"You're a man now, Julius. Or she will make you one very soon!" he said loudly, with a twinkle in his eye. "You have your father's name. He would be proud of you."
Julius returned the grip strongly. "Do you want me on the walls now?"
"I think we can spare you for a few hours. Report to me at four this afternoon. Metella will have finished crying about then, I think."
They grinned at each other like boys, and Julius was left in a space for a moment, alone with his bride in a crowd of well-wishers. Alexandria walked up to him and he smiled, suddenly nervous. Her dark hair was bound with wire and the sight of her made his throat feel tight. There was so much history in those dark eyes.
"That's a beautiful brooch you are wearing," he said.
She reached up and tapped it with her hand. "You'd be surprised at how many people have asked about it this morning. I already have some orders."
"Business on my wedding day!" he exclaimed, and she nodded without embarrassment.
"May the gods bless your house," she said formally.
She moved away and he turned to find Cornelia looking at him quizzically. He kissed her.
"She is very beautiful. Who is she?" she said, her voice betraying a touch of worry.
"Alexandria. She is a slave at Marius's house."
"She doesn't act like a slave," Cornelia replied dubiously.
Julius laughed. "Do I hear jealousy?"
Cornelia did not smile and he took her hands gently in his.
"You are all I want. My beautiful wife. Come to our new home and I'll show you."
Cornelia relaxed as he kissed her, deciding to find out everything she could about the slave girl with the jewelry.
The new house was bare of furniture and slaves. They were the only ones there and their voices echoed. The bed was a present from Metella, made of carved, dark wood. At least there was a mattress over the slats, and soft linen.
For a few minutes, they seemed clumsy, self-conscious with the weight of the new titles.
"I think you might remove my toga, wife," Julius said, his voice light.
"I shall, husband. You could unbind my hair, perhaps."
Then their old passion returned and the clumsiness was forgotten through the afternoon, as the heat built outside.
Julius panted, his hair wet with perspiration. "I will be tired out tonight," he said between breaths.
A light frown creased Cornelia's forehead. "You'll be careful?"
"Not at all, I shall throw myself into conflict. I may start a battle myself, just to impress you."
Her fingers traced a line down his chest, dimpling the smooth skin. "You could impress me in other ways."
He groaned. "Not right now I can't, but give it a little time."
Her eyes glinted mischievously as she moved her delicate fingers.
"I might be too impatient to wait. I think I can awaken your interest."
After a few moments, he groaned again, crumpling the sheets under his clenching fists.
At four o'clock, Julius was hammering at the barracks door, only to be told the general was back up on the walls, walking section after section. Julius had exchanged his toga for a legionary's simple uniform of cloth and leather. His gladius was held to his belt and he carried a helmet under one arm. He felt slightly light-headed after the hours spent with Cornelia, but he found he was able to leave that longing in a compartment inside himself. He would return to her as the young lover, but at that moment he was a soldier, nephew of Marius, trained by Renius himself.
He found Marius talking to a group of his officers and stood a few paces away, looking over the preparations. Marius had split his legion into small mobile groups of sixteen men, each with assigned tasks, but more flexible than having each century man the wall. All the scouts reported Sulla making a straight line for the city, with no attempt to feint or confuse. It looked as if Sulla was going to risk a direct attack, but Marius still suspected some other plan to make itself evident as the army hove into view. He finished giving his final orders and gripped hands with each of his officers before they went to their posts. The sun had dropped past the zenith point and there were only a few hours until evening began.
He turned to his nephew and grinned at the serious expression.
"I want you to walk the wall with me, as fresh eyes. Tell me anything you could improve. Watch the men, their expressions, the way they hold themselves. Judge their morale."
Julius still looked grim and Marius sighed in exasperation.
"And smile, lad. Raise their spirits." He leaned in closer. "Many of these men will be dead by morning. They are professionals, but they will still know fear. Some won't be happy about facing our own people in war, though I have tried to have the worst of those moved back from the first assault wall. Say a few words to as many as you can, not long conversations, just notice what they are doing and compliment them on it. Ask them their names and then use the name in your reply to them. Ready?"
Julius nodded, straightening his spine. He knew that the way he presented himself to others affected how they saw him. If he strode in with shoulders and spine straight, men would take him seriously. He remembered his father telling the boys how to lead soldiers.
"Keep your head high and don't apologize unless you absolutely have to. Then do it once, loudly and clearly. Never whine, never plead, never gush. Think before you speak to a man and, when you have to, use few words. Men respect the silent; they despise the garrulous."
Renius had taught him how to kill a man as quickly and efficiently as possible. He was still learning how to win loyalty.
They walked slowly along a section of wall, stopping and speaking to each soldier and spending a few minutes longer with the leader of the section, listening to ideas and suggestions and complimenting the men on their readiness.
Julius caught glances and held them as he nodded. The soldiers acknowledged him, tension evident. He stopped by one barrel-chested little man adjusting a powerful metal crossbow, set into the stone of the wall itself.
"What's the range?"
