not, we can wear them down to nothing.”

Spartacus looked with distaste at the Roman general his men had found. The man had nothing but bile in him and didn't seem to grasp that the lives he urged them to throw away were friends and brothers. The gladiator closed his eyes for a moment. They had all cheered Antonidus when Crixus had first shown him to them, dressed in armor taken from a Roman corpse. He had been paraded like a favorite pet for the men, but his promises had been worthless and his clever tactics nothing more than confusion for slaves who had never held a sword before they took it up in the rebellion.

“Our men are weak with hunger,” Spartacus said. “I saw some who were green-mouthed from the boiled grasses they'd eaten. We can't survive another day of fighting after this one.”

“We can try for the passes to Gaul,” Crixus began.

“How many do you think would reach the high passes alive?” Spartacus demanded. “The legions would hunt us down before we'd left the plains. No, that chance has gone. It has to be Ariminum. We'll take what food we need and build our strength. Somehow, we'll stay ahead of them.”

“If we could find ships, they might let us go,” Crixus said, looking up at his friend.

“It would take a fleet,” Spartacus said, considering. He longed to get away from the power of Rome, bitter with the knowledge that he should have led his men across the mountains. Let them have their little country. He would settle for being free.

Antonidus held his temper with difficulty. They had taken him from slavery to be killed by his own people. Neither man realized that Rome would never forgive a general who let them escape. It would be a shame that would last for centuries and every slave in the country would think of rising against their masters. He listened to their plans with growing anger. The only freedom they would see came from beating the legions on the plain, no matter how many lives it took.

Antonidus made a silent promise to slip away before the end came. He would not be paraded in Rome as a trophy. He could not bear the thought of a triumphant Cato condemning him with a wave of his fat hands.

“The men are exhausted,” Crassus snapped. “You must sound the disengage before they're overwhelmed.”

“No. They will hold,” Pompey said, squinting against the descending sun. “Send the extraordinarii to ready the camps for the night. We'll pull back when the light goes, but if I order it now, the slaves will think they have broken the only legions between here and Rome. Our men must hold.”

Crassus twisted his hands together in an agony of indecision. The legions were under his command, and if Pompey waited too long to call them back, it could end everything they had ever worked for. If the legions fell, Rome would follow.

Julius heaved air into leaden lungs as he waited for the horns to sound the next attack. The blood on him had dried long ago and dropped away in dark crusts as he moved. Old blood. He looked wearily at his arms and held one hand up, narrowing his eyes at the shiver of exhaustion he saw there.

Another man panted at his side and Julius glanced at him. He had fought well in the last attack, spending his strength with the confidence of the immortal young. He looked up to see Julius watching him, and a shadow passed over his gray eyes. There were no words to be said. Julius wondered if Cato's son would survive the battle. If he lived, Cato would never understand the changes in him.

Ciro hawked and spat behind him to clear the blood from his throat. His lips were split and swollen and his smile was red when he grinned painfully at his general.

They were all cut and battered. Julius winced with every movement. Something had torn in his lower back as he'd heaved a dead man off him. It sent sparks of pain up to his shoulders with every movement, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He looked over at Brutus, who'd been knocked unconscious by a berserk slave. Only a swift countercharge had reclaimed the ground and his body. Ciro had dragged him back through the ranks to recover, and as the sky began to darken he'd rejoined them, but he moved more slowly and his skill had almost deserted him. Julius wondered if his skull had been cracked by the blow, but could not send him back to the camps. They needed every man who could still stand.

They were all past exhaustion and pain, entering a sort of numbness that left the mind free to drift. Colors paled and their minds lost awareness of time, seeing it slow down and then rush to frightening speed, over and over.

With a jerk, Julius heard the cry of the cornicen's horn nearest him. He staggered forward for another stint on the front line and shook off Ciro's hand when it touched his arm.

“No more today, General,” Ciro said, bracing Julius with an arm to steady him. “The light has gone. That's the call back to camp.”

Julius looked blankly at him for a moment, then nodded wearily. “Tell Brutus and Renius to form the lines and retreat in good order. Tell the men to keep an eye out for a sudden charge.” His words slurred with tiredness, but he raised his head and smiled at the man he'd found in another continent, another world.

“Better than the farm, Ciro?”

The big man looked around him at the bodies. It had been the hardest day of his life, but he knew the men around him better than he could explain. He had been alone on the farm.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and Julius seemed to understand.

CHAPTER 39

Suetonius leaned on the fence in the woods. At the edge of his vision, he saw his father's slaves working unhurriedly to uproot the posts and remove the boundary. In a few hours all signs of it would be gone, and Suetonius frowned as he rested his head on his arms. The house he had planned would have been beautiful, rising above the trees on Caesar's land to look down the hill. He had been going to have a balcony built so that he could sit there on warm evenings with a cool drink. All that had vanished with his father's sudden weakness.

Suetonius picked at a splinter on the post, thinking of the host of petty insults that Julius had forced him to accept when they were prisoners and with the Wolves in Greece. He knew if Julius hadn't been there, the other men would have accepted him more readily, perhaps even agreeing to his command in the end as they had for Julius. He would have handed over the body of Mithridates to the legate Lepidus, sharing a meal with the man rather than rushing off to the port with barely a pause. The Senate would have named him tribune and his father would have been proud.

Instead, he had nothing but a ransom that belonged to his father and a few scars to show for everything he had endured. Caesar had taken the Wolves away to the north, flattering and persuading them to follow him, while Suetonius was left behind, without even the small comfort of seeing his own house built.

He tore at the splinter in sudden anger, wincing as part of it scored the skin of his hand. He had applied to go north with the six legions, but none of the legates had accepted him. No doubt who had spread the word there. He knew his father could have called in favors for them to accept his son, but had stopped short of asking. The shame of how he had been treated burned at him in the stillness of the woods.

Another movement caught his eye and he raised his head to see. He almost hoped some of his father's slaves were shirking their work. The flogging he would give them would go some way to break the lethargy he felt. He seemed to feel life more strongly in his veins when the time came to punish the lazy ones. He knew they walked in fear of him, but that was only right.

He took a deep breath to bark an order at them, hoping to see them jump. Then he froze. The men were moving stealthily through the thick undergrowth on the other side of the fence. They were not his slaves. Very slowly, he lowered his head back onto his arms and watched in silence as they passed not far away, oblivious to his presence.

Suetonius felt his heart hammer in sudden fear, and a flush came to his cheeks as he tried to breathe shallowly. They had not seen him yet, but there was something very wrong about the scene. There were three men moving together and a fourth some distance behind. Suetonius had almost stood to peer after the first group, and only some instinct warned him to hold still as they vanished through the trees. Then the fourth had come into sight, moving warily. He was dressed in rough dark clothing like the others and walked lightly over the dead wood and moss, showing a hunter's skill with his silence.

Suetonius saw he too was armed and suddenly he thought the man must see him through the shadows. He wanted to run or to shout for his slaves. Visions of the rebellion in the north came to him, and his mind filled with pictures of their knives in him, vivid and terrifying. He had seen so many die and it was too easy to imagine the men turning on him like animals. His sword was at his side, but he kept his hands still.

He held his breath as the last man passed. The man seemed to sense eyes on him and hesitated, scanning the trees around him. He didn't see Suetonius and after a while he relaxed and moved on, disappearing as completely as his companions before him.

Suetonius breathed out slowly, still not daring to move. They had been heading toward the Caesar estate, and his eyes became cruel as he realized it. Let Caesar have his land, with those men walking on it. He would not give them away. It was in the hands of the gods and out of his.

Feeling as if much of his pain and bitterness had been lifted from him, he stood up and stretched his back. Whoever the hunters were, he wished them luck as he walked over to where the slaves were taking down the fence. He gave orders for them to pack up their tools and return to his father's estate, instinctively wanting to be far away from the woods for the next few days.

