The Field Of Swords

CHAPTER 38

The torches flickered on the gold crown of the Arverni as the priest held it up to the warriors. In his other hand, he held a golden torc that shimmered and twisted as it wound around his fingers.

The priest had daubed his body with blood and earth in long smears that made him seem part of the shadows in the temple. His chest was bare and his beard smoothed with clay into rough white spikes that quivered as he spoke.

“The old king is dead, Arverni. His body will be burnt, though his name and deeds continue in our mouths for all our years. He was a man, Arverni. His cattle numbered in thousands and his sword arm was strong to the end. He spread his seed wide to bring his sons into the world, and his wives tear their hair and skin in grief. We shall not see him again.”

The priest eyed the tribe who had packed themselves into the temple. It was a bitter night for him. For twenty years he had been the old king’s friend and counselor and shared his fear for the future when age and weakness had begun to steal his breath. Who amongst his sons had the strength to lead the tribe through such difficult times? The youngest, Brigh, was but a boy and the eldest was a blustering boaster, too weak where a king should be strong. Madoc would not be king.

The priest looked into the eyes of Cingeto as he stood there on the dark marble with his brothers. That one was warrior enough to lead them, but his temper was already famous amongst the Arverni. He had killed three men in duels before he reached his manhood day, and the old priest would have given anything for a few more years to see who he would become.

The words had to be spoken, though the priest felt a coldness in his heart as he drew breath.

“Which of you will take the crown from my hand? Which of you has earned the right to lead the Arverni?”

The three brothers exchanged glances and Brigh smiled and shook his head.

“This is not for me,” he said and took a pace back.

Cingeto and Madoc turned their blue eyes on each other and the silence became oppressive.

“I am the eldest son,” Madoc said at last, the high color of anger starting on his cheeks.

“Aye, but you’re not the man we need now,” Cingeto murmured softly. “Whoever takes the crown must prepare for war or see our tribe scattered.”

Madoc sneered. He was taller than his brother and he used his height to intimidate, looming over Cingeto.

“Do you see armies on our lands? You show me where they are. You point them out to me.” He spat the words at his brother, but Cingeto had heard them all before.

“They are coming. They have gone north, but they will come back into the heartlands soon enough. I have met their leader and he will not let us live out our lives. His taxmen have already robbed the Senones and sold thousands as slaves. They could not stop him and now their women cry in the fields. He must be fought, my brother. You are not the man to do it.”

Madoc sneered at him. “They were just Senones, brother. The Arverni are men. If they come to trouble us, we will ride them down.”

“Can you see no further than that?” Cingeto snapped. “You are blind, as the Senones were blind. I will make the Arverni a torch in the dark to gather in the other tribes. I will lead them against these Romans until they are swept out of Gaul. We cannot stand alone anymore.”

“You are too frightened of them to be a king, little brother,” Madoc said, showing his teeth.

Cingeto smashed a hand across Madoc’s mouth and forced him back a step.

“I will not see my people destroyed by you. If you will not yield to me, then I will have the crown by challenge.”

Madoc ran his tongue over his lips, tasting blood. His eyes became hard.

“As you wish, little brother. Fire and the gods watching… It is right.”

Both men turned back to the priest and he nodded.

“Bring the irons. It will be decided in fire.”

He prayed the gods would give courage to the right man to lead the Arverni through the dark days ahead.

Julius panted as he led his horse through the high pass. The air was thinner there, and though spring had come in the valleys, on the peaks the air hurt the lungs of even the fittest of them. Julius looked at Brutus ailing far below the century of the Tenth. He had lost much of his stamina in recovering from his wounds, and there were times when Julius thought they would have to leave him to come on later. Yet he stayed doggedly on their trail, riding whenever the pass leveled.

When he had first seen the dusty horseman come into Ariminum, Julius’s spirits had leapt to hear the latest news of the city. The cold formality of the report he received filled him with confusion. He had wanted to shake the man who limped into the house and spoke so distantly of his experiences. The old anger had washed over him as he listened, though he had not given way to it. Servilia had gone and the rift between them was his to mend.

