The Gods of war

CHAPTER 30

The Nile bore them south through lands made lush by its waters. Birds soared and shrieked in their thousands, rising into the air with the passing of the royal barge. White egrets stalked amongst cattle as they made their way down to the shallows in the evenings. In such a setting, Julius allowed the cares of years to fall from him. He had not suffered a fit for many months and he felt strong. Rome was far away and he lost himself in Cleopatra.

They made love as the whim took them, by day or night. He had found it difficult at first to ignore the slaves on the barge, with no more than a canopy of fine silk to protect the queen from their gaze. She who had been attended from birth had laughed at his embarrassment, prodding at his dignity until he had slipped the robe from her shoulders and kissed her skin, turning her laughter into a deeper rhythm of breath.

There were eight oars on either side of the barge to ease them through the waters. The blades had been dipped in silver and shone like sunken coins as they sliced beneath the surface. The Nile wound through valleys and vast flats and plains as if it had no end, and there were times when Julius could imagine the journey continuing forever.

In the evenings, he talked for hours with her astrologer, Sosigenes, who had predicted the birth of a son. The man had hesitated to speak to the Roman leader at first, but as the weeks slid by, Julius fell naturally into conversation with him. He was hungry for confirmation of the omens Sosigenes had cast and though at first he doubted the power of augury, his hope turned slowly to belief. The Greek had a sharp mind and Julius spent many hours discussing the course of planets, the seasons, and even the calendar with him. Sosigenes had struggled not to show his contempt for the Roman system and said even the Egyptian years were flawed. By his calculations, 365 days was almost correct, needing only another day in every fourth spring to be perfect. Julius demanded proof of his assertions and the man rose to the challenge, covering the deck with sheets of papyrus marked in charcoal until Julius was dizzy with the flights of planets and stars. In Rome, the high priest took or added days each year, but Sosigenes' love of simplicity and order was appealing. Julius wondered how the Senate would react if he imposed such a system on the citizens of Rome.

As Cleopatra's pregnancy progressed she felt the heat more fiercely and spent the afternoons in sleep behind the awnings. Julius was left to stare for hours at the sinister shapes of crocodiles amongst the bulrushes, waiting patiently for an ibis or calf to come too close. Seeing them snatch at prey was the only touch of fire to interrupt the long dream of the Nile. The silver oars rose and fell, only still when the breeze filled the purple sail above their heads. Julius had Sosigenes tell him stories when the sun was too hot to bear. He let the legends wash over him until he felt he was a part of the drifting landscape, part of its future.

In the cool of the predawn, Cleopatra's slaves bathed and dressed her, painting her eyes in black kohl that lifted up at the edges. Julius was naked and lay on one elbow, watching the ritual. He was no longer uncomfortable with the slave girls, though he had refused Cleopatra's offer for them to entertain him more intimately. He did not think they were unwilling. In fact, the girl dressing her queen had made her interest evident as she bathed him with cloths on the deck. More of the cool water had drifted across her full breasts than down his body and she had laughed at his reaction, teasing him. Perhaps it was the heat, or the seminaked presence of the slaves, but he felt erotically charged by the days on the Nile, refreshed by swimming where the water was clear, rubbed down with oil by skillful hands, fed as well as a breeding bull. He ran a hand lightly down his stomach, feeling the muscle there. The dreaming life was like water to a dry soul after so long at war. Yet even there, with the sun rising, he knew he could not rest forever. The itch to act was always at the back of his mind, growing daily. Rome waited for him and it took a greater and greater effort to ignore the call.

He could see the swelling of the child she would bear. He lay entranced until it was hidden from view by a cloth so thin he could see the line of her legs through it. When she came to look down on him, she raised her eyebrows at the smile that played on his face.

"Will you be walking naked amongst the people then?" she asked sweetly.

Julius chuckled. "I was watching you and thinking that I am going to wake up suddenly and be in some tent somewhere, with the battle horns blowing and my officers roaring for one last charge."

