The Gods of War

  The smoke was not thick, but still it seemed to sting Julius’s eyes as he walked back into the weak sunlight. He saw the thousand soldiers of the Tenth had formed up outside, and he took pride in their bearing. They would expect him to lead them back to Dyrrhachium, to negotiate with Pompey’s Senate in a city rather than a battlefield. Part of him knew he should complete that work. There were a thousand things to do. The legions had to be paid, and with a start he realized he had assumed responsibility for the legions Pompey had led. They too would expect their silver on time, as well as food, equipment, and shelter. Pyres for the dead would have to be built.

  Julius walked back to the edge of the hillcrest and looked into the far distance. Pompey was broken and there was no need to chase him further. It was true he carried a Senate ring, but from Rome Julius could send ships and letters denying his authority. The Dictator would be forced to take his straggling riders away from Roman lands and disappear.

  Julius blew out a long breath into the wind. His legions had fought for years for this moment. They wanted to retire to the farms he had promised them, with silver and gold to build fine houses in the colonies. He had given them part of what they had earned in Gaul, but they deserved a thousand times more. They had given everything.

  Julius saw Octavian walking his horse up the winding track. The younger man looked weary, though he tried to hide it under Julius’s scrutiny. He arrived at the top with a new sheen of sweat on his face, smearing the dust of Pharsalus.

  “Orders, sir?” Octavian said as he saluted.

  Julius looked toward the horizon. He could see for miles and Greece had never seemed so vast and empty as from that height.

  “I will stay for the funerals of the dead tonight, Octavian.” He took a deep breath, feeling his own exhaustion in his bones. “Tomorrow I will go after Pompey. I’ll need the extraordinarii, the Tenth, and the Fourth. I’ll speak to the others and send them home.”

  Octavian followed his commander’s gaze before replying. “They won’t want to go back, sir,” he said at last.

  Julius turned to him. “I’ll write letters to Mark Antony. They will be paid and those that want it can have the land I promised them. I’ll make good my oath to all of them.”

  “No, sir, it’s not that. They won’t want to be sent back while you go on. I’ve heard them. Ciro even came to me to put in a word for him. They want to see it to the end.”

  Julius thought of the promise he had made to his daughter. Would she hate him if he killed Pompey? For an instant he imagined taking the Senate ring from Pompey’s dead hand. Perhaps it would be enough to bring him peace. He did not know, but until he was able to stand before the Dictator it would never be over. Sulla had left Mithridates alive in this same land and Roman blood had been the price.

  Julius rubbed his face roughly. He needed a bath and fresh clothes and something to eat. The body was always weak.

  “I will speak to the men. Their loyalty . . .” He paused, unable to find words. “Rome must be kept safe and we stripped her bare to come here. I will take the Fourth and Tenth and the extraordinarii, no more. Tell Ciro to commission his senior tribune in his place. I’ll take him with me. I suppose it is fitting that those who were on the Rubicon should see this out.”

  Julius smiled at the thought, but he saw Octavian’s expression had hardened at his words.

  “Brutus too, sir? What would you have me do with him?”

  Julius’s smile faded. “Bring him. Put him in one of the carts for provisions. He can heal on the way.”

  “Sir,” Octavian began. He fell silent under Julius’s eyes.

  “He’s been with me since the very beginning,” Julius said softly, his words almost lost in the wind. “Let him come.”

  Brutus lay in darkness and pain. Under a full moon, the plain was a ghostly place of white shadow that barely reached the wounded in their tents. Brutus closed his eyes, wishing sleep would take him once more. His arm had been set and splinted and his ribs bound where they had cracked under the weight of dead men. The pain was worse when he tried to move, and the last time his swollen bladder forced him to sit up, the effort made him grind his teeth against screaming. The pot brimmed under his cot, growing dark and fetid. His mind still swam from the blows he had received and he had only a vague memory of speaking to Julius in the blood and filth after the battle. It burned worse than his wounds to think of it.