Julius could recall a thousand times when he had used a few words, or a compliment, or even a nod to build the men around him. He felt only sadness when he realized his oldest friend needed the same harmless lies. It was one thing to clap a soldier on the back and see him stand a little taller. It was quite another to give up the honesty of his oldest friendship, and Julius had not yet acted on his decision. After the initial report, they had hardly spoken.

Julius’s thoughts turned to Regulus, who trudged at his side through the snow. He was one of those who formed the core of a legion. Some became little better than animals in the ranks of Rome, but men like Regulus never seemed to lose that last part of their humanity. They could show kindness to a woman or a child and then go to battle and fling away their lives for something more than themselves. There were senators who saw them only as killing tools, never men as they were, who could understand what Rome meant. The legionaries always used their votes in the elections when they had the chance. They wrote home and swore and pissed in the snow like any other, and Julius understood how Marius had loved them.

It was not a responsibility to be borne lightly, leading such men. They looked to him for food and shelter, for order in their lives. Their respect was hard to win and could be lost in a single moment of cowardice or indecision. He would not have had it any other way.

“Shall we run, Regulus?” Julius said, between tearing breaths. The centurion smiled stiffly. The habit of shaving had come back to them all in Ariminum, and Julius saw the man’s face was red and raw in the wind.

“Best not leave the horses behind, sir,” Regulus replied.

Julius clapped him on the back and took a moment to look around at the mountains. It was a deadly beauty that they passed through. The aching white of the high peaks shone in the sun, and behind, Brutus struggled on to keep them in sight.

Regulus saw Julius glance down the twisting path.

“Shall I go back to him, sir? The general’s limp is getting worse.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll race him into Gaul. He’ll understand.”

The long irons were heated in braziers until the tips were red. Madoc and Cingeto had stripped to the waist and now both men stood sweating on the floor of the temple. All the families were there to watch and neither of them showed the slightest fear as the priest checked the irons over and over until he was satisfied and the hairs on the back of his right hand shriveled as he passed it over the basket of iron.

At last, the old priest turned to face the two brothers. Their chests were paler than their arms and faces, he saw. Madoc was heavy with muscle, the bull his father had once been. Cingeto was a more compact figure, though there was not a piece of spare flesh on him. The old priest drew himself up to address the silent families of the Arverni.

“A king must have strength, but he must also have determination. All men feel fear, but he must conquer it when the need is great.” He paused for a moment, savoring the words of the ritual. His old master had used a long stick to correct a faltering recital. He had hated him then, but now he used that same cane on the apprentices in the temple. The words were important.

“By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One will take the crown and one will be banished from the lands of the Arverni. That is the law. Yet the man to lead us should have a mind as sharp as his sword. He should be cunning as well as brave. The gods grant that there is such a man before us today.”

Both brothers remained still as he spoke, preparing themselves for what was to come. The priest grasped the first of the irons and pulled it out. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen.

“To the elder goes the first,” he said, his eyes on the glowing tip.

Madoc reached out and took the length of iron. His eyes were bright with malice as he turned to Cingeto. “Shall we see which one of us is blessed?” he whispered.

Cingeto did not reply, though sweat poured off him. Madoc brought the rod closer and closer to his brother’s chest until the blond hairs began to sizzle, giving off a powerful smell. Then he laid it against his brother’s skin and pressed it deeply into the flesh.

Cingeto’s lungs emptied in a great heave of air. Every muscle in his body went rigid with the agony, but he did not cry out. Madoc ground the iron against him until the heat had faded and then his own face tightened as he put it back into the fire.

Cingeto looked down at the brown welt that had been raised on his skin. It leaked pale fluid as he took in a deep breath and steadied himself. Without a word, he drew another iron and Madoc began to breathe faster and faster.

Madoc grunted as the metal touched him and, in a fury, he grabbed for another from the brazier. The priest touched his hand in reproof and he dropped it to his side, his mouth opening and his breath coming harshly.

The trial of fire had begun.