The slaves saw his mood had lightened and exchanged glances, wondering what viciousness he'd seen to cheer him as they shouldered their burdens and made their way home.

Julius was exhausted, cursing under his breath as he stumbled on a loose stone. He knew that if he fell, there was a chance he wouldn't get up and he'd be left on the road.

They could not stop, with the slave army running before them toward Ariminum. Fleeing the field in the dark had given them half a day's start, and Pompey had sent out the order to run them down. The gap hadn't closed in seven days, as the legions pursued an army far fresher than themselves. Julius knew they could lose many more men, but if the slaves turned south, Rome stood naked for the first time in her history.

He fixed his eyes on the legionary in front of him. He had been staring at that back all day and knew every tiny detail of it, from the patchy gray hair that showed under the helmet to the spatters of blood up the man's ankles where he had stamped for a mile to break his blisters. Someone had urinated up ahead, darkening the dust of the road. Julius trudged through the patch indifferently, wondering when he would next have to do the same himself.

At his side, Brutus cleared his throat and spat. There was nothing of his usual energy showing in him. He was hunched under the weight of his pack, and Julius knew his friend's shoulders were raw. Brutus rubbed cooking fat on them at night and waited stoically for the calluses to form.

They had not spoken since dawn, the battle with endurance and the road going on without a public show. It was the same for most of them. They marched with slack and open mouths, all awareness narrowed to a point just ahead on the road. Often when the horns sounded a halt, men would stumble into those ahead and wake almost from sleep as they were cursed or struck.

Julius and Brutus chewed on stale bread and meat as it was handed out to them without a halt. As they tried to find saliva to swallow, they passed another fallen soldier and wondered if they too would be left on the road.

If Spartacus wanted to exhaust the legions in a chase, he could not have done better, and always there was the knowledge that there would have to be another battle when the slaves and gladiators finally found a place to stand. Only death would stop the legions.

Cabera coughed dust out of his throat and Julius glanced at the old man, marveling again that he had not fallen with the others. The poor rations and the miles had reduced his thin frame further, so that he looked almost skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and dark and the march had stolen away his humor and his talk. Like Brutus and Renius behind him, he had not spoken since the moment they were forced to their feet by weary optios, using their staffs on officers and men alike without interest, their faces as thin and tired as the rest of them.

They were allowed only four hours to sleep in the darkness. Pompey knew they could find Ariminum in flames, but the slaves would barely be able to pause before the legions were on the horizon, forcing them on. They couldn't allow Spartacus to regroup. If necessary, they would chase him into the sea.

Julius held his head high with difficulty, knowing he was seen by Primigenia around him. The legion of Lepidus marched in rank with them, though there was a subtle difference between the groups. Primigenia had not run and every soldier knew that the punishment for that failure still had to be meted out. Fear showed in the eyes of Lepidus's men and sapped at their will as they filled the hours with silent worry. There was nothing Julius and Brutus could do for them. The death of Lepidus went only some way in repairing their moment of panic in the battle.

The cornicens sounded as they reached the site of an old camp. It was two hours early, but Pompey had obviously decided to use the boundary they had erected once before, with only a little work needing to be done to shore up the spilled earth. Once inside, the men fell down where they stood. Some lay on their sides, too tired to remove their packs. Friends untied each other and the dwindling rations were brought out from packs and passed along lines to the cooks, who started fires in the ashes of the old ones. The men wanted to sleep and they had to eat first, so the cornmeal and dried meat was heated through and sent out on iron plates as fast as possible. The legionaries stuffed the food into their mouths without interest, then unrolled the thin trail blankets from their packs and lay down.

Julius had just finished his and was licking his fingers to remove every last crumb of the mush his body needed so desperately when he heard a cornicen blow a warning note nearby. Pompey and Crassus were approaching his position.

He scrambled to his feet and kicked Brutus, who had curled up, already drifting toward sleep. Renius opened an eye at the sound and groaned, heaving himself into a sitting position with his arm.

“Up! Get the men on their feet. Centurions, form Primigenia into squares for inspection. Quickly!”

He hated having to do it as he watched the men drag themselves upright, looking dazed. Some had been asleep and they stood loosely, their arms hanging and only dull awareness in their eyes. The centurions bullied and heaved until some semblance of ranks was produced. There were no groans or complaints; they hadn't the energy or the will to resist anything that was done to them. They stood where they were pushed and waited to be told to sleep once more.

Pompey and Crassus rode through the camp, bringing their horses close to Julius before dismounting. As well they might, both men looked fresher than the legionaries around them, but there was an air of tight-lipped seriousness about the generals that woke some of Lepidus's men to the danger, making them glance nervously at each other. Pompey approached Julius, who saluted.

“Primigenia stands ready, sir,” Julius said.

“It is your other command that brings me here, Caesar. Tell Primigenia to rest and have Lepidus's men form ranks in their place.”

Julius gave the orders and the three of them waited as the soldiers moved quickly into position. Even after the losses they had suffered in the panic of the battle, there were still more than three thousand survivors. Some were wounded, though the worst of these had already been left on the road, days before. Pompey mounted his horse to address them, but before he began, he leaned down to Julius and spoke quietly.

“Do not interfere, Julius. The decision has been made.”

Julius returned the questioning stare impassively, then nodded. Pompey joined Crassus and together they trotted their horses right up to the front rank of the assembled men.

“Centurions stand forward!” Pompey barked out. Then he raised his head to have his voice carry as far as possible. “This legion carries a shame that must be cut out. There can be no excuse for cowardice. Hear now the punishment you will receive.

“Every tenth man in line will be marked by the centurions. He will die at the hands of the others. You will not use blades, but crush and beat them to death with fists and staffs. You will shed your own friends' blood in this way and always remember. A tenth of you will die this day. Centurions, begin the count.”

Julius watched in horror as the centurions called off the numbers. As they marched along the ranks, the men around the unlucky one would cringe in fear as the officers came abreast of them, then gasp as the hand fell on a different shoulder. Some cried out, for themselves or for friends, but there was no mercy to be had. Crassus and Pompey watched the whole process with stiff disdain.

It took less than an hour, but by the end, three hundred men stood out from the ranks. Some wept, but others gazed blankly at the ground, unable to understand what was happening to them, why they had been singled out to die.

“Remember this!” Pompey bellowed at the men. “You ran from slaves where no legion has run in generations. Lay your swords down and complete your task.”

The lines dissolved as each man standing apart was surrounded by nine of his friends and brothers. Julius heard one of them muttering an apology before he landed the first blow. It was worse than anything Julius had ever seen. Though the optios had staffs, the common soldiers had only their fists to smash the faces and chests of people they had known for years. Some of them sobbed as they struck, their faces twisted like children, but not a single one of them refused.

It took a long time. Some of the battered soldiers died quickly, their throats crushed, but others lingered on and on, shuddering and screaming in a terrible chorus that made Brutus shiver as he watched, transfixed by the knots of bloody-handed men, kicking and punching savagely. Brutus shook his head in disbelief, then looked away, sickened. He saw Renius was standing rigidly, his face pale.

“I never thought I would see this again,” Renius muttered to himself. “I thought it had died out long ago.”

“It had,” Julius replied flatly. “Looks like Pompey's revived it.”

Ciro watched in horror, his shoulders sagging. He looked at Julius questioningly, but there were no words for him.

Julius watched as the last blows were struck and the centurions checked each corpse. The men stood back, their energy disappearing as they shambled into ranks. The bodies sprawled before them in circles of bloody grass, and many of the living bore the spatters of the executions, standing with their heads bowed in misery.

“If we were in Rome, I would order you disbanded and forbidden to bear arms,” Pompey roared into the silence. “As it is, circumstances may save you yet.” He glanced at Crassus and the senator shifted in his saddle. Julius frowned suddenly. For Pompey to give way to Crassus meant that he needed the weight of the Senate authority behind whatever was going to be said. For all their maneuvering, only Crassus had that. The older man cleared his throat to speak.

