The Gods of War (24 page)

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
                                                      

T
he 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 watched 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.

“And your name, Captain?” Julius said as soon as he stood on the deck.

The officer did not reply and stood frowning, tapping one hand on the other.

“Then I will tell you mine once more. I am Julius Caesar. I am Consul of Rome and the only elected authority you are sworn to serve. All orders given by Pompey are revoked. You are under my command as of this moment.”

The captain opened his mouth but Julius went on, unwilling to lose the momentary advantage. He spoke as if there was not the slightest chance of being disobeyed.

“You will pass the word to the other galleys to summon their captains here to be given orders. I have six thousand men and horses waiting to be picked up on the docks. You are my transport to Asia Minor, Captain.”

Deliberately, Julius turned away to help Octavian over the railing. When he faced the captain once more, he showed the first sign of anger.

“Did you not understand the orders I gave you, Captain? As consul, I am the Senate in transit. The orders I give take precedence over any others you may have received. Acknowledge now, or I will have you relieved.”

The captain struggled to reply. It was an impossible position. He was being asked to choose between two commanders and the conflict slowly brought a flush to his cheeks.

“Acknowledge!” Julius roared, standing closer.

The captain blinked in desperation. “Yes, sir. The orders are acknowledged. You have authority. I will send the signals to the other galleys.”

He was sweating as Julius nodded at last and the crew ran to raise the flags that would bring the other captains in.

Julius felt Octavian staring at him and did not dare risk a smile.

“Return to the docks and get the men ready to leave, General,” he said. “We go on.”

         

Brutus stood on the stone dock, scratching a scab under his sling as he watched the galleys. His arm and ribs were healing at last, though he'd thought being carried in a jolting cart would drive him mad at first. It had been a clean break, but he had seen enough injuries to know it would take as long to build back the muscle as it did to heal the bones. He still wore the sword he had carried at Pharsalus, but he could draw it only with his left hand and felt as clumsy as a child. He
hated
to be weak. The soldiers of the Tenth and Fourth had grown bold with their sneers and insults, perhaps because he had too much pride to complain. They would not have dared when he was well. Though it burned him, Brutus could do nothing but wait, his fury well hidden.

With him stood Domitius, Octavian, Regulus, and Ciro, their nervousness showing as they strained their eyes on the darkening sea. Octavian had returned with the news and they had all watched as the galley captains were rowed across to meet Pompey's enemy. No word had come since the last of them had climbed onto the deck and the tension mounted by the hour.

“What if they're holding him?” Domitius said suddenly. “We'd never know.”

“What can we do if they are?” Octavian replied. “Take those fat merchant ships out to do battle? They'd sink us before we could get close and you know it.” He spoke without his eyes ever leaving the sleek shapes of the galleys as they rocked in the swell outside the port. “He chose the risk.”

Ciro glanced at the setting sun, frowning to himself. “If he's not back by dark, we could slip out. If we packed onto a single ship, we'd have enough to storm one of the galleys. Take one and you can take another.”

Brutus looked at him in surprise. The years had subtly altered the men he thought he knew. Ciro had become accustomed to command and his confidence had grown. Brutus replied without thinking.

“If they hold him, they'll expect us to try that. They'll anchor as far out as they can get and spend the night in close formation. That's if they don't head straight for Asia Minor with Julius, to give him to Pompey.”

Octavian stiffened as he spoke. “Shut your mouth,” he said flatly. “You hold no command. You are here only because my general did not see fit to execute you. You have nothing to say to us.”

Brutus glared back at him, but dropped his gaze under the combined stares of the men he had known. It did not matter, he told himself, though he was surprised how much they could still hurt him. He noted how they looked to Octavian in Julius's absence. Perhaps it was something in the blood. He took a deep, angry breath and his right hand twitched in the sling before he gained control.

“I don't think—” he began.

Octavian rounded on him. “If it were my choice, I would nail you to a cross on these docks. Do you think the men would object?”

Brutus did not have to consider it. He knew the answer very well indeed. “No, they'd love a chance at me. But you won't let them, will you, boy? You'll follow his orders even if it means everything you value is destroyed.”

“You can still try to justify what you did?” Octavian demanded. “There aren't words enough. I don't understand why he brought you here, but I will tell you this. If Julius expects you back as one of us, I won't do it. The first time you ever try to give me an order, I'll cut your throat.”

Brutus narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. “You're brave now, boy, but bones heal. When they do . . .”

“I'll do it now!” Octavian said, raging.

He surged at Brutus, and Regulus and Ciro grabbed hold of his arm as it came up with a blade. Brutus staggered back out of range.

“I wonder how you would explain killing me to Julius,” he said. His eyes were full of malice as the younger man struggled to reach him. “He can be cruel as well, Octavian. Perhaps that's why he let me live.”

Octavian subsided as Ciro prized the knife from his hand.

“You think you'll heal, Brutus?” he said. “What if I had the men take you somewhere quiet and smash your arm properly? They could shatter your hand so badly you'd never use a sword again.”

Octavian smiled as he saw a trace of fear in Brutus's eyes.

“That would hurt you, wouldn't it? You'd never ride a horse, or write your name, even. That would break the arrogance out of you at last.”

“Ah, you're a
noble
man, Octavian,” Brutus said. “I wish I had your principles.”

Octavian went on, his hatred barely in check. “One more word out of you and I'll do it. No one will stop me, not to save you. They know you deserve it. Go
on
, General. One more
word
.”

Brutus stared at him for a long time, then shook his head in disgust before turning and walking away from the group. Octavian nodded sharply, shaking with reaction. He hardly felt Domitius's grip on his shoulder, steadying him.

“You shouldn't let it show,” Domitius said softly, looking after the broken man he had once revered.