Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (30 page)

    Restoring the tribune posts to the vote had removed one pillar of Clodius’s popular support. After the disgraceful funeral procession two months before, Pompey had followed Crassus’s advice. To his pleasure, only one of the original holders of the post had been brought back into the Senate. The fickle public had voted in a stranger for the second, and though Pompey’s enemies courted him outrageously, he had not yet declared any particular loyalties. It was just possible that Clodius had no hand in the man’s election, though Pompey doubted it. The man was not above threatening families to achieve his aims, and Pompey had already witnessed one vote where decent men had turned against him for no clear reason. They had not even met his eyes as they stood with Clodius, and Pompey had barely been able to restrain his rage in the face of the merchant’s cold triumph. As a result of that, the free corn issued to the citizens now took a fifth of the entire revenue of the city, and thousands more flooded in each month for the entitlement. Pompey knew Clodius found his most brutal supporters from amongst those rootless scavengers who came to the city. He could not prove it, but he thought a heavy tithe of that grain never reached the hungriest mouths, instead going into that darker Rome where Clodius and men like him bought lives as easily as they sold grain.

    Pompey motioned for Suetonius to speak and sat down as the young Roman rose and cleared his throat. Nothing of his dislike showed on Pompey’s face, though he despised a man who would apparently follow any dog for scraps. Suetonius had grown in confidence as Clodius showered him with praise and funds. He spoke well enough to hold the attention of the Senate, and his association with Clodius had given him a vicarious status he relished.

    “Senators, tribunes,” Suetonius began, “I am no friend to Caesar, as many of you know.” He allowed himself a small smile at the chuckle from the benches. “We have all heard of his victory against the Helvetii in Gaul, a most worthy battle that had the citizens cheering in the markets. Yet the matter of his debts is not a minor concern. I have the estimate here.”

    Suetonius made a show of checking a paper, though he knew the figures by heart.

    “To Herminius, he owes just under a million sesterces. The other lenders together, another million, two hundred thousand. These are not small sums, gentlemen. Without these funds, the men who advanced them in good faith may well be forced into poverty. They have the right to appeal to us when Caesar shows no sign or inclination to return to the city. The law of Twelve Tables is quite clear on the matter of debt, and we should not support a general who scorns the statutes in this way. I urge the Senate to demand his return to clear his slate with the city. Failing that, perhaps an assurance from Pompey that the term in Gaul has some clear end, so that those who struggle in the wake of these debts can look forward to settlement on an agreed date. I will vote in favor of recalling Caesar.”

    He sat down and Pompey was about to motion to the next speaker when he saw the new tribune had risen.

    “Have you anything to add, Polonus?” Pompey said, smiling at the man.

    “Only that this seems a small stick with which to beat a successful general,” Polonus replied. “As I understand the matter, these debts are personal to Caesar, despite his use of them to supply and outfit his soldiers. When he returns to the city, his creditors can lay hands on him for the sums, and if he cannot pay, the penalties are harsh. Until then, I do not see a role for the Senate in demanding his return into the hands of coarse moneylenders.”

    A murmur of approval sounded from the senators and Pompey stifled a smile. Large numbers of them had debts, and Suetonius would have to be a genius to make them call back a general to satisfy the grubby urging of men like Herminius. Pompey was pleased Polonus had spoken against the vote. Perhaps he was not in Clodius’s pay after all. Pompey caught the tribune’s eye and inclined his head as the next speaker rose, barely listening to the speech by some minor son of the nobilitas.

    Pompey knew there were many who described his dismissal and restoration of the tribunes as a masterful stroke. The older members especially looked to him for leadership and strength to face the new players of the game. Many of them had come to him in private, but in the Senate their fear made them weak. There were not many who dared to risk the enmity of one like Clodius. Even for Pompey, the thought of Clodius becoming consul one day was enough to make sweat break out on his skin.

    As the young senator droned through his speech, Pompey’s gaze drifted to another of the new men, Titus Milo. Like Clodius before him, he had come to the Senate when his merchant ventures were lost. Perhaps because of that shared background, the pair appeared to dislike each other intensely. Milo was red-faced from drink and fat where Clodius was solid. Both men could be as coarse as the worst gutter whore. Pompey wondered privately if they could be set at each other’s throats. It would be a neat solution to the problem.