“It is my order that a new legion be formed, to expunge the stain of Lepidus. You will join with Primigenia and make a new history. Your standards will be changed. You will have a new name, untouched by shame. I appoint Gaius Julius Caesar to command you. I speak with the authority of the Senate.”

Crassus wheeled his horse and trotted over to where Julius stood, glaring at him.

“Will they be Primigenia, then?” Julius asked harshly.

Crassus shook his head. “I know what it will do to you, Julius, but this is the better way. If they take arms for you, they will always be apart as they are now. A new name will clear the field for them… and for you. Pompey and I have agreed. Obey your orders. Primigenia ends today.”

Julius couldn't speak with anger for a moment, and Crassus watched him closely, waiting for a response. The younger man understood what they were trying to do, but still the memory of Marius haunted his thoughts. Understanding this, Crassus leaned down and spoke softly so as not to be overheard.

“Your uncle would understand, Julius. Be sure of that.”

Julius clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, unable to trust himself to speak. He owed a great deal to this man. Crassus leaned back, relaxing.

“You will need a new name for them. Pompey thought it should be-”

“No,” Julius interrupted. “I have a name for them.”

Crassus raised his eyebrows in surprise as Julius walked around his horse and faced the bloody men he was to command. He took a deep breath to send his voice out to as many as could hear him.

“I will take your oaths, if you will give them. I remember that you did not desert the field, but rallied when I asked it of you, even with Lepidus dead.” He let his gaze fall to the broken bodies all along the ranks. “The price for the failure has been paid and will never be mentioned again after today. But it must be remembered.”

The silence was terrible and the air smelled of blood.

“You are marked with the lives of every tenth man. I name you the Tenth, so you will never forget the payment taken and you will never break.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Julius saw Crassus grimace at the name, but he had known from the first moment that it was the right choice. It would hold them through fear and pain when others lost their nerve.

“Primigenia! My last command to you. Form ranks with your brothers. Look at their faces and learn their names. Know this. When men hear the Tenth stand against them, they will be afraid, for they have paid their dues in their own blood.”

As the ranks re-formed, Julius walked back to Crassus as Pompey joined the senator. Both generals looked at Julius with guarded interest.

“You speak… well to them, Julius,” Pompey said. He shook his head slightly as he watched Primigenia welcomed into the ranks. He had thought Julius would resist the order for the sake of Primigenia's name and had been prepared to force the issue. Watching the ease with which the young commander had assimilated the news and made it work for him was a surprise. For the first time, Pompey had a glimpse of how the young man had been so successful in Greece against Mithridates and the pirates before him. He seemed to know the words to use and that they could bite with greater force than swords.

“I would like to extend the time in camp before we move on, sir. It will give me a chance to speak with the men as well as let them finish their food and get some sleep.”

Pompey was tempted to refuse the request. Apart from the driving need to pursue the slaves, his instincts warned him not to make things too easy for the young man who could speak directly to the hearts of the soldiers and lift them from misery in an instant. Then he relented. Caesar would need every advantage if he was to resurrect the dignity of the new legion from the ashes.

“You may tell them I have granted two further hours at your request, Julius. Be ready to march at sunset.”

“Thank you, sir. I will arrange for new shields and armor for the men as soon as we are finished with this rebellion.”

Pompey nodded absently, signaling to Crassus to ride away to the command position further up at the head of the column. Julius watched them go, his face unreadable. He turned to Brutus and found Cabera with him, something of the old life and interest in the healer's face. Julius smiled tightly.

“Brutus, stand them down and tell them to finish eating. Then I want to speak to as many as I can before they sleep. Marius would have learned their names. So will I.”

“It hurts to see Primigenia lost,” Brutus murmured.

Julius shook his head. “They are not lost. The name will remain on the Senate rolls. I will make sure of it. Pompey and Crassus were right to make a new start, though it does hurt. Come on, gentlemen, let us walk amongst the Tenth. It's time to let go of the past.”

Ariminum stood under a pall of smoke. The slave army had moved through it like locusts, taking everything that could be eaten and driving sheep and cattle to run before them on the march. While citizens hid behind barricaded doors, Spartacus and his army walked slowly through quiet streets with the sun casting weak shadows behind them. They set fires in the grain stores and abandoned markets, knowing their pursuers might waste time stamping them out before following. With the legion still doggedly on their heels, every hour was crucial.

The guards had run from the city treasury, and Spartacus ordered the gold loaded onto mules for the journey south. It was a fortune from trade, and the dream of a fleet of ships to take them to freedom became reality as soon as the gladiators saw the crates of coins.

The docks were empty of ships, the dark hulks standing clear out to sea where they could watch the horde of slaves looting their city under rising plumes of smoke and ash. The ships were packed with silent people, just watching. Spartacus walked up to the edge of the docks and returned their stares.

“See how many they hold, Crix. We have enough gold to buy every one of us a berth.”

“These precious merchants won't stir to save us,” Crixus replied. “It has to be the pirates. The gods know, they have enough ships, and spitting in Rome's eye will give them some pleasure, as well.”

“But how to get word to them? We must send riders out to each port. There has to be a way to reach them.” Spartacus looked over the water at the pale specks of faces clustered in the ships. It was possible, if they could speak to Rome's enemies.

Antonidus walked up to stand at his side, squinting out over the waves with a sneer.

“Brave Roman citizens hiding from us like children,” he said.

Spartacus shrugged, tired of his bitterness and spite. “Sixty or seventy ships like those and we can leave Roman lands. A fleet bought with their own gold seems like justice.”

Antonidus looked at the two gladiators with more interest. He'd been tempted to slip away at the port, taking off his armor and joining the crowds of people who would surely gather once the slaves were gone. Then he'd seen the gold they'd taken from the treasury. Enough to buy him an estate in Spain or a vast farm in Africa. There were many places for a man to hide that would not shelter an army. He knew if he stayed, their trust in him could give him the chance he needed. Would Pompey forgive him if he brought Spartacus's head? Antonidus frowned. No, he'd faced a Roman court once and that was enough. Better just to run for a place where he could start again.

Spartacus turned, putting the sea at his back. “We will send local men to every port with a few coins to prove their promises. Speak to them, Crixus. Someone must know how to reach the pirates. Let them know the plan. It will raise their spirits on the march south.”

“We're heading south toward Rome, then?” Antonidus asked sharply.

A terrible anger creased the features of the gladiator for a moment, and Antonidus stepped back as he answered.

“We should never have turned our backs on the mountains, but now we must keep ahead of them. We'll run those bastards ragged on our trail. Remember, we're the ones who till their fields and work every hour of light for their wealth. It's made us strong. Let's see what sort of state they're in by the time we sight their beloved city.”

As he spoke he stared west into the sun, his eyes glinting gold with it as he imagined the legions hunting them. His face was bitter and Antonidus had to look away.

CHAPTER 40

As the moon rose, Alexandria stood on the walls above the great city of Rome with the rain drumming against the stones. Torches had been lit all round the city, and they spat and crackled, giving only a little light to the defenders. When the warning horns had sounded, they had all come, snatching up tools and knives to hold the wall against the silent mass that tramped past in the darkness, churning the Campus Martius into clotted mud.

Tabbic held his iron hammer in tight hands, his face drawn and pale in the flickering light. There was no give in him, or any of them, Alexandria knew. If the slaves attacked them, they would fight as ferociously as the legions themselves. She looked up and down the line at the faces staring down into the dark and wondered at their calm. Families stood together in silence, even the children awed into stillness by the army passing them by. The moon cast only a little light, but it was enough to show the white faces of the slaves as they looked up at the city that had decreed their death. There seemed no end to them, but the moon reached its zenith and began to fall before the last stragglers disappeared into the night.

