Soldiers from Primigenia took the reins, their faces a reflection of his own agony. He didn't speak to them, but crossed the yard to the main buildings through the swirling mud of puddles from the storm. Cabera watched him go, absently rubbing the soft muzzle of the horse as he held its reins.
Clodia was there, holding a bloody cloth in her hand. She was pale and exhausted looking, with dark pouches under her eyes.
“Where is she?” he asked, and she seemed to crumple in front of him.
“In the triclinium,” she said. “Master, I . . .”
Julius walked past her into the room and stopped inside the door. Torches burned at the head of a simple bed, lighting her face with their warmth. Julius crossed to his wife and looked down at her, his hands shaking. She had been washed and dressed in white cloth, her face left unpainted and her hair tied back behind her head.
Julius touched her face and winced at the softness of it.
There was no disguising death. Her eyes had opened a fraction and he could see the whites beneath the lids. With his hand, he tried to close them again, but they eased back open when he took his fingers away.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice sounding loud against the fluttering of the torches. He took her hand in his, feeling the stiffness of the fingers as he knelt by her.
“I'm sorry they hurt you so badly. You were never part of it. I'm sorry I didn't take you away. If you can hear me, I do love you, I always did.”
He bowed his head as shame shuddered through him. His last words had been angry to this woman he'd sworn to love, and there was no way to call the guilt back. He had been too stupid to help her, somehow sure that she would always be there and that the arguments and the ugly words didn't matter. And now she was gone and he clenched a fist against his head in anger at himself, pressing harder and harder and welcoming the pain it brought. How he'd boasted to her. His enemies would fall and she would be safe.
At last he stood, but could not turn from her.
A voice shattered the quiet.
“No! Don't go in there!”
It was Clodia, calling outside. Julius spun round, his hand going to his sword.
His daughter Julia came running into the silence, halting as she saw him. Instinctively, he moved to block Cornelia from her sight, stepping toward her and lifting her into his arms in a tight embrace.
“Mummy's gone,” she said, and he shook his head, tears spilling out of him.
“No, no, she's still here, and she loves you,” he said.
* * *
Pompey's men almost gagged at the smell of rot that came from the man they held. The skin they could feel under the cloak seemed to move too easily in their grip, and as they shifted their hands the hooded man gasped in pain, as if something had torn away.
Pompey stood facing them, his eyes bright with malice. At his side were two young girls he had found in the house deep in the warren of alleys between the hills. Their faces were pinched with fear, but there was nowhere for them to run and they stood in terrified silence. The threat was clear. Pompey wiped a line of sweat from his cheek.
“Remove his hood. I want to see the man who killed my daughter,” he said.
The two soldiers reached up and pulled back the rough cloth, looking away, nauseated, as they saw what was revealed. The assassin glared at them all, his face a mass of pustules and scabs. There was not an inch of good flesh to be seen, and the scarred and bleeding skin cracked as he spoke to them.
“I am not the man you want,” he whispered.
Pompey bared his teeth. “You are one of them. You have a name for me, I know. But your life is mine to take for what you have done.”
The man's rheumy eyes flickered to the two girls, creasing in fear. If Pompey hadn't guessed already, he would have known then that they were his daughters. The senator knew that fear very well. The assassin spoke quickly, as if to cover what he had shown them.
“How did you find me?”
Pompey drew a knife from his belt, the blade shining even in the shadowy darkness of the room.
“It took time and gold and the lives of four good men to track you down, but the filth you employ gave you to me in the end. I'm told you're building a beautiful estate in the north, far from this hovel. Built on my blood. Did you think I would forget about my daughter's killer?”
The man coughed, his breath overlaid with the sweet perfume he used to cover the rot.
“It was not my knife that—”
“It was your order. Who gave you the name? Whose gold did you take? I know it anyway, but speak it before witnesses, so that I can have justice.”
For a long moment their gazes locked, and then the assassin's eyes dropped to the blade that Pompey held so casually. His daughters looked on, their tears drying. They didn't understand the danger and he could have cried for their innocence as they watched their father so trustingly. They were not appalled by his sores. In fact, without the gentle bathing they administered to their father, he knew he would have taken his own life a long time before. They had none of the disease, their skin perfect under the dirt they used to hide themselves from the predators of the alleys. Who would care for them when he was gone? He knew Pompey well enough to see his own life was finished. He'd had no mercy in him since the death of his daughter, if he ever had.
“Let my daughters go and I will tell you,” the assassin wheezed, his eyes pleading.
Pompey grunted softly, then reached out to the youngest one, holding her tightly by the hair. With his other hand, he drew the dagger across her throat and dropped her as she twisted in his grip.
The assassin screamed in unison with his daughter, straining to break the grip of the men that held him. He began to weep then, sagging in their arms.
“Now you know,” Pompey said. He wiped the blade between two of his fingers, the blood falling in heavy soundless drops to the earthern floor. He waited patiently until the assassin had subsided into choking sobs.
“The other one will live, perhaps. Last time of asking. Whose gold did you take?”
