The Gods of War (6 page)

“Is she doing well?” he asked.

The boy looked cynically at him, eyeing the silver and clearly caught between fear and need. “Everyone knows her. She won't let me in the shop, though.”

“You'd steal the brooches, I should think,” Brutus said with a wink.

The boy shrugged. “Maybe. What do you want for the coin?”

“I want to know if she wears a ring on her hand,” Brutus replied.

The boy thought for a moment, rubbing his nose and leaving a silvery trail on his skin. “A slave ring?”

Brutus chuckled. “No, lad, a gold marriage band on the fourth finger.”

The boy still looked suspicious, but his eyes never left the promised reward. At last, he came to a decision and reached for it. “I've seen a ring. She has a baby at home, they say. Tabbic is the one who owns the shop. He hit me once,” he said in a rush.

Brutus chuckled and let him take the coin. On impulse, he reached into his pouch and brought out a gold aureus. The boy's expression changed the instant he saw it, going from confidence to frightened anger.

“Do you want it?” Brutus said.

The child scrambled away at high speed, leaving Brutus bemused behind him. No doubt the boy had never seen gold before and thought it would mean his death to own such a thing. Brutus sighed. If the local wolves found out he had such a treasure, it probably would. Shaking his head, he put the coin back in the pouch.

“I thought it was you, General,” a voice came.

Brutus looked down at Tabbic as the jeweler strolled onto the road and patted his horse's neck. His bald head gleamed from the forges and white chest hairs tufted over the apron he wore, but he was still the same steady figure Brutus remembered.

“Who else?” Brutus replied, forcing a smile.

Tabbic squinted upwards as he rubbed the horse's muzzle, seeing eyes still red with tears and anger. “Will you come in and try a drink with me?” Tabbic said. “I'll have a boy stable this fine mount of yours.” When he saw Brutus hesitate, he went on. “There's spiced wine on the forge, too much for me.”

He looked away as he asked, making it easy to refuse. Perhaps that was why Brutus nodded and swung a leg over the saddle.

“Just the one then, if you can make it strong. I'm going far tonight,” he said.

         

The interior of the shop was subtly different from how Brutus remembered it. The great forges still stood solidly, a banked fire gleaming red under the grates. The benches and tool racks were new looking, though the smell of oil and metal was like stepping back into old memories. Brutus breathed in, smiling to himself and relaxing a fraction.

Tabbic noticed the change as he crossed to the heavy iron kettle on the edge of the forge. “Are you thinking of the riots? Those were black days. We were lucky to get out with our lives. I'm not sure I ever thanked you for helping us.”

“You did,” Brutus replied.

“Draw up a seat, lad, while you taste this. Used to be, it was my winter brew, but it warms a summer evening just as well.” Tabbic ladled steaming red liquid into a metal cup, wrapping it in cloth before handing it over.

Brutus took it gingerly, breathing in the fumes. “What's in it?” he asked.

Tabbic shrugged. “A few things from the markets. To be honest, it depends on what I have to hand. It tastes different every year, Alexandria says.”

Brutus nodded, accepting the old man's lead. “I saw her,” he said.

“You would have done. Her husband came to bring her home just before I saw you,” Tabbic replied. “She's found a good man, there.”

Brutus almost smiled at the old jeweler's transparent worry. “I'm not back to pick at old scabs. All I want is to get as far away as I can. I'll not trouble her.”

He hadn't noticed the tension in Tabbic's shoulders until the old man relaxed. They sat in peaceful silence then and Brutus sipped at the mug, wincing slightly. “This is sour,” he grumbled.

Tabbic shrugged. “I wouldn't waste good wine on a hot cup. You'll find it has a bite, though.”

It was true that the bitter warmth was easing some of the tightness in his chest. For a moment, Brutus resisted, unwilling to let go of even a part of his anger. Rage was something he had always enjoyed as it flooded him. It brought a kind of freedom from responsibility and to feel it ebb was to face the return of regret. Then he sighed and offered his cup for Tabbic to refill.

