The Gods of War (8 page)

“How? How do we do that?” Julius demanded.

Mark Antony shrugged. “Send a man to be captured on the Greek coast. Give him your ring or something, to show he spies for us. Pompey will torture it out of him and then Brutus will lose his value.”

Julius considered this in angry silence. “And who shall I send to be tortured, Mark Antony? We are not discussing a beating. Pompey would take hours over him to be certain he has the truth. I've seen him work on traitors before. Our spy would lose his eyes to hot irons and with them the hope of surviving the ordeal. Pompey will be thorough with him. Do you understand? There'll be nothing left but meat.”

Mark Antony did not reply and Julius snorted in disgust, his sandals clicking as he walked the marble floor. At the furthest point from them, he paused and turned. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept, and his mind was numb.

“You are right. We must lessen the coup of having Brutus go over to them. Pompey will trumpet it far and wide if he has any sense, but if we can sow distrust, Pompey could well waste our
precious
general. Do the men know yet that he has left?”

“Some will, though they may not guess he has gone to Pompey,” Mark Antony replied. “It is beyond belief for any of us. They would not think of it.”

“Then a loyal man will suffer the worst agonies to undo this betrayal,” Julius said grimly. “It is the first of what he will owe us. Whoever we send cannot know the truth. It would be burnt out of him. He must be told that Brutus is still one of us, but playing a subtle game. Perhaps we can have him overhear the secret, so he does not become too suspicious. Who can you send?”

The generals looked at each other reluctantly. It was one thing to order men into a battle line, but this was a dirty business and Brutus was hated in that room.

Mark Antony cleared his throat at last. “I have one who has worked for me in the past. He is clumsy enough to get himself caught if we send him alone. His name is Caecilius.”

“Does he have family, children?” Julius asked, clenching his jaw.

“I don't know,” Mark Antony said.

“If he has, I will send a blood-price to them when he is clear of the city,” Julius said. It did not seem enough.

“I will summon Caecilius here, with your permission?” Mark Antony asked.

As always, the final order and the final responsibility rested with Julius. He felt annoyed that Mark Antony would not take the burden with a few easy words, but Brutus would have and Brutus had turned traitor. It was better to be surrounded by weaker men, perhaps.

“Yes. Have him come here. I will give the orders myself,” Julius confirmed.

“We should send an assassin with him, to be certain,” Octavian said suddenly. All eyes turned to him and he faced them without apology. “Well? Regulus has said what we are all thinking. Am I the only other one who will say it? Brutus was as much my friend as any of you, but you think he should live? Even if he tells Pompey nothing, or this spy weakens his position, he must be killed.”

Julius took Octavian by the shoulders and the younger man could not look him in the eyes. “No. There will be no assassins sent by me. No one else has the right to make that decision, Octavian. I will not order the death of my friend.”

At the last word, Octavian's eyes blazed with fury and Julius gripped him harder.

“Perhaps I share the blame for Brutus, lad. I did not see the signs in him until he had gone, though they trouble me now. I have been a fool, but what he has done changes nothing, in the end. Whether Pompey appoints him general or not, we must still go to Greece and fight those legions.” He paused until Octavian looked up. “When we do, if Brutus is there, I shall order that he is kept alive. If the gods kill him with a spear or an arrow, then my hands are clean. But if he lives through the war to come, I will not take his life until I have spoken to him, perhaps not even then. There is too much between us to think otherwise. Do you understand?”

“No,” Octavian said. “Not at all.”

Julius ignored the anger, feeling it himself. “I hope you will in time. Brutus and I have shared blood and life and more years than I can remember. I will not see him dead at my order. Not today, for this, nor at any other time. We are brothers, he and I, whether he chooses to remember it or not.”

                                                      
CHAPTER
7
                                                      

S
eeing Brundisium without the usual bustle of merchant and legion galleys was strange for such a key port in the south. When Brutus crested the last hill with the exhausted guard cohorts, he was disappointed not to find anything larger than a lobster boat tied to the quays. He tried to remember if he knew the quaestor of the port and then shrugged to himself. Whatever small contingent of Roman soldiers was stationed there would not be able to interfere. Outside of Rome herself, there was nothing in the south to trouble them.

The guards followed him down to the port, ignoring the stares and pointing fingers of the workers there. It was a strange feeling for most of them, but Brutus was familiar with hostile territory and fell back into the attitudes of Gaul without really thinking about it. The sight of soldiers would have brought a sense of peace and order only a short time before, but with a looming civil war they would be feared as much as any other band of scavengers. It was unpleasant to see the faces of those who stepped aside for the two cohorts of guards. Even with all his experience, Brutus could not ignore a subtle discomfort and found himself growing increasingly irritable as he led the column through to the import buildings on the docks. He left them there in the sun as he dismounted and strode inside.

The quaestor's clerk was on his feet, arguing with two burly men. All three turned to face him as he entered and Brutus saluted lazily, knowing his arrival had been the subject of their debate.

“I need food and water for my men,” he said abruptly. “See to that first. We will not trouble you for long, gentlemen, so put yourselves at ease. I want to find a ship to take me to Greece.”

