Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (9 page)

    “You must be hungry and there’s cold beef in the kitchen. I’d be pleased if you would eat with us when you’re ready.”

    Atia shifted her feet and Teddus looked at the floor for a moment, frowning slightly.

    “If you’re sure, mistress,” he said at last.

    Alexandria watched as the two men made their way to their own rooms. She looked at Atia and smiled at the woman’s stern expression.

    “You are too kind to those two,” Atia said. “There’s little good in either of them, father or son. If you let them have the run of the house, they’ll take advantage, I’m sure of it. Servants should not forget their place, nor those who pay them.”

    Alexandria chuckled, the fear of the evening beginning to ease. In theory, Atia was a servant herself, though they never mentioned it. Alexandria had known her first when she went looking for clean rooms in the city, and when her jewelry business had grown Atia had come with her to the new house to run it for her. The woman was a tyrant with the other servants, but she made the place feel like a home.

    “I’m glad they were with me, Atia. The raptores were out early with the storm, and a cup or two of hot wine is fair pay for safety. Come on, I’m starving.”

    Atia sniffed rather than reply, but overtook her in the corridor as they walked toward the kitchen.

‹IMG style="WIDTH: 288; HEIGHT: 288" src=" border=0›

    The Senate building was filled with the light of dozens of spluttering lamps around the walls. The echoing hall was warm and dry despite the muted drumming of the rain outside, and few of the men present relished the thought of getting wet on the way to their homes. The afternoon had been taken over with the reports on the city budget, with a string of votes to approve vast sums for the legions keeping the Pax Romana in distant lands. The sums were daunting, but the reserves were healthy enough to tide the city over for another year. One or two of the more elderly senators had let the warmth lull them to dozing, and only the storm outside held them from making their way to late meals and their own beds.

    Senator Prandus stood at the rostrum, his gaze sweeping along the semicircular rows of benches, looking for support. It annoyed him that Pompey sat muttering to a colleague while Prandus announced his candidacy for the seat of consul. It was at Pompey’s request that he had agreed to put his name forward, and the least the man could do was look attentive.

    “If I am elected to the post, I intend to gather the coin makers under a single roof and establish a currency on which the citizens can depend. There are too many coins that only claim to be gold or pure silver, and every shop has to have its own scales to weigh the money they are given. A single Senate mint will end the confusion and restore trust.”

    He saw Crassus frown and wondered if he was responsible for some of those false coins that caused so much damage. It would not surprise him.

    “If the citizens grant me the right to sit as consul, I will act in the interests of Rome, restoring faith in the authority of the Senate.” He paused again as Pompey looked up, and Prandus realized he had made a mistake. Someone chuckled and he felt himself growing flustered.

    “…
greater
faith in the Senate,” he added. “Respect for authority and the rule of law. Justice that must be seen to be free of bribery or corruption.” He paused again, his mind going blank.

    “It will be an honor to serve. Thank you,” he said, stepping down from the rostrum and taking his seat in the front bench with evident relief. One or two of the men closest to him clapped him on the shoulder, and he began to relax. Perhaps the speech hadn’t been too bad after all. He glanced at his son Suetonius to see how he had taken it, but the young man was gazing stonily ahead.

    Pompey walked down between the benches and smiled at Senator Prandus as he passed him. Those who had begun whispered conversations fell silent as the consul stepped up to the rostrum. He looked relaxed and confident, Prandus thought with a touch of irritation.

    “I thank the candidates for their words,” Pompey said, allowing his eyes to rest on the men in silent recognition before continuing. “It gives me hope that this great city can still find those willing to devote their lives to her without thought of personal gain or ambition.” He waited through the appreciative chuckle, leaning forward and resting on his arms.

    “The election will give my builders a chance to enlarge this place, and I am willing to give the use of my new theater while the work goes on. It should be adequate, I think.” He smiled at them and they responded, knowing the theater was twice as large as the Senate building and at least twice as luxurious. There were no objections.

