The Gods of War (7 page)

“No name? Who is your mistress?” Julius asked.

The omission was interesting enough to halt even Cassius in the act of slipping back to the other guests. The slave blushed slightly. “She said you would remember the pearl, even if you had forgotten her. I am sorry, sir. Those are the words she gave me to say, if you asked.”

Julius inclined his head in thanks, quite happy to leave Cassius mystified. He felt a stab of guilt that he had not taken the time to see Servilia before the sun had fallen on his first day.

“I will not need you, Domitius,” he said, and “Lead the way,” to the slave, following him outside and down the main stairs of the house. The doors were opened for him and he was able to step straight into the carriage waiting outside.

“You did not come to me,” Servilia said coldly as he smiled at her. She had always looked beautiful in moonlight and for a moment he was content just to drink her in.

“Enough of that, Julius,” she snapped. “You should have come as you promised. There is a great deal to discuss.”

Outside the snug confines of the carriage, her driver snapped his whip over the horse and the carriage trundled away over the stone streets, leaving the painted women of Rome to discuss the general's interest without him.

                                                      
CHAPTER
6
                                                      

T
he summer dawn came early, though it was gray and cold as Brutus shoved his head into a water barrel in the public stables. He came up gasping and rubbed his face and neck vigorously until the skin reddened and he began to feel a little more useful. He had taken a risk by staying a night in the city. Julius would have used the time to strengthen his grip on Rome. His men would be guarding the gates and Brutus knew he might have to bluff his way through. He had considered hiding the armor, but the horse bore a legion brand and legionaries would be far more interested in a horse thief than a general out for a morning ride.

He used the mounting block to jump into the saddle, the horse skittering sideways as his weight came on. Brutus took up the reins with unusually tight hands. Tabbic's company had been like balm on an open wound, but he should have ridden straight for the coast.

Grim-faced, he threw a coin to one of the stable boys and clattered out onto the street. The closest gate was the Quirinal, but he headed instead for the Esquiline in the east. It was a traders' gate and would be busy even at the early hour with countless merchants and laborers. With a little of the gods' luck, the guards there would pass him with just a glance and a wave.

As he trotted stiff-backed through the city, Brutus felt himself sweating out the poisons of the night before. It was hard to imagine the optimism he had felt on coming into the city with the others. Even the thought of it brought his anger sliding back to the surface. His glare sharpened unconsciously and those who saw his expression kept their eyes downcast until he had gone.

There was one place in the world where he would be welcome, though he had said it half in bitter jest to his mother. Why should he weigh an old friendship in the balance of his life? It mattered nothing to Julius, after all. That had at last become clear. There would be no day when Julius turned to him and said, “You have been my right hand since the beginning,” and gave him a country, or a throne, or anything approaching his worth.

He passed through the Esquiline gate with an ease that mocked his earlier worry. Julius had not thought to warn the guards and Brutus returned their salutes without a sign of tension. He would go to Greece. He would go to Pompey and show Julius what he had lost in passing him over.

         

With Rome behind, Brutus rode fast and recklessly, losing himself in the sweat and risk of hard ground. The exertion felt like tearing free, an antidote to the lingering effects of the mulled wine. The familiarity helped to keep his mind numb at first as he fell into the rhythms of a cavalry scout. He did not want to begin the endless self-examination he knew would follow his decision to leave Julius. Though it loomed over him like winter, he leaned forward in the saddle, concentrating on the ground and the sun on his face.

The sight of a marching column interrupted his reverie, snapping him back to a world where decisions had to be made. He yanked the reins to bring the horse to a skidding stop, both front hooves flailing for a moment in the air. Was it possible that Julius had sent men ahead to cut him off? He watched the snake of legionaries in the distance. They carried no flags and Brutus hesitated, turning his mount in a tight circle. There were no armed forces in the south that had not been dragged into the threatening war. Pompey's legion had gone with him and he thought the Gaul veterans were safe in the city. Yet he had delayed a night in Tabbic's shop. Julius could well have sent them out to hunt him down.

The thought brought back his anger and pride. He ignored his first impulse to circle around the column and approached warily, ready to kick his mount to a gallop. Julius would not have sent infantry, he was almost certain, and he saw that the column had no horses with them, not even for officers. Brutus felt a deep relief at that. He had trained the extraordinarii to hunt a single rider and he knew they would show no mercy to a traitor, even the man who had led them in Gaul.