At the end of the second day in the mountains, the rugged path began to tilt down to Gaul. Julius paused there, leaning against a rock. When he looked up, he could see the plateau of the high pass above them and was astonished that they had put it so far behind. They were all desperate for food and sleep, and Julius felt a strange clarity of vision, as if hunger and the wind had sharpened his senses. Below him,

Gaul stretched with a darker green than he could have believed existed. His lungs felt huge inside his chest and he took great breaths for the sheer pleasure of being alive in such a place.

Brutus felt he had been trudging through the mountains all his life. His weak leg throbbed every time he put his weight on it, and without the horse to lean on, he was sure he would have fallen long before. As the century rested, he and Regulus weaved their way through the column to the front. Julius heard some of his men cheer, calling out encouragement. He turned back to see them and smiled as the pair responded to the voices, forcing themselves on. The strength of the brotherhood between his soldiers never failed to fill him with pride. As Julius watched, Brutus and Regulus grinned at the hoots and calls, laughing together as Regulus muttered some reply.

Julius looked back at Gaul below them. Spread out before him, it looked deceptively peaceful, almost as if he could take a step and land right in the heart of it. He hoped that one day a traveler through the passes would look down on cities as great as Rome. Beyond it lay the sea that called to him, and he pictured the fleet that would carry the Tenth and Third over it. The tribes would pay their taxes in gold and he would use it to see what lay over the dim white cliffs. He would take Rome to the edge of the world, where even Alexander had not been before him.

Brutus came to his side and Julius saw dark rings around his eyes. The climb had hurt his friend, but in his exhaustion he seemed to have lost some of the coldness he had brought back from Rome. As their eyes met, Julius motioned toward the country below.

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

Brutus took a water bottle from Regulus and tilted it back between cracked lips.

“Are we in a race or not?” he said. “I’m not waiting for you.”

He staggered down the slope and Julius watched him with affection. Regulus hesitated by Julius’s side, unsure whether he was to follow.

“Go on, stay with him,” Julius said. “I’ll follow you down.”

The smell of flesh and fire was strong in the temple. Both men were bleeding as their skin cracked open with each turn of the irons. Eleven times they had withstood the pain and Cingeto now swayed with his teeth showing whitely against his skin, ready for the twelfth. He watched his brother closely. The test was as much in the mind as in the body and each man knew it could only end when one refused to touch the other. As each burn was added, they both knew it meant they would face at least one more, and the knowledge ate at them as their strength dwindled.

Madoc hesitated as he wrapped his fingers around the black iron. If he held it to his young brother, he would have to stand another on his own skin. He did not know if he could, though the desire to see Cingeto humbled was still strong in him.

The trial was a bitter test. Through the waves of pain, the only solace was the thought that in a moment their tormentor would feel the same. Determination and strength crumbled in the face of such torture, and Cingeto felt hope leap in him as his brother continued to hesitate. Was it cruelty in him to be drawing out the moment, or had he lost his taste for the irons at last?

“Gods give me the strength for another,” he heard Madoc whisper, and Cingeto almost cried out as the red-tipped metal came out from the flames once more. He saw Madoc raise it and closed his eyes in anticipation and fear. His whole body cringed from the contact and always there was the terror that he would not have the will to go on when the choice was his. The spirit chose the winner of the trial of fire, never the flesh, and now Cingeto understood as he could never have done without experiencing it.

A clang reverberated around the temple and Cingeto’s eyes snapped open in astonishment. Madoc had thrown down the iron and now stood before him, pain twisting his face into lines of weariness.

“Enough, little brother,” Madoc said, and almost fell.

Cingeto reached out to steady him and winced as his burns throbbed with the movement.

The priest smiled in joy as the two men turned to face him. He was already planning his addition to the history of the tribe. Eleven irons withstood by the princes of the Arverni! He could remember no more than nine and even the great Ailpein had stood only seven to become king three hundred years before. It was a good omen and he felt some of the dark worry ease from him.

“One to be king and one to be gone,” he said aloud, repeating it to the gathered families. He stepped forward to Cingeto and placed the band of gold on his brow and the torc around the straining sinews of his neck.

