The Gods of War (36 page)

         

Brutus lay on his stomach and groaned at the stiff fingers that worked themselves into old scars and muscles. The evening was cool and quiet and his mother's house still employed the very best of girls. It was his habit to come and go as he pleased and his moods were well known to the women Servilia employed. The girl who used her elbows to work at a knot of muscle had not said a word since he stripped naked and lay down on the long bench, his dangling arms grazing the floor. Brutus had felt the unspoken invitation as she let her oiled hands linger, but he had not responded. His mind was too filled with despair and anger to find release in her practiced embrace.

He opened his eyes as he heard light footsteps tap across the floor of the room. Servilia was there, wearing a sardonic expression as she viewed the naked flesh of her son.

“Thank you, Talia, you may leave us,” she said.

Brutus frowned at the interruption. Without embarrassment, he pushed himself up and sat on the bench as the girl scurried out. His mother did not speak until the door had closed and Brutus raised an eyebrow in interest. She too knew his moods and allowed him privacy when he came to the house. To have broken the routine meant something else was in the wind.

Her hair was a cloud gray, almost white now that she had abandoned her dyes and colors. It no longer hung loose, but was tied back with pinned severity. She still stood with the erect posture that had drawn men's eyes in her youth, but age had melted the flesh from her, so that she was lean and hard. Brutus supposed he loved her, for her dignity and refusal to be broken in the life of Rome.

She had been there in the forum when Julius held up his son, but when Brutus had come to the house that first evening, she had shown him a cool reserve that demanded respect. He might have believed it if there had not been moments when fire flashed in her eyes at the mention of Julius's name. Then she would raise her hand to touch the great pearl that was always around her neck and look into distances too far for Brutus to follow.

“You should dress yourself, my son. You have visitors waiting for you,” she said. The toga he had worn lay folded and Servilia brought it to him as he stood. “You go naked under this?” she asked, before he could speak.

Brutus shrugged. “When it is hot. What visitors do you mean? No one knows I am here.”

“No names, Brutus, not yet,” she said as she draped the long cloth around his shoulders. “I asked them here.”

Brutus regarded his mother in irritation. His gaze flickered to his dagger where it lay on a stool. “I do not share my movements with the city, Servilia. Are the men armed?”

She tucked and tweaked at the robe until it was ready to be clasped. “They are no danger to you. I told them you would listen to what they have to say. Then they will leave and Talia can finish her work, or you can join me for a meal in my rooms.”

“What are you doing, Mother?” Brutus asked, his voice growing hard. “I don't like games or mysteries, or secrets.”

“See these men. Listen to them,” she said as if he had not spoken. “That is all.” She watched in silence as he tucked his dagger away and then she stood back to look at him. “You look strong, Brutus. Age has given you more than scars. I will send them in.”

She left and moments later the door swung open to admit two men of the Senate. Brutus knew them instantly and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Suetonius and Cassius were stiff with tension as they closed the door behind them and approached.

“What is so important that you must come to my mother's house?” Brutus said. He crossed his arms carefully, leaving his right hand near the hilt of his dagger under the cloth.

Cassius spoke first. “Where else is private, in Rome?” he said.

Brutus could see the sinews standing out in the man's neck. The senator was clearly under an enormous strain and Brutus disliked being so close to him.

“I will hear what you have to say,” Brutus said slowly.

He gestured to the bench and watched closely as both men sat down. He did not join them, preferring to remain able to move quickly if the need arose. Every instinct warned him to caution, but he showed them nothing. The hilt of his knife was comforting under his fingers.

“We will have no names, here,” Cassius said. “It is dark outside and we have not been seen. We have never met, in fact.” His taut features stretched into an unpleasant smile.

“Go on,” Brutus said, sharply, anger surfacing. “My mother has bought you a few moments. If you can say nothing of use, then leave.”

The two men exchanged glances and Cassius swallowed nervously.

Suetonius cleared his throat. “There are some in the city who have not forgotten the Republic,” he said. “There are some who do not enjoy the Senate being treated as servants.”

Brutus took in a sharp breath as he began to understand. “Go on,” he said.

“Those who love Rome may be dissatisfied with too much power in one man's hands,” Suetonius continued. A fat bead of sweat worked its way down his cheek from his hairline. “They do not want a line of kings built on a corruption of foreign blood.”

The words hung in the air between them and Brutus stared, his thoughts whirling. How much had his mother guessed of their intentions? All their lives were in danger if even a single one of her girls listened at the walls.

“Wait here,” he said, striding to the door.

