The Gods of War (11 page)

Labienus hesitated. He was far less comfortable speaking of other officers than he was of the sweep of tactics or the difficulties of supply. As Pompey turned to him, he spoke. “No more than you have, sir, though I would be ready to give him a legion as soon as I was sure of him. He is . . . a most interesting officer. I have never seen a better swordsman. The legionaries seem to revere him and his experience suggests he is capable of leading well under your command. If he has fallen out with Caesar, as he claims, he will strive to prove your trust.”

“That is the heart of the problem, Labienus. If he has been thrust upon me by some stratagem of Caesar's, he could do as much damage as another legion on their side in the right place. A key charge withheld, a deliberate withdrawal at a crucial point, a sudden move to block my reserves. Any of those things could lose me the war.

“If I could only be
certain
of his loyalty, I would honor and parade him in that flashy silver armor. I could not have hoped to command one of Caesar's own generals. I could use him, Labienus. As it is, I dare not even trust the information he brings. I'd rather be ignorant than misled into a disaster.”

“It is better to be cautious at this point, sir. When he kills the first of Caesar's soldiers, we will know he is loyal. Or I will have him taken.”

The two men met each other's eyes and Pompey nodded, accepting the suggestion.

The food arrived on silver plates and Pompey made sure Labienus took the best of what was offered. They ate standing by the map, continuing to discuss the problems of the campaign. Long after the plates were empty, they were still talking and the sun was sinking toward the horizon before it was time for Pompey to visit the angry old men of his Senate once more.

         

Brutus buckled on his gladius as he walked outside into the sun, leaving Labienus and the old fool to cook up their plans on their own. The pair of them suited each other, he thought. If there had ever been a spark of life in Labienus, it had been dried out on the stove of his years in Greece, and Pompey had lost his courage with his youth.

He glanced behind him and grunted as he caught sight of the two men Labienus had assigned to watch his movements. At first, he had accepted their presence, telling himself that he would have done the same. How could they trust a general of Gaul who had been Caesar's right hand for so many years? As the months passed and Pompey had remained aloof, the injustice of his situation had begun to fester more and more. Brutus had a greater knowledge of Pompey's enemy than any man alive, and he knew he could be the key to destroying him. Instead, his suggestions were received almost with insolence by Pompey's clerks. Brutus had begun to doubt they even passed on the majority of his messages. It was a bitter irony, and the constant shadow of Labienus's men irritated him more than usual that afternoon.

He grimaced as he walked, knowing they would be trotting behind him. Perhaps it was time to make them breathe a little harder than usual for their pay. He knew Dyrrhachium well enough after spending three months stationed in the barracks there, and for once he was willing to ignore the inner voice that told him to bide his time until he was trusted. On that day, he was suddenly sick of it and as he turned a corner he burst into a run, accelerating across the street under the surprised gaze of a cart driver and his oxen.

Brutus dodged down an alleyway and raced to its end without looking back. That was one thing Renius had taught him the last time he had been in Greece. In the first moments of flight, looking back can only slow you down. You
know
they are there, following you.

He took two more corners at high speed and his legs were warming nicely. He was as fit as any of the soldiers in the barracks with the constant training, and he felt as if he could run all day. An open door beckoned and Brutus charged straight through a strange house, coming out into a street he did not know. He didn't stop to see if they were still following him, but pounded on for half a mile of twisting roads until he was sure he had lost them.

They would report it to the coldhearted Labienus, he was certain, though it would earn them a flogging. The general was not cruel, but he enforced his orders to the letter and Brutus did not envy the pair. Pompey would certainly be told and his suspicions aroused. Perhaps a patrol would be sent out to comb the streets. Brutus panted lightly as he considered his position. At best, he had an hour before he was captured. Labienus was nothing if not efficient and it would not take much longer to close the net. Brutus grinned, knowing there was only one place worth visiting in such a short period of freedom. He took his bearings quickly and loped off, his sandals beating the red dust of the city in a rhythm he could keep up for miles.

Once, he thought he saw running legionaries in the distance, but Brutus kept a street between them and they never came closer. Sweat drenched his hair, but his lungs were still drawing well by the time he made his way to the center of the city and the garden courtyard where he knew he would find the daughter of Caesar; a pretty bird in a cage.