    The vote was taken quickly and for once Pompey’s supporters did not waver. Clodius had not spoken and Pompey knew it was likely he had indulged Suetonius without pledging his full support. There would be no sudden reports of gangs rampaging through the markets that night. Clodius caught Pompey’s thoughtful gaze on him and nodded his massive head as one equal to another. Pompey returned the gesture out of habit, though his mind seethed with some of the ugliest rumors. It was said that Clodius employed bodyguards who used rape as a casual tool of persuasion when they were on his business. It was just another of the tales circulating like flies about the man. Pompey gritted his teeth as he saw the secret gleam of amusement in Clodius’s eyes. In that moment, he envied Julius in Gaul. For all the hardships of a campaign, his battles would be simpler and cleaner than those Pompey faced.

CHAPTER 28

    Brutus roared angry orders out to the Tenth as they trotted their Gaulish ponies toward the distant mass of horsemen at the foot of the crag of rock called the Hand. While he understood Julius’s desire to have the veterans of the Tenth with him, they rode like wayward children. Above a walking pace, horses drifted into each other, and on anything but the smoothest ground, the red-faced soldiers were thrown off, suffering the humiliation of being forced to run alongside until they could heave themselves back into the saddles.

    As if that wasn’t enough, Brutus seethed inwardly at Mark Antony being given control of the legions waiting behind them. He could accept the fact that Julius wanted Brutus and Octavian with him to control the extraordinarii, but Mark Antony had not earned the right to be Julius’s second-in-command. Brutus was in a savage temper as he wheeled his mount to respond to a commotion behind him.

    “Gather up your reins, by Mars, or I will have you whipped!” he shouted to an unfortunate, milling group of triarii. In their heavy armor, they sat their horses like clanking sacks of corn, and Brutus rolled his eyes as another leaned too far forward and slipped from sight under his pony’s legs with a crash.

    It was no way to approach a possible battle. The Tenth were used to the rhythms of foot soldiers, and the sweating, swearing men around him had nothing of the calm he was used to.

    Octavian cantered past him, using his powerful gelding to force a wobbling rank of ponies back into line. The two men exchanged glances as they passed, and Octavian grinned, clearly amused by the situation. Brutus gave no answering smile, instead cursing the Tenth under his breath as two horses somehow became joined together ahead of him, their riders heaving at the reins until the tortured ponies panicked and bolted. Brutus caught them with a quick dart, holding on until the legionaries had regained control. They could not be expected to have the casual balance of thousands of hours of training, and he only hoped Julius would have the sense to call a halt long before Ariovistus could see their lack of skill. For men born in the saddle, there could be no deception.

    Before they had set off, Julius had come to him. He had seen Brutus’s coldness and spoke to reassure him.

    “I must have you with me, Brutus,” he had said. “The extraordinarii are the only competent riders I have and they are used to your orders.”

    Julius had stood close to him then, unwilling to be overheard.

    “And if I am forced to fight, I do not want Mark Antony at my side. He thinks too much of this Ariovistus and his friendship with Rome.”

    Brutus had nodded, though the words did not go far to appease his sense of betrayal. The post was owed.

    The outriders saw the Hand and reported back before noon. As the Tenth neared the crag, Brutus could see thousands of horsemen in perfect ranks ahead. They had chosen a place for the meeting where cavalry were hampered by steep defiles on either side. The rock they called the Hand formed the highest point to the east, with the western side choked with dense forest. Brutus wondered if Ariovistus had men hidden in the dark oaks. He knew he would have placed them there and hoped the legions were not heading into a trap. One thing was certain, if it came to a retreat against those German riders, the Tenth would have to accomplish it on foot or be destroyed.

    The cornicens sounded a dismount, a signal of two tones they had agreed on before leaving the camp. With relief, Brutus saw the Tenth lose their awkwardness as they touched the ground.