    “As well as those we have heard here, any other candidates must declare before the feast of Volturnalia, ten days from now. Let me know in good time, please. Before we dare the rain, I must announce a public gathering in the forum a week from now. The trial of Hospius will be postponed for a month. Crassus and I will give the consuls’ address to the people then. If any of the other candidates would like to add their voices to ours, you should see me before I leave tonight.”

    Pompey caught Prandus’s eye for a brief moment before moving on. It had all been arranged and Prandus knew his candidacy would be strengthened by association with the more experienced men. He had better practice his speech. For all Pompey’s promises, the crowds of Rome could be a difficult audience.

    “The day is at an end, Senators. Rise for the oath,” Pompey said, his voice raised to be heard over the rain that battered the city.

‹IMG style="WIDTH: 288; HEIGHT: 288" src=" border=0›

    The storm lasted for three days, sweeping over the scattered ships and toward their destination. When it had passed, the fleet carrying the Tenth slowly gathered again, each one a hive of activity as they made repairs to sails and oars and heated tar to dribble between the wide planks of the decks where water had leaked through. As Brutus had predicted, Julius signaled the fleet to anchor outside Ostia, and the small boats moved between them, carrying supplies and carpenters and making sure that they would stand up under scrutiny. The sun baked the decks dry and the Tenth washed out the holds of the ships, cleaning away the smell of vomit with seawater and white grease.

    When the anchors were winched up and scrubbed clean of clay, they moved into the port, with Julius at the bow of the first ship. He stood with one arm wrapped around the high prow, drinking in the sight of his homeland. Looking back over his shoulder showed him the white wings of the oared vessels making an arrowhead behind him, with the sails of the others bringing up the rear. He could not have put his feelings into words if he’d been asked, and didn’t try to examine them. His headaches had vanished in the fresh sea wind, and he had burnt incense in a brazier in thanks to the gods for the safe passage through the storm.

    He knew the Tenth could make a permanent camp in the fields beyond the port while he took the road to the city. The men were as excited as the officers at the chance to see families and friends again, but there would be no leave granted until the camp was set up and secure. Five thousand men were too many to descend on his estate. Just feeding such a number caused problems, and the prices were better at the docks. Like locusts, the Tenth could eat away the gold he had brought if he let them. At least they would be spending their own pay in the city inns and whorehouses.

    The thought of seeing his estate brought a mixture of grief and excitement to him. He would see how his daughter had grown and walk by the river his father had dammed to flow through the estate. Julius’s smile faded as he thought of his father. The family tomb was on the road into the city, and before anything else, he had to see the graves of those he had left behind.

CHAPTER 8

    Crassus breathed in the steam from the pool as he eased himself in up to his waist. The marble sill was icy against his shoulders as he sat on the inner step, and the contrast was exquisite. He felt the knots of tension in his neck and waved a hand to summon a bath slave to massage them away while he talked.

    The other men in the pool were all his clients and loyal beyond the monthly stipend they received. Crassus closed his eyes as the slave’s hard thumbs began to worry at his muscles and sighed with pleasure before speaking.

    “My term as consul has made little mark on the city, gentlemen.” He smiled wryly as the men with him shifted in consternation. Before they could protest, he continued. “I thought I would have done more in my time. There are too few things I can point to and say ‘That was mine, alone.’ It seems renegotiated trade agreements are not what stirs the blood of our citizens.”

    His expression became tinged with bitterness as he looked at them and traced a swirl in the surface of the water with a finger.

    “Oh, I gave them bread when they said they had none. But when the loaves were gone, nothing had changed. They have had a few race days from my purse and seen a temple restored in the forum. I wonder, though, if they will remember this year, or ever think of me when I was consul.”

    “We are for you,” one of the men said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the others.

    Crassus nodded, breathing his cynicism into the steam. “I have won no wars for them, you see. Instead, they fawn on Pompey and old Crassus is forgotten.”