Like the Senate themselves, Julia had no real role to play in the months of waiting for Caesar to build a fleet and cross. Brutus had seen her on the arm of her husband in the first few weeks after their arrival, but as the work had increased for Pompey, she had been left to her own devices. It had been a strange thing to be introduced to her in Pompey's offices, so far from Julius's estate. On that first meeting, Brutus had only managed a few polite words, but he thought he had caught a sparkle beneath her formality. Pompey's slaves had painted and clothed her in jewels exactly as she had once predicted. For Brutus, the mixture of cold reserve and heavy perfume was deeply exciting, a warning and a challenge.

When he had first seen the garden where she sheltered from the heat of the afternoon, he had noted the entrances almost idly. He knew Pompey remained at the temple until evening and then went on to one of his dull meetings with the senators. Apart from a few personal slaves, his wife was often left practically alone.

Brutus guessed Pompey would have soldiers somewhere near her, but as he looked through the gate to the cool inner courtyard, no one else was visible. His heart beat faster at the danger of it. Pompey knew he had met Julia before through her father. It would not take a great deal for him to become suspicious of something more than a casual acquaintance.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had been denied his orders to lead a legion, or simply the irritation at the constant mistrust and distance that Pompey imposed. Either way, Brutus felt a thrill of pleasure despite the appalling risk.

“Are you well, Julia?” he called softly through the ornate bars.

He saw her stiffen and she looked round, the image of Julius's first wife, Cornelia. She was a beautiful woman and the sight of her brought back memories of their single night together with surprising force. There had been little blood, he remembered, though enough perhaps to bind her to him.

She stood and came to the gate, her face flushed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “My husband—”

“Is discussing his dreary plans with Labienus, as always, Julia, as I'm sure you know. Why he leaves a woman like you alone on such a beautiful day, I cannot understand.”

He heard the high voice of a child sing tunelessly in the background.

“Your son? Who else is with you here?”

“You must not talk to me, Brutus!” she said, looking around nervously. “He has guards within call and there are always slaves here. This is not private.”

A little boy tottered out of the house and Brutus winked at him. The child beamed.

“He is very handsome, that one. Look at the size of his hands. He will be a great swordsman.”

Julia's fear softened at the compliment and she turned to her son. “Go inside. I will play with you in a moment,” she said. They both watched as the boy nodded gravely and made his way back across the garden.

“Are you going to let me in?” Brutus asked.

Julia shook her head firmly. “Definitely not. I cannot be seen with you and I don't think I could trust you.”

“I
was
remembering a night in a stable,” he admitted, enjoying the way she blushed. “You can't tell me you prefer Pompey now?”

“He is my husband,” she said, but the firmness was gone from her voice.

Unconsciously, she had crept closer to the bars. If they had not been there, he could have taken her into his arms and kissed her, but he thought she was ready to leap away if he made such an attempt.

“Why did you leave my father?” she asked, suddenly. “I never expected that from you. It was not to be with me, I know that.”

His reply came so quickly that she didn't notice him look away for a flickering instant. The lies came easily to him in that mood.

“Your father is the best man I have ever known, Julia. Pompey will have to be very lucky to beat him, for all his confidence.”

“Then why did you
desert
him?” she said, her eyes flashing.

He wondered at the conflict in her to have her husband planning a war with her father. As she looked at him, he had an idea as exciting as it was simple. By the gods it was a risk, though. How far could he trust what he saw in her eyes? Would she betray him?

“Do I have your oath not to tell Pompey?” he whispered.

“On the life of my son,” she replied, leaning even closer.

“I have not left Julius,” he said. “I am here to help him win.”

Her red lips opened as she took in what he was saying. He wanted to kiss them hungrily and his hand moved of its own accord to stroke her hair. She pulled back out of range on the instant.

“No one else knows,” he said. “I have told you only because I could not bear to have you think of me as a traitor.”

He could see she wanted to believe him and it was all he could do not to burst into laughter.

“Your husband does not trust me, though,” he continued. “He will not let me command enough men to make a difference. I think he intends to put me in the front ranks, to be killed in the first skirmish.” Was he being too obvious? He had intended a subtle barb to have her fear for him, but it was difficult to find exactly the right tone.