    Only the extraordinarii stayed in the saddle to guard the flanks. The Tenth walked their ponies forward in grim bad humor. Brutus continued to harry them, calling out to the centurions to keep order as they advanced toward the meeting place and the king of the Germanic Suebi. The tension grew as they marched closer to the enemy, and Brutus could see the details of the men they faced. He saw Ariovistus for the first time as the king rode out with three others and halted two hundred feet from his front line. Julius went forward to meet him with Domitius and Octavian, the tension visible in their stiff backs.

    Brutus took a last look at the ranks of the Tenth.

    “Be ready!” he called as he trotted out to join his general.

    The noise of four thousand nervous horses dwindled behind them as he joined Domitius and Octavian, all three resplendent in their silver armor. Julius wore the full-face helmet, and when he turned in the saddle to acknowledge Julius, Brutus saw the effect of the cold features that stared back at him.

    “Now let’s see what this little king has to say to me,” Julius’s voice came from beneath the iron mouth.

    The four men kicked their horses into a canter in perfect formation as they moved across the broken ground.

    Julius recognized Redulf at Ariovistus’s right shoulder and saw with astonishment that the other two warriors with the king were as strangely deformed as the messenger. One of them was shaven bald, but the other had a crown of black hair that did nothing to disguise the strange double ridge, as if some great fist had gripped his skull and squeezed it. They were all bearded and fierce looking, clearly chosen for strength. All were adorned with gold and silver, making Julius pleased he had his sword tourney finalists as his honor guard. The perfect sets of silver armor outshone the Suebi warriors, and Julius knew that, man for man, his companions would be more deadly.

    Ariovistus himself did not have the ridged brow of the warriors at his side. His face was dominated by dark eyebrows and an untrimmed beard that covered most of his face, leaving only the cheeks and forehead clear. His skin was pale and the eyes that glowered at Julius were as blue as Cabera’s. The king remained perfectly still as Julius rode up and halted without saluting.

    The silence held as Julius and the king regarded each other, neither willing to be the first to speak. Brutus looked behind them to the ranks of horses and still farther to where a greater force marked the southern tip of the lands Ariovistus had taken, fifteen miles down from the wide Rhine River. In the distance, Brutus could see two fortified camps that could have been twins of the Roman style. The mass of Suebi riders were not in formal array, but Brutus could see they had cleared the ground and could leap into a charge at short notice. He began to sweat as he saw the long spears they carried. Every man of the Roman infantry knew horses would not charge a shield wall any more than they could be forced to run into a tree. As long as the legions could hold their squares, they could advance through the forces of Ariovistus without real danger. The theory was little comfort in the face of so many of the pale, bearded warriors.

    Julius lost patience under the calm scrutiny of the king.

    “I have come to you as you asked, friend of my city,” he began. “Though this is not your land, I have ridden to it and honored your terms. Now I tell you that you must remove your armies across the natural barrier of the Rhine. Remove them immediately and there will be no war between us.”

    “This is Roman friendship?” Ariovistus snarled suddenly, his voice a bass boom that startled them. “I fought against your enemies ten years ago and the title was given to me, but for what purpose? So that I can be turned away from lands I have rightfully won as it suits you?” His teeth were deeply yellow in his beard and his eyes glinted under the heavy brows.

    “It was not the right to take whatever lands you wanted,” Julius retorted. “You have your home across the river and that is enough. I tell you, Rome will not allow you to have Gaul, or any part of it.”

    “Rome is far away, General. You are all that represents your city in this place, and you have never known the fury of my white soldiers. How do you dare to speak to me in this way? I rode in Gaul when you were no more than a child! What lands I have won are mine by right of conquest, by more ancient law than yours. They are mine because I have shown the strength to hold them, Roman!”

    The angry rumble caused Julius’s horse to shy nervously, and Julius reached down to pat the gelding’s neck. He controlled his temper to reply.

    “I am here because you were named friend, Ariovistus. I honor you for my city, but I tell you again, you will cross the Rhine and leave the lands of Rome and Roman allies. If you live by right of conquest, then I will destroy your armies by the same right!”

    Julius felt Brutus shift uncomfortably in the saddle on his right shoulder. The meeting was not going as he had intended, but the arrogance of Ariovistus nettled him.

