Julius stood up jerkily. “No,” he said. “No, that must be wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Julius. It happened only days ago. It came with the dispatches,” Pompey said. The young man’s horror tore at his own memories of finding his daughter in the garden. He handed the parchment to Julius and watched in silence as he read through it, his eyes blurring as he started over and over. Julius’s breath shuddered out of him and his hands shook so that he could barely read the words.
“Sweet gods, no,” he whispered. “It hardly says anything. What about Tubruk? Octavian? My daughter is not mentioned. There’s nothing there but a few words. Cornelia . . .” He could not finish and his head bowed in mute misery.
“It’s a formal dispatch, Julius,” Pompey whispered. “It may be they still live. There will be other letters to follow.” He paused for a moment, coming to a decision. “As close as we are to the city, I will understand if you take a short leave to see to your affairs at home.”
Julius did not seem to hear him. Crassus crossed to the young man who had seen so much grief in his life.
“If you want to go back to your estate, I’ll sign the orders. Do you hear?”
Julius raised his head and both men looked away rather than see his agony.
“I request permission to take the Tenth with me,” Julius said, shaking.
“I cannot allow that, Julius. Even if we could spare them, I cannot give you a legion to use against your enemies.”
“Just a fifty, then. Ten even,” Julius said, his voice breaking.
Pompey shook his head. “I am going back to the city myself, Julius. There will be justice done, I swear it to you, but it will be under the rule of law, the peace of the city. Everything Marius worked for. You will come back with me in a few days to finish the rebellion. That is your duty and mine.”
Julius turned as if to leave the tent, holding himself still with an immense effort of will. Pompey put a hand on his shoulder.
“The Republic is not to be thrown away when we tire of the restrictions, Julius. When my daughter died, I made myself wait. Marius himself said the Republic is worth a life, do you remember that?”
“Not her life,” Julius replied. He breathed in sobs that he tried to talk over even as they wrenched at him. “She wasn’t part of it.”
The two generals shared a glance over his head.
“Go home, Julius,” Crassus said softly. “There’s a horse waiting for you. Brutus will command the Tenth while you are gone.”
Julius stood finally, taking deep breaths to find some semblance of control in front of Crassus and Pompey.
“Thank you,” he said, attempting a salute. He still clutched the report in his hand, and he noticed it then, placing it on the seat before leaving the tent and taking the reins of the horse that had been brought for him. Some part of him wanted just to dig his heels in and gallop from the camp, but instead he wheeled and rode to where the Tenth lay sleeping in their tents. He pulled back the flap to rouse Brutus, who came out quickly when he saw his expression.
“I’m going back to Rome, Brutus. Cornelia is dead, somehow. I don’t . . . understand.”
“Oh, Julius, no,” Brutus said. He pulled his friend into an embrace and the contact brought tears from Julius in a rush. For a long time they stood together, locked in grief.
“Do we march?” Brutus whispered.
“Pompey has forbidden it,” Julius replied, standing back at last.
“Nevertheless, Julius. Do we march? Give me the word.”
Julius closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of what Pompey had said. Could he be any weaker than that man? Cornelia’s death had freed him of restraints. There was nothing to stop him throwing an army at Cato and burning him out of the flesh of Rome. Part of him wanted desperately to see flames over the city as they cut out the name and the memory of the Sullans for ever. Catalus, Bibilus, Prandus, Cato himself. All of them had families who could pay in blood for what had been taken from him.
There was still his daughter, Julia. The report had not mentioned her death.
As he thought of her, the bonds of his chosen life returned like a cloak around him, muffling his grief. Brutus was still watching him intently, waiting.
“No, Brutus, not yet. I will wait, but there is a debt in blood that must be paid. Lead the Tenth until I come back.”
“You’re going alone? Let me come with you,” Brutus said, putting a hand to the reins Julius held.