Still she did not reply and he could see the agony in her expression as she found herself caught between conflicting loyalties. She loved her father, he knew. He had gambled that she would not tell Pompey and see him executed. If affection had grown for the Dictator, Brutus knew his life could be measured in hours. Already he was appalled at the risk he had taken, and as she remained silent he would have given anything to take back the words.

“Does my father want you to lead a legion?” she asked faintly.

He smothered a grin then, knowing she was his and he had won. “He does, Julia,” he said.

“Then I will persuade my husband to give you a command.”

He forced surprise onto his face, as if he had never considered the idea.

“Can you do it? He will not like to be pushed,” he said. He saw she had grown pale and now that the idea had been planted, he had a sense of time running away from him. He could not be found at her gate, especially now.

“I know him well,” she said. “I will find a way.” On impulse, she pressed her face against the bars and kissed him hard on the lips. “Let my father know I have not forgotten him,” she said.

“I will, girl, but I must go now,” he replied.

He could have sworn he heard the clatter of iron-shod sandals in the distance. He would have to be far away when they found him, preferably in a tavern with a girl on his arm. It would be difficult to talk his way out of it, but not, he hoped, impossible.

“When will I see you again?” she asked.

“Dismiss the slaves two days from now at the same time. If I can, I will be here,” he said, rejoicing inwardly. It was far more than he had hoped for at the beginning. Instead of the private pleasure of rolling Pompey's wife once in a while, the stakes had become frighteningly large.

“Go quickly!” she said, catching his nervousness.

He nodded and ran at last, taking the first corner at a sprint. She watched him go and jumped as her husband's soldiers clattered by a few moments later. He would lead them a merry dance, she thought, and for the first time since her arrival in Greece, her heart beat wildly with excitement.

                                                      
CHAPTER
10
                                                      

T
he festival of Bona Dea was in full cry and Rome was filled with women. On this one day each year, the men closed their doors and went to sleep early while the free women of the city drank and sang and danced. Some went bare-breasted, reveling in the festival's freedoms while their families were safely at home.

Many male citizens climbed to the roofs of their houses to watch the proceedings, but if they were seen, a barrage of stones would send them back out of sight. It would have been even less pleasant to be caught alone in the streets. Every year there were stories of young men who had been cornered after curiosity kept them out too long. Some of them were found trussed and naked the following morning, still too shocked to talk about what had happened.

Belas watched the old house of Marius from a high window opposite, wondering how to get closer. He had seen Caesar bid his wife a laughing farewell before heading off for an all-night meeting with his officers. The consul had left it late to make a dignified passage and his men were hooted as they marched down the Quirinal hill toward the forum. The normal rules were suspended for the Bona Dea, and Belas had enjoyed the consul's evident discomfort. There was no dignity in trying to resist the women's festival, even for members of the Senate.

From his vantage point, Belas watched with interest as a group of vestal virgins came whooping up the hill, accompanied by the sensual beat of drums and flutes. The two leaders were naked to the waist and their breasts bounced most attractively, in Belas's opinion, their long, oiled legs gleaming in the light of torches. He did not dare to lean out where they might glance up and see him. The vestals in particular could be wicked when they caught sight of a man on that night. It was death even to touch one of them and the sentence was always enforced. Belas reassured himself nervously that he had locked the door of the house below, after renting his room for the evening.

Marius's house was growing busy with the guests Pompeia had invited. As the wife of a consul, she had gained an instant social prestige and was clearly enjoying her new status. Belas watched the women of the great families arrive from all over the city and tapped his fingers on the windowsill in frustration at not being able to see what went on inside. Most men in Rome were prepared to add to the rumors of the festival, but Belas knew the gossip was based on very little. The secrets of the Bona Dea were well kept.

He strained to see through the open gate when it was not blocked with new arrivals. Large though the house was, Belas thought the grounds must be bursting with noble daughters. Their voices were raucous as they sang and laughed and chanted, knowing full well that men would hear and wonder what debauchery they were attempting.

Belas did not want to be there and he had told Servilia as much, saying that Pompeia could not very well shame Caesar on that night, above all others. She had been firm and he had taken his place in the high room that overlooked the street, with nothing but a little cheese and bread for companionship. It would be a long night on such a lonely vigil.

As the moon rose, there were tantalizing glimpses of flesh in the street below, as all inhibitions were shed. Belas fidgeted as he waited through the hours, tormented by his own imagination. He could hear a woman snoring somewhere nearby, perhaps in the very doorway to his refuge. Sweat clung to his skin as he squinted through the glow of torches and tried not to picture the wine they would be pouring down each other's skins, dark red on gold.