As he mentioned his destination, he noticed the clerk's eyes flicker to a piece of parchment on his desk and then back up, guiltily. Brutus smiled, crossing the room. The dockworkers moved to block him and he dropped a casual hand onto his sword.

“You are unarmed, gentlemen. Are you certain you'd like to try me?” he asked.

One of the men licked his bottom lip nervously and would have spoken, but his companion tapped him on the arm and they both edged away.

“Very good,” Brutus said to them, letting his hand fall. “Now then, food, water and . . . a ship.”

He reached down to the desk and gripped the clerk's bony hand, moving it firmly off the papers. Brutus took the sheaf and scanned them quickly, letting each fall until he came to one midway through the pile. It was a record of a legion galley that had landed at the port just the day before to replenish its freshwater barrels. There was little detail to be gleaned from it. The captain had returned from the north according to the record and set sail after only a few hours in Brundisium.

“Where was he heading?” Brutus demanded.

The clerk opened his mouth and closed it, shaking his head.

Brutus sighed. “I have a thousand men standing on your docks. All we want is to leave here without trouble, but I am not patient today. I can give the word to set fire to this building and anything else you value. Or you can just tell me. Where is this galley?”

The clerk bolted for a back room and Brutus heard the clatter of his sandals as he rushed up a flight of stairs. He waited in uncomfortable silence with the two dockworkers, ignoring them.

A man wearing a toga that had seen better days came down the steps behind the clerk. Brutus sighed at the quaestor's appearance.

“Provincials,” he murmured under his breath.

The man heard him and glared. “Where are your letters of authority?” the quaestor demanded.

Brutus stared at him, focusing on a food stain on the man's robe until he flushed.

“You have no right to threaten us here,” the quaestor blustered. “We are loyal.”

“Really? To whom?” Brutus asked. The man hesitated and Brutus enjoyed his discomfort before he went on. “I have two cohorts going to join Pompey and the Senate in Greece. That is my authority. Your clerk was good enough to show me the records and a galley passed through here yesterday. Tell me where they were heading.”

The quaestor fired a poisonous glance at his hapless servant before coming to a decision. “I spoke to the captain myself,” he said reluctantly. “He was on patrol off Ariminum when the message reached him to come in. He was going to land at Ostia.” He hesitated.

“But you told him that Pompey had already left,” Brutus said. “I imagine he would want to join the fleet by sailing around the south coast, meeting them halfway. Does that sound like the conversation you remember?”

The quaestor stiffened at the tone. “I had no new orders for him. I believe he may have put to sea to deny the value of his ship to . . . rebel forces.”

“A sensible man,” Brutus said. “But
we
are loyal to Pompey, sir. We need that galley. I expect such a thoughtful captain would have told you his next port in case the right person came asking. Somewhere further south, yes?”

As he spoke, he watched the clerk's eyes and saw them shift guiltily. The quaestor was a far better gambler than his servant, but he caught the glance and the muscles stood out on his jaw as he considered what to do.

“How do I know you are not with Caesar?” he asked.

The question had a far greater effect than the quaestor could have intended. Brutus seemed to grow slightly, making the little office feel smaller and oppressively hot. The fingers of his right hand drummed for a moment on the silver breastplate, the noise startlingly loud in the silence.

“Do you think I have a secret password for you?” he snapped. “A special sign to show I am loyal? These are complicated days. There is nothing more I can say to you, except this. If you do not tell me, I will burn this port to the ground and you in it. I will have my men bar the doors and listen to you scratching at them. That is all I offer.” He stared the quaestor down, knowing there would be no hint of a bluff in his eyes.

“Tarentum. He said he would make a landing at Tarentum,” the clerk said, breaking the tension.

The quaestor was visibly relieved to have had the decision taken from him, but he still raised his fist in reaction, making the clerk flinch. Brutus looked for some hint that they were lying, but he was satisfied and then ignored the pair, calculating quickly. Tarentum was a port he could reach in just a few hours of hard riding across an isthmus the galley would have to sail around.

“Thank you, gentlemen; your loyalty will be rewarded,” he said, watching their fear and confusion as they digested his words. He supposed it would be much the same all over Roman lands very soon, as the question of allegiance became more and more important. Civil war engendered a distrust that had already begun to eat at the foundations of their world.

Outside in the sun, Brutus watched the cohorts fill their waterskins from a well in reasonable order. He was tempted for a moment of wildness to have them burn the port as he had threatened. After all, it could well be one of those Julius would use to send a fleet to Greece. He did not give the order, preferring not to send a column of smoke to show their position. There was also a little pride in wanting Julius to make the crossing as soon as he could. Brutus needed just a few months to establish himself in Pompey's forces, and after that Julius could come and be welcome.

“Seneca, there's a legion galley heading for Tarentum. I shall ride there. Follow me when you have found provisions.”

Seneca looked at his men and his mouth became a firm line.

“We have no silver to pay for food,” he said.

Brutus snorted. “This is a port without ships. I'd say the warehouses are full of whatever you need. Take what you want and come after me as fast as you are able. Understood?”

