The Field Of Swords

CHAPTER 19

There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.

Sleep had been impossible the night before. When the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count, and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius, and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.

He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.

Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.

If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each success, and Julius was forced to smile his congratulation, though it was like acid in him.

He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores facedown to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage, and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favored. Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.

“… Caesar,” the magistrate cried, and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn.

Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.

The results of the second class were more even, and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’s fourteen, and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’s father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension, and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.

Over the next hour, the lead changed three times, and at the end, the total for Suetonius’s father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’s side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them, and Bibilus blushed crimson.

“Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!” Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.

Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’s shoulders as if Suetonius were not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.

“I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,” Pompey said.

Bibilus made a sound that could have been a reply, but Pompey went on over it.

“You have made a fair showing amongst the first classes, and may do better still before the end. See it through and who knows? Even if you are not successful, there is always a place for the old families in the Senate.”

Bibilus plastered a sick smile onto his face and Pompey patted his arm as he let him go. Suetonius turned away rather than try again and watched coldly as Bibilus took another three votes.

By noon, every result was greeted with cheers as the wine sellers sold their wares to the crowd. Julius felt able to unbend enough to drink a cup, but could not taste it. He exchanged inanities with Bibilus, but Senator Prandus remained aloof and only nodded stiffly when Julius congratulated him on his showing.

Suetonius had nothing like his father’s skill at hiding his emotions, and Julius felt his eyes on him constantly, wearing his nerves.

As the sun passed its zenith, Pompey called for awnings to shade them. A hundred centuries had voted and Julius was second and seventeen votes clear of Prandus. As things stood, Bibilus and Julius would take the seats, and the crowd began to show their interest more openly, cheering and jostling each other to observe the candidates. Julius watched as Suetonius drew a large red cloth from his toga and mopped his brow with it. It was a strangely flamboyant gesture and Julius smiled grimly, glancing to the west, where the Janiculum flag could be seen.

The Janiculum hill commanded a full view of the city and the land around it. A huge mast rose from a stone base at the highest point, and the men who watched for invasion never shifted their gaze. It was usually an easy duty, more suited to the ancient days when the city was in constant danger from outlying tribes and armies. This year, the Catiline conspiracy had brought home the continued need for the duty, and those who had won the task by lot were alert and watchful. There were six of them, four boys and two veterans from Pompey’s legion. They discussed the candidates as they ate a cold lunch, thoroughly enjoying the break from their normal duties. At sunset, they would complete their day with a note from a long horn and the solemn lowering of the flag.

They did not see the men creeping up the hill behind them until a pebble clicked against a rock and went skipping down the steep side below the crest. The boys turned to see what animal had disturbed them, and one cried out in warning at the sight of armed men scrambling up. There were seven of them: big, scarred raptores who showed their teeth as they caught sight of the small number of defenders.

Pompey’s men jumped to their feet, scattering food and knocking over a clay jug of water that darkened the dusty ground. Even as their blades came free, they were surrounded, but they knew their duty and the first of the raptores was punched flat as he came too close. The others surged in, snarling, and then another voice snapped through the air.

“Hold! Who moves, dies,” Brutus shouted. He was running toward them with a full twenty soldiers at his heels. Even if he had been alone, it could have been enough. There were few in Rome who would not have recognized the silver armor he wore, or the gold-hilted sword he had won.

The raptores froze. They were thieves and killers and nothing in their experience had prepared them to face the soldiers of their own city. It took only an instant for them to abandon the attempt on the flag and leap away in all directions down the steep slopes. A couple of them lost their footing and rolled, dropping their weapons in the panic. By the time Brutus arrived at the flag mast, he was panting lightly, and Pompey’s men saluted him, their faces flushed.

“It would be a shame to have the election stopped by a few thieves, wouldn’t it?” Brutus said, looking down at the dwindling figures.

“I’m sure Briny and I could have held them, sir,” one of Pompey’s men replied, “but these boys are good lads and no doubt we would have lost one or two.” The man paused as it occurred to him he was being less than gracious about the rescue. “We were glad to see you, sir. Are you letting them go?”

The legionary moved to the edge with Brutus, watching the progress of the raptores below. Brutus shook his head.

“I have a few riders at the bottom. They won’t reach the city.”

“Thank you, sir,” the soldier replied, smiling grimly. “They don’t deserve to.”

“Can you see which one of the candidates is losing at the moment?” Brutus asked, narrowing his eyes at the dark mass of citizens in the distance. He could make out where Julius was standing and saw a speck of red appear on one of the men at his side. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Julius had guessed right.

Pompey’s soldier shrugged. “We can’t see much from here, sir. Do you think that red cloth was their signal?”

Brutus chuckled. “We’ll never be able to prove it, you know. It’s tempting to try to turn those thieves with a little gold, sending them against their master. More satisfying than just leaving their bodies out here, don’t you think?”

The soldier smiled stiffly. He knew his general was no friend of the man who stood at his shoulder, but the silver armor put him in awe. He could tell his children that he had talked to the greatest swordsman of Rome.

“Better by far, sir,” he said, “if they’ll do it.”

“Oh, I think they will. My riders can be very persuasive,” Brutus replied, looking at the flag snapping in the breeze above his head.