“No, you must take the command. Pompey forbade me to travel with any of the Tenth. Get Cabera out of his tent. I need him.”
Brutus ran to where the old healer slept and roused him with a shake. When he understood, the old man moved quickly, though his face was lined with exhaustion as he pulled his robe in tightly against the beating rain.
Cabera held out an arm to mount behind Julius and was pulled up with a heave as Julius wheeled the skittish horse in place. Brutus met Julius’s eyes then and took his hand in the legionary grip.
“Pompey never knew about the soldiers we left at the estate, Julius. They will fight for you if you need them.”
“If they live,” Julius replied.
Overwhelming grief stole his breath then and Julius dug in his heels. Then he was off, crouched low with Cabera behind him, blind with tears in the rain.
CHAPTER 41
Thick clumps of dark cloud obscured the spring sun and the rain fell with no sign of easing as Julius and Cabera rode up to the estate. As he looked at his home Julius felt a deep weariness that had nothing to do with the ride through the night. With the weight of the old man behind him, Julius had slowed his mount to a walking pace through the hours. There was no urgency left in him. He’d wanted the time to stretch endlessly, begrudging every step that brought him closer to this moment. Cabera had been silent on the journey and his old infectious joy had been absent as they arrived back at the place of so many memories. His robe hung wetly on his thin frame, making him shiver.
Julius dismounted by the gate and watched it open for him. Somehow, now that he was there, he didn’t want to go in, but he walked the horse into the courtyard feeling numb.
Soldiers from Primigenia took the reins, their faces a reflection of his own agony. He didn’t speak to them, but crossed the yard to the main buildings through the swirling mud of puddles from the storm. Cabera watched him go, absently rubbing the soft muzzle of the horse as he held its reins.
Clodia was there, holding a bloody cloth in her hand. She was pale and exhausted looking, with dark pouches under her eyes.
“Where is she?” he asked, and she seemed to crumple in front of him.
“In the triclinium,” she said. “Master, I . . .”
Julius walked past her into the room and stopped inside the door. Torches burned at the head of a simple bed, lighting her face with their warmth. Julius crossed to his wife and looked down at her, his hands shaking. She had been washed and dressed in white cloth, her face left unpainted and her hair tied back behind her head.
Julius touched her face and winced at the softness of it.
There was no disguising death. Her eyes had opened a fraction and he could see the whites beneath the lids. With his hand, he tried to close them again, but they eased back open when he took his fingers away.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice sounding loud against the fluttering of the torches. He took her hand in his, feeling the stiffness of the fingers as he knelt by her.
“I’m sorry they hurt you so badly. You were never part of it. I’m sorry I didn’t take you away. If you can hear me, I do love you, I always did.”
He bowed his head as shame shuddered through him. His last words had been angry to this woman he’d sworn to love, and there was no way to call the guilt back. He had been too stupid to help her, somehow sure that she would always be there and that the arguments and the ugly words didn’t matter. And now she was gone and he clenched a fist against his head in anger at himself, pressing harder and harder and welcoming th
e pain it brought. How he’d boasted to her. His enemies would fall and she would be safe.
At last he stood, but could not turn from her.
A voice shattered the quiet.
“No! Don’t go in there!”
It was Clodia, calling outside. Julius spun round, his hand going to his sword.
His daughter Julia came running into the silence, halting as she saw him. Instinctively, he moved to block Cornelia from her sight, stepping toward her and lifting her into his arms in a tight embrace.
“Mummy’s gone,” she said, and he shook his head, tears spilling out of him.
“No, no, she’s still here, and she loves you,” he said.
* * *
Pompey’s men almost gagged at the smell of rot that came from the man they held. The skin they could feel under the cloak seemed to move too easily in their grip, and as they shifted their hands the hooded man gasped in pain, as if something had torn away.