“You don't have the face of a man who came home this morning,” Tabbic observed, almost to himself.

Brutus looked at him, feeling weary. “Maybe I have,” he said.

Tabbic slurped the dregs of his own cup, belching softly into a fist as he considered the response. “You weren't the sort to wrap yourself in knots the last time I saw you. What's changed?”

“Has it occurred to you that I might not want to talk about it?” Brutus growled.

Tabbic shrugged. “You can finish your drink and leave, if you like. It won't change anything. You'll still be welcome here.”

He turned his back on Brutus to lift the heavy kettle off the forge and fill the cups once again. Brutus could hear the dark liquid slosh.

“I think it's grown stronger,” Tabbic said, peering into the pot. “This was a good batch.”

“Have you any regrets, old man?” Brutus asked him.

Tabbic grunted. “I thought you had something troubling you. I'd go back and change a few things if I could—be a better husband, maybe. If you ever left your mother's tit, there'll be things you wish you hadn't done, but it's not all bad, I've found. A little guilt has made more than a few men live better than they would have done—trying to even the scales before they cross the river.”

Brutus looked away as Tabbic drew up an old bench, wincing as his knees flexed.

“I always wanted a little more than that,” Brutus said at last.

Tabbic sipped at his drink, the steam rising into his nostrils. After a time, he chuckled. “You know, I always thought that was the secret of happiness, right there. There are some people who know the value of a kind wife and children who don't shame you. Maybe they're the ones who had a cruel time of it when they were young; I don't know. I've seen men who had to choose whether to feed the children or themselves each day, but they were content, even then.”

He looked up at Brutus and the man in silver armor felt the gaze and frowned to himself.

“Then there are those who are born with a hole in them,” Tabbic continued softly. “They want and
want
until they tear themselves to pieces. I don't know what starts the need in a man, or how it's stopped, except for killing.”

Brutus looked quizzically at him. “You're going to tell me how to find a good woman after this, aren't you?”

Tabbic shook his head. “You don't come in here and ask me if I have any regrets without a few of your own. Whatever you've done, I hope you can mend it. If you can't, it will be with you a long time.”

“Another refill,” Brutus said, holding out his cup. He knew his senses were being dulled, but he welcomed the feeling. “The trouble with your rustic philosophy,” Brutus began, tasting the new cup. “The trouble is that there have to be some of us who want and want, or where would we be?” He frowned then as he considered his own words.

“Happier,” Tabbic replied. “It's not a small thing to raise a family and provide for them. It might not seem much to armored generals of Rome, but it earns
my
respect. No poems about us.”

The mulled wine was more powerful than Brutus had expected on an empty stomach. He knew there was a flaw in Tabbic's vision, but he couldn't find the words to make him see it.

“You need both,” he said at last. “You have to have dreaming, or what's the point? Cows raise families, Tabbic. Cows.”

Tabbic looked scornful. “I've never seen a worse head for drink, I swear it. ‘Cows,' by the gods.”

“One chance you get,” Brutus went on, holding up a finger. “One chance, birth to death, to do whatever you can. To be remembered. One chance.” He slumped, staring at the red glow of the forge in the growing darkness.

They emptied the kettle down to bitter pulp at the bottom. Brutus had long ceased to move or speak when Tabbic eventually heaved him onto a cot in a back room, still in his armor. At the doorway, the jeweler paused, looking down at the sprawled figure, already beginning to snore.

“My daughters remember me every day,” he said softly. “I hope you make the right choices, lad. I really do.”

         

Julius picked a piece of fennel sausage out of his teeth and smiled as he watched the drunken guests become ever wilder as the moon sank toward the horizon. The music too became more frenzied as the wine flowed into the players. The drums and pipes beat out counterpoint rhythms, while the cithara players made their strings jump with blurring fingers. Julius had not heard a single dirge or ballad from them all the time he had been there, and their excesses suited his mood perfectly. The food too was magnificent after soldiers' rations.