The tension eased at last, after hours of painful anticipation. The messengers from the legions had passed the news that they were close behind, and the Senate had ordered the people to the walls until it was safe, setting the example by taking places on the great gatehouses with the swords of their fathers and grandfathers.

Alexandria gulped in the cold air, feeling alive. The rain had begun to lighten and Rome had survived. Sudden smiles and laughter showed her that they all felt it, and for a moment she knew they had shared a bond in the dark that was as strong as any other tie in her life. Yet still she was torn. She had been a slave, as they were slaves, and had dreamed of rising up in a multitude to cast down their owners' precious houses and walls.

“Will they all be killed?” she murmured, almost to herself.

Tabbic turned sharply toward her, his eyes shadowed.

“They will. The Senate has known fear and they won't forgive a single one of them. The legions will make a bloody example of them before it ends.”

Pompey allowed the lamps to burn low in his tent as he read the dispatches from Rome, less than thirty miles south of them. Rain drummed against the canvas of the command tent and dripped through in places to make the ground sodden. Food sat on his table untouched as he read and reread each message. Crassus would have to be told.

After a while, he stood to pace and barely noticed as one of the torches guttered and failed. He took another from its stand and held it to illuminate a map that covered the entire wall of the tent. Spots of dark moisture showed on the parchment, and he realized he'd have to take it down if the rain continued. Rome was a tiny circle on the thick skin, and somewhere to the south the slaves were moving ever onward to the sea. He stared at the symbol for the city, knowing he had to make a decision before Crassus arrived.

Around him, only the sentries moved around the silent camp in damp misery. The Senate had sent supplies out to them as soon as the army of Spartacus had marched south. Pompey could only imagine the fear in the streets as the sea of slaves passed them by, but the gates had been barred against them.

He was proud of his people when he'd heard: the old and the young, women and loyal slaves ready to fight. Even the Senate had armed themselves, as they had centuries before to defend their city with their lives. It gave him hope for them.

A murmur of passwords outside revealed the approach of Crassus, who looked around in surprise at the dark tent as he entered. He wore a heavy leather cloak over his armor and pulled back the hood, scattering droplets.

“Evil night,” he muttered. “What news?”

Pompey stopped and turned toward him. “Some of it is… awful,” he replied, “but it must wait. There are four legions at the coast, just landed from Greece. I'm going to meet them and bring them after us.”

Crassus nodded warily. “What else, Pompey? You could send the extraordinarii to them, with our seals on the orders. Why go yourself?”

Pompey grimaced in the shadows. “The man who killed my daughter has been found. The men I left to hunt him are watching him now. I will stop at the city before I meet the legions coming west. You'll have to go on without me until this is done.”

Crassus took a taper and oil jug from the table and relit the lamps, his hand shaking slightly as he concentrated. At last, he sat down and met Pompey's eyes.

“If they turn to fight, I will not be able to wait for you,” he said.

Pompey shook his head. “Then do not force them to turn. Give them room to run and in a few days, a week, I will be back with fresh men to end this chase at last. Don't risk losing everything, my friend. For all your skill in Senate, you are no general. You know it as well as I do.”

Crassus hid his anger. Always they saw him as the merchant, the lender, as if there were some great secret to the legions that only the chosen few could understand. As if there were some shame to his wealth. He could see Pompey was desperate not to lose this victory. How awful it would be if lowly Crassus stole it from under him! Whoever broke the rebellion would be the next consul, he was sure. How could the Senate resist the will of the people after so many months of fear? Not for the first time, Crassus felt regret at his generosity in choosing Pompey in the Senate debate. If he had known then how the campaign would go, he would have risked it alone.

“I will herd them south,” he said, and Pompey nodded, satisfied. He lifted another of the dispatches from the table and showed it to Crassus, angling it into the light. As Crassus read, Pompey stood and pointed to the map.

“Those reports of a fleet can only be for the slaves. I'd stay if I wasn't sure they will keep moving, but as long as you don't provoke them, they should head south to meet the ships. I'll call in the galleys against them. There will be no escape by sea, I swear it.”

“If that's what they intend,” Crassus muttered, still reading.

“They cannot run forever. They must be starving, no matter what they've found to scavenge. Every day weakens them if they're hoping to bring us to another battle. No, they're trying to escape and those reports are the key to it.”

“And when they see our galleys gathering to prevent it, you'll ride up with the Greek legions to finish them?” Crassus asked, some of the bile he felt creeping into his tone.

“I will,” Pompey replied sharply. “Do not take the threat lightly, Crassus. If we lose now, we lose everything. We need the extra legions I will bring. Do not join in battle until you see my flags. I'd rather see you retreat than be routed before I arrive.”

“Very well,” Crassus replied, stung by the casual dismissal of his abilities. If Spartacus attacked while Pompey was away, the moment would be his to seize, and the glory with it. “I know you will come as quickly as you can,” he said.

Pompey sagged slightly, resting his knuckles on the table. “There is another matter. I'm leaving immediately for the city and I don't know if I should keep it to myself until we're finished here or not.”

“Tell me,” Crassus said, softly.

The leather tents were heavy with rain that roared in a broken rhythm as the men slept fitfully. Julius dreamed of the estate. The day had been tiring as the legions forced the pace toward Rome, and when the order had come to set the tents, the legionaries had barely bothered to remove their armor before falling asleep. Those who had lived through the forced marches were harder than they had ever been, tight-skinned over taut muscle. They had seen friends die on the march or just fall off the road, their legs twitching. Some of them had lived to join the end of the column, but many of their wounded had died, losing blood with each step until their ailing hearts finally stopped and they lay where they fell.

Feet that had bled and been caked with a brown rime had become layered in callus, white against their sandals. Torn muscles had healed and the legions became stronger on the march, their heads rising. In the third week, Pompey called for a faster pace on the Via Flaminia and they met it without protest, feeling again the thrill of the chase.

Julius murmured irritably as someone shook his shoulder.

“There's a messenger from Pompey, Julius. Wake up, quickly.”

Julius snapped awake, shaking his head to clear it of the dream. He looked out of the tent at the messenger carrying Pompey's bronze seal and dressed quickly, leaving his armor behind. As soon as he stepped out, the rain drenched him to the skin.

The sentry at the command tent stood aside as Julius gave the password of the day. Both Crassus and Pompey were there and he saluted them, instantly wary. There was something strange in their expressions that he had not seen before.

“Sit down, Julius,” Crassus said.

The older man did not meet his eyes as he spoke, and Julius frowned slightly as he took a seat on a bench by the table. Julius waited patiently and when the generals did not speak immediately, a spike of worry twisted in his stomach. He wiped water from his face with a nervous scrubbing motion. Pompey poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward the young tribune.

“We… I have bad news, Julius. Messages have come from the city,” he began. His expression was uncomfortable as he took a slow breath to continue.

“There has been an attack on your estate. Your wife has been killed. I understand-”

Julius stood up jerkily. “No,” he said. “No, that must be wrong.”

“I'm sorry, Julius. It happened only days ago. It came with the dispatches,” Pompey said. The young man's horror tore at his own memories of finding his daughter in the garden. He handed the parchment to Julius and watched in silence as he read through it, his eyes blurring as he started over and over. Julius's breath shuddered out of him and his hands shook so that he could barely read the words.

“Sweet gods, no,” he whispered. “It hardly says anything. What about Tubruk? Octavian? My daughter is not mentioned. There's nothing there but a few words. Cornelia…” He could not finish and his head bowed in mute misery.

“It's a formal dispatch, Julius,” Pompey whispered. “It may be they still live. There will be other letters to follow.” He paused for a moment, coming to a decision. “As close as we are to the city, I will understand if you take a short leave to see to your affairs at home.”

Julius did not seem to hear him. Crassus crossed to the young man who had seen so much grief in his life.

“If you want to go back to your estate, I'll sign the orders. Do you hear?”

Julius raised his head and both men looked away rather than see his agony.

“I request permission to take the Tenth with me,” Julius said, shaking.