Suetonius glanced as casually as he could at the Janiculum flag. It was still flying! He bit his lower lip in irritation, wondering if he should take the red cloth from his toga one more time. Were they asleep? Or had they just taken his money and were sitting in some tavern drinking themselves blind? He thought he could make out figures moving on the dark crest and wondered if the men he had hired were unable to see his signal. He looked around guiltily and reached inside the soft cloth of his robe once more. At that moment, he saw Julius was smiling at him, the amused gaze seeming to know every thought in his head. Suetonius let his hand fall away to his side and stood stiffly, painfully aware of the flush that had started on his neck and cheeks.

Octavian lay in the long grass with his horse beside him, its great chest heaving in long, slow breaths.

They had trained the mounts for months to be able to hold the unnatural position, and now the extraordinarii only had to lay a hand on the soft muzzles to keep them still. They watched as the raptores came slipping and leaping down the Janiculum and Octavian grinned. Julius had been right that someone might try to lower the flag if the election turned against them. Though it was a simple ploy, the effects would have been devastating. The citizens of Rome would have streamed back to the city and the results up to that point declared void. Perhaps another month would pass before they assembled again, and many things could change in that time.

Octavian waited until the running men were close, then gave a low whistle, swinging his leg into the saddle as his horse rose. The rest of his twenty leapt up smoothly with him, gaining their saddles before their mounts were fully upright.

To the fleeing thieves, it seemed as if fully armed cavalry sprang out of the ground at them. The seven men panicked completely, either throwing themselves flat or raising their hands in instant surrender.

Octavian drew his sword, holding their eyes. Their leader watched him in resignation, turning his head to spit into the long grass.

“Come on, then. Get it over with,” he said.

Despite his apparent fatalism, the thief was fully aware of the positions of the riders and only relaxed when every avenue of retreat had been blocked. He had heard a man could outrun a horse over a short distance, but looking at the glossy mounts of the extraordinarii, it didn’t seem likely.

When the last few blades had been taken from the men, Octavian unstrapped his helmet from the saddle and put it on. The plume waved gently in the breeze, adding to his height and giving him a forbidding aspect. He thought it was well worth the portion of his pay that had gone to buy it. Certainly the raptores all looked to him now, waiting grimly for the order to cut them down.

“I don’t expect charges could ever be brought against your master,” Octavian said.

The leader spat again. “Don’t know any master, soldier, except maybe silver,” he said, his face suddenly cunning as he sensed something was up.

“It would be a shame if he escaped without even a good beating, don’t you think?” Octavian asked innocently.

The raptores nodded, even the slowest beginning to realize the order to kill wasn’t going to come.

“I can find him again, if you let us go,” their leader said, trying not to hope. There was something terrifying about horses to a man who had grown up in the city. He had never quite understood how big they were before and shuddered as one snorted behind him.

Octavian tossed a small pouch into the air and the man caught it, feeling the weight automatically before making it disappear inside his tunic.

“Do a professional job,” Octavian said, backing his horse to leave a gap for the men to pass. A couple of them tried to salute as they walked through the riders and began to make their way back to the city. None of them dared look back.

Before the last centuries had voted, Julius knew he and Bibilus had won seats as consuls for the year to come. He was reminded of the motions of bees as senators clustered around both of them, and he grinned at Bibilus’s bemused expression.

Julius had his shoulder gripped and his hand taken by scores of men he barely knew, and before he had fully understood the change in his status, he was fielding questions and requests for his time and even being told of opportunities to invest. In their role as the formal “Comitia Centuriata,” the citizens of Rome had created two new bodies for the city to suck dry, and Julius felt overwhelmed and irritated by the attention. Where had these smiling supporters been when he was campaigning?

In comparison with the shallow heartiness of the Senate, having Pompey and Crassus congratulate him was a genuine pleasure, particularly as he knew Pompey would rather have eaten glass than say the words. Julius shook the offered hand without a sign of relish, his mind already on the future. No matter whom the people had elected to lead the Senate, the outgoing consuls were still a force in the city. Only a fool would scorn them at the moment of triumph.

The magistrate climbed onto a small platform to dismiss the last centuries. They bowed their heads as he bellowed a prayer of thanks at them, finishing with the traditional order, “Discedite!”

The citizens did as they were told and scattered, laughing and joking as they began the walk back to the sealed city.

Suetonius and his father had paid their respects and Julius had spoken warmly to them, knowing it was a chance to mend the bridges broken in the campaign and the past. He could afford the gesture and Prandus seemed to accept his good wishes, bowing slightly to the consul-elect of Rome. His son Suetonius had looked straight through him, his face blank with defeat.

Pompey’s men had brought horses and Julius looked up as reins were passed into his hand. From the back of a gray gelding, Pompey looked down at him, his expression unreadable.

“It will be hours before the Senate sit again to confirm the postings, Julius. If you ride with us now, we will have the Curia to ourselves.”

Crassus leaned down on his horse’s neck to speak more privately. “Will you trust me one more time?”

Julius looked up at both men, sensing the subtle tension in them as they waited for his response. He didn’t hesitate, swinging himself up into the saddle and raising an arm to those in the crowd who were watching the exchange. They cheered him as he wheeled and set off across the vast field with the two other men, a century of Pompey’s cavalry falling in behind as their escort. The crowd parted before them and their shadows stretched behind.