She did not smile at his words. She had heard him call out too many times in his sleep and woken to see his face twisted in pain and anger. He did not remember his dreams, or at least they did not seem to trouble him in the day. Her eyes traveled over the scars on his body and she shook her head.

"Dress, Caesar, and see something new," she said.

He opened his mouth to ask the question, but she put a hand down to his lips and then left him alone to be dressed by her bright-eyed slaves. With a sigh, he rose and beckoned for them to bring his lightest robe.

When he came on deck he found the barge was edging toward the shore. A town like many others reached to the water's edge, with a small wooden dock extending out into the brown waters. Red geese flew honking overhead as he saw the planking had been laid with fresh rushes in a path leading away from the river. Hundreds of people lined the shore in a blaze of colored robes, and every eye seemed to be on him. Julius stared back uncomfortably as the crew worked the steering oars to bring them in to dock. A platform wide enough for a rank of legionaries was brought up and attached to the side, resting in the clean path.

Cleopatra walked to it and the crowd knelt in the mud, pressing their heads down as she stepped onto the land. Drums sounded on the edges and when she looked back at Julius he saw the cold features that had dominated the army in Alexandria. He had fallen out of the habit of wearing a sword on the river, and his fingers twitched at empty air. He followed her, his sandals crunching on the rushes. When he reached her side, she turned to him and smiled.

"I wanted you to see this," she said.

Her bodyguard of ten clattered onto the rickety dock behind them, taking up positions. She walked through the crowd with Julius and he saw that the line of kneeling men and women extended right through the town.

"How did they know you were coming?" he murmured.

"It is the anniversary of the day I became queen," she said. "They know when it is time."

The town was clean and well kept, though it seemed deserted, with every man, woman, and child kneeling on the road. Cleopatra reached down to touch them at intervals, and in her wake he saw tears of gratitude.

The path of rushes ended at the entrance of a tiny square, swept meticulously clean of dust. Her guards moved ahead to search a temple of red marble that gleamed in the morning sun. The silence was eerie and Julius was reminded of a deserted village in Spain where he had once ridden with Servilia. He had seen a statue of Alexander there and it was unnerving to have the experience echoed in the very lands of the king.

He found his thoughts drifting, mourning all that had been lost since that other time and place. The last vestiges of innocence had been ground out of him in Gaul and Greece. Perhaps that was why he had shed tears at the sight of Pompey's dead face. Julius remembered the young boy he had once been, but it was all too far away to know him well. His father, Marius, Tubruk; they were all shadows. There had been too many tragedies, too many memories closed and barred away, somewhere deep. He had dug a wolf trap for Suetonius and let him live. If this Egyptian morning had given him the chance again, he would have killed him without a second thought.

Perhaps it was age that brought the hardness, or the brutal choices of a campaign. He had pulled men back, knowing it would mean the death of other loyal soldiers. He had saved the many at the expense of the few. He had directed surgeons to those who had a chance to survive. He had even sent good men to Pompey's camp, knowing they could not deliver his message and live. He thought such cold decisions seeped into the bone after a while, numbing the joy of life. Even the sun of Egypt could not reach him, though Cleopatra could. He found his eyes were stinging, inexplicably.

The guards returned and Julius and Cleopatra walked slowly into the gloom, their steps echoing under a domed roof, high above them. It was clearly a place of worship and Julius wondered why she had brought him there. The walls were decorated with reliefs of star patterns in yellow agate, darker lines running through the stone like veins of blood. To his astonishment, he thought he could hear the mewing of cats, and as he looked for the source of the sound he saw a dozen of them padding out toward Cleopatra.

Murmuring words in Egyptian, she reached down and let them rub themselves against her hands. "Are they not beautiful?" she said, kneeling in their midst.

Julius could only nod, wondering which unfortunate had the task of cleaning the marble floors after them. She saw his expression and her laughter echoed in the space.