“I cannot allow that, Julius. Even if we could spare them, I cannot give you a legion to use against your enemies.”

“Just a fifty, then. Ten even,” Julius said, his voice breaking.

Pompey shook his head. “I am going back to the city myself, Julius. There will be justice done, I swear it to you, but it will be under the rule of law, the peace of the city. Everything Marius worked for. You will come back with me in a few days to finish the rebellion. That is your duty and mine.”

Julius turned as if to leave the tent, holding himself still with an immense effort of will. Pompey put a hand on his shoulder.

“The Republic is not to be thrown away when we tire of the restrictions, Julius. When my daughter died, I made myself wait. Marius himself said the Republic is worth a life, do you remember that?”

“Not her life,” Julius replied. He breathed in sobs that he tried to talk over even as they wrenched at him. “She wasn't part of it.”

The two generals shared a glance over his head.

“Go home, Julius,” Crassus said softly. “There's a horse waiting for you. Brutus will command the Tenth while you are gone.”

Julius stood finally, taking deep breaths to find some semblance of control in front of Crassus and Pompey.

“Thank you,” he said, attempting a salute. He still clutched the report in his hand, and he noticed it then, placing it on the seat before leaving the tent and taking the reins of the horse that had been brought for him. Some part of him wanted just to dig his heels in and gallop from the camp, but instead he wheeled and rode to where the Tenth lay sleeping in their tents. He pulled back the flap to rouse Brutus, who came out quickly when he saw his expression.

“I'm going back to Rome, Brutus. Cornelia is dead, somehow. I don't… understand.”

“Oh, Julius, no,” Brutus said. He pulled his friend into an embrace and the contact brought tears from Julius in a rush. For a long time they stood together, locked in grief.

“Do we march?” Brutus whispered.

“Pompey has forbidden it,” Julius replied, standing back at last.

“Nevertheless, Julius. Do we march? Give me the word.”

Julius closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of what Pompey had said. Could he be any weaker than that man? Cornelia's death had freed him of restraints. There was nothing to stop him throwing an army at Cato and burning him out of the flesh of Rome. Part of him wanted desperately to see flames over the city as they cut out the name and the memory of the Sullans for ever. Catalus, Bibilus, Prandus, Cato himself. All of them had families who could pay in blood for what had been taken from him.

There was still his daughter, Julia. The report had not mentioned her death.

As he thought of her, the bonds of his chosen life returned like a cloak around him, muffling his grief. Brutus was still watching him intently, waiting.

“No, Brutus, not yet. I will wait, but there is a debt in blood that must be paid. Lead the Tenth until I come back.”

“You're going alone? Let me come with you,” Brutus said, putting a hand to the reins Julius held.

“No, you must take the command. Pompey forbade me to travel with any of the Tenth. Get Cabera out of his tent. I need him.”

Brutus ran to where the old healer slept and roused him with a shake. When he understood, the old man moved quickly, though his face was lined with exhaustion as he pulled his robe in tightly against the beating rain.

Cabera held out an arm to mount behind Julius and was pulled up with a heave as Julius wheeled the skittish horse in place. Brutus met Julius's eyes then and took his hand in the legionary grip.

“Pompey never knew about the soldiers we left at the estate, Julius. They will fight for you if you need them.”

“If they live,” Julius replied.

Overwhelming grief stole his breath then and Julius dug in his heels. Then he was off, crouched low with Cabera behind him, blind with tears in the rain.

CHAPTER 41

Thick clumps of dark cloud obscured the spring sun and the rain fell with no sign of easing as Julius and Cabera rode up to the estate. As he looked at his home Julius felt a deep weariness that had nothing to do with the ride through the night. With the weight of the old man behind him, Julius had slowed his mount to a walking pace through the hours. There was no urgency left in him. He'd wanted the time to stretch endlessly, begrudging every step that brought him closer to this moment. Cabera had been silent on the journey and his old infectious joy had been absent as they arrived back at the place of so many memories. His robe hung wetly on his thin frame, making him shiver.

Julius dismounted by the gate and watched it open for him. Somehow, now that he was there, he didn't want to go in, but he walked the horse into the courtyard feeling numb.

Soldiers from Primigenia took the reins, their faces a reflection of his own agony. He didn't speak to them, but crossed the yard to the main buildings through the swirling mud of puddles from the storm. Cabera watched him go, absently rubbing the soft muzzle of the horse as he held its reins.

Clodia was there, holding a bloody cloth in her hand. She was pale and exhausted looking, with dark pouches under her eyes.

“Where is she?” he asked, and she seemed to crumple in front of him.

“In the triclinium,” she said. “Master, I…”

Julius walked past her into the room and stopped inside the door. Torches burned at the head of a simple bed, lighting her face with their warmth. Julius crossed to his wife and looked down at her, his hands shaking. She had been washed and dressed in white cloth, her face left unpainted and her hair tied back behind her head.

Julius touched her face and winced at the softness of it.

There was no disguising death. Her eyes had opened a fraction and he could see the whites beneath the lids. With his hand, he tried to close them again, but they eased back open when he took his fingers away.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice sounding loud against the fluttering of the torches. He took her hand in his, feeling the stiffness of the fingers as he knelt by her.

“I'm sorry they hurt you so badly. You were never part of it. I'm sorry I didn't take you away. If you can hear me, I do love you, I always did.”

He bowed his head as shame shuddered through him. His last words had been angry to this woman he'd sworn to love, and there was no way to call the guilt back. He had been too stupid to help her, somehow sure that she would always be there and that the arguments and the ugly words didn't matter. And now she was gone and he clenched a fist against his head in anger at himself, pressing harder and harder and welcoming the pain it brought. How he'd boasted to her. His enemies would fall and she would be safe.

At last he stood, but could not turn from her.

A voice shattered the quiet.

“No! Don't go in there!”

It was Clodia, calling outside. Julius spun round, his hand going to his sword.

His daughter Julia came running into the silence, halting as she saw him. Instinctively, he moved to block Cornelia from her sight, stepping toward her and lifting her into his arms in a tight embrace.

“Mummy's gone,” she said, and he shook his head, tears spilling out of him.

“No, no, she's still here, and she loves you,” he said.

Pompey's men almost gagged at the smell of rot that came from the man they held. The skin they could feel under the cloak seemed to move too easily in their grip, and as they shifted their hands the hooded man gasped in pain, as if something had torn away.

Pompey stood facing them, his eyes bright with malice. At his side were two young girls he had found in the house deep in the warren of alleys between the hills. Their faces were pinched with fear, but there was nowhere for them to run and they stood in terrified silence. The threat was clear. Pompey wiped a line of sweat from his cheek.

“Remove his hood. I want to see the man who killed my daughter,” he said.

The two soldiers reached up and pulled back the rough cloth, looking away, nauseated, as they saw what was revealed. The assassin glared at them all, his face a mass of pustules and scabs. There was not an inch of good flesh to be seen, and the scarred and bleeding skin cracked as he spoke to them.

“I am not the man you want,” he whispered.

Pompey bared his teeth. “You are one of them. You have a name for me, I know. But your life is mine to take for what you have done.”

The man's rheumy eyes flickered to the two girls, creasing in fear. If Pompey hadn't guessed already, he would have known then that they were his daughters. The senator knew that fear very well. The assassin spoke quickly, as if to cover what he had shown them.

“How did you find me?”

Pompey drew a knife from his belt, the blade shining even in the shadowy darkness of the room.

“It took time and gold and the lives of four good men to track you down, but the filth you employ gave you to me in the end. I'm told you're building a beautiful estate in the north, far from this hovel. Built on my blood. Did you think I would forget about my daughter's killer?”

The man coughed, his breath overlaid with the sweet perfume he used to cover the rot.

“It was not my knife that-”

“It was your order. Who gave you the name? Whose gold did you take? I know it anyway, but speak it before witnesses, so that I can have justice.”