    The clients did not dare to meet each other’s faces and see the truth of the words reflected there. Crassus raised his eyes at their embarrassment before going on, his voice firming with purpose.

    “I do not want my year to be forgotten, gentlemen. I have bought another day at the racetrack for them, which is a start. I want those who rent from me to be given first choice of tickets, and
try
to get families.” He paused to reach behind his head for a cup of cool water, and the slave interrupted his kneading to pass it into the bony fingers. Crassus smiled at the lad before continuing.

    “The new sesterces with my head on them are ready. I will need you all to manage the distribution, gentlemen. They are to go only to the poorest of homes and no more than one to each man and woman. You will have to employ guards and take only small amounts with you at a time.”

    “May I mention an idea, Consul?” a man asked.

    “Of course, Pareus,” Crassus replied, raising an eyebrow.

    “Hire men to clean the streets,” he said, the words spilling out too quickly under the consul’s gaze. “Much of the city is stinking and the people would thank you for it.”

    Crassus laughed. “If I do as you say, will they stop throwing their filth on the roads? No, they will say, let fly, for old Crassus will come after us with buckets to clean it up again. No, my friend, if they want clean streets, they should get water and cloths and clean them up themselves. If the stench grows too bad in summer, they may be forced to, and that will teach them to be clean.” Crassus saw the man’s disappointment and said kindly, “I admire a man who thinks the best of our people, but there are too many who lack the sense not to foul their own steps. There is no sense in courting the goodwill of such as they.” Crassus chuckled at the thought for a moment, then fell silent.

    “On the other hand, if it was popular… no. I will not be known as Crassus the cleaner of shit. No.”

    “The street gangs, then?” Pareus went on stubbornly. “They are out of control in some areas. A few hundred men with permission to break the gangs would do more for the city than-”

    “You want another gang to control the others? And who would keep
them
in control? Would you ask for a still larger group to handle the first?” Crassus tutted to himself, amused by the man’s persistence.

    “A legion century could…” the man stammered.

    Crassus sat up, sending a ripple out over the pool. He held up a hand for silence and his clients shifted nervously.

    “Yes, Pareus, a legion could do many things, but I do not have one at my call, as you should perhaps have remembered. Would you have me beg more soldiers from Pompey to patrol the poor areas? He asks for fortunes just to have guards at the races, and I have had my fill of bolstering his reputation with my gold.” Crassus swung his hand out and knocked the metal cup spinning over the tiles of the bathhouse.

    “Enough for now, gentlemen. You have your tasks for the moment and I will have more for you tomorrow. Leave me.”

    The men climbed out of the pool without a word, hurrying away from their irascible master.

    Julius was pleased to leave the noise of the port behind him as he and Octavian took the road to the city. With Brutus overseeing the unloading of men and equipment, the work would be quickly finished. The centurions had been chosen personally and they could be trusted to keep the men on a tight rein until the first groups were allowed to take their leave.

    He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness, and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.

    They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses, and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.

    The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.

    The sun was rising toward the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.

    The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile farther on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.

    “This is the one,” Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.

    His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade, and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.

    The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.

    “Do you have the wine, Octavian?” Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hands he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honor those he loved the most.

    On the top of the tomb, a shallow bowl had been cut into the marble, leading to a hole no larger than a copper coin. As Julius broke the seal on the wine, he wondered if Clodia ever took his daughter out to feed the dead. He didn’t think the old woman would have forgotten Cornelia, any more than he could.

    The dark wine sloshed into the bowl and Julius could hear it dripping down to fall inside.

    “This cup for my father, who made me strong,” he whispered. “This for my mother, who gave her love. This last for my wife.” He paused, hypnotized by the swirling wine as it vanished into the tomb. “Cornelia, whom I loved and honor still.”

    When at last he returned the amphora to Octavian, his eyes were red with weeping.