“No,” Cingeto said, looking at his brother. “I will not lose you after tonight, my brother. Will you stay and fight them with me? I will need you.”

The priest gaped at them in horror. “The law…” he began.

Cingeto held up a hand, struggling against pain that threatened to overwhelm him. “I need you, Madoc.

Will you follow me?”

His brother straightened, wincing as fresh blood wound trails down his chest. “I will, my brother. I will.”

“Then we must summon the tribes.”

Julia walked to the base of the old Senate house steps and shivered at the empty space that had been cleared beyond. The smell of smoke was still subtly in the air, and it was easy to imagine the rioting coming even to this place. Already, the new building was being constructed and the noise of the crowds was accompanied by hammering and shouts from the workers.

Clodia fussed at her shoulder, nervous in the great forum.

“There, you’ve seen the damage and taken a risk you shouldn’t have. The city is hardly safe for a young woman, even now.”

Julia looked at her with scorn. “You can see the soldiers, can’t you? Pompey has control now; Brutus said so. He’s busy with his meetings and speeches. He’s forgotten about me, perhaps.”

“You’re talking nonsense, girl. You can’t expect him to lurk at your window like a young man. Not in his position.”

“Still, if he hopes to bed me, he should show a little interest, don’t you think?”

Clodia looked sharply around to see if anyone in the crowd was taking an interest in their conversation.

“It’s not a fit subject! Your mother would be ashamed to hear you talk so brazenly,” she said, gripping Julia by the arm.

Julia winced and pulled her arm away, enjoying the chance to make the old woman uncomfortable.

“That’s if he’s not too old to find it. Do you think he might be?”

“Stop it, girl, or I’ll slap that smile off your face,” Clodia hissed at her.

Julia shrugged, thinking deliciously of Brutus’s skin against her. She knew better than to tell Clodia of the night in the stable, but her fear had been taken away with the first sharp pain. Brutus had been gentle with her and she had found a private hunger Pompey would enjoy when he finally made her his wife.

A voice broke into her thoughts, making her start with guilt.

“Are you lost, ladies? You look quite abandoned, standing next to the old steps.”

Before Julia could answer, she saw Clodia dip and bow her head. The sudden servility from the old woman was enough to make her take a second look at the man who had addressed them. His toga marked him as one of the nobilitas, though he carried himself with a natural confidence that would have been enough on its own. His hair shone with oiled perfection, Julia noticed. He smiled at her appraisal, allowing his eyes to drop to her breasts for a brief moment.

“We are just moving on, sir,” Clodia said quickly. “We have an appointment with friends.”

Julia frowned as her arm was taken in a firm grip once again.

“That is a pity,” the young man said, eyeing Julia’s figure. Julia blushed then, suddenly aware that she had dressed quite simply for her visit.

“If your friends do not mind waiting, I do have a small house nearby where you could wash and eat.

Walking in this city is tiring without a place to rest.”

As he spoke, the young man made a subtle gesture at his waist and Julia heard the distinct chime of coins. Clodia tried to pull her away, but she resisted, wanting to puncture the man’s easy arrogance.

“You have not introduced yourself,” she said, widening her smile.

He positively preened at the interest. “Suetonius Prandus. I am a senator, my dear, but not every afternoon is spent in work.”

“I have… heard of the name,” Julia said slowly, though it would not come to her. Suetonius nodded as if he had expected to be known. She did not see Clodia grow pale.

“Your future husband will be waiting for you, Julia,” Clodia said.

She was successful in moving her charge a few paces away, but Suetonius came with them, unwilling to let her go so easily. He put his hand over Clodia’s to bring them all to a halt.

“We are having a conversation. There is no harm in that.” Once again, he jingled his coins and Julia almost laughed aloud at the sound.

“Are you offering to buy my attention, Suetonius?” she said.

He blinked at her bluntness. Playing the game, he winked. “Would your husband not mind?” he said, leaning closer. Something about his cold eyes changed the mood in an instant, and Julia frowned at him.