The sudden movement brought Cassius and Suetonius almost to panic. Brutus flung open the door and saw his mother seated down the corridor. She rose to her feet and walked to him.

“Are you part of this?” he said, his voice low.

Her eyes glittered. “I have brought you together. The rest is up to you.”

Brutus looked at his mother and saw her coldness was a mask.

“Listen to them,” she said again as he hesitated.

“Are we alone?” he asked.

She nodded. “No one knows they are here, or that they are meeting you. This is my house and I know.”

Brutus grimaced. “You could get us all killed,” he said.

Her smile mocked him. “Just listen to them, and be quick,” she said.

He closed the door then and turned to face the two senators. He knew what they wanted, but it was too much to take in at once. “Go on,” he said again to Suetonius.

“I speak for the good of Rome,” Suetonius replied in the old formula. “We want you to join us in this.”

“In what?” Brutus demanded. “Say the words or get out.”

Suetonius took a slow breath. “We want you for a death. We want you to help us bring back the power of the Senate. There are weak men there who will vote in a new king if they are not restrained.”

Brutus felt cold with an unnatural fear. He could not demand they speak the name. He did not know if he could bear to hear it.

“How many are with you?” he said.

Suetonius and Cassius exchanged another glance of warning.

“Perhaps it is better for you not to know at this time,” Cassius said. “We have not heard your answer.”

Brutus did not speak and Cassius's face hardened subtly.

“You
must
answer. We have gone too far to let it rest now.”

Brutus looked at the two men and knew they could not let him live if he refused. There would be archers outside to cut him down as he left. It was how he would have planned it.

It did not matter. He had known from the beginning what he would say.

“I am the right man,” he said in a whisper. The tension began to ease from the pair. “There must be some trust in this, but I do not want my mother involved again,” Brutus went on. “I will rent another house for us to meet.”

“I had thought—” Suetonius began.

Brutus silenced him with a wave of his hand. “No. I am the right man to
lead
you in this. I will not risk my life on fools and secrets. If this is to be done, let it be done well.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “If we are to risk our lives for the good of Rome, it must be before spring. He plans a campaign in Parthia that will take him away, perhaps for years.”

Cassius smiled in triumph. He stood and held out his hand.

“The Republic is worth a life,” he said as Brutus gripped his thin fingers.

                                                      
CHAPTER
34
                                                      

F
rom the highest rooftops, the petals of red roses filled the air by the million, drifting down on the Dictator's procession. The citizens of Rome reached up to them like children, entranced. For weeks, they had walked to the city from their farms and homes, drawn by the lure of glory and spectacle. The price of a bed had soared, but Julius had given every family a bag of silver, a jug of sweet oil, and corn to make bread. The city had been rich with the smell of baking as they rose at dawn to watch Julius sacrifice a white bull at the temple of Jupiter. The omens had been good, as he had known they would be.

He had employed hundreds in the arrangements for the Triumph, from the ex-legion adventurers charged with capturing animals in Africa, to the stonemasons given the task of re-creating Alexandria in Rome. Statues of Egyptian gods lined the route through the city and by noon many were draped with climbing children, laughing and calling to one another.

The ancient streets had a festive air, with every junction festooned in bright banners fluttering gaily over the city. By nightfall, there would be many girls with Julius to thank for a wedding dress from the material. Until then, Rome was a riot of color and noise.

The column that wound its way through the main streets at noon was more than a mile long and lined at every step by cheering citizens. Soldiers of the Tenth and Fourth had been recalled from retirement to lead Julius through the city. They walked like heroes, and those who knew their history showed appreciation at the sight of the men who had taken Gaul and beaten Pompey at Pharsalus.

The gladiators of Rome marched wearing heads of falcons and jackals, while chained leopards spat and struggled to the delight of the crowd.

In the heart of the procession was its centerpiece, a huge carriage more than twenty feet high, with sphinxes to the fore and rear. Eighty white horses heaved against the traces, tossing their heads. Julius and Cleopatra sat together on a balustraded platform, flushed with the success of the spectacle. She wore cloth of bloodred that showed her stomach had regained its lines from before the birth. Her eyes were painted darkly and her hair was bound in gold. For this formal occasion, she wore rubies that shone on her ears and throat. Rose petals fluttered about them both and Julius was in his element, pointing out the wonders of Rome to her as they inched through the city. His aureus coins had been thrown like rain onto outstretched hands below, and free wine and food would fill every stomach in Rome to bursting.