  Someone nearby cried out in their sleep, making him jump. He wished he had the strength to stagger out of the stinking tent into the night air. He sweated constantly and when his thoughts were clear he knew he was running a fever. He croaked for water, but it did not come. At last, he slid away into blacker depths and peace.

  He surfaced from unconsciousness with a moan, tugged from deathlike sleep by a rough hand on his arm. Fear made his heart race as he saw men standing around him. He knew them. Each one had been with him in Spain and Gaul. They had been brothers once, but now their expressions were cruel.

  One of them reached down and pressed a small blade into his left hand.

  “If you have any honor left, you should cut your throat with this,” the man said, spitting the words.

  Brutus passed out for a time, but when he woke again they were still there and the knife was tucked between his arm and his bandaged chest. Had it only been moments? It had seemed like hours, but none of the men had moved.

  “If he won’t do it, we should,” one of the soldiers said in a hoarse growl.

  Another nodded and reached for the knife. Brutus swore and tried to writhe away from the probing fingers. He was too weak. Fear of dying in the stinking tent filled him and he tried to cry out, but his throat was too swollen and dry. He felt the knife pulled clear and winced in anticipation.

  “Put it in his hand,” he heard, and felt his lifeless fingers opened.

  A new voice broke through his terror in the dark. “What are you men doing in here?”

  He didn’t recognize it, but they scattered and the newcomer shouted angrily as they shoved their way past him in the gloom. Brutus panted as he lay on his back, the little knife clutched unfelt in his hand. He heard footsteps approach and looked into the face of a centurion as he bent over him.

  “I need a guard,” Brutus whispered.

  “I can’t spare one for you,” the centurion replied coldly.

  Outside on the plain a rush of flame from the funeral pyres lit the night. The darkness of the tent lessened slightly and the centurion’s gaze fell on a bowl of soup on a wooden stool. He picked it up and grimaced at the shining clots of phlegm that floated there.

  “I’ll get you some clean food and a clean pot to piss in,” he said in disgust. “I can do that much for you.”

  “Thank you,” Brutus said, closing his eyes against the pain.

  “Don’t thank me. I don’t want anything from you,” the man snapped.

  Brutus could hear the outrage in his voice. He raised the knife without looking. “They left this,” he said. He heard the centurion snort.

  “You keep it. I heard what they were saying to you. Maybe they were right. Not by their hands, though, not on my watch. But maybe you should think about doing it yourself. It would be clean.”

  With a huge effort, Brutus threw the knife away from him, hearing it thump into the earth somewhere near. The centurion did not speak again and after a time he left.

  The crackle of the pyres went on for hours and Brutus listened to the prayers before he slid into sleep once again.

  As dawn came, the cries of the wounded men in the tent grew louder. The legion healers bathed and stitched and splinted as best they could. Infection and sickness would come later for most of them.

  Brutus slept lightly, but it was the sudden silence that woke him. He raised his head and saw Julius had come into the tent. The men would not let the consul see their pain and those who moaned in sleep were shaken awake.

  With a struggle, Brutus raised himself up as best he could. The men lying nearby stared
openly at him. He could feel their dislike and resolved not to reveal his own pain, clenching his jaw against the sharp stabs from his broken arm.

  Brutus watched as Julius spoke to each of the men, exchanging a few words and leaving them sitting proudly in his wake, their agony suppressed. Whether it was his imagination, Brutus did not know, but he felt the tension increase as Julius neared him until at last the consul of Rome pulled up a stool at his side and sat heavily on it.

  Julius’s eyes were red-rimmed from smoke. His armor had been polished and, compared to the men in the ward, he seemed cool and rested.

  “Are they looking after you?” Julius asked, glancing over the splints and bandages that tied his battered frame.

  “Flowers and grapes every morning,” Brutus replied.