The train of thought made him flinch unconsciously. He had not had time to consider what those left behind would think when they heard. They would not understand his reasons. Friends who had known him for years would be appalled. Domitius would not believe it at first, Brutus thought bitterly. Octavian would be crushed.

He wondered if Regulus would understand. The man had betrayed his own master, after all. Brutus doubted he would find sympathy there. The rabid loyalty that Regulus had shown to Pompey had been transferred in one violent jolt to his new master. Regulus was a zealot. There could be no half measures for him and he would hunt Brutus tirelessly if Julius gave the order.

Oddly, it was most painful to imagine Julius's face as he heard the news. He would assume there had been a mistake until Servilia spoke to him. Even then, Brutus knew he would be hurt and the thought made his knuckles whiten on the reins. Perhaps Julius would grieve for him in his sanctimonious way. He would shake his balding head and understand that he had lost the best of them through his own blindness. Then he would send the wolves after him. Brutus knew better than to expect forgiveness for his betrayal. Julius could not afford to let him reach Pompey.

Brutus glanced behind him, suddenly afraid he would see the extraordinarii galloping in his wake. The fields were quiet and he took a better grip on his emotions. The column was a more immediate threat, and as he came closer he saw the pale ovals of faces glancing in his direction and the distant din of a sounding horn. He dropped his hand to his sword and grinned into the wind. Let the bastards try to take him, whoever they were. He was the best of a generation and a general of Rome.

The column came to a halt and Brutus knew who they were the moment he saw their lack of perfect order. The road guards had been sent to the old Primigenia barracks, but Brutus guessed these were the stubborn ones, finding their own way to reach a general who cared nothing for them. Whether they realized it or not, they were natural allies, and a plan sprang full-grown into his head as he rode up to them. An inner voice was amused at how his thoughts seemed to come faster and with more force the further away he was from Julius. He could become the man he should have been without that other's shadow.

         

Seneca turned in panic as the cornicen sounded a warning note. He felt a cold thumping in his chest as he expected to see the ranks of Caesar's horsemen riding down to punish him.

The relief of seeing only a single rider was something like ecstasy, and he could almost smile at how afraid he had been. Ahenobarbus's talk of oaths had troubled him and he knew the men shared something of the same guilt.

Seneca narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the rider approached the head of the column, looking neither right nor left as he passed the standing ranks. Seneca recognized the silver armor of one of Caesar's generals and on the heels of that came a fear that they were being surrounded once again. Anything was possible from those who had spun a wheel around them and made them look like children.

He was not the only one to have the thought. Half the men in the column jerked their heads nervously, looking for the telltale dust that would reveal the presence of a larger force. The ground was dry in the summer's heat and even a few riders should have given themselves away. They saw nothing, but dared not cease their searching after the harsh lesson they had been taught outside Corfinium.

“Ahenobarbus! Where are you?” Brutus called as he reined in, his dark eyes examining Seneca for a moment and moving on, dismissing him from notice.

Seneca colored and cleared his throat. He did remember this one, from the negotiations in Caesar's tent. The mocking smile was always his first expression and the eyes had seen more war and death than Seneca could imagine. On the high-stepping Spanish gelding, he was a forbidding figure and Seneca found his mouth was dry from fear.

“Ahenobarbus! Show yourself,” Brutus shouted, his impatience growing.

“He is not here,” Seneca replied.

The general's head snapped round at his words and he wheeled his horse with obvious skill. Seneca felt a little more of his confidence drain away under the man's stare. He felt as if he was being judged and found wanting, but the initiative seemed to have been lost from the moment they sighted the rider.

“I do not remember your face,” Brutus told him, loud enough for them all to hear. “Who are you?”

“Livinius Seneca. I do not—”

“What rank do you hold to lead these men?”

Seneca glared. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few of the guards turn their heads to hear his answer. Against his will, he flushed again. “Pompey will decide how to reward my loyalty,” he began. “At the moment—”

“At the moment, you may be a few hours ahead of Caesar's legions once he discovers you have left the barracks,” Brutus snapped. “I assume command of these cohorts by right of my rank as general of Rome. Now, where are you heading?”