“Yes, I suppose—”

“Yes,
sir,
” Brutus snapped. “Then you salute as if you know what you're doing, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Seneca replied, saluting stiffly.

Brutus led his mount over to the well and Seneca watched irritably as he moved amongst the guards with an ease Seneca could only envy. He saw Brutus make some comment and heard their laughter. The general was a hero to men who had done nothing more than keep road forts safe for Rome. Seneca felt a touch of the same admiration himself and wished he could find a way to start again.

As he watched Brutus mount and trot out onto the southern road, Seneca felt the men look to him for orders once more. He realized that few others of his generation had the chance to learn their trade from a veteran of Gaul. He approached the group around the well, as he had seen Brutus do. It had not been his practice to mix with them and they glanced at each other, but then one of them handed him a waterskin and Seneca drank.

“Do you think he'll find us a galley, sir?” one of the men asked.

Seneca wiped his mouth. “If he can't, he'll probably swim across, towing us behind him,” he replied, smiling to see them relax. It was such a small thing, but he felt more satisfaction in that moment than he could remember from all his tactical drills.

         

Brutus galloped across the scrub grass of the southern hills, his eyes steady on the horizon for his first glimpse of the sea. He was hungry, tired, and itching under his armor, but if the galley was making only a brief stop at Tarentum, he had to push himself on. He did not dwell on what he would do if the captain had gone. The longer Brutus was on land, the more the danger increased, but there was no point worrying. In his years in Gaul, he had learned the mental trick that allowed him to ignore what he could not control and bring his full weight onto levers he could move. He cleared his mind of the problem, concentrating on making the best speed over rough ground.

It surprised him that he felt responsible for the guards. He knew better than Seneca what would happen if Julius caught them. They had all taken solemn vows not to fight for Pompey, and Julius would be forced to make an example. No doubt he would shake his head at the horror of it all before giving the order, but Brutus knew Julius was a general first and a man only rarely, when it profited him. The guards were inexperienced and out of their depth in the power struggle. They could very well be ground into bloody ash between the two sides, casualties of the civil war before it had properly begun. The ship had to be there, waiting for them.

It was easy to dream of the future as Brutus rode, taking the most direct route through rocky fields and valleys. If he arrived at Pompey's camp with two cohorts, he would have influence from the first moment. Alone, he would have to rely on Pompey's whim as to whether he was given a command. It was not a pleasant thought. Pompey would not dare to trust him at first and Brutus knew there was a chance he would find himself in the front line as a foot soldier. The silver armor would draw Julius's Tenth like moths and he would never survive the first battle. He needed Seneca's men even more than they needed him, perhaps.

The countryside to the south of Rome was a far cry from the lush plains of the north. Small farms survived by growing olives and thick-skinned lemons on twisted wooden skeletons, all wilting in the heat. Thin dogs yapped around his horse whenever he slowed, and the dust seemed to coat his throat in a thick layer. The sound of hooves brought people out from the isolated farmhouses to watch suspiciously until he was off their land. They were as dark and hard as the ground they worked. By blood, they were more Greek than Roman, the remnants of an older empire. No one called to him and he wondered if they ever thought of the great city to the north. Somehow, he doubted it. Rome was another world to them.

He stopped at a small well and tied the reins to a stunted tree. He looked for some way of reaching the water, his gaze resting on a tiny house of white stone nearby. There was a man there, watching him from the comfort of a rough bench by his door. A small dog sat and panted at his feet, too hot to bark at the stranger.

Brutus glanced impatiently at the sun. “Water?” he called, holding cupped hands to his mouth and miming drinking.

The man regarded him steadily, his eyes taking in every detail of the armor and uniform. “You can pay?” he said. The accent was hard, but Brutus understood him.

“Where I am from, we do not ask payment for a few cups of water,” he snapped.

The man shrugged and, rising, began to move toward his door.

Brutus glared at his back. “How much?” he demanded, reaching for his purse.

The farmer cracked his knuckles slowly as he considered. “Sesterce,” he said at last.

It was too much, but Brutus only nodded and dug savagely amongst his coins. He passed one over and the man examined it as if he had all the time in the world. Then he disappeared into the house and returned with a stitched leather bucket and a length of rope.

Brutus reached for it and the man jerked away with surprising speed. “I'll do it,” he said, walking past him toward the dusty well.

His dog struggled to its feet and wandered after him, pausing only to bare yellow teeth in Brutus's direction. Brutus wondered if the civil war would touch these people. He doubted it. They would go on scratching a living out of the thin soil, and if once in a while they saw a soldier riding past, what did that matter to them?

He watched the farmer bring up the bucket and hold it for the horse to drink, all at the same infuriatingly slow speed. At last, it was passed to Brutus and he gulped greedily. The cool liquid spilled down his chest in lines as he gasped and wiped his mouth. The man watched him without curiosity as he took his waterskin from the saddle.

“Fill this,” he said.

“A sesterce,” the man replied, holding out his hand.

Brutus was appalled. So much for honest country farmers. “Fill the skin or your dog goes down the well,” Brutus said, gesturing with the sagging bag.