Pompey stood facing them, his eyes bright with malice. At his side were two young girls he had found in the house deep in the warren of alleys between the hills. Their faces were pinched with fear, but there was nowhere for them to run and they stood in terrified silence. The threat was clear. Pompey wiped a line of sweat from his cheek.
“Remove his hood. I want to see the man who killed my daughter,” he said.
The two soldiers reached up and pulled back the rough cloth, looking away, nauseated, as they saw what was revealed. The assassin glared at them all, his face a mass of pustules and scabs. There was not an inch of good flesh to be seen, and the scarred and bleeding skin cracked as he spoke to them.
“I am not the man you want,” he whispered.
Pompey bared his teeth. “You are one of them. You have a name for me, I know. But your life is mine to take for what you have done.”
The man’s rheumy eyes flickered to the two girls, creasing in fear. If Pompey hadn’t guessed already, he would have known then that they were his daughters. The senator knew that fear very well. The assassin spoke quickly, as if to cover what he had shown them.
“How did you find me?”
Pompey drew a knife from his belt, the blade shining even in the shadowy darkness of the room.
“It took time and gold and the lives of four good men to track you down, but the filth you employ gave you to me in the end. I’m told you’re building a beautiful estate in the north, far from this hovel. Built on my blood. Did you think I would forget about my daughter’s killer?”
The man coughed, his breath overlaid with the sweet perfume he used to cover the rot.
“It was not my knife that—”
“It was your order. Who gave you the name? Whose gold did you take? I know it anyway, but speak it before witnesses, so that I can have justice.”
For a long moment their gazes locked, and then the assassin’s eyes dropped to the blade that Pompey held so casually. His daughters looked on, their tears drying. They didn’t understand the danger and he could have cried for their innocence as they watched their father so trustingly. They were not appalled by his sores. In fact, without the gentle bathing they administered to their father, he knew he would have taken his own life a long time before. They had none of the disease, their skin perfect under the dirt they used to hide themselves from the predators of the alleys. Who would care for them when he was gone? He knew Pompey well enough to see his own life was finished. He’d had no mercy in him since the death of his daughter, if he ever had.
“Let my daughters go and I will tell you,” the assassin wheezed, his eyes pleading.
Pompey grunted softly, then reached out to the youngest one, holding her tightly by the hair. With his other hand, he drew the dagger across her throat and dropped her as she twisted in his grip.
The assassin screamed in unison with his daughter, straining to break the grip of the men that held him. He began to weep then, sagging in their arms.
“Now you know,” Pompey said. He wiped the blade between two of his fingers, the blood falling in heavy soundless drops to the earthern floor. He waited patiently until the assassin had subsided into choking sobs.
“The other one will live, perhaps. Last time of asking. Whose gold did you take?”
“Cato . . . it was Cato, through Antonidus. That is all I know, I swear.”
Pompey turned to the soldiers around him. “Did you men hear?”
They nodded, grim as their commander. “Then we are finished in this place.” He turned to leave, only a slight stain on his hands showing he had ever been there.
“Kill them both, the girl first,” he added as he went out into the alleys beyond.
* * *
“Is he awake?” Julius asked. The room stank of sickness and Tubruk lay sprawled on a bed that showed rusty stains from his bleeding. Before he entered, Julius had waited out his daughter’s tears and gently taken her fingers from around his neck. She had cried again then, but he would not take her into another death room and Clodia had found a young female slave to take care of her. From the way the little girl went into her arms, it was clear the woman had comforted her before over the last, terrible days.
“He may wake if you speak to him, but he hasn’t long now,” Clodia said, looking into the room. Her face told him more than he wanted to know, and he closed his eyes for a moment before entering.
Tubruk lay awkwardly, fresh stitches showing on his chest and disappearing under the blankets. Though he seemed to sleep, he shivered and Julius tugged the blanket up to cover him. There was a trace of blood around his mouth, fresh and red. Clodia brought a bowl of crimson water from the floor and dabbed at the smear as Julius watched in despair. Too many things had changed for him to take in, and he stood frozen as Clodia cleaned the lips and weeping stitches with tender care.
