The armory was surrounded by strangers, their wet skins catching glimmers of starlight as they turned to him. He couldn’t see their eyes and raised his dagger to stab as they slid toward him.
An arm circled his throat from behind and Celsus slashed at it madly, making it fall away with a moan. He spun wildly, waving the blade before him, then the shadows parted and a spark lit the scene like a stroke of lightning, showing him their gleaming eyes for a moment before the dark returned, worse than before.
Julius struck again to light the oil lamp he had taken from Celsus’s own cabin, and Celsus cried out in horror as he recognized the young Roman.
“Justice for the dead, Celsus,” Julius said as he played the light over the man’s stricken features. “We have almost all your men, though some have barricaded themselves in down below. They’ll keep.”
His eyes glittered in the lamplight and Celsus felt his arms gripped with awful finality as the others moved in on him, yanking the dagger from his fingers. Julius leaned in close until they were almost touching.
“The oarsmen are being chained to their benches. Your crew will hang from crosses, as I promised you. I claim this ship for Rome and for the house of Caesar.”
Celsus gazed at him in stupefied fascination. His mouth hung loosely as he tried to understand what had happened, but the effort was beyond him.
Without warning, Julius punched him hard in the belly. Celsus could feel the acid leap in his stomach and choked for a second as his throat filled with bitterness. He sagged in the arms of his captors and Julius stood back. Celsus lunged at him suddenly, breaking the relaxed grip of the men behind. He crashed into Julius and they both went down, the lamp spilling its oil over the deck. In the confusion, the Romans moved to put out the fire with the instinctive fear of those who sailed wooden ships. Celsus landed a blow on the struggling figure beneath him and then leapt for the side of his ship, desperate to get away.
The giant figure of Ciro blocked him and he never saw the blade he ran onto. In agony, he looked up at the face of his killer and saw nothing there, only blankness. Then he was gone, sliding off the sword onto the deck.
Julius sat up, panting. He could hear the crack of timbers nearby as his men forced their way into barricaded cabins. It was nearly over and he smiled, wincing as his lips bled from some blow he’d taken in the struggle.
Cabera walked toward him over the wooden deck. He looked a little thinner, if that was possible, and the wide smile had at least one more tooth missing from the one Julius remembered. Still, it was the same face.
“I told them over and over you would come, but they didn’t believe me,” Cabera said cheerfully.
Julius stood and embraced him, overwhelmed by relief at seeing the old man safe. There were no words that needed to be said.
“Let’s go and see how much of our ransoms Celsus managed to spend,” he said at last. “Lamps! Lamps over here! Bring them down to the hold.”
Cabera and the others followed him quickly down a flight of steps so steep as to be almost a ladder. Every jostling man there was as interested as he was in what they might find. The guards had been drunk and easily taken in the first attack, but the barred door was still closed, as Julius had ordered. He paused with his hand on it, breathless with anticipation. The hold could be empty, he knew. On the other hand, it could be full.
The door gave easily to axes and as Julius was followed in, the oil lamps lit the hollow space below the oar decks just above them. The angry muttering of the rowers sounded as ghostly echoes in the confined space. Their reward for allegiance to Celsus would be slavery, the only trained crew in Rome’s service.
Julius took a sharp breath. The hold was lined with great shelves of thick oak, running all the way around its walls from the floor to the high ceiling. Each shelf held riches. There were crates of gold coins and small silver bars in stacks, placed carefully so as not to affect the balance of the ship. Julius shook his head in disbelief. What he saw in front of him was enough to buy a small kingdom in some parts of the world. Celsus must have been driven mad with worry over such treasures. Julius doubted he ever left his ship, with so much to lose. The only thing he couldn’t see was the packet of drafts that Marius had given him before his death. He’d always known they would be worthless to Celsus, who could never have drawn the large sums from the city treasury without his background becoming known. Part of Julius had hoped they hadn’t gone down with Accipiter, but the money lost was nothing compared to the gold they had won in return.
The men who entered with him were struck dumb at what they saw. Only Cabera and Gaditicus moved farther into the hold, checking and appraising the contents of each shelf. Gaditicus paused suddenly and pulled a crate out with a grunt. It had an eagle burned into the wood, and he broke the lid with his sword hilt with all the enthusiasm of a child.
His fist came out holding bright silver coins, freshly minted. Each was marked with the characters of Rome and the head of Cornelius Sulla.
“We can clear our names returning these,” he said with satisfaction, looking at Julius.
Julius chuckled at the older man’s sense of priorities. “With this ship to replace Accipiter, they should welcome us as long-lost sons. We know she’s faster than most of them,” Julius replied. He saw that Cabera was slipping a number of valuable items into the folds of his robe, held from falling by the tight belt that cinched his waist. Julius raised his eyes in amusement.
Gaditicus began to laugh as he let the coins trickle back through his fingers into the crate.
“We can go home,” he said. “Finally, we can go home.”
* * *
Julius refused to allow Captain Durus to take the two triremes he’d been promised in exchange for his lost cargo, knowing it would be foolish to strip their defenses until they were safe in a Roman port. While Durus raged at this decision, Gaditicus visited Julius in the cabin that had belonged to Celsus, now scrubbed clean and bare. The younger man paced up and down its length as they talked, unable to relax.
Gaditicus sipped at a cup of wine, savoring Celsus’s choice.
“We could land at the legion port at Thessalonica, Julius, and hand over the legion silver and the ship. When we’re cleared, we could sail round the coast, or even march west to Dyrrhachium and take ship for Rome. We’re so close now. Durus says he’ll swear we had a business arrangement, so any charges for piracy won’t run.”
“There’s still that soldier Ciro killed on the docks,” Julius said slowly, deep in thought.
Gaditicus shrugged. “Soldiers die and it’s not as if he butchered him. The man was just unlucky. They won’t be able to make anything stick now. We’re free to return.”
“What will you do? You have enough to retire on, I should think.”
“Perhaps. I was thinking of using my share to pay the Senate for the slaves that went down with Accipiter. If I do that, they might even send me back to sea as captain. We’ve taken two pirate ships, after all, which they can’t overlook.”
Julius rose and took the other man’s arm. “I owe you a great deal more than that, you know.”
Gaditicus gripped the arm that held him. “There’s no debt to me, lad. When we were in that stinking cell . . . and friends died, my will went with them for a while.”
“You were the captain, though, Gadi. You could have stood on your authority.”
Gaditicus smiled a little ruefully. “A man who needs to do that may find he isn’t standing very high after all.”
“You’re a good man, you know—and a fine captain,” Julius said, wishing he had better words for his friend. He knew it had taken a rare strength for Gaditicus to swallow his pride, but without that they would never have been able to take back their lives and honor.
“Come on, then,” he said. “If it’s what you want, we’ll cross to Greece and rejoin civilization.”
Gaditicus smiled with him. “What will you do with your share of the gold?” he asked, a little warily.
Only S
uetonius had complained when Julius had claimed half for himself, with the rest to be shared equally. After taking out the Roman silver and the ransoms for the Accipiter officers, the shares they would get were still more money than they would ever have expected to see. Suetonius had not spoken a word to Julius since being given his allotted sum, but his was the only sullen face on the three ships. The rest of them looked on Julius with something like awe.
“I don’t know what I’ll do, yet,” Julius said, his smile fading. “I can’t go back to Rome, you remember?”
“Sulla?” Gaditicus said, recalling the young man who had joined his galley just before the tide at Ostia, his face soot-streaked from the burning city behind him.
Julius nodded grimly. “I can’t return while he lives,” he muttered, his mood darkening as quickly as it had lifted.
“You’re young to be worrying about that, you know. Some enemies can be beaten, but some you just have to outlive. Safer too.”
* * *
Julius thought about the conversation as they slipped through the deep-water channel that sheltered Thessalonica from the storms of the Aegean Sea. The three ships ran abreast before the gusting wind with their sails cracking and every spare hand on the decks to clean and polish. He had ordered three flags of the Republic made for the masts, and when they rounded the last bay to the port, it would be a sight to lift Roman hearts. He sighed to himself. Rome was everything he knew. Tubruk, Cornelia, and Marcus, when they met again. His mother. For the first time he could remember, he wanted to see her, just to say that he understood her illness and that he was sorry. A life in exile was not to be borne. He shivered slightly as the wind cut at his skin.
Gaditicus came up to the rail by his elbow. “Something’s not right, lad. Where are the trading ships? The galleys? This should be a busy port.”
Julius strained his eyes to see the land they approached. Thin streams of smoke lifted into the air, too many to be cooking fires. As they came close enough to dock, he could see that the only other ships in the port were listing badly, bearing signs of fire. One was little better than a gutted shell. The water was covered in a scum of sodden ashes and broken wood.
The rest of the men came to stand at the rail and watched the unfolding scene of desolation in stricken silence. They could see bodies rotting on shore in the weak sunlight. Small dogs tugged at them, making the splayed limbs twitch and jump in a vulgar parody of life.
The three ships moored and the soldiers disembarked without breaking the unnatural stillness, hands ready on their swords without having to be ordered. Julius went with them, after telling Gaditicus to stay ready for a fast retreat. The Roman captain accepted the order with a nod, quickly assembling a small group to stay with him to handle the rowers.
On the faded brown stone of the docks, women and children lay together, great wounds in their flesh filled with clouds of buzzing flies that rose humming at the approach of the soldiers. The smell was appalling, even with the chill breeze coming off the sea. Most of the bodies were Roman legionaries, their armor still bright over black tunics.
Julius walked past the clumps of them with the others, re-creating the action in his mind. He saw many bloodstains around each group of the dead, no doubt where the enemy had fallen and been dragged away for burial. To leave the Roman bodies where they lay was a deliberate insult, an act of contempt that began to kindle a rage in Julius that he saw reflected in the eyes of those around him. They walked with swords held ready, stalking the streets in growing anger and chasing rats and dogs away from the corpses. But there was no enemy to challenge. The port was deserted.
Julius stood breathing heavily through his mouth, looking at the broken body of a small girl in the arms of a soldier who had been stabbed in the back as he ran with her. Their skin had blackened from exposure, the hardening flesh creeping back to reveal their teeth and dark tongues.
“Gods, who could have done this?” Prax whispered to himself.
Julius turned to him with his face a bitter mask. “We’ll find out. These are my people. They cry out to us, Prax, and I will answer them.”
Prax glanced at him and felt the manic energy pouring off the younger man. When Julius turned to face him, he looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
“Form a burial crew. Gaditicus can say the prayers over them when they are in the ground.” Julius paused and looked at the horizon, where the sun burned a dull winter copper.
“And get the rest of them out cutting down trees. We’ll do the crucifixions here, along this coast. It will serve as a warning to whoever is responsible for this.”
Prax saluted and ran back to the mooring point, pleased to get away from the stench of death and the young officer whose words frightened him, for all he thought he’d known the man before.
* * *
Julius stood impassively while the first five men were nailed to the rough-cut trunks. Each cross was raised with ropes until the upright slid into the holes to hold them, made steady with hammered wooden wedges. The pirates screamed until their throats were raw and no more sound came but the whistle of air. From one of them, bloody sweat dribbled from his armpits and groin, thin crimson lines that wrote ugly patterns on his skin.
The third man spasmed in agony as the iron spike was thumped through his wrist into the soft wood of the crossbeam. He wept and pleaded like a child, pulling his other arm away with all his strength until it was gripped and held for the blows of the hammer and the nail that speared him through.
Before his men completed the brutal task with his shuddering legs, Julius walked forward as if in a daze, drawing his sword slowly. His men froze at his approach and he ignored them, seeming to speak his thoughts aloud.
“No more of this,” he muttered, thrusting his sword into the man’s throat. There was a look of relief in the eyes as they glazed, and Julius looked away as he wiped his sword, hating his own weakness, but unable to stand watching any longer.
“Kill the rest quickly,” he ordered, before walking alone back to the ship. His thoughts ran wildly as he strode across the dock stones, sheathing his sword without being aware of it. He’d promised to put them all on crosses, but the reality was an ugliness he could not bear. The screaming had cut through his nerves and made him ashamed. It had taken all his will to see the first few nailed after the horror of the first.
He grimaced in anger at himself. His father would not have weakened. Renius would have nailed them himself and not lost sleep. He felt his cheeks burn with shame and spat on the dock as he reached the edge. Still, he could not have stood with his men and watched any longer, and walking away from them alone would have damaged him in their eyes, after his own orders began the cruel deaths.
Cabera had refused to join the legionaries on the dock for the executions. He stood at the rail of the ship with his head on one side in unspoken question. Julius looked at him and shrugged. The old healer patted him on the arm and produced an amphora of wine in his other hand.
“Good idea,” Julius said distantly, his thoughts elsewhere. “Fetch a second, though, would you? I don’t want dreams tonight.”
CHAPTER 20
Only a few of the port buildings had roofs and walls secure enough to be used by Julius’s men. Too many of the others had been torched, with just their stone walls standing as empty shells. Alternating between the warehouses and the three ships, Julius sent his men scouring the local area for supplies. Though Celsus had laid in enough to last him most of a winter, it would hardly serve to feed so many active soldiers for long.
The legionaries walked warily as they searched, never alone and always with an eye for a surprise attack. Even with the bodies cleared and in the earth, the port was a silent, brooding place, and they lived with the thought that whoever had destroyed the peaceful Roman settlement could still be close, or coming back.
They found only one man alive. His leg had been gashed and infection had set in quickly. They found him when they heard him move to kill a rat that came too close to the
smell of blood. He smashed its head with a stone and then yelled in terror as Julius’s men took him by the arms and brought him out into the light. After days in darkness, the man could hardly bear even the weak morning sun, and he babbled crazily at them as they dragged him back to the ships.
Julius summoned Cabera as soon as he saw the swollen leg, though he guessed it was useless. The man’s lips were rimed dry crusts and he wept without tears as they tipped a bowl of water into his mouth. Cabera probed the puffy flesh of the leg with his long fingers, finally shaking his head. He stood to one side with Julius.
“It has turned poisonous and reached right up to his groin. It’s too late to take it off. I can try to ease the pain of it, but he hasn’t much time left.”
“Can’t you . . . put your hands on him?” Julius asked the old man.
“He’s gone too far, Julius. He should be dead already.”
Julius nodded with bitter resignation, taking the bowl from his men and helping the man to hold it to his lips. The skeletal fingers shook too much to keep it still, and as Julius held one of them, he almost recoiled from the fever heat that burned through the taut skin.
“Can you understand me?” he asked.
The man tried to nod as he sipped, and choked horribly, turning bright red with the efforts that tore at his remaining strength.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Julius pressed, willing the man to breathe. Finally the spasms died and the man let his head fall onto his chest, exhausted.
“They killed everyone. The whole country’s in flames,” he whispered.
“A rebellion?” Julius asked quickly. He had expected some foreign invader, rampaging through a few coastal towns and back to ships. It was a common enough tale in that part of the world. The man nodded, motioning with his quivering fingers for the water bowl. Julius passed it to him, watching as he emptied it.
Emperor: The Death of Kings Page 21