The soldier saluted smartly. "With the wind behind you, three hundred paces, sir."
"Excellent. Can the machine be aimed?"
"A little, nothing precise at the moment. The workshop is working on a moving pedestal."
"Good. It looks a deadly thing indeed."
The soldier smiled proudly and wiped a rag over the winch mechanism that would wind the heavy arms back to their locking slot.
"She, sir. Something as dangerous as this has to be female."
Julius chuckled as he thought of Cornelia and his aching muscles.
"What is your name, soldier?"
"Trad Lepidus, sir."
"I will look to see how many of the enemy she takes down, Lepidus."
The man smiled again. "Oh, it will be a few, sir. No one is coming into my city without the permission of the general, sir."
"Good man."
Julius moved on, feeling a touch more confidence. If all the men were as steadfast as Trad Lepidus, there couldn't be an army in the world that could take Rome. He caught up with his uncle, who was accepting a drink from a silver flask and spluttering over the contents.
"Sweet Mars! What's in this, vinegar?"
The officer fought not to smile. "I daresay you are used to better vintages, sir. The spirit is a little raw."
"Raw! Mind you, it is warming," Marius said, tilting the flask up once more. Finally, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Excellent. Send a chit to the quartermaster in the morning. I think a small flask for officers would be just the thing against the chill of winters nights."
"Certainly, sir," the man replied, frowning slightly as he tried to calculate the profits he would make as the sole supplier to his own legion. The answer obviously pleased him and he saluted smartly as Julius passed.
Finally, Marius reached the flight of stone steps down to the street that marked the end of the section. Julius had spoken or nodded or listened to
every one of a hundred or so soldiers on that part of the wall. His facial muscles felt stiff and yet he felt a touch of his uncle's pride. These were good men and it was a great thing to know they were ready to lay down their lives at your order. Power was a seductive thing, and Julius enjoyed the reflected warmth of it from his uncle. He felt a mounting excitement as he waited with his city for Sulla to arrive and darkness to come.
Narrow wooden towers had been placed at intervals all round the city. As the sun set, a lookout shouted from one and the word was passed at a fierce speed. The enemy was on the horizon, marching toward the city. The gates were closed against them.
"At last! The waiting was chafing on me," Marius bellowed, charging out of his barracks as the warning horns were sounded across the city, long wailing notes.
The reserves took their positions. Those few Romans still on the streets ran for their homes, bolting and barricading their doors against the invaders. The people cared little for who ruled the city as long as their families were safe.
The Senate meetings had been postponed that day, and the senators too were in their palatial houses, dotted around the city. Not one of them had taken the roads to the west, though a few had sent their families away to country estates rather than leave them at risk. A few rose with tight smiles, standing at balconies and watching the horizon as the horns moaned across the darkening city. Others lay in baths or beds and had slaves ease muscles that tightened from fear. Rome had never been attacked in its history. They had always been too strong. Even Hannibal had preferred to meet Roman legions on the field rather than assault the city itself. It had taken a man like Scipio to take his head and that of his brother. Would Marius have the same ability, or would it be Sulla who held Rome in his bloody hand at the end? One or two of the senators burned incense at their private altars for their household gods. They had supported Marius as he tightened his grip on Rome, forced to take his side in public. Many had staked their lives on his success. Sulla had never been a forgiving man.
CHAPTER 28
Torches were lit all around the city as night fell. Julius wondered what it would look like to the gods as they looked down, a great gleaming eye in the black vastness of the land. We look up as they look down, he thought. He stood with Cabera on ground level, listening to the news as it was shouted down from the wall lookouts and relayed along and deep into the city, a vein of information for those who could see and hear nothing. Over it, despite the nearby noises, he could make out the distant tramp of thousands of armored men and horses on the move. It filled the soft night and grew louder as they approached.
There was no doubt now. Sulla was bringing his legion right up the Via Sacra to the gates of the city, with no attempt at subterfuge. The lookouts reported a torch-lit snake of men stretching for miles back in the darkness, with the tail disappearing over hills. It was a marching formation for friendly lands, not a careful approach to close with an enemy. The confidence of such a casual march made many raise eyebrows and wonder what on earth Sulla was planning. One thing was for certain: Marius was not the man to be cowed by confidence.
* * *
Sulla clenched his fists in excitement as the gates and walls of the fortress city began to glow with the reflected light of his legion. Thousands of fighting men and half as many again in support marched on through the night. The noise was rhythmic and deafening, the crash of feet on the stone road echoing back and around the city and the night. Sulla's eyes sparkled in the flames of torches and he casually raised his right hand. The signal was relayed, great horns wailing into the darkness, setting off responses all the way down the great snake of soldiers.
Stopping a moving legion required skill and training. Each section had to halt to order, or a pileup would result, with the precision lost in chaos. Sulla turned and looked back down the hill, nodding with satisfaction as each century became still, their torches held in unwavering hands. It took almost half an hour from the first signal to the end, but at last, they all stood on the Via Sacra and the natural silence of the countryside seemed to flow back over them. His legion waited for orders, gleaming gold.