    “And what are you doing, Caesar? By what right do you take the lands of the tribes from them? Were they given to you by your Greek gods perhaps?” Ariovistus sneered as he raised his hands and gestured at the verdant countryside around them.

    “You had answer enough when I sent back your messengers with empty hands,” he went on. “I want nothing from you or your city. Go on your way and leave me in peace, or you will not live. I have fought for these lands and paid the blood price. You have done nothing but send a pack of Helvetii scavengers back to their homeland. Do you think that gives you the right to deal with me as an equal? I am a king, Roman, and kings are not troubled by men like you. I do not fear your legions, particularly those riders behind you, who cannot even keep their mounts still.”

    Julius resisted the urge to look behind him, though he could see the perfect ranks of the Suebi and knew there would be nothing like such a calm order in his own lines. Under his mask, he flushed, relieved that it could not be seen.

    “I
am
Rome,” Julius said. “In my person you address the Senate and the people. You insult my city and all the countries under our rule. When you-”

    Something whirred over their heads from the Suebi lines, and Ariovistus cursed. Julius looked up to see a dozen long shafts arc toward his precious Tenth and turned savagely to Ariovistus.

    “
This
is your discipline?” he snapped.

    Ariovistus looked as furious as he was himself and Julius knew he had not ordered the attack. Both armies stirred restlessly and another single arrow looped over them.

    “My men are eager for war, Caesar. They live to bathe in blood,” Ariovistus growled at him. He looked over his shoulder at his men.

    “Go back to them and we will come for you,” Julius said, his voice hollow with finality under the mask. Ariovistus faced him and in his eyes Julius saw a glittering fear. It didn’t match anything he had seen so far, and Julius wondered at the reason.

    Before the king could answer, another flight of arrows whined overhead and Julius wheeled his horse away, crying “Ha!” to force a gallop back to his lines. Brutus, Domitius, and Octavian went with him, pounding over the ground. Behind them, Ariovistus too dug in his heels and his men sent up a great cheer as they saw him return to them.

    Julius issued a flurry of orders as he came back to the Tenth. The fastest of the extraordinarii galloped south to Mark Antony with instructions to make all speed in support. Others were sent into the forest to the west, to scout for hidden archers or a surprise force. The Gaulish ponies were taken to the rear and the Tenth were free at last of their distraction. They formed a huge defensive square, with shields overlapping against a cavalry charge. Spears were readied and arrows fitted to the sinew bowstrings. The front rank waited patiently to repel the first charge.

    It did not come. To Julius’s surprise, Ariovistus vanished deep within the mass of horsemen and suddenly they began to retreat in perfect order. Some of the Tenth shouted and jeered at them, but the scouts were not back from the woods to the west and Julius was not about to risk an advance without knowing who lurked in those green depths.

    Ariovistus took his men out of spear and then arrow range before halting once more. Though there were clearly hotheaded youngsters in the Suebi lines, they showed their discipline in the retreat, with sections of them covering others as they moved back.

    “What’s his game?” Brutus muttered at Julius’s side. “While he delays, he must know our legions are coming up behind us.”

    “He may mean to draw us in. I don’t like the look of those woods,” Julius replied.

    As he spoke, the first of his scouts galloped back to the Roman lines.

    “Nothing, sir,” the man panted as he came close and saluted. “No tracks or old fires and no sign of any force in hiding.”

    Julius nodded, suddenly remembering the last time he had taken a scout’s report without corroborating it.

    Two more of his riders came out of the trees and reported before Julius was satisfied and baffled by the situation. Ariovistus had acted as if he were about to launch a wild charge, but his men stood with stolid indifference, unmoved by the beckoning gestures of the Tenth front line.

    Julius tapped his fingers irritably on his saddle. Had they trapped the ground perhaps? It seemed unlikely. Spiked pits would be more of a hindrance to their own army while they outnumbered the single Roman legion.

    “Shall we wait for Mark Antony?” Brutus asked.

    Julius calculated the time it would take for the legions to reach his position and let out a sharp breath of frustration. It would be hours before they were there to support him.