“Cato . . . it was Cato, through Antonidus. That is all I know, I swear.”
Pompey turned to the soldiers around him. “Did you men hear?”
They nodded, grim as their commander. “Then we are finished in this place.” He turned to leave, only a slight stain on his hands showing he had ever been there.
“Kill them both, the girl first,” he added as he went out into the alleys beyond.
* * *
“Is he awake?” Julius asked. The room stank of sickness and Tubruk lay sprawled on a bed that showed rusty stains from his bleeding. Before he entered, Julius had waited out his daughter's tears and gently taken her fingers from around his neck. She had cried again then, but he would not take her into another death room and Clodia had found a young female slave to take care of her. From the way the little girl went into her arms, it was clear the woman had comforted her before over the last, terrible days.
“He may wake if you speak to him, but he hasn't long now,” Clodia said, looking into the room. Her face told him more than he wanted to know, and he closed his eyes for a moment before entering.
Tubruk lay awkwardly, fresh stitches showing on his chest and disappearing under the blankets. Though he seemed to sleep, he shivered and Julius tugged the blanket up to cover him. There was a trace of blood around his mouth, fresh and red. Clodia brought a bowl of crimson water from the floor and dabbed at the smear as Julius watched in despair. Too many things had changed for him to take in, and he stood frozen as Clodia cleaned the lips and weeping stitches with tender care.
Tubruk groaned and opened his eyes at her touch. He couldn't seem to focus properly.
“You still here, old woman?” he whispered, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.
“As long as you need me, love,” she replied. She glanced up at Julius and back to the man on the bed.
“Julius is here,” she said.
Tubruk turned his head. “Come wh
ere I can see you,” he said.
Clodia stood back and Julius came and looked into his eyes. Tubruk took a deep breath and his whole body shivered again with the release.
“I couldn't stop them, Julius. I tried, but . . . I couldn't reach her.”
Julius began to sob softly as he looked down at his old friend.
“It isn't your fault,” he whispered.
“I killed them all. I killed him to save her,” Tubruk said, his eyes blank. His breathing was ragged and Julius despaired of the gods. They had given too much pain to ones he loved.
“Call Cabera in here. He's a healer,” he said to Clodia.
She beckoned him away from the tortured figure on the bed, and he bent his head to hear.
“Don't let him be troubled. There's nothing to do but wait now. There's no blood left in him.”
“Fetch Cabera,” Julius replied, his eyes fierce. He thought for a moment that she would refuse again, but then she left and he could hear her voice calling out in the courtyard.
“Cabera's here, Tubruk. He'll make you better,” Julius said, the soft sobbing starting again in his throat.
Dripping raindrops, the old man entered and crossed quickly to the bed, looking stricken. With deft fingers, he checked the wounds, raising the blanket to see beneath. He looked at Julius's desperate expression and sighed.
“I'll try,” he said. He placed his hands on the bruised flesh around the stitches and closed his eyes.
Julius leaned forward, whispering a prayer under his breath. There was nothing to be seen, just the figure of the old healer bent over, his hands still and dark against the pale chest. Tubruk took a long inward breath in sudden spasm, then breathed out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Clodia.
“The pain's gone, love,” he said. Then the life went out of him and Cabera staggered and fell.
* * *
Pompey frowned at the galley captain who stood stiffly before him.
“I don't care what your orders are. These are mine. You will sail south toward Sicilia and hail any other galleys you see on the way down the coast. Every Roman vessel is to guard the south and prevent the slaves escaping. Is that understood, or must I have you arrested and appoint another captain in your place?”
Gaditicus saluted, disliking the arrogant senator with a passion he didn't dare let show. After six months at sea, he had been hoping for some time ashore in the city, but he was being ordered out again without even a chance to clean the ship. Prax would be furious when he heard, he thought.
“I understand, sir. We'll clear the docks on the next tide.”
“Be sure you do,” Pompey replied, before striding back to his waiting soldiers. Gaditicus watched him go and glanced at the other galleys that had already put out to sea. With them all heading for the strait of Sicilia, Roman ports everywhere would be easy prey. Whatever the Senate was planning, he hoped it was worth the risk.
* * *
As the evening darkened, Clodia came to Julius as he drank himself into a stupor in a dark room. He looked up as she entered, his eyes listless.
“Are you home for good now?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, I'm going back with Pompey in a few days. I'll see to the funerals for both of them first.” His voice was slurred and miserable, but there were no words of comfort she could think to offer. Part of her wanted to make him feel pain for the cruel way he'd treated Cornelia, and it was only with the last of her strength that she didn't speak to hurt him. His face showed he knew well enough.
“Will you stay and look after my mother and daughter?” he said without looking at her.
“I am a slave. I should return to Senator Cinna's house,” she replied.
He met her eyes then and waved his hand drunkenly. “I free you, then. I'll buy your paper from her father. I can do that much at least before I go back. Just look after Julia. Is Octavian here?”
“In the stables. I wasn't sure if he should go back to his mother and . . .”