"They are the guardians of the temple, Julius. Can you see their claws? Who would dare to enter here against such hunters?"

As she spoke, the cats preened and purred around her, content. She stood gently and they followed her, their tails waving lazily upright.

In the far end of the temple was a statue that filled a concave wall. Julius glanced up at it and missed his step in confusion. It towered above them both, so that Cleopatra's head came up to the knee of the white stone.

Julius could only stare from one to the other. In creamy marble, he saw the features of the queen staring down at him. The statue held a boy child in her arms and looked outwards in pride. It was an expression he knew well.

Cleopatra saw his upwards gaze and smiled. "This is Isis, Caesar, mother of Horus, whom she holds."

"With your face," Julius said wonderingly.

"The temple is a thousand years old, before Alexander came here. Yet she lives in me."

He looked at her as the cats rubbed themselves against her legs.

"My son will be a god, Julius; your son. Do you understand now?"

He did not say that the face of the statue was fractionally different as he studied it. The woman in stone was a little older than Cleopatra, and as the first shock faded he could see the line of the jaw was different. The eyes were wider spaced and yet… it was astonishing. She nodded, pleased with his reaction.

"Will you pray to her, with me?" she said.

Julius frowned. "If she is in you, how can you pray?" he asked.

Her teeth showed as she grinned. "So very blunt, Roman. I should have expected it. It is a mystery, is it not? I carry the flame hidden in flesh, yet she is still there. When I travel the dead path, it will be a return, not a beginning. Understand that and you understand me. It would please me to have you pray to her. She will bless our son and keep him safe."

Julius could not refuse as she gazed at him. He knelt and bowed his head, pleased there were no other eyes to see him do it.

The scribes' quarter of the royal palace at Alexandria was almost a town in itself, with thousands of scholars working within its walls. After the destruction of the great library, the lamps were lit all night and day as the written works of masters were brought in from all over Egypt and Greece and copied with painstaking care.

One wing of the sprawling annex had been taken over by the Roman administration, and Brutus had claimed the best rooms for himself. At his order, legion craftsmen had stripped out the statuary and gold, crating and packing it where possible to be shipped home. In its place, they lined the walls in light, carved oak, building a Roman sanctuary. New barracks had been built for the Tenth and Fourth, after one too many incidents of trophy-taking in the city. Brutus had let them run a little wild at first, but it was clear that discipline was suffering after only a few weeks and he had been forced to impose the harsh order they knew best. There had been some who complained and even a petition signed by idiots who ended the day of its delivery marching out to desert postings. The city was quiet and, in the absence of Julius, Brutus was thoroughly enjoying his freedom.

Those men who had taken advantage of his weakness after Pharsalus found themselves shoveling excrement in the hot sun until they collapsed. He had taken care to remember every face and took enormous satisfaction from giving them the dirtiest tasks he could find. More than one had suffered from cuts and scratches that quickly became infected. Brutus had made a point of visiting them in the sickrooms, as any other conscientious officer would. Good Roman sewers would run under Alexandria by the time Julius returned.

In the meeting room, Brutus watched Octavian carefully, enjoying his struggle.

"… and I am passing the problem on to you, General," Brutus continued. "Julius has summoned these new legions to Egypt and they must be fed, paid, and found barracks. If you are incapable of carrying out your duty, I will-"

"He said nothing to me about them," Octavian interrupted, making Brutus frown.

The tension between them had not lessened since Julius's departure. At first, Brutus had thought Octavian would refuse the authority Julius had placed in him. He still remembered the younger man's threats on a Greek dock, and part of Brutus wanted Octavian to dare them again now that he had his strength. The confrontation had not come, though the effort of will had been perfectly visible to the other senior officers. Octavian seemed content to walk a fine line between duty and insolence, and Brutus was willing to play the game for as long as Octavian could bear it. It was always easier to press down than to push up.