  He opened his mouth again to speak the words he wanted to say, but could not begin them. There was no guile in the dark eyes that looked so steadily into his. He had not been able to believe it at first, but somehow he had been forgiven. He felt his heart race in his chest until sparks fired on the edges of his vision. He knew the fever was still in him and he wanted to lie back into the darkness. He could not face Julius and he looked away.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” he whispered.

  “Because you are my oldest friend,” Julius replied, leaning closer. “How many times have you saved my life over the years? Do you think I could take yours? I can’t.”

  Brutus shook his head, unable to comprehend. In the night, he had thought the shame would kill him and there had been moments when he had wanted the knife he had thrown away.

  “The men think you should,” he said, thinking of the dark figures and the tainted food.

  “They don’t understand,” Julius said and Brutus hated him for his mercy. Every citizen of Rome would hear how Julius had spared the friend who had betrayed him. Brutus could imagine the heart-wrenching verses the poets would write, until it was all he could do not to spit.

  He showed Julius nothing of his thoughts as he looked up at him. This was a new world after Pharsalus, and he had been reborn. Perhaps a new beginning was possible for him. He had imagined casting off the dead skin of the past and finding his place as Julius’s friend once more. But not his equal. That had been denied forever by the sickening nobility of his pardon. His life had been given by Julius’s hand and he did not know if he could bear to go on.

  Despite himself, he clenched his teeth and groaned, overwhelmed by pounding emotions. As if from a distance, he felt Julius’s hand rest on his forehead.

  “Steady there, you’re still weak,” he heard Julius say.

  Tears shone in Brutus’s eyes as he wrestled with despair. He wanted desperately to have the last two years back, or to be able to accept what had happened. He could not bear it. He could not.

  He closed his eyes tightly against the sight of the man sitting by his side. When he opened them after an interval, Julius had gone and he was left with the accusing glares of the wounded soldiers. Their fascination prevented him sobbing out his hatred and his love.

  CHAPTER 22

  The legions of the Tenth and Fourth were tired and gaunt after many days of marching. The carts had been stripped of provisions and the spring grain was still little more than dark green shoots. Their water had soured and they were always hungry. Even the horses of the extraordinarii showed their ribs under a coat of dark dust, but they did not falter. Whenever Julius thought they had reached the end of endurance, another village gave news of Pompey’s riders and drew them ever farther into the east. They knew they were closing on Pompey as he raced to reach the sea.

  Julius rubbed weary eyes as he stood on the docks and looked out over the gray waves. There were six galleys there, slim and deadly as birds of prey. They guarded the strait between Greece and Asia Minor and they waited for him.

  Pompey had reached the coast just the night before and Julius had hoped he would be trapped, forced to face his pursuers. Instead, the Dictator’s ships had been ready to take him off. Pompey had hardly paused in his flight and the plains of Greece had been left behind.

  “To come this far . . .” Julius said aloud.

  He felt his men look up all around him. If the way had been clear, Julius would not have hesitated. The east coast of Greece was busy with merchant vessels and he could have crossed. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Pompey’s ships maneuver over the deep water, their prows white with spray. They could not be well manned, with most able soldiers taken out of them, but that was no comfort. In the open sea, they could tear merchant shipping apart. Even a night crossing was impossible, now that his legions had been seen. He could not hope to surprise the enemy galleys and the response would be brutal.

  Despairing, he wondered how many more lay up and down the rocky coast out of sight. They made a wall of wood and iron that he could not break.

  On the docks, his men waited patiently. Though Pompey had stripped the port of almost everything, there was water enough to wash the dust from their faces and fill the skins and barrels. They sat in quiet groups of eight or ten across the docks, gambling and sharing what little food they had been able to find. The problem of the crossing was not theirs, after all. They had done their part.

  Julius clenched his fist, tapping it on the heavy wooden column he leaned against. He could not turn back and let Pompey go after such a chase. He had come too far. His gaze fell on a fishing boat, its owners busy with ropes and sails.