Cleopatra herself had sent for the best temple dancers in Egypt, not trusting Julius's agents to judge their quality. A thousand pretty girls whirled and leapt to the strange music of her home and the sight of their flashing bare legs drew smiles of appreciation from the crowds. They carried sticks of incense in their hands and their movements were followed by thin smoke trails that filled the streets in lingering pungency. It was sensuous and wild and Cleopatra laughed aloud with the pleasure of it. She had made the right choice, in Caesar. His people were noisy in their appreciation, and she found herself exhilarated by the life of the city. There was so much energy in them! These were the ones who built galleys and bridges and laid pipes for hundreds of miles. The waving crowd thought nothing of crossing chasms and oceans and the world to bring trade. From their wombs came soldiers like men of brass to carry on the work.

Her son would be safe in the care of such a people, she was certain. Egypt would be safe.

It took hours to make their way through Rome, but the crowds did not grow tired of the sights and sounds of another continent. Teams of hunters had trapped a huge male gorilla that Cleopatra knew had never seen the Nile. The beast bellowed at the citizens as they gazed in awe, pulling back in fear and laughing as it hammered its great arms against solid bars. Julius planned to have the monster fight a team of swordsmen in the circus, and there could have been no better advertisement than its rage. His people loved new things and Julius had brought the strangest animals of Africa for their enjoyment.

When the forum came into sight once more, Cleopatra had retired behind the screens of the carriage, a room of silk and gold that jolted along in restful motion. Her slaves were there to bring her cool drinks and food, though her son was safely asleep in the old house of Marius. With a few quick movements, she shrugged out of her dress to stand naked, holding her arms out for a costume even richer than the last. The rubies went into a chest and great emeralds on silver clasps were fastened at her wrists and ankles. Tiny bells chimed as her slaves dressed her and touched fresh kohl to her eyes. Let them stare at the queen Julius had found, she thought. Let them envy.

As the music of her people swelled from below, Cleopatra danced a few steps of a sequence she had learned as a girl, pressing down on the wooden floor with small, firm feet. She heard Julius laugh as he saw her, and she twirled in place to please him.

“I will toast you in the best wine of Rome when I am finished here,” he said, his eyes tender. “Let them see you now, while I go down to them.”

Cleopatra bowed her head. “Your will, master.”

He smiled at her mock humility, stepping back into public view. The horses had been halted and the proud men of the Tenth had made a path for him to a raised platform with a single chair. Julius lingered at the top of the steps, enjoying the sight of the packed forum from such a vantage point.

Cleopatra came out and the crowd exclaimed at her new apparel, whistling and calling. Julius cast a glance up at her and wondered how many of the matrons of Rome would be sending new orders to seamstresses and tailors the following day.

As he touched the ground, the Tenth began to sing a mournful legion ballad he had not heard in years. The strings of the Egyptian musicians fell silent and the deep voices soared, recalling old battles and his youth. Julius had not planned this part of the Triumph and he found his eyes were stinging as he walked between the upright spears of men who knew him better than anyone.

As he strode over the stones the line closed behind him and the crowd moved forward, with those who knew the words joining in. Even the cheering was drowned by the throats of thousands of old soldiers, and Julius was deeply moved.

Mark Antony was already on the platform and Julius grew tense as he approached the final steps up to where he would speak. With an effort of will, he turned at the top and smiled at the people of Rome who had come to show their appreciation of his life.

The song died away with the final line repeated three times, and the silence that followed was shattered by a great roar.

Julius glanced at Mark Antony, knowing it was time. He raised his hands as if to quiet them, while Mark Antony stepped forward. Julius stood very still, his heart racing fast enough to make him light-headed.

Mark Antony held a crown in his hands, a simple band of gold. Julius looked out over the crowd as it was placed on his head, listening, listening for a change in the voices of Rome.

The applause began to fail as they saw what had happened. Julius waited as long as he could, painfully sensitive to the drop in volume. With a bitter smile, he forced himself to remove the crown before the cheering failed completely. Pale with tension, he handed it back.

The change was instant as the crowd responded, waves of sound that were almost a physical force. Julius could barely think at the heart of their bellowing, though a slow fury began to kindle in his breast.

On the steps of the Senate house, a group of young men exchanged guarded glances as they witnessed the event. Suetonius frowned in suspicion and Cassius gripped the arm of another. They did not applaud and yell with the rest. They were a blot of silence in the noisy forum, with eyes that were cold and hard.