"In my experience," Brutus said airily, "Julius is not in the habit of consulting his juniors on every decision. His letters have brought a garrison from Greece to Egypt. Whether they are an escort home or a force of occupation, I really do not care. Until his return, they are your responsibility."

Malice glinted in Octavian's face and Brutus sat up in his chair, anticipating the first crack in the calm. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to have Octavian sent home in disgrace. Regardless of circumstances, the Senate would be harsh with any man who disobeyed an order from his appointed commander. If Octavian drew his sword or raised a fist, he would be finished.

Octavian saw the eagerness and at first controlled his dislike. He was on the point of saluting when his anger surfaced uncontrollably.

"Is it that you don't want to see the faces of men you fought with as a traitor?" he snapped. "Is that why you won't go out to see them?"

Brutus smiled slowly in triumph. "Now, is that any way to speak to your superior, boy? Is it? I think you have gone a little too far today. I suppose I should demand an apology, in case Julius asks me about it afterwards."

Octavian was not a fool. Brutus watched him weigh the difference in their ages and positions. The younger man made a decision and became calm.

"You are not fit for your rank," Octavian said. "He should have known better than to trust you again."

With infinite satisfaction, Brutus rose. It had been an enjoyable month of goading the younger man, but he had known the moment would come.

"I can have Domitius come in here and do this formally, or you and I can go out to find a quiet place and I'll teach you manners. What's it to be?"

Octavian had come too far to back down from any threat. He tapped his fingers on his sword hilt in answer. Brutus grinned, delighted with the morning's work.

"I will enter it in the staff record as a training session," he said. He gestured to the door. "You go first, boy. I'll be behind you all the way."

Legion guards saluted automatically as the two men strode past them. Brutus followed Octavian down a flight of stairs and a corridor that still bore the marks of Roman treasure hunting. Brutus rolled his shoulders as he walked, loosening the muscles.

The training yard was busy with men, as it was every morning. Dressed in only loincloths and sandals, the sun-darkened Romans used heavy leather balls and iron weights to keep themselves trim. Others fought in pairs with the lead-weighted practice swords, the clack and clatter loud after the silence of the halls.

"Return to your duties, gentlemen," Brutus said without taking his eyes from Octavian. He waited patiently as the soldiers put away their equipment and left them alone. He could feel their curiosity, but an audience would shape the manner of the lesson he intended to give. He did not want to feel restrained.

When the last man had left, Octavian turned and drew his sword in a smooth motion, stalking across the sandy ground to one of the fighting circles. Brutus watched him for weakness, reminded that he too had won silver armor in Julius's tournament. He was fast and young, but Brutus drew his own gladius as if it were a part of his arm. He had searched for it amongst Egyptian dead, before the scavengers could bear it away. He had trained through pain to recover the skill for exactly this moment.

Brutus took position opposite Octavian and raised his sword into first position.

"I remember you threatening to have my arm rebroken," he murmured, beginning to circle. "Would you like to try it now?"

Octavian ignored him, reversing step so quickly that it almost caught Brutus by surprise. The first blow was a test of his strength, with Octavian's weight behind it. Brutus took it easily, with a clang of metal.

"You mustn't tense your hip like that, boy. It restricts your movement," Brutus said.

For a few moments, they fought in silence as Octavian tried a combination of cuts that ended with a lunge at his knee. Brutus batted the blade aside.

"Better," he said. "Though I see Domitius has been working with you. He loves that little lunge."

He saw that Octavian was circling too closely and darted at him. His sword was countered, but Brutus managed to hammer a punch into Octavian's cheek before they broke apart. Octavian touched his face and held up the palm to show there was no blood.

"Are you thinking this is just to be the first cut, boy?" Brutus said. "You're as naive as Julius. Perhaps that's why he likes you."

As he spoke he began a series of strikes that built in speed. Both men crashed together, and Octavian used his elbow to knock Brutus's head back.

