The docks were empty of ships, the dark hulks standing clear out to sea where they could watch the horde of slaves looting their city under rising plumes of smoke and ash. The ships were packed with silent people, just watching. Spartacus walked up to the edge of the docks and returned their stares.
“See how many they hold, Crix. We have enough gold to buy every one of us a berth.”
“These precious merchants won't stir to save us,” Crixus replied. “It has to be the pirates. The gods know, they have enough ships, and spitting in Rome's eye will give them some pleasure, as well.”
“But how to get word to them? We must send riders out to each port. There has to be a way to reach them.” Spartacus looked over the water at the pale specks of faces clustered in the ships. It was possible, if they could speak to Rome's enemies.
Antonidus walked up to stand at his side, squinting out over the waves with a sneer.
“Brave Roman citizens hiding from us like children,” he said.
Spartacus shrugged, tired of his bitterness and spite. “Sixty or seventy ships like those and we can leave Roman lands. A fleet bought with their own gold seems like justice.”
Antonidus looked at the two gladiators with more interest. He'd been tempted to slip away at the port, taking off his armor and joining the crowds of people who would surely gather once the slaves were gone. Then he'd seen the gold they'd taken from the treasury. Enough to buy him an estate in Spain or a vast farm in Africa. There were many places for a man to hide that would not shelter an army. He knew if he stayed, their trust in him could give him the chance he needed. Would Pompey forgive him if he brought Spartacus's head? Antonidus frowned. No, he'd faced a Roman court once and that was enough. Better just to run for a place where he could start again.
Spartacus turned, putting the sea at his back. “We will send local men to every port with a few coins to prove their promises. Speak to them, Crixus. Someone must know how to reach the pirates. Let them know the plan. It will raise their spirits on the march south.”
“We're heading south toward Rome, then?” Antonidus asked sharply.
A terrible anger creased the features of the gladiator for a moment, and Antonidus stepped back as he answered.
“We should never have turned our backs on the mountains, but now we must keep ahead of them. We'll run those bastards ragged on our trail. Remember, we're the ones who till their fields and work every hour of light for their wealth. It's made us strong. Let's see what sort of state they're in by the time we sight their beloved city.”
As he spoke he stared west into the sun, his eyes glinting gold with it as he imagined the legions hunting them. His face was bitter and Antonidus had to look away.
CHAPTER 40
As the moon rose, Alexandria stood on the walls above the great city of Rome with the rain drumming against the stones. Torches had been lit all round the city, and they spat and crackled, giving only a little light to the defenders. When the warning horns had sounded, they had all come, snatching up tools and knives to hold the wall against the silent mass that tramped past in the darkness, churning the Campus Martius into clotted mud.
Tabbic held his iron hammer in tight hands, his face drawn and pale in the flickering light. There was no give in him, or any of them, Alexandria knew. If the slaves attacked them, they would fight as ferociously as the legions themselves. She looked up and down the line at the faces staring down into the dark and wondered at their calm. Families stood together in silence, even the children awed into stillness by the army passing them by. The moon cast only a little light, but it was enough to show the white faces of the slaves as they looked up at the city that had decreed their death. There seemed no end to them, but the moon reached its zenith and began to fall before the last stragglers disappeared into the night.
The tension eased at last, after hours of painful anticipation. The messengers from the legions had passed the news that they were close behind, and the Senate had ordered the people to the walls until it was safe, setting the example by taking places on the great gatehouses with the swords of their fathers and grandfathers.
Alexandria gulped in the cold air, feeling alive. The rain had begun to lighten and Rome had survived. Sudden smiles and laughter showed her that they all felt it, and for a moment she knew they had shared a bond in the dark that was as strong as any other tie in her life. Yet still she was torn. She had been a slave, as they were slaves, and had dreamed of rising up in a multitude to cast down their owners' precious houses and walls.
“Will they all be killed?” she murmured, almost to herself.
Tabbic turned sharply toward her, his eyes shadowed.
“They will. The Senate has known fear and they won't forgive a single one of them. The legions will make a bloody example of them before it ends.”
* * *
Pompey allowed the lamps to burn low in his tent as he read the dispatches from Rome, less than thirty miles south of them. Rain drummed against the canvas of the command tent and dripped through in places to make the ground sodden. Food sat on his table untouched as he read and reread each message. Crassus would have to be told.
After a while, he stood to pace and barely noticed as one of the torches guttered and failed. He took another from its stand and held it to illuminate a map that covered the entire wall of the tent. Spots of dark moisture showed on the parchment, and he realized he'd have to take it down if the rain continued. Rome was a tiny circle on the thick skin, and somewhere to the south the slaves were moving ever onward to the sea. He stared at the symbol for the city, knowing he had to make a decision before Crassus arrived.
Around him, only the sentries moved around the silent camp in damp misery. The Senate had sent supplies out to them as soon as the army of Spartacus had marched south. Pompey could only imagine the fear in the streets as the sea of slaves passed them by, but the gates had been barred against them.
He was proud of his people when he'd heard: the old and the young, women and loyal slaves ready to fight. Even the Senate had armed themselves, as they had centuries before to defend their city with their lives. It gave him hope for them.