Lost in his reverie, he did not at first notice anything unusual about the swaying figure that came up the hill. Her hair was long and bound tightly in a club on her neck. She wore a cloak that fluttered in the breeze, revealing a stola as black as night underneath. Belas heard her footsteps patter on the stones below, pausing as they reached the house he watched.

He could not help but look again, his heart hammering as he edged closer to the window and peered down. His hands gripped the sill with sudden tension, his mouth opening to whisper a curse. What he saw was surely impossible.

The figure carried a limp wineskin like the scrotum of an old man. Belas watched as she tilted up her head so that the light from the torches caught the line of her throat. It was not a woman. The painted face was skillfully done and even the gait was female, despite the apparent drunkenness. But Belas had played women in the great theaters and he was certain. In the shadows, he applauded the man's daring and wondered how long it would be before he was discovered. They would not be gentle. Midnight had come and gone and no man had the right to walk the city in those hours. If the vestals caught the interloper, he would be lucky not to be held down and castrated. Belas shuddered at the thought and considered offering the stranger sanctuary until dawn. He was taking a breath to do so when he saw the man's movements become subtly sharper as he looked into the garden.

The drunkenness too was feigned, Belas realized. The stranger was no young fool on a dare for his friends then, but someone more dangerous. Could he be an assassin? Belas cursed to himself that he had no way to contact Servilia during the Bona Dea. No matter what happened, he did not dare leave the sanctuary of his little room.

He watched as the man took in the sights and sounds that were denied to Belas and then staggered inside the gates to the scented gardens beyond. Belas was left alone, consumed with curiosity. Even in his wildest youth, he would not have risked being out on that festival.

Belas waited impatiently, expecting a sudden eruption of indignant screams as the man's fraud was discovered. When it didn't come immediately, he found himself shifting from foot to foot with the tension.

It took a long time to realize the man wasn't going to come out, forcibly or otherwise. So concerned had he been with the danger that when the suspicion first struck him, Belas froze, almost in indignation. He did not believe the stranger could fool so many women for long, if at all, so had he been expected? In the darkness, Belas considered the possibilities. The man could have been a prostitute, perhaps, hired for the evening. That was infinitely preferable to a cold-blooded adventurer who might at that very moment be lowering Pompeia onto a silken couch. Belas began to hum to himself, as he sometimes did in moments of worry. He knew he had to look into the house.

He crept down two flights of stairs in pitch darkness until he could feel the polished wood of the door to the street. Gingerly, he opened it and glanced out. The snoring woman fell in as he removed her support and Belas froze as she slumped at his feet. She did not wake as he took her under the armpits and moved her to one side. He could feel his pulses throbbing as he watched her for movement. He deserved better pay for such a night.

Belas offered up a prayer to all the most masculine of Roman gods to keep him safe and darted across the street, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. With exaggerated caution, he peeped around the gatepost of the old Marius house, his imagination running riot.

A naked woman lay sprawled just inside the gate, with an empty wineskin at her side. Even through his fear, Belas realized she was a beauty, but not Pompeia. Sudden laughter from the house made him shrink back and Belas glanced up and down the street outside, terrified that he would be discovered by someone coming up behind. He shuddered as he imagined their glee. He crept further into the gardens and hid as a pair of women came past, only inches from discovering him. The fear was too much and he could smell his own acrid sweat.

He was almost ready to leave when he saw his stranger once more. The disguise was spoilt by the casual strength of the man as he walked into the open with a naked woman in his arms. She had her legs curled up like a kitten and was murmuring as he carried her toward some private place. Belas could only shake his head at the stranger's brazenness. He still wore the dress, but his arms were too heavily muscled to be female. The woman seemed to be trying to sing through a spate of hiccups. As her head lolled, Belas caught a glimpse of Pompeia's features and watched in amazement as she wrapped an arm about the man's neck and pulled his head down to her lips. She had rarely looked finer, Belas could see, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and swaying as she kissed the stranger. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and passion and Belas rather envied the man who had risked everything to be there in that garden.

It occurred to him that if he left and said nothing, there would be little damage done to anyone. Part of him wanted to do just that, but he had accepted Servilia's gold and everything that entailed.