For a long moment their gazes locked, and then the assassin's eyes dropped to the blade that Pompey held so casually. His daughters looked on, their tears drying. They didn't understand the danger and he could have cried for their innocence as they watched their father so trustingly. They were not appalled by his sores. In fact, without the gentle bathing they administered to their father, he knew he would have taken his own life a long time before. They had none of the disease, their skin perfect under the dirt they used to hide themselves from the predators of the alleys. Who would care for them when he was gone? He knew Pompey well enough to see his own life was finished. He'd had no mercy in him since the death of his daughter, if he ever had.

“Let my daughters go and I will tell you,” the assassin wheezed, his eyes pleading.

Pompey grunted softly, then reached out to the youngest one, holding her tightly by the hair. With his other hand, he drew the dagger across her throat and dropped her as she twisted in his grip.

The assassin screamed in unison with his daughter, straining to break the grip of the men that held him. He began to weep then, sagging in their arms.

“Now you know,” Pompey said. He wiped the blade between two of his fingers, the blood falling in heavy soundless drops to the earthern floor. He waited patiently until the assassin had subsided into choking sobs.

“The other one will live, perhaps. Last time of asking. Whose gold did you take?”

“Cato… it was Cato, through Antonidus. That is all I know, I swear.”

Pompey turned to the soldiers around him. “Did you men hear?”

They nodded, grim as their commander. “Then we are finished in this place.” He turned to leave, only a slight stain on his hands showing he had ever been there.

“Kill them both, the girl first,” he added as he went out into the alleys beyond.

“Is he awake?” Julius asked. The room stank of sickness and Tubruk lay sprawled on a bed that showed rusty stains from his bleeding. Before he entered, Julius had waited out his daughter's tears and gently taken her fingers from around his neck. She had cried again then, but he would not take her into another death room and Clodia had found a young female slave to take care of her. From the way the little girl went into her arms, it was clear the woman had comforted her before over the last, terrible days.

“He may wake if you speak to him, but he hasn't long now,” Clodia said, looking into the room. Her face told him more than he wanted to know, and he closed his eyes for a moment before entering.

Tubruk lay awkwardly, fresh stitches showing on his chest and disappearing under the blankets. Though he seemed to sleep, he shivered and Julius tugged the blanket up to cover him. There was a trace of blood around his mouth, fresh and red. Clodia brought a bowl of crimson water from the floor and dabbed at the smear as Julius watched in despair. Too many things had changed for him to take in, and he stood frozen as Clodia cleaned the lips and weeping stitches with tender care.

Tubruk groaned and opened his eyes at her touch. He couldn't seem to focus properly.

“You still here, old woman?” he whispered, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“As long as you need me, love,” she replied. She glanced up at Julius and back to the man on the bed.

“Julius is here,” she said.

Tubruk turned his head. “Come where I can see you,” he said.

Clodia stood back and Julius came and looked into his eyes. Tubruk took a deep breath and his whole body shivered again with the release.

“I couldn't stop them, Julius. I tried, but… I couldn't reach her.”

Julius began to sob softly as he looked down at his old friend.

“It isn't your fault,” he whispered.

“I killed them all. I killed him to save her,” Tubruk said, his eyes blank. His breathing was ragged and Julius despaired of the gods. They had given too much pain to ones he loved.

“Call Cabera in here. He's a healer,” he said to Clodia.

She beckoned him away from the tortured figure on the bed, and he bent his head to hear.

“Don't let him be troubled. There's nothing to do but wait now. There's no blood left in him.”

“Fetch Cabera,” Julius replied, his eyes fierce. He thought for a moment that she would refuse again, but then she left and he could hear her voice calling out in the courtyard.

“Cabera's here, Tubruk. He'll make you better,” Julius said, the soft sobbing starting again in his throat.

Dripping raindrops, the old man entered and crossed quickly to the bed, looking stricken. With deft fingers, he checked the wounds, raising the blanket to see beneath. He looked at Julius's desperate expression and sighed.

“I'll try,” he said. He placed his hands on the bruised flesh around the stitches and closed his eyes.

Julius leaned forward, whispering a prayer under his breath. There was nothing to be seen, just the figure of the old healer bent over, his hands still and dark against the pale chest. Tubruk took a long inward breath in sudden spasm, then breathed out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Clodia.

“The pain's gone, love,” he said. Then the life went out of him and Cabera staggered and fell.

Pompey frowned at the galley captain who stood stiffly before him.

“I don't care what your orders are. These are mine. You will sail south toward Sicilia and hail any other galleys you see on the way down the coast. Every Roman vessel is to guard the south and prevent the slaves escaping. Is that understood, or must I have you arrested and appoint another captain in your place?”

Gaditicus saluted, disliking the arrogant senator with a passion he didn't dare let show. After six months at sea, he had been hoping for some time ashore in the city, but he was being ordered out again without even a chance to clean the ship. Prax would be furious when he heard, he thought.

“I understand, sir. We'll clear the docks on the next tide.”

“Be sure you do,” Pompey replied, before striding back to his waiting soldiers. Gaditicus watched him go and glanced at the other galleys that had already put out to sea. With them all heading for the strait of Sicilia, Roman ports everywhere would be easy prey. Whatever the Senate was planning, he hoped it was worth the risk.

As the evening darkened, Clodia came to Julius as he drank himself into a stupor in a dark room. He looked up as she entered, his eyes listless.

“Are you home for good now?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I'm going back with Pompey in a few days. I'll see to the funerals for both of them first.” His voice was slurred and miserable, but there were no words of comfort she could think to offer. Part of her wanted to make him feel pain for the cruel way he'd treated Cornelia, and it was only with the last of her strength that she didn't speak to hurt him. His face showed he knew well enough.

“Will you stay and look after my mother and daughter?” he said without looking at her.

“I am a slave. I should return to Senator Cinna's house,” she replied.

He met her eyes then and waved his hand drunkenly. “I free you, then. I'll buy your paper from her father. I can do that much at least before I go back. Just look after Julia. Is Octavian here?”

“In the stables. I wasn't sure if he should go back to his mother and…”

“Look after him too. He's my blood and I made a promise. I always keep my promises.” His face screwed up in anguish. “I want you to stay here and run this house. I don't know when I'll be back, but when I am I want you to talk about her. You knew her before I did and I want to know everything.”

He was so young, she thought. Young and foolish and learning that life could be bitterly unfair. How long had she waited for love before finding it with Tubruk? Cornelia would have freed her to marry and he would have asked once he'd gathered his courage. Now there was nothing left for her, and the girl she'd nursed as a baby lay still and quiet in another room. When she had the strength, Clodia knew, she would be the one to wrap Tubruk's battered body and clean his skin for the last time. But not for a while.

“I'll stay,” she said, and wondered if he heard her.

CHAPTER 42

Cato stood in the forum under a dark sky, his toga stripped from his shoulders to reveal a mass of white flesh that shone with running beads of water. His back was marked with stripes where the whips had fallen, the pain only an echo of the anger and disgust he felt for the petty men who had brought him down. Not one of them would have disdained to act as he had, if the opportunity had come. Yet they glared and pointed at him as if they were not of his breed at all. He sneered at them, holding his head high even as the executioner came forward, the long sword gleaming in his hands.

Pompey looked on without a show of the pleasure he felt. He had delayed joining Crassus to see this task finished. He would have preferred to see the fat hands nailed to a wooden beam and displayed in the forum for a lingering death. Such an ending would be more fitting for Cato. At least there had been pleasure as Cato's family were sold into slavery despite his cries. The house had been given over to the Senate, and the funds raised by its sale would go some way toward financing the legions Pompey took with him against the slaves.

Julius watched numbly at Pompey's side. The general had ushered him forward in triumph to share in the pleasure of the execution, but he felt nothing. There was no joy in seeing Cato killed. It was no more than ending the life of a dog or crushing a stinging insect. The bloated senator understood nothing of the grief he had caused, and nothing he could suffer would bring Cornelia back. Let this be quick, he whispered to himself as he watched. Let it all end.