The invitation was one of dozens that had been delivered before sunset, but the host, Cassius, was a senator who had remained behind and Julius wanted to cultivate the man. Only the first hour had been spent in conversation, as Julius became reacquainted with the social class of his city. The free wine had been delivered all over Rome and they seemed determined to obey his command to celebrate, becoming increasingly wild as the moon set over the hills.

Julius barely listened to a drunken merchant who seemed to have fully recovered from his initial awe. The man wandered through topics without needing more than the occasional nod to keep him going. While he beamed and talked, Julius eyed the young ladies who had come to the party, not unaware that most of them had appeared only after his own presence became known. Some of them were shameless in their competition for his glance, and he had already considered more than one of those to share his bed that night. Their faces were flushed with sexual excitement as the red wine lit them up, and Julius found the spectacle mesmerizing. He had been a long time in the field and the opportunities for female companionship had been few. Brutus had called it “scratching his itch” and it had been no more satisfying, on the whole.

In comparison with the camp whores, the beauties of Rome were like a flock of painted birds arrayed for his enjoyment. Julius could smell the mingling perfumes in the air, even over the fennel.

He sensed his companion had stumbled at last to a halt, and Julius looked at him, wondering if a question had been asked. He was a little drunk himself, though his wine was cut with water. Since passing through the Quirinal gate, he had felt the intoxication of challenge and sheer pleasure at being back with his people. The wine bore but a little responsibility for his good spirits.

“My brothers in particular will be pleased to see a steady hand on the city after Pompey,” the merchant continued.

Julius let his voice become a background noise as he watched the people around him. Apart from the simple arousal at the thought of bedding one of the Roman women, he wondered if he should be looking for something more than a night. He had once laughed at the suggestion that he needed heirs, but he had been younger then and many of those he called friends had still been alive. The thought sharpened his appraisal of the young women in the crowd, looking for more than a simple turn of leg and thigh, or the quality of the breasts. Given the option, he knew he would prefer a beauty, but perhaps it was also time to think of the connections and alliances of a union. Marriage was one of the powerful counters in the politics of Rome, and the right choice could benefit him as much as the wrong one could be wasted.

With a slight gesture, Julius summoned Domitius from another knot of conversation. Senator Cassius saw the movement and came bustling over first, determined that Julius's slightest whim should be met. He had been honored by the arrival of the general and Julius found the constant attention flattering, as it was intended to be. The man was as slender as a youth and bore himself well amongst the guests. Julius had encouraged him with subtle compliments and felt sure the senator would be one of those returning to the new government. If the others who had stayed were as amenable, Julius thought the elections would go very smoothly indeed. The Senate house could well be filled with his supporters.

He had intended to discuss the women with Domitius, but with Cassius there, Julius addressed him instead, choosing his words carefully. “I have been away for too long to know which of your guests are unmarried, Cassius.” Julius hid his smile by sipping his wine as he saw the senator's interest sharpen.

“Are you considering an alliance, General?” Cassius asked, watching him closely.

Julius hesitated only for a moment. Perhaps it was the excitement he had felt since his return, or part of his sexual interest that night, but he was suddenly certain. “A man cannot live alone, and the company of soldiers does not meet every requirement,” he said, grinning.

Cassius smiled. “It will be a pleasure for me to arrange introductions for you. There is only a small selection here, though many are unpromised.”

“A good family, of course, and fertile,” Julius said.

Cassius blinked at the bluntness, and then nodded enthusiastically. He practically shook with the desire to spread the information and Julius watched as he searched for a way to take his leave without being rude.

Cassius found his solution in the slave messenger who entered the main room, moving quickly through the revelers toward Julius. The man was simply dressed and wore his iron ring to show his status, but to Julius's eye he looked more like a bodyguard than a simple messenger. He had been around enough soldiers to know the manner and he felt Domitius prickle at the man's approach, always wary as he had been trained to be.

As if sensing the discomfort his entrance had caused, the slave held up his hands to show he bore no weapons. “General, I have come from my mistress. She waits for you outside.”