Sulla swept his gaze over the fortifications, imagining the mixed feelings of the men and citizens inside. They would be wondering at his halt, whispering nervously to each other, passing the news back to those who could not see the great procession. The citizens would hear his echoing horns and be expecting attack at any moment.
He smiled. Marius too would be chafing, waiting for the next move. He had to wait; that was the key weakness of the fortified position—they could only defend and play a passive role.
Sulla bided his time, signaling for cool wine to be brought to him. As he did so, he noticed the rather rigid posture of a torch carrier. Why was the man so tense? he wondered. He leaned forward in his saddle and noticed the thin trickle of boiling hot oil that had escaped the torch and was creeping toward the slaves bare hand. Sulla watched the man's eyes as they flicked forward and back to the burning liquid. Was there a touch of flame in the trickle? Yes, the heat would be terrible; it would stick as it burned the man. Sulla observed with interest, noting the sweat on the man's forehead and having a private bet with himself as to what would happen when the heat touched the skin.
He was a believer in omens and at such a moment, before the gates of Rome herself, he knew the gods would be watching. Was this a message from them, a signal for Sulla to interpret? Certainly he was beloved of the gods, as his exalted position showed. His plans were made, but disaster was always possible with a man like Marius. The flickering flames on the oil touched the slave's skin. Sulla raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking with surprise. Despite the obvious agony of it, the man stood still as rock, letting the oil run on past his knuckles and continue its course into the dust of the road. Sulla could see the flames light his hand with a gentle yellow glow yet still the fellow did not move!
"Slave!" he called.
The man turned to face his master.
Pleased, Sulla smiled at his steadiness. "You are relieved. Bathe that hand. Your courage is a good omen for tonight."
The man nodded gratefully, extinguishing the tiny flames with the grasp of his other palm. He scuttled off, red-faced and panting at the release. Sulla accepted a cool goblet graciously and toasted the walls of the city, his eyes hooded as he tipped it back and tasted the wine. Nothing to do now but wait.
Marius gripped the lip of the heavy wall with irritation.
"What is he doing?" he muttered to himself. He could see the legion of Sulla stretching away into the distance, halted not more than a few hundred paces from the gate that opened onto the Via Sacra. Around him his men waited, as tense as himself.
"They are just outside missile range, General," a centurion observed.
Marius had to control a flare of temper. "I know. If they cross inside it, begin firing at once. Hit them with everything. They'll never take the city in that formation."
It made no sense! Only a broad front stood a chance against a well-prepared enemy. The single-point spearhead march stood no chance of breaching the defenses. He clenched his fist in anger. What had he missed?
"Sound the horns the moment anything changes," he ordered the section leader, and strode back through the ranks to the steps leading to the city street below.
Julius, Cabera, and Tubruk waited patiently for Marius to come over, watching him as he checked in with his advisers, who had nothing new to offer, judging by the shaking of heads. Tubruk loosened his gladius in his scabbard, feeling the light nerves that always came before bloodshed. It was in the air and he was glad he had stayed on through the hot day. Gaius—no, Julius now—had almost sent him home to the estate, but something in the ex-gladiator's eyes had prevented the order.
Julius wished the band of friends could have been complete. He would have appreciated Renius's advice and Marcus's odd sense of humor. As well as that, if it did come to a fight, there were few better to have at your side. He too loosened his sword, rattling the blade a
gainst the metal lip of the scabbard a few times to clear it of any obstructions. It was the fifth time he had done so in as many minutes, and Cabera clapped a hand to his shoulder, making him start a little.
"Soldiers always complain about the waiting. I prefer it to the killing, myself." In truth, he felt the swirling paths of the future pressing heavily on him and was caught between the desire to get Julius away to safety and the urge to climb up onto the wall to meet the first assault. Anything to make the paths resolve into simple events!
Julius scanned the walls, noting the number and positions of men, the smooth guard changes, the test runs of the ballistae and army-killer weapons. The streets were silent as Rome held its breath, but still nothing moved or changed. Marius was stamping around, roaring orders that would have been better left to the trusted men in the chain of command. It seemed the tension was affecting even him.
The endless chains of runners were finally still. There was no more water to be carried, and the stockpiles of arrows and shot were all in position. Only the breathless footsteps of a messenger from another part of the wall broke the tension every few minutes. Julius could see the worry on Marius's face, made almost worse by the news of no other attack. Could Sulla really be willing to risk his neck in a legal entry to the city? His courage would win admirers if he walked up to the gates himself, but Julius was sure he would be dead, killed by an "accidental" arrow as he approached. Marius would not leave such a dangerous snake alive if he came within bow shot.
His thoughts were interrupted as a robed messenger jostled by him. In that moment, the scene changed. Julius watched in dawning horror as the men on the closest section of the wall were suddenly overwhelmed from behind, by their own companions. So intent were they on the legion waiting outside that scores fell in a few seconds. Water carriers dropped the buckets they held and sank daggers into the soldiers nearest them, killing men before they even realized they were under attack.
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