A murmur of passwords outside revealed the approach of Crassus, who looked around in surprise at the dark tent as he entered. He wore a heavy leather cloak over his armor and pulled back the hood, scattering droplets.
“Evil night,” he muttered. “What news?”
Pompey stopped and turned toward him. “Some of it is . . . awful,” he replied, “but it must wait. There are four legions at the coast, just landed from Greece. I'm going to meet them and bring them after us.”
Crassus nodded warily. “What else, Pompey? You could send the extraordinarii to them, with our seals on the orders. Why go yourself?”
Pompey grimaced in the shadows. “The man who killed my daughter has been found. The men I left to hunt him are watching him now. I will stop at the city before I meet the legions coming west. You'll have to go on without me until this is done.”
Crassus took a taper and oil jug from the table and relit the lamps, his hand shaking slightly as he concentrated. At last, he sat down and met Pompey's eyes.
“If they turn to fight, I will not be able to wait for you,” he said.
Pompey shook his head. “Then do not force them to turn. Give them room to run and in a few days, a week, I will be back with fresh men to end this chase at last. Don't risk losing everything, my friend. For all your skill in Senate, you are no general. You know it as well as I do.”
Crassus hid his anger. Always they saw him as the merchant, the lender, as if there were some great secret to the legions that only the chosen few could understand. As if there were some shame to his wealth. He could see Pompey was desperate not to lose this victory. How awful it would be if lowly Crassus stole it from under him! Whoever broke the rebellion would be the next consul, he was sure. How could the Senate resist the will of the people after so many months of fear? Not for the first time, Crassus felt regret at
his generosity in choosing Pompey in the Senate debate. If he had known then how the campaign would go, he would have risked it alone.
“I will herd them south,” he said, and Pompey nodded, satisfied. He lifted another of the dispatches from the table and showed it to Crassus, angling it into the light. As Crassus read, Pompey stood and pointed to the map.
“Those reports of a fleet can only be for the slaves. I'd stay if I wasn't sure they will keep moving, but as long as you don't provoke them, they should head south to meet the ships. I'll call in the galleys against them. There will be no escape by sea, I swear it.”
“If that's what they intend,” Crassus muttered, still reading.
“They cannot run forever. They must be starving, no matter what they've found to scavenge. Every day weakens them if they're hoping to bring us to another battle. No, they're trying to escape and those reports are the key to it.”
“And when they see our galleys gathering to prevent it, you'll ride up with the Greek legions to finish them?” Crassus asked, some of the bile he felt creeping into his tone.
“I will,” Pompey replied sharply. “Do not take the threat lightly, Crassus. If we lose now, we lose everything. We need the extra legions I will bring. Do not join in battle until you see my flags. I'd rather see you retreat than be routed before I arrive.”
“Very well,” Crassus replied, stung by the casual dismissal of his abilities. If Spartacus attacked while Pompey was away, the moment would be his to seize, and the glory with it. “I know you will come as quickly as you can,” he said.
Pompey sagged slightly, resting his knuckles on the table. “There is another matter. I'm leaving immediately for the city and I don't know if I should keep it to myself until we're finished here or not.”
“Tell me,” Crassus said, softly.
* * *
The leather tents were heavy with rain that roared in a broken rhythm as the men slept fitfully. Julius dreamed of the estate. The day had been tiring as the legions forced the pace toward Rome, and when the order had come to set the tents, the legionaries had barely bothered to remove their armor before falling asleep. Those who had lived through the forced marches were harder than they had ever been, tight-skinned over taut muscle. They had seen friends die on the march or just fall off the road, their legs twitching. Some of them had lived to join the end of the column, but many of their wounded had died, losing blood with each step until their ailing hearts finally stopped and they lay where they fell.
Feet that had bled and been caked with a brown rime had become layered in callus, white against their sandals. Torn muscles had healed and the legions became stronger on the march, their heads rising. In the third week, Pompey called for a faster pace on the Via Flaminia and they met it without protest, feeling again the thrill of the chase.
Julius murmured irritably as someone shook his shoulder.
“There's a messenger from Pompey, Julius. Wake up, quickly.”
Julius snapped awake, shaking his head to clear it of the dream. He looked out of the tent at the messenger carrying Pompey's bronze seal and dressed quickly, leaving his armor behind. As soon as he stepped out, the rain drenched him to the skin.
* * *
The sentry at the command tent stood aside as Julius gave the password of the day. Both Crassus and Pompey were there and he saluted them, instantly wary. There was something strange in their expressions that he had not seen before.
“Sit down, Julius,” Crassus said.
The older man did not meet his eyes as he spoke, and Julius frowned slightly as he took a seat on a bench by the table. Julius waited patiently and when the generals did not speak immediately, a spike of worry twisted in his stomach. He wiped water from his face with a nervous scrubbing motion. Pompey poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward the young tribune.
“We . . . I have bad news, Julius. Messages have come from the city,” he began. His expression was uncomfortable as he took a slow breath to continue.
“There has been an attack on your estate. Your wife has been killed. I understand—”
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 i
n 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.
Conn Iggulden - Emperor 02 Page 47