  “Stop those men,” he ordered, watching as three soldiers of the Tenth grabbed hold of the little boat before the fishermen could pull away. The sail flapped noisily in the breeze as Julius strode over to the stone quay.

  “You will take me to those ships,” he said in halting Greek. They looked blankly at him and he called for Adàn.

  “Tell them I will pay for passage out to the galleys,” he said as the Spaniard approached.

  Adàn produced two silver coins and tossed them to the men. In elaborate mime, he pointed to the ships and Julius until the fishermen’s frowns disappeared.

  Julius looked at his interpreter in disbelief. “I thought you said you were learning Greek?” he said.

  “It is a difficult language,” Adàn replied, embarrassed.

  Octavian walked to the edge and looked into the tiny boat. “Sir, you can’t be thinking of going alone,” he said. “They’ll kill you.”

  “What choice do I have? If I go out in force, the galleys will attack. They may listen to me.”

  Julius watched as Octavian handed his sword to a soldier and began to remove his armor.

  “What are you doing?” Julius asked.

  “I’m coming with you, but I can’t swim in this if they sink us.” He looked meaningfully at his general’s breastplate, but Julius ignored him.

  “Go on then,” Julius said, gesturing to the frail craft. “One more will make no difference.”

  He watched carefully to see how Octavian found a place on the slippery nets, wincing at the smell of fish. Julius followed him, making the boat rock dangerously before he was settled.

  “Up sail,” Julius said to the fishermen.

  He sighed at their expressions before pointing to it and raising his hands. In a few moments, the boat was easing away from the quayside. Julius looked back to see the worried expressions of his soldiers and he grinned, enjoying the motion.

  “Are you ever seasick, Octavian?” he asked.

  “Never. Stomach like iron,” Octavian lied cheerfully.

  The galleys loomed and still both men felt an inexplicable rise in spirits. The fishing boat passed out of the sheltering bay and Julius breathed deeply, enjoying the pitch and roll of the sea.

  “They’ve seen us,” he said. “Here they come.”

  Two galleys were backing oars and swinging round to face the boat that dared the deep water. As they grew closer, Julius heard the lookouts call. Perhaps a fishing crew would have been ignored, but the sight of soldiers on board was enough to bring them heeling swiftly round. Julius watch
ed flags go up to the highest point of the masts, and in the distance more of the deadly craft began to turn.

  His lightness of mood vanished as quickly as it had arrived. He sat stiff-backed as the galley sculled toward him and the fishermen dropped the sail. Without the hiss of speed, the only noise came from Roman throats calling orders, and he felt a pang of nostalgia for his own days on the swift ships on a different coast.

  As they drew closer Julius looked up at the soldiers lining the sides, wishing he could stand. He felt fear, but the decision was made and he was determined to see it through. He could not have escaped them then, even if he had wanted to. The galleys could outrace the little boat under oars alone. With an effort, he swallowed his nervousness.

  The galley’s side was green and slick, showing they had been at sea for months while Julius struggled against Pompey. The oars were raised and Julius shivered as cold water dripped onto his upturned face as the boat passed next to them. He saw the uniform of a centurion appear amongst the soldiers.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “Consul Gaius Julius Caesar,” Julius replied. “Throw me a rope.”

  The motion of the two vessels made it impossible for him to hold the centurion’s gaze, though Julius tried. He appreciated the man’s difficulty. No doubt Pompey had given strict orders to sink and burn those who followed.

  Julius did not smile as a long rope ladder came clattering down the side of the galley, its weighted ends disappearing beneath the surface of the sea. With difficulty, he reached for it, ignoring the warning shouts of the fishermen as their boat threatened to spill.

  He climbed carefully. It did not help his composure to be watched by the crews of more than three galleys close by, nor the thought that his armor would drown him if he fell. His breathing was heavy by the time he reached the railing and accepted the captain’s arm to help him over it. The ropes creaked as Octavian followed him up.