“Is she worth your life?” he said suddenly, pitching his voice to carry.

The stranger almost dropped Pompeia at the sound and turned quickly toward the source. Belas ducked out of sight and scurried away. He was back across the street before any alarm could be given.

He had done his work and the young man knew he had been seen. Belas sighed as he watched the chaos that ensued from his high window. The stranger had disappeared, perhaps through the gardens to climb a wall to safety. The rest of the women in the house were roused by their mistress and they searched the area with oaths and threats. One of them even thumped on the door opposite, but Belas had barred it securely and could smile. He wondered if the stranger had been returning from a bed rather than going to one. The man deserved something for his efforts, after all. By the time morning came, there was going to be trouble.

         

Julius yawned as he ate the cold lamb and roasted onions that had survived the night. With the first gray light of dawn showing in the forum, the plans and discussions had begun to blur into one another until he knew it was time to call an end to it. Adàn too was yawning hugely, having spent the entire session with two other scribes taking down orders and keeping the records in perfect detail.

It was strange to be in the Curia without a single senator on the benches. Filling the seats with the officers of his legions had given an air of a military court and Julius wished the real Senate could see the efficiency of these men. There had been no wasted, pompous speeches throughout the long hours of darkness: there was too much real work to do.

Despite the freedoms of the festival, they had heard little to disturb the long watches of the night. In a breach of tradition, Julius had posted soldiers on the Senate house steps to prevent any of the more foolhardy women from coming close enough to interfere. It seemed to have worked, but the dawn light still brought a few smiles to the chamber as it signaled an end to the Bona Dea and the chance to get to bed at last.

Julius looked proudly round at the men who had assembled at his order. As well as the seven generals, he had called his most senior centurions and military tribunes to hear the final arrangements for leaving Rome behind them. More than three hundred men were packed into the seats and at times the discussion had been as noisy and jocular as a full Senate debate.

Though he was weary, Julius was content with the preparations for war. The fleet was waiting to sail at Ostia and he had the men to fill them, now that three more of his legions had come south and set up tents in the Campus Martius. Mark Antony was steady in his role as consul and every soldier in the room knew the main plans for the first landings in Greece, if not the final date.

“One more month,” Julius murmured to Domitius at his side, “then we will be free to go to war again.”

“One more throw for the whole game,” Domitius replied, echoing a conversation on the Rubicon months before.

Julius laughed at the reference. “It seems that whenever I think I have mastered a game, I find I have been playing blind on a greater board. I send Caecilius to Greece to be captured, but instead we receive detailed reports every month that are more valuable than gold. The man is a fox, it seems, and the gods have a strange sense of humor.”

Domitius nodded, feeling the same sense of satisfaction that showed in Julius's face. The reports from Caecilius were a vital part of their preparations, and those who knew he had been sent simply to sow mistrust of Brutus were privately pleased that stratagem had failed, at least so far. Even then, the war to come was only half the task that faced them. Julius was obsessed with leaving the city safe and they had worked for months to prepare Rome to be handed over to Mark Antony.

The new magistrates had taken to heart the single instruction Julius had given them: “Work faster and take no bribes.” Backed by their awe of the man, it had been enough to tackle some of the backlog of cases that had grown in the months preceding Pompey's departure. Few of the officials had fallen back into corruption and those who did were at the mercy of their victims, now that complaints were taken seriously.

The city was working again, despite the upheavals. The people had been asked for their trust and had given it, at least for the present. Mark Antony would inherit a great deal of goodwill when the legions left. Julius had kept the promise he had made in the forum and provided ten full cohorts to keep the peace while he was gone. Leavened with more-experienced officers, the road guards from Corfinium had been perfect for that task and Julius had been happy to confirm Ahenobarbus as their general.

At that thought, Julius raised his cup to Ahenobarbus in a private salute. He did not regret sparing him, and the man's stolid lack of imagination was well suited to the duties of keeping peace in Rome. Julius could see his pride as he returned the toast.

A soldier entered the chamber, one of those Julius had left guarding the bronze doors outside. Julius rose stiffly to his feet as he saw Servilia walked with him. With a clatter, the rest of his officers followed his example and in the silence they all heard the metallic whine of a plate as it spun on the marble floor before someone put his foot on it.