    “Bind the neck securely, lad. There is another grave to see before we go home to the estate, and Tubruk will want more than just a cupful.” Julius forced himself to smile and felt some of his grief lighten in him as he remounted, the gelding’s hooves clattering enough to break the stillness of the line of tombs stretching away.

    Julius approached his estate with something like fear gnawing at him. It was a place of so many memories and so much pain. The eye of his childhood noted the rough weeds among the straggling crops and saw a subtle air of decay in every overgrown track or poorly repaired wall. The low drone of the hives could be heard and he felt his eyes prickle at the sound.

    The white walls around the main buildings caused an ache to start in him. The paint was mottled with bare patches and he felt a stab of guilt. The house had been a part of every wound in memory and not a single letter had come from his hand to his daughter or Clodia. He gripped the reins and slowed his mount, each step bringing more pain.

    There was the gatepost where he had watched for his father coming back from the city. Beyond it would be the stables where he had tasted his first kiss and the courtyard where he had almost died at the hand of Renius, years before. Despite its run-down appearance, it was still the same where it counted, an anchor in the changes of his life. Yet he would have given anything for Tubruk to come out to greet him, or for Cornelia to be there.

    He paused before the gate and waited in silence, lost in memories that he clutched to him as if they could remain real until the gate opened and everything changed again.

    A man he did not know appeared above the wall, and Julius smiled as he thought of the steps hidden from view. He knew them as well as anything else in the world. His steps. His home.

    “What is your business here?” the man asked, keeping his voice neutral. Though Julius wore the simplest of armor, there was nonetheless an aura of authority in his silent appraisal of the walls and the man sensed it.

    “I have come to see Clodia and my daughter,” Julius replied.

    The man’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before he disappeared to signal those within.

    The gate swung open slowly and Julius rode through into the courtyard with Octavian behind him. Distantly, he heard someone calling for Clodia, but the moment of memory held for him and he took a deep breath.

    His father had died defending that wall. Tubruk had carried him on his shoulders under the gate. Julius shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. There were too many ghosts in that place. He wondered if he would ever be truly comfortable there, with every corner and turn reminding him of his past.

    Clodia came out of the buildings in a rush and froze as she saw him. As he dismounted, she went down into a low bow. Age had not been kind to her, he thought, as he took her by the shoulders and raised her into his embrace. She had always been a large, capable woman, but her face was lined by more than time. If Tubruk had lived, she would have married him, but that chance for happiness had been stolen away by the same knives that had taken Cornelia.

    As she raised her face to him, he saw fresh tears, and the sight seemed to pull his private grief closer to the surface. They had shared a loss together, and he was unprepared for the rawness of his feelings as the years vanished and they were standing again in the yard while the slave rebellion tore through the south. She had promised to stay and raise his daughter then, the last words they had spoken before he left.

    “It’s been so long without hearing from you, Julius. I didn’t know where to send the news about your mother,” she said. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she spoke, and Julius held her tightly.

    “I… knew it was coming. Was it hard?”

    Clodia shook her head, wiping at her eyes.

    “She spoke of you at the end and took comfort from Julia. There was no pain for her, none at all.”

    “I’m glad,” Julius said softly. His mother had been a distant figure to him for so long that he was surprised at how much he missed the chance to see her and sit on her bed to tell her all the details of Spain and the battles he had seen. How many times had he come to tell her what he had done with his life? Even when her illness had stolen her reason, she seemed to hear him. Now there was no one. No father to run to, no Tubruk to laugh at his mistakes, no one who loved him without limit left in the world. He ached for them all.

    “Where is Julia now?” he said, stepping back.

    Clodia’s face changed slightly as pride and love suffused her features. “Out riding. She takes her pony into the woods whenever she can. She looks like Cornelia, Julius. The same hair. Sometimes, when she laughs, it’s like thirty years have gone and she’s there again with me.” She saw the tension in him and misunderstood. “I never let her ride alone. She has two servants with her, for safety.”