Cato spat on the stones of the forum as he looked around at the crowd of senators and citizens that had massed to see the execution. For once, there was no sense of danger from the crowd. He had never been popular with the people of the city-as if anyone could care what they thought or did. He spat again, his mouth curling in anger at the sight of the waiting mob. Animals, all of them, with no understanding of how a great man could bend the law under his hand. Marius had done it; Sulla had. None of them could understand that there was no law but that which could be held.

Footsteps sounded and Cato turned his head to see Pompey striding toward him. He grimaced. The man didn't even have style enough to let him die without a few more jeers and taunts. He was not made for greatness. Sulla would have allowed his enemy the dignity of a private death, no matter what had passed between them. There was a man who understood what power meant.

Pompey moved close enough to speak into Cato's ear.

“Your family will not live long as slaves. I have bought them all myself,” the sibilant voice whispered.

Cato looked coldly at him. “Germinius too?” he asked.

“He will not survive the final battle.”

Cato smiled at that. He wondered if Pompey would find Julius and Brutus any easier to deal with than he had. He raised his head in defiance. It seemed fitting to have his line end with him. He'd heard of kings in ancient times who had their families thrown alive onto their pyres. Pompey was a fool to try to hurt him.

“You will know a day like this one,” he said to Pompey. “You are too small a man to hold this city in your hand for long.” He laughed aloud then as Pompey's face contorted with a spasm of anger.

“Take up your sword and finish him,” the general snapped at the executioner, who bowed low to the ground in response as Pompey stalked back to the waiting senators. Cato nodded to the man. He felt tired all of a sudden, almost numb.

“Not today, boy. Some things have to be done by a man's own hand,” he muttered, removing a heavy bracelet from his wrist. With his thumb, he eased out a razor from the edge of it and turned to face the crowd, sneering at them. With a jerk of his hand, he nicked the side of his throat, cutting the heavy arteries, then stood waiting as blood poured out over his white flesh, drenching him.

The executioner stepped forward nervously, but Cato had strength enough to raise his hand, refusing the blade. The crowd watched with animal fascination as his legs began to shiver and then suddenly he fell to his knees with an audible crack on the stone. Even then, he glared at them all before slumping forward in a heap.

The gathered citizens sighed as the tension of the death was released. Despite the crimes they whispered to each other, the courage of the senator stole the pleasure they had come to find. They began to disperse without a sound, passing the slumped body with bowed heads and more than a few muttered prayers.

Pompey pursed his lips in anger. The joy of vengeance was missing at such an ending, and he felt as if something had been stolen from him. He signaled his guards to remove the body, turning to Julius.

“Now we go south, to finish it,” he said.

The general looked at Crassus in amazement.

“Sir, you're talking about more than twenty miles of broken land! I urge to you reconsider. We should occupy a central position, ready to stop them breaking through.”

Crassus waited until the man had finished, his fingers tapping nervously on his table as he listened. It was the only thing to do, he was certain. The slaves were trapped against the coast, and if Pompey had reached the galleys, there would be no one to take them off. All he had to do was hold them, bottle them up in the spit of land at the base of the country. He glanced at Pompey's map on the wall. It looked such a tiny distance, there.

“My orders to you are clear, General. Fresh legions are coming from the north, with Pompey. We will hold the line until they arrive, and I want a fortification cutting across country. You are wasting my time.” His voice held a dangerous edge. Surely the man wouldn't hesitate this way if Pompey were giving the orders. It was insufferable.

“Get out!” he snapped at the man, rising from his chair. When he was alone, he sank back again, rubbing nervously at his forehead as he looked at the map again.

Every noise in the night made him jolt awake, terrified the slaves had broken through to pillage the country. It could not be allowed again. At first he had thought of crushing them against the sea, but what if they fought as they had in the north? With escape barred to them, they would be desperate, and if they overran the Roman lines, Crassus knew he'd be finished, even if he survived the battle. The Senate would call for his execution. He grimaced. How many of them had debts that only his death would erase? He could imagine their pious faces as they discussed his fate in Senate. He understood the pressure a little better since Pompey had left him. There was no one to ask; the decisions were his alone.

He crossed to the map and ran his finger across the narrowest neck of land at the toe of the country.

“We will hold you here until the new legions come,” he said, frowning. Twenty miles of banked earth. Such a line had never been built before, and the people of Rome would tell their children about it when it was done. Crassus, who built a wall across a country. He scrubbed his finger across the point again and again until a darker line showed on the skin.

It would hold them unless Pompey had failed to gather enough galleys to stop the slaves escaping. Then he would be the laughingstock of the country, guarding nothing but fields. Shaking his head to clear it, he sat down again to think.

After the delay for Cato's execution, Pompey pushed the Greek legions south without rest. They were the veterans of the borders of Greece, with huge numbers of hastati and triarii to bolster the younger men. With the Via Appia under their feet, they passed thirty-five-mile markers in the first day. Pompey knew the pace would slow when they were forced to turn off the road, but even if the slaves had run to the furthest tip of the country, he knew he could bring the Greek legions to them in less than two weeks.

Julius rode with Cabera at his side, changing horses as Pompey did, every twelve miles at the way stations. Pompey was puzzled by the young tribune. He had spoken only a few words to him since they stood to watch Cato die in the great forum, but he was like a different person. The inner fire that had unnerved Pompey when Julius had taken control of the new Tenth legion seemed to have been drawn out of him. It was not the same man who now rode without caring, his horse wide-eyed with nerves at the lack of signals from its rider. Pompey watched him carefully as they rode each day. He had known men to break before after a tragedy, and if Julius was no longer fit to command, he would not hesitate to remove him from his post. Marcus Brutus was equal to the task, and in his private thoughts Pompey was able to admit that Brutus could never be a threat to him, as the other could. The way Caesar had taken control of Primigenia and yet kept the friendship of Brutus spoke volumes for his ability. Perhaps it would be better to have him removed before he had fully recovered from the murder of his wife, while he was weak.

Pompey looked ahead along the wide road. Crassus hadn't the nerve to engage the slave army, he'd known it from the moment he'd heard his name chosen in the Senate. The victory would be his alone, and it would take nothing less to unite the factions in the Senate and bring him to power over Rome. Somewhere ahead of him, the fleet of galleys was blocking the sea, and though the slaves could not yet know it, their rebellion was ended.

Spartacus looked out over the cliffs and watched the smoke as another vessel was captured and burned by the galleys. The sea was alive with ships fleeing the Roman fleet, their oars smacking into the choppy sea in desperation as they tried to maneuver round each other without collision. There was no mercy for those who were caught. The navy galleys had suffered too many years of impotent pursuits not to revel in the destruction. Some were boarded, but more were burned as two or three galleys rained fire onto their decks until the pirates died in flames or jumped screaming into the sea. The rest made speed away from the coast, taking the last chance for freedom with them.

The cliffs were lined with his men, just watching as the fresh sea air blew against them. The cliffs were green with spring grasses and a light drizzle of rain darkened their grubby faces unnoticed.

Spartacus looked at them, his ragged army. They were all hungry and tired, heavy with the knowledge that their great run through the country was finally over. Still, he was proud of them all.

Crixus turned to him, his weariness showing. “There's no way out of this, is there?”

“No, I don't think so. Without the ships, we're done,” Spartacus replied.

Crixus looked at the men around them, sitting and standing without hope in the thin rain. “I'm sorry. We should have crossed the mountains,” he said softly.

Spartacus shrugged, chuckling. “We gave them a run, though,” he said. “By all the gods, we scared them.”

They were silent again for a long time, and out at sea, the last of the pirate ships were chased or captured, the galleys sweeping back and forth on their long oars. The smoke from burning decks rose against the rain, fierce and hot as vengeance.