"You're getting old," Octavian said as they circled once more.

Brutus glared at him, feeling the truth of the words. He had lost the blinding speed of his youth, but he had experience enough to humble one more young dog, he was sure of it. "I wonder if Julius shared his plans with you for when he returns?" he said. Both men were sweating by then. Brutus saw Octavian's eyes narrow and he went on, watching for an attack. "This city is to become the second capital of his empire, did he tell you that? I doubt he bothered. You were always first in line to kiss his feet. What does it matter if you kneel to a general or an emperor?"

The response was fast and the clash of swords went on and on until the breath came hard from Brutus's lungs. There was no weakness in his defense and Octavian could batter all day before he found a way through. The younger man sensed his confidence and backed to the edge of the circle.

"You're a bag of old wind," Octavian said. "A liar, a traitor, a coward."

His eyes glittered as he waited for the attack, but Brutus only laughed, confusing him.

"Ask him when he returns, then, boy. Ask him what he thinks about your beloved Republic. He told me…" They met again and Brutus cut a stripe down Octavian's leg. The blood ran like water and he continued cheerfully, knowing weakness would follow. "He told me the Senate's day was over, but perhaps he will lie to you, to spare your tender pride."

They circled more slowly and Brutus did not force the pace.

"What did you think, that we were fighting for the Republic?" Brutus asked mockingly. "Maybe once, when we were all young, but he has a queen now and she carries his son."

"You liar!" Octavian roared, leaping in.

His leg felt like it was on fire, but even through the pain he knew that Brutus was letting him tire himself. A poor stroke let Brutus gash his left hand before he could jerk it back. He clenched the fist in reflex and blood dripped between his knuckles.

"I wonder if I wasn't on the right side at Pharsalus, after all," Brutus said, switching gaits and leaving Octavian to stumble. He looked dazed, though whether it was the words or the wounds, Brutus did not know.

"Don't pretend to be dying, boy. I've seen that trick a few times before," he jeered.

Octavian straightened subtly and his sword lashed out in a perfect lunge that Brutus missed. It jolted against his shoulder plate, snapping the leather ties. Brutus swore, before yanking it loose with his free hand and tossing it away.

"That beautiful girl is carrying a son. Now, why would that make you angry?" Brutus paused, breaking the rhythm. "It can't be that you expected to inherit? Mind you, why not? He's bald and ancient compared to you. Why would you not look forward to sitting in his place one day? Gods, it must eat at you to know it won't happen. When his son is born, how much time do you think he'll find for a distant relative?"

His laughter was cruel, and against the cry of his instinct Octavian was stung again into an attack. Brutus swayed out of its path and crashed another blow into the same cheek, splitting it.

"You look a proper butcher's shop, did you know?" Brutus said. "You're getting slower every moment."

They were both panting by then and yet as they met they struck to kill. Brutus kneed upwards into Octavian's groin as they came together, but a lucky blow opened a gash on his leg, making him cry out.

"Hurts, does it?" Octavian snarled at him.

"Stings a little, yes," Brutus replied, coming in fast.

The swords blurred as they cracked and rang against each other, both men straining with all their strength. Blows landed and cut without being felt in the heat of the struggle. The silver armor dented and then Octavian grunted as Brutus's sword punctured through the metal into his side. He raised a hand to it, gasping. The light in the yard seemed too bright and his legs were wet with blood. He slipped to his knees, expecting the bite of a sword at his throat.

Brutus kicked his gladius away onto the sand and stood looking down at him.

"Nothing that can't be stitched, boy," he said, resting his hands on his knees. "I wonder if I should break your arm?"

The oval gash in his thigh ached terribly, but he ignored it. He'd lived through worse.

Octavian looked up. "If he wants an empire, I'll give it to him," he said.

Brutus sighed as he brought back his fist and knocked him onto his back, unconscious. "You really are a fool," he told the supine figure.