Mark Antony did not seem to have understood the reaction of the crowd, and he stepped forward again, pressing the crown onto Julius's brow. Julius raised a hand to touch the soft metal and knew they wanted him to refuse it once more. His hopes were dashed, but the play had to continue.

He pressed it back into Mark Antony's hands.

“No more,” he muttered through closed teeth, though his voice was lost in ten thousand others.

Mark Antony did not hear the warning. He had feared the worst when Julius had asked to be crowned in the forum. Now that he saw it was to be a demonstration of Republican honor, he was almost hysterical with excitement, buoyed up on the spirits of the citizens. Laughing, he raised the crown for a third time, and Julius lost his temper.

“Touch that thing to my head one more time and you'll never see Rome again,” he snapped, making Mark Antony fall back in confusion.

Julius's face was stained with rage. The gods alone knew what he would say to them now. The speech he had prepared had depended on their acceptance of the crown. He could not see where he had failed, but he knew it was impossible to take the gold band again. They would think it a great game. He glanced up to where Cleopatra stood above the mob and shared a gaze of disappointment with her. She had known his hopes, and to have them crushed before her eyes was more than he could stand.

Blind and ignorant to the reality before them, the crowd had quieted at last, waiting for him to speak. Julius stood as if dazed while he struggled to find something to say.

“There will come a day when Rome accepts a king once more,” he said at last, “but it will not be today.”

They battered him with noise and he hid his anger and disappointment. It was all he could trust himself to say. He stepped down without waiting for his Tenth to form a path, but the people gave way in awe and dignity after what they had seen.

As he walked stiffly through them, he burned in humiliation. The Triumph had not finished yet. The horses and cages, dancers and carriages would make their way to his new forum and end at the temple of Venus. He vowed silently to himself that if the crowd failed to show proper appreciation there, blood would be shed before the day ended.

As the crowd moved on, a figure in silver armor turned toward the Senate house steps, seeing the white togas of wolves he knew. Brutus understood far better than they what Julius had tried to do, and the knowledge helped to firm his resolution and his strength. Rome would be washed clean and he would find his path without the shadow of Caesar to torment him.

The new spring would take Julius away from the capital. It would have to be soon.

         

Servilia lay awake in darkness, unable to sleep. The days had turned cold at last and Julius's calendar had begun as Februarius ended, bringing rain to a parched city. She could hear it pounding on the tiles overhead and sluicing through the gutters, carrying away the dust.

Her house was quiet, the final patrons having set out for their own homes hours before. Sleep should have come easily, but instead her aching joints could not rest as her thoughts raced and writhed in the dark.

She did not want to think of him, but memories stole through her, their brightness the sole consolation of weakening age. Even in the sun, she would find her thoughts drifting back to other times, but at night there was nothing to hold the flood of recollection that slid into troubled dreams.

She had loved him at the feet of Alexander and he had been hers, in flesh and spirit. She had been his. He had burned for her then, before the cruelty of experience had hardened him.

She sighed to herself, clutching blankets around her thin legs. There was no hope for rest, not on this night. Perhaps it was only right that she spend it in memory of him.

She could still see his face as he held up the son he had always wanted. If he had noticed her in the crowd, he had not recognized the white-haired old woman she had become. At the moment of his greatest joy, she had hated him with a passion her bones had almost forgotten. Brutus had known the shallowness of his love. She tasted bitterness in her throat at the thought of how she had once pleaded with her son. His betrayal had frightened her then, when Pompey had ruled Rome with iron. She had not listened to his warning that Julius would never need her as she had needed him.

She did not care about the pompous arguments of men like Suetonius and Cassius. She saw their jealousy for what it was, despite the honor they claimed. They were too small to love the Republic, or even to understand what it had once meant. Better by far to stand and say that they hated him because he did not notice them. Vanity and pride would be the strength that drove their knives. She knew it, as she had always known the hearts of men. They would play their games of passwords and whispers as they met in the shadows, but the truth did not frighten her as it did them. Her hatred was a clean thing.

She raised a hand to her face, surprised to find tears on her wrinkled skin. That was the reality of the years that stole, she thought. They took the joys and left only bitter pain and tears that came from emptiness.

How many wives had he taken to press his seed into life? Not once had he asked the whore he kept. Not once, even when there was life in her womb and her flesh was firm and strong. He had used her knowledge a hundred times against his enemies. She had kept him safe and now she had been forgotten. Her hands were claws in the cloth as she thought of his pride in his son. There was always a price to pay.

The rain increased in power as it swept across the city, and Servilia wept again. Rome would be clean by the dawn of the ides of March. The past would no longer trouble her sleep.