“Antonidus has gone,” Crixus said suddenly.

“I know. He came last night, wanting some of the gold.”

“You gave it to him?” Crixus asked.

Spartacus shrugged. “Why not? If he can get away, good luck to him. There's nothing left for us here. You should go as well. Perhaps a few of us will make it on our own.”

“He won't get past the legions. That damned wall they've built cuts us all off.”

Spartacus stood. “Then we will break it and scatter. I'll not wait to be slaughtered like lambs, here. Gather the men close, Crix. We'll share the gold out so they all have a piece or two, and then we'll run one more time.”

“They'll hunt us down,” Crixus said.

“They won't catch us all. The country's too big for that.”

Spartacus held out his hand and Crixus took it.

“Until we meet again, Crix.”

“Until then.”

There was no moon to reveal them to the soldiers on the great scar that stretched from coast to coast. When Spartacus had seen it, he had shaken his head in silent disbelief that a Roman general would attempt such a folly to pen the slaves against the sea. In a way, it was a mark of respect to his followers that the legions did not dare pursue them, but were content to sit and peer over their trenches in the darkness.

Spartacus lay on his stomach in the scrub grass, his face blackened with mud. Crixus lay at his side, and behind them a vast snake of men were hidden, waiting for the shout to attack. There had been no opposition to this last gamble when he put it to them. They had all seen the ships burn and their despair had turned into a grim fatalism. The great dream had ended. They would blow away like seeds on the wind, and the Romans would never catch the half of them.

“It'll be a thin line guarding a trench that long,” Spartacus had told them as the sun set. “We will be the arrow through their skin, and before they can gather, most of us will be through and clear.”

There had been no cheering, but they had passed the word without excitement, sitting back then to sharpen their blades and wait. When the sun had gone, Spartacus rose and they came with him, trotting hunched over in the blackness.

The lip of the trench was a dark line against the faint shine of stars in the clear sky. Crixus looked at it and strained to make out the features of his friend.

“Ten feet high, at least, and it looks solid.” He sensed rather than saw Spartacus nod and cracked his neck with the tension. The two men stood slowly and Spartacus gave a low whistle to summon the group who would be first to the wall. They gathered around him as shadows, the strongest of them, armed with heavy hammers and axes.

“Go now. What they have built can be torn down,” Spartacus whispered, and they set off in a loping run, their weapons held ready for the first strike. The men behind came to their feet and ran toward the Roman wall.

CHAPTER 43

Julius muttered his thanks as he was handed a bowl of warm stew. Covering the fields around him for as far as he could see, the soldiers of the Greek legions ate, the thin white snares of their cooking fires looping into the air. The ground was thick with mud and heavy clods stuck to their sandals and slowed them. Those who owned cloaks used them to sit on, turning the inside of the cloth down so the mud wouldn't show when they started again. Many more sat on whatever they could find, flat stones, coarse grass, or even a pile of loose hay that they'd spread around.

It would be a short break, Julius knew. The extraordinarii had come in early that morning from their scouting, and rumors flew around the men, even before the official word had come through the chain of command.

There was nothing good in the reports. Julius had been with Pompey when the general heard the slave army was coming north to meet them and not one of Crassus's eagle standards had been sighted. Pompey had raged at the rider who brought the news, demanding details he could not give. Wherever Crassus was, he had failed to hold the slaves against the sea. Julius wondered if he was still alive, but he could not bring himself to care particularly. He had seen so much of death. One more senator in this disastrous campaign would not make a difference.

Cabera wiped his fingers around his bowl and handed it back to the cook servants as they made their way through the vast encampment. There was never enough to eat, and by the time the bowls were passed out, much of it was as cold as the day. Around them, the men waited in that sleepwalking peace before a battle. None of them had fought the slaves before, but the usual chatter was absent. Somewhere to the south, it was easy to imagine a field like the one where they sat, littered with Roman bodies and crows.

Julius sighed as the rain started again. It would make the ground even softer. It didn't matter. It fitted his mood perfectly, the skies reflecting the depression that had settled on him. The picture of his wife's pale face and the torch-lit bed was as clear as if he were still seeing it in his mind. Tubruk, even Cato. It all seemed so terribly pointless. He'd loved the struggle in the beginning, when Marius was the golden general and they knew they fought for the city and each other, but the lines had blurred along the way and now he was sickened, eaten by guilt.

Julius dipped his fingers into the stew, pushing it into his mouth without tasting it. When Pelitas had died, he had wept, but there were no more tears in him for the others. He had no more lies for them, no more speeches. The grand lie had been that there was anything to fight for at all.

His father had seemed to see something worth saving in the Republic, but there was nothing left of that. There were just small men like Cato and Pompey, who saw no farther than their own glory. Visionless men, caring nothing for the things Tubruk had told him were important. Julius had believed what the great men had taught him, but they had all died for their dreams.

He reached down into the mud between his sprawled feet to trace a line with his finger. None of it was worth the death of one of them. Not Cornelia's, not Tubruk's, not any of the men he had led in Greece. They had followed him and given their lives without complaint. Well, he could do that, at least.

Of all the soldiers, Julius welcomed the battle to come. He would place himself in the front line for one last hour until it all finally stopped. He was tired of the Senate and tired of the path. It made him wince to think back to the day Marius had taken him into the building for the first time. He had been awed then at the heart of power. They had seemed so noble then, before he knew them too well to respect. He pulled his cloak against him as the wind built and heavier rain began to fall, spattering the mud around. Some of the men cursed, but most were quiet, making their peace with the gods before the killing began.

“Julius?” Cabera said, startling him out of his thoughts.

Julius turned to see the old man was holding his hands out toward him. He smiled as he saw what Cabera had made for him. It was a circlet of leaves, gathered from the bushes and wound about with thread from his robe.

“What's that for?” Julius said to him.

Cabera held it out, pressing it into his hands. “Put it on, boy. It's yours.”

Julius shook his head. “Not today, Cabera. Not here.”

“I made it for you, Julius. Please.”

They stood up together and Julius put out a hand to grip the back of the old man's neck.

“All right, old friend,” he said, letting out a long breath. He removed his helmet and pressed the ring of wet leaves onto his hair, feeling them prickle against his skin. Some of the men looked at him, but Julius didn't care. Cabera had been there through all of it and he didn't deserve to be waiting to die in a muddy field, far from his own home. Another one who would die at his side.

“I want you to stay away from the front line when they come, Cabera. Live through this one,” he said.

“Your path is mine, remember?” the old man said, his eyes gleaming in the rain. His white hair hung in thin strips over his face, and there was something so bedraggled about him that Julius chuckled.

Around the pair of them, men rose to their feet in silence. Julius raised his head sharply at the movement, thinking it was time to march, but they just stood and looked at him. More and more joined them as the word spread, until every one of them was standing. Plates were put down and cloaks left to grow wet as they faced him and the rain fell.

Wonderingly, Julius reached up to touch the circlet and he felt his heart lift. These were not small men. They gave their lives without caring, trusting their generals not to waste what they offered. They smiled and laughed as he caught their eyes and he felt again the bonds that held them together.

“We are Rome,” he whispered, and turned to see thousands standing for him. In that moment, he understood what held Tubruk to loyalty and his father's faith. He would turn his hand to the dream as better men had before him, and honor them with his life.

In the distance, cornicens sounded the long notes to break camp.

“Keep moving, my brothers,” Spartacus roared. It was the end, and somehow, there was no fear. His slaves had shown that the legions could be beaten, and he knew there would be a day when the cracks they had made would widen and Rome would fall. The legions behind them glittered in the morning sun, sending up a shout as Pompey's thousands marched down to them, faster and faster like jaws to crush the slaves between them. Spartacus saw his ragged slaves would be engulfed. He drew his sword and pulled his iron helmet over his face.

“My gods, we gave them a run, though,” he said to himself as the air darkened with spears.