“Look after him too. He's my blood and I made a promise. I always keep my promises.” His face screwed up in anguish. “I want you to stay here and run this house. I don't know when I'll be back, but when I am I want you to talk about her. You knew her before I did and I want to know everything.”
He was so young, she thought. Young and foolish and learning that life could be bitterly unfair. How long had she waited for love before finding it with Tubruk? Cornelia would have freed her to marry and he would have asked once he'd gathered his courage. Now there was nothing left for her, and the girl she'd nursed as a baby lay still and quiet in another room. When she had the strength, Clodia knew, she would be the one to wrap Tubruk's battered body and clean his skin for the last time. But not for a while.
“I'll stay,” she said, and wondered if he heard her.
CHAPTER 42
Cato stood in the forum under a dark sky, his toga stripped from his shoulders to reveal a mass of white flesh that shone with running beads of water. His back was marked with stripes where the whips had fallen, the pain only an echo of the anger and disgust he felt for the petty men who had brought him down. Not one of them would have disdained to act as he had, if the opportunity had come. Yet they glared and pointed at him as if they were not of his breed at all. He sneered at them, holding his head high even as the executioner came forward, the long sword gleaming in his hands.
Pompey looked on without a show of the pleasure he felt. He had delayed joining Crassus to see this task finished. He would have preferred to see the fat hands nailed to a wooden beam and displayed in the forum for a lingering death. Such an ending would be more fitting for Cato. At least there had been pleasure as Cato's family were sold into slavery despite his cries. The house had been given over to the Senate, and the funds raised by its sale would go some way toward financing the legions Pompey took with him against the slaves.
Julius watched numbly at Pompey's side. The general had ushered him forward in triumph to share in the pleasure of the execution, but he felt nothing. There was no joy in seeing Cato killed. It was no more than ending the life of a dog or crushing a stinging insect. The bloated senator understood nothing of the grief he had caused, and nothing he could suffer would bring Cornelia back. Let this be quick, he whispered to himself as he watched. Let it all end.
Cato spat on the stones of the forum as he looked around at the crowd of senators and citizens that had massed to see the execution. For once, there was no sense of danger from the crowd. He had never been popular with the people of the city—as if anyone could care what they thought or did. He spat again, his mouth curling in anger at the sight of the waiting mob. Animals, all of them, with no understanding of how a great man could bend the law under his hand. Marius had done it; Sulla had. None of them could understand that there was no law but that which could be held.
Footsteps sounded and Cato turned his head to see Pompey striding toward him. He grimaced. The man didn't even have style enough to let him die without a few more jeers and taunts. He was not made for greatness. Sulla would have allowed his enemy the dignity of a private death, no matter what had passed between them. There was a man who understood what power meant.
Pompey moved close enough to speak into Cato's ear.
“Your family will not live long as slaves. I have bought them all myself,” the sibilant voice whispered.
Cato looked coldly at him. “Germinius too?” he asked.
“He will not survive the final battle.”
Cato smiled at that. He wondered if Pompey would find Julius and Brutus any easier to deal with than he had. He raised his head in defiance. It seemed fitting to have his line end with him. He'd heard of kings in ancient times who had their families thrown alive onto their pyres. Pompey was a fool to try to hurt him.
“You will know a day like this one,” he said to Pompey. “You are too small a man to hold this city in your hand for long.” He laughed aloud then as Pompey's face contorted with a spasm of anger.
“Take up your sword and finish him,” the general snapped at the executioner, who bowed low to the ground in response as Pompey stalked back to the waiting senators. Cato nodded to the man. He felt tired all of a sudden, almost numb.
“Not today, boy. Some things have to be done by a man's own hand,” he muttered, removing a heavy bracelet from his wrist. With his thumb, he eased out a razor from the edge of it and turned to face the crowd, sneering at them. With a jerk of his hand, he nicked the side of his throat, cutting the heavy arteries, then stood waiting as blood poured out over his white flesh, drenching him.
The executioner stepped forward nervously, but Cato had strength enough to raise his hand, refusing the blade. The crowd watched with animal fascination as his legs began to shiver and then suddenly he fell to his knees with an audible crack on the stone. Even then, he glared at them all before slumping forward in a heap.
The gathered citizens sighed as the tension of the death was released. Despite the crimes they whispered to each other, the courage of the senator stole the pleasure they had come to find. They began to disperse without a sound, passing the slumped body with bowed heads and more than a few muttered prayers.
Pompey pursed his lips in anger. The joy of vengeance was missing at such an ending, and he felt as if something had been stolen from him. He signaled his guards to remove the body, turning to Julius.
“Now we go south, to finish it,” he said.
* * *
The general looked at Crassus in amazement.
“Sir, you're talking about more than twenty miles of broken land! I urge to you reconsider. We should occupy a central position, ready to stop them breaking through.”
Crassus waited until the man had finished, his fingers tapping nervously on his table as he listened. It was the only thing to do, he was certain. The slaves were trapped against the coast, and if Pompey had reached the galleys, there would be no one to take them off. All he had to do was hold them, bottle them up in the spit of land at the base of the country. He glanced at Pompey's map on the wall. It looked such a tiny distance, there.