The Field of Swords

  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.”

  CHAPTER 39

  _____________________

  Julius stood with an arm wrapped around the high prow of the galley, filled with a restless impatience as the white coast grew before his eyes. He had learned from the disastrous experiences of the first expedition, and this time, the year was young for the crossing. The fleet that churned the sea to foam around him with their long oars was a hundred times the size of his first, and it had cost him every coin and favor he had accumulated in Gaul. He had stripped his defenses for this blow across the water, but the white cliffs of the Britons had been his first failure and he could not allow a second.

  It was hard not to remember the blood-red surf as his galleys had run ashore and been smashed. That first night when the blue-skinned tribes had attacked them in the water was burnt into his memory.

  He gripped the wood more tightly as he remembered the way the Tenth had forced a landing through the roaring sea darkness. Too many had been left floating facedown, with the seabirds landing on their bodies as they bumped and rolled in the swell. No matter how he looked at it, those three weeks had been disastrous. It had rained every single day with a blinding force and cold. Those who had lived through the carnage of the landing had been closer to despair than he had ever seen them. For days, they had not known if any of the galleys had survived the storm. Though Julius had hidden his relief from the men, he had never been more thankful than when he saw his battered galleys limping in.

  His legions had fought bravely against the blue-skinned tribes, though Julius had known even then that he would not stay without a fleet to supply him. He had accepted the surrender of Commius, their chief, but his thoughts had already been on the following spring.

  The lessons of that harsh coast had been well learned. On every side, Julius could hear the shouts of shipmasters as they called the beat of the oars. The sea spray lashed him as the prow rose and fell and he leaned outward, his gaze sweeping the coast for the painted warriors. This time, there would be no turning.

  As far as he could see in any direction, his galleys were pulling through the waves. Hundreds of ships that he had begged and bought and hired to take five full legions back to the island. In stalls on the heaving decks were two thousand horses to sweep the painted tribes away.

  With a chill that had more to do with memory than the cold, Julius saw the lines of warriors appear on the cliffs, but this time he scorned them. Let them watch as the greatest fleet the world had ever known came to their shores. Let them see.

  The waves had none of the rage and power he had experienced the year before. In the height of summer, the swell was barely rocking the heavy galleys, and Julius heard the cornicens signal all along the line. Boats were lowered and the Tenth led them in.

  Julius leapt over the side into the surf and could hardly believe it was the same piece of coast. He saw the men drag the boats up the shingle, far beyond the reach of storms. All around him was the busy energy that he had known for years. Orders were called, packs and armor collected, as they formed a defensive perimeter and summoned in the next units with long bronze horns. Julius shivered as his wet cloak slapped against his skin. He walked up the beach and looked back to sea, showing his teeth. He hoped the painted Britons were observing the army that would cut through their land.

  In moving so many men from boats to the shore, some injuries and errors were to be expected. One of the small craft overturned as its occupants t
ried to climb out, and an optio had a foot crushed by its weight. More than a few packs and spears were dropped into the sea and had to be retrieved by their owners, urged on by swearing officers. With only one arm, Renius slipped as he climbed out of a boat, disappearing under the water despite the hands grabbing at him. He was dragged out still roaring in indignation. Despite the difficulties, landing so many without losing a life was a feat in itself, and by the time the sun was dipping down toward the horizon, the Tenth had flagged the ground for their first hostile camp, barring the way down to the shore while they were still vulnerable.

  They saw no further sign of the tribes who had defended their land so viciously the year before. After the initial sightings on the cliffs, the Britons had pulled back. Julius smiled at the thought of the consternation in their camps and villages and wondered what had become of Commius, the king of the southern hills. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Commius to see his legions for the first time and send his blue-skinned fighters down to the sea to throw them back. With a shudder, Julius remembered the huge dogs that fought with them and took a dozen wounds before they fell. Even they had not been enough to beat the veterans of Gaul.

  Commius had surrendered when the legions had fought up the dunes and onto the fields beyond, crushing the blue warriors before them. The king had kept his dignity as he walked into the makeshift camp on the beach to offer his sword. The guards would have stopped him, but Julius had waved him in, his heart racing.

  He remembered the awe he had felt at finally speaking to men who were barely myths in Rome. Yet for all their wild looks, Julius had found the tribesmen understood the simple Gaulish speech he had labored to learn.