Seneca lost his temper at last. “You have no right to give orders here!” he shouted. “We know our duty, sir. We will not return to Rome. Ride back to the city, General. I don't have time to stand here and bicker with you.”

Brutus raised his eyebrows in interest, leaning forward to take a better look. “But I'm not going back to Rome,” he said softly. “I'm taking you to Greece to fight for Pompey.”

“I won't be tricked by you, General. Not twice. I saw you in Caesar's tent with Ahenobarbus. Are you telling me you have turned traitor in a day? That's a lie.”

To Seneca's horror, the silver-armored general swung a leg over his saddle and vaulted lightly to the ground. He took three paces to stand close enough for Seneca to feel the sun's heat off his armor, and his eyes were terrible.

“You call me a liar and a traitor and expect to live, Seneca? I am no man's servant but Rome's. My sword has killed more men than stand here for the Senate and you dare to use those words to
me
?”

His hand caressed the hilt of his gladius and Seneca took a step back from his rage.

“I have told you where I'm going,” Brutus continued relentlessly. “I have told you I will fight for Pompey. Don't question me again, boy. Be
warned
.” The last words were a harsh whisper, before the light of madness fell from his gaze and his voice changed to a more normal tone. “Tell me where you are heading.”

“The coast,” Seneca said. He could feel a fat line of sweat run down his cheek and did not dare to scratch the itching trail.

Brutus shook his head. “Not with two cohorts. There aren't fishing boats enough for all of us. We'll need to head for a port and hope there is a merchant vessel Pompey didn't manage to burn. Brundisium is two hundred miles south and east from here. It's large enough.”

“It's too far,” Seneca said instantly. “If they send the extraordinarii . . .”

“You think you'll be safer with your back to the sea? Then you're a fool. We need a ship and there must be some trader still working.”

“But if they send the riders?” Seneca said desperately.

Brutus shrugged. “I trained those men. If Caesar sends the extraordinarii out against us, we'll gut them.”

As Seneca stared at him, Brutus walked calmly back to his horse and leapt into the saddle. From that lofty position, he looked down at Seneca and waited for further opposition. When none came, he nodded to himself, satisfied.

“Brundisium it is. I hope your lads are fit, Seneca. I want to be in Brundisium in ten days or less.”

He turned his horse to face the south and waved on the first rank of guards. To Seneca's private fury, they turned to follow him and the column began to move once more. As he matched his pace to the ranks around him, Seneca realized that he would spend the next week staring at the rear of the horse.

         

In the soft light of morning, Julius paced the length of Marius's old entrance hall, watched by the generals he had summoned. He looked exhausted and pale, a man made older by the news.

“It's not just that the betrayal will hurt our standing with the remaining senators,” he said. “We could keep that quiet if we say he was sent away on some private task. But he has with him the knowledge of our strengths, our weaknesses, even our methods of attack! Brutus knows the details of every battle we fought in Gaul. He practically invented the extraordinarii as we use them. He has the Spanish secret of hard iron. Gods, if he gives all that to Pompey, we will be beaten before we begin. Tell me how I can win against that sort of knowledge.”

“Kill him before he can reach Pompey,” Regulus said into the silence.

Julius glanced up, but did not reply. Domitius frowned in bemusement, wiping clammy sweat from his face. His thoughts were still heavy from a wild party in a house off the forum. The sweet smell of drink was on all of them, but they were steady. Domitius shook his head to clear it. They could not be discussing Brutus as an enemy, he told himself. It was not possible. They had taken salt and pay together, shed blood and bound each other's wounds. They had become generals in hard years and Domitius could not shake the thought that Brutus would return with an explanation and a joke, with a woman on his arm, perhaps. The man was practically a father to Octavian. How could he have thrown that away for his stupid temper?

Domitius rubbed his calloused hands over his face, looking at the floor as the angry conversation continued around him. They had come into the city only the morning before and already one of them was an enemy.

Mark Antony spoke as Julius resumed his pacing. “We could spread the word that Brutus is a spy for us. That would undermine his value to the forces in Greece. Pompey won't be willing to trust him as it is. With just a little push, he might reject Brutus altogether.”