“Pompey is not yet my husband, Suetonius. Perhaps he would not mind if I spent the afternoon with you; what do you think?”

For a moment, Suetonius did not understand what she had said. Then a sick awareness stole over him and his face became ugly. “I know your father, girl,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Julia raised her head slowly as the memory came back. “I thought I knew the name! Oh yes, I know you.” Without warning, she began to laugh and Suetonius flushed with impotent anger. He dared not say a word to her.

“My father tells wonderful stories about you, Suetonius. You should hear them, you really should.” She turned to Clodia, ignoring her pleading eyes. “He put you in a hole in the ground once, didn’t he? I remember him telling Clodia. It was very amusing.”

Suetonius smiled stiffly. “We were both very young. Good day to you both.”

“Are you leaving? I thought we were going to your house to eat.”

“Perhaps another time,” he replied. His eyes were bulging with anger as Julia stepped a little closer.

“Be careful as you go, Senator. Thieves will hear the coins you carry. I could myself.” She forced an earnest expression onto her face as he flushed in anger.

“You must give my regards to your mother, when you see her next,” he said suddenly, running his tongue over his lower lip. There was something deeply unpleasant in his gaze.

“She died,” Julia replied. She was beginning to wish she had never begun the conversation.

“Oh, yes. It was a terrible thing,” Suetonius said, but his words were made hollow by a flickering smile he could not control. With a stiff nod, he walked away across the forum, leaving them alone.

When she finally looked to Clodia, she raised her eyebrows. “I think we annoyed him,” she said, her amusement returning.

“You are a danger to yourself,” Clodia snapped. “The sooner you are Pompey’s wife, the better. I only hope he knows enough to beat you when you need it.”

Julia reached over and took Clodia’s face in her hand. “He wouldn’t dare. My father would skin him.”

Without warning, Clodia slapped her hard. Julia pressed her fingers against her cheek in astonishment. The old woman trembled, unrepentant.

“Life is harder than you realize, girl. It always was.”

The king of the Arverni closed the door of the hall with a heave against the wind, leaving a sudden pressure in his ears and a drift of snow on the floor at his feet.

He turned to the men who had gathered at his word, between them representing the most ancient tribes of Gaul. The Senones were there and the Cadurci, the Pictones, the Turoni, dozens of others. Some of them were vassals of Rome; others represented only a pitiful fraction of the power they had once known, their armies sold into slavery and their cattle stolen to feed the legions. Mhorbaine of the Aedui had refused his offer, but the others looked to him for leadership. Together, they could mass an army that would break the back of the Roman domination of their land, and Cingeto hardly felt the winter cold as he considered their hawklike expressions.

“Will you take my orders in this?” he asked them softly. He knew they would, or they would not have traveled in winter to come to him.

One by one, each man rose and pledged his support and his warriors. Though they may have had little love for the Arverni, the years of war had opened them to his arguments. Alone, they must fall, but under one leader, one High King, they could throw the invaders out of Gaul. Cingeto had taken that role for himself and, in their desperation, they had accepted him.

“For now, I tell you to wait and prepare. Forge your swords and armor. Lay in stocks of grain and salt a part of each bull you slaughter for the tribe. We will not make the mistakes of previous years and spend our strength in fruitless attacks. When we move, we move as one and only when the Romans are extended and weak. Then they will know Gaul is not to be stolen from its people. Tell your warriors they will march under the High King, joined as they were once joined a thousand years ago, when nothing in the world could stand against us. Our history tells us we were one people, horsemen of the mountains. Our language shows us the brotherhood and the way.”

He was a powerful figure standing before them. Not one of the kings dropped their gaze from his fierce expression. Madoc stood at his shoulder and the fact that he had allowed his younger brother to take their father’s crown was not lost on any of them. Cingeto’s words spoke to more ancient loyalties than those of tribe, and they felt their pulses race at the thought of rejoining the old peoples.

“From this day, all tribal disputes are ended. Let no Gaul kill one of his people when we shall need every sword against the enemy. When there is dissent, use my name,” Cingeto said softly. “Tell them Vercingetorix calls them to arms.”