Tubruk groaned and opened his eyes at her touch. He couldn’t seem to focus properly.
“You still here, old woman?” he whispered, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.
“As long as you need me, love,” she replied. She glanced up at Julius and back to the man on the bed.
“Julius is here,” she said.
Tubruk turned his head. “Come where I can see you,” he said.
Clodia stood back and Julius came and looked into his eyes. Tubruk took a deep breath and his whole body shivered again with the release.
“I couldn’t stop them, Julius. I tried, but . . . I couldn’t reach her.”
Julius began to sob softly as he looked down at his old friend.
“It isn’t your fault,” he whispered.
“I killed them all. I killed him to save her,” Tubruk said, his eyes blank. His breathing was ragged and Julius despaired of the gods. They had given too much pain to ones he loved.
“Call Cabera in here. He’s a healer,” he said to Clodia.
She beckoned him away from the tortured figure on the bed, and he bent his head to hear.
“Don’t let him be troubled. There’s nothing to do but wait now. There’s no blood left in him.”
“Fetch Cabera,” Julius replied, his eyes fierce. He thought for a moment that she would refuse again, but then she left and he could hear her voice calling out in the courtyard.
“Cabera’s here, Tubruk. He’ll make you better,” Julius said, the soft sobbing starting again in his throat.
Dripping raindrops, the old man entered and crossed quickly to the bed, looking stricken. With deft fingers, he checked the wounds, raising the blanket to see beneath. He looked at Julius’s desperate expression and sighed.
“I’ll try,” he said. He placed his hands on the bruised flesh around the stitches and closed his eyes.
Julius leaned forward, whispering a prayer under his breath. There was nothing to be seen, just the figure of the old healer bent over, his hands still and dark against the pale chest. Tubruk took a long inward breath in sudden spasm, then breathed out slowly. He opened his eyes and looked at Clodia.
“The pain’s gone, love,” he said. Then the lif
e went out of him and Cabera staggered and fell.
* * *
Pompey frowned at the galley captain who stood stiffly before him.
“I don’t care what your orders are. These are mine. You will sail south toward Sicilia and hail any other galleys you see on the way down the coast. Every Roman vessel is to guard the south and prevent the slaves escaping. Is that understood, or must I have you arrested and appoint another captain in your place?”
Gaditicus saluted, disliking the arrogant senator with a passion he didn’t dare let show. After six months at sea, he had been hoping for some time ashore in the city, but he was being ordered out again without even a chance to clean the ship. Prax would be furious when he heard, he thought.
“I understand, sir. We’ll clear the docks on the next tide.”
“Be sure you do,” Pompey replied, before striding back to his waiting soldiers. Gaditicus watched him go and glanced at the other galleys that had already put out to sea. With them all heading for the strait of Sicilia, Roman ports everywhere would be easy prey. Whatever the Senate was planning, he hoped it was worth the risk.
* * *
As the evening darkened, Clodia came to Julius as he drank himself into a stupor in a dark room. He looked up as she entered, his eyes listless.
“Are you home for good now?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, I’m going back with Pompey in a few days. I’ll see to the funerals for both of them first.” His voice was slurred and miserable, but there were no words of comfort she could think to offer. Part of her wanted to make him feel pain for the cruel way he’d treated Cornelia, and it was only with the last of her strength that she didn’t speak to hurt him. His face showed he knew well enough.
“Will you stay and look after my mother and daughter?” he said without looking at her.
“I am a slave. I should return to Senator Cinna’s house,” she replied.
He met her eyes then and waved his hand drunkenly. “I free you, then. I’ll buy your paper from her father. I can do that much at least before I go back. Just look after Julia. Is Octavian here?”
“In the stables. I wasn’t sure if he should go back to his mother and . . .”
Emperor: The Death of Kings Page 48
