Suetonius approached and cupped his hand under the flesh of his chin.
‘Even small dogs can bite, can’t they, Bibilus? Would you betray me, I wonder? Yes, of course you would, if I gave you the chance. But you would fall with me, and harder. You know that, don’t you?’
Suetonius gripped a jowl between two fingers and twisted. Bibilus shivered with the pain.
‘You really are a dirty bastard, Bibilus. I need you, though, and that binds us better than friendship, better than blood. Don’t forget it, Bibi. You could not stand torture and Pompey is known to be thorough.’
With a jerk, Bibilus pulled away, his soft white hands pressed against his bruised throat.
‘Call your pretty children and have them light the fire again. It’s cold in here,’ Suetonius said, his eyes glittering.
In the dining room of the campaign house, Brutus stood at the head of the table and held up his cup as he looked at his friends. They rose to honour him and some of the bitterness he felt over Salomin eased in their company. Julius met his eyes and Brutus forced a smile, ashamed that he had ever believed his friend responsible for the beating.
‘What shall we drink to?’ Brutus said.
Alexandria cleared her throat and they looked to her.
‘We will need more than one toast, but the first should be to Marcus Brutus, first sword in Rome.’
They smiled and echoed the words and Brutus could hear Renius’ bass voice growl above the rest. The old gladiator had spoken to him for a long time after winning the tournament and, as it was him, Brutus had listened.
Brutus raised his cup as their eyes met, making it a private thanks. Renius grinned in response and Brutus felt his mood lighten.
‘Then the next must be to my beautiful goldsmith,’ he said, ‘who loves a good swordsman, in more ways than one.’
Alexandria blushed at the laughter that followed and Brutus leered into her cleavage.
‘You are drunk, you lecher,’ she replied, her eyes bright with amusement.
Julius called for the cups to be refilled.
‘To those we love who are not here,’ he said and something in his tone made them all pause. Cabera lay upstairs with the best physicians in Rome at his side, not one of them with half his skill. Though he had healed Domitius, the old man had collapsed immediately afterwards and his illness cast a pall over the rest of them.
They echoed the toast, falling silent as they remembered those they had lost. As well as the old healer, Julius thought of Servilia, and his gaze strayed to the empty chair set aside for her. He rubbed his forehead in memory of where the pearl had struck him.
‘Are we going to stand all night?’ Domitius asked. ‘Octavian should be in bed by now.’
Octavian tilted his cup back, emptying it. ‘I was told I could stay up late if I’m good,’ he replied cheerfully.
Julius looked affectionately at his young relative as they sat. He was growing into a fine man, though his manners were a little rough. Even Brutus had remarked on the number of times Octavian had been seen at Servilia’s house and apparently he was becoming something of a favourite with the girls there. Julius watched as Octavian laughed at something Renius had said and hoped the extraordinary confidence of his youth would not be too harshly taken from him. Yet if the young man was never truly tested, he would be a shell. There were many things Julius would change from his own past, but without them, he knew he would still be the angry, proud little boy that Renius had trained. It was a terrible thing to consider, but he hoped that Octavian would know at least some pain, to take him into manhood. It was the only way he knew and while Julius could forget his triumphs, his failures had shaped him.
The food came on Julius’ own silver plates, fashioned in Spain. They were all hungry and for a long time no one spoke to interrupt the soft sound of chewing mouths.
Brutus leaned back in his chair and covered a belch with his hand.
‘So are you going to be consul, Julius?’ he asked.
‘If they vote in sufficient numbers,’ Julius replied.
‘Alexandria is making you a consul’s clasp for your cloak. It’s very fine,’ Brutus continued.
Alexandria rested her head on a hand. ‘A surprise, remember Brutus? I said it was to be a surprise. What did that mean to you, exactly?’
Brutus reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry. It is fine, though, Julius.’
‘I hope I have the chance to wear it. Thank you, Alexandria,’ Julius replied. ‘I just wish I could be as sure of victory as Brutus.’
‘Why wouldn’t you be? You lost one case in the forum that no one could have won. You won three that you should have lost. Your clients are out every night for you and the reports are good.’
Julius nodded, thinking of the debts he had amassed to achieve it. The gold he had won from Pompey had vanished over a few short days of the campaign. Despite the extravagant reputation he had earned, he regretted some of the wilder expenses, the pearl particularly. Even worse was the way the moneylenders assumed a familiarity with him as the debts increased. It was as if they felt they owned a part of him and he longed for the day when he would be free of their grasping hands.
Flushed with the wine, Brutus stood once more. ‘We should have another toast,’ he said. ‘To victory, but victory with honour.’
They all came to their feet and raised their cups. Julius wished his father could see them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.
Sleep had been impossible the night before and when the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.
He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.
Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.
If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each success and Julius was forced to smile his congratulation, though it was like acid in him.
He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores face down to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favoured.
Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.
‘… Caesar,’ the magistrate cried and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn. Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.
The results of the second class were more even and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’ fourteen and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’ father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.
Over the next hour, the lead changed three times and at the end, the total for Suetonius’ father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’ side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them and Bibilus blushed crimson.
‘Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!’ Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.
Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’ shoulders as if Suetonius was not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.
‘I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,’ Pompey said.
Bibilus made a sound that could have been a reply, but Pompey went on over it.
‘You have made a fair showing amongst the first classes, and may do better still before the end. See it through and who knows? Even if you are not successful, there is always a place for the old families in the Senate.’
Bibilus plastered a sick smile onto his face and Pompey patted his arm as he let him go. Suetonius turned away rather than try again and watched coldly as Bibilus took another three votes.
By noon, every result was greeted with cheers as the wine sellers sold their wares to the crowd. Julius felt able to unbend enough to drink a cup, but could not taste it. He exchanged inanities with Bibilus, but Senator Prandus remained aloof and only nodded stiffly when Julius congratulated him on his showing. Suetonius had nothing like his father’s skill at hiding his emotions and Julius felt his eyes on him constantly, wearing his nerves.
As the sun passed its zenith, Pompey called for awnings to shade them. A hundred centuries had voted and Julius was second and seventeen votes clear of Prandus. As things stood, Bibilus and Julius would take the seats, and the crowd began to show their interest more openly, cheering and jostling each other to observe the candidates. Julius watched as Suetonius drew a large red cloth from his toga and mopped his brow with it. It was a strangely flamboyant gesture and Julius smiled grimly, glancing to the west, where the Janiculum flag could be seen.
The Janiculum hill commanded a full view of the city and the land around it. A huge mast rose from a stone base at the highest point and the men who watched for invasion never shifted their gaze. It was usually an easy duty, more suited to the ancient days when the city was in constant danger from outlying tribes and armies. This year, the Catiline conspiracy had brought home the continued need for the duty and those who had won the task by lot were alert and watchful. There were six of them, four boys and two veterans from Pompey’s legion. They discussed the candidates as they ate a cold lunch, thoroughly enjoying the break from their normal duties. At sunset, they would complete their day with a note from a long horn and the solemn lowering of the flag.
They did not see the men creeping up the hill behind them until a pebble clicked against a rock and went skipping down the steep side below the crest. The boys turned to see what animal had disturbed them and one cried out in warning at the sight of armed men scrambling up. There were seven of them; big, scarred raptores who showed their teeth as they caught sight of the small number of defenders.
Pompey’s men jumped to their feet, scattering food and knocking over a clay jug of water that darkened the dusty ground. Even as their blades came free, they were surrounded, but they knew their duty and the first of the raptores was punched flat as he came too close. The others surged in, snarling, and then another voice snapped through the air.
‘Hold! Who moves, dies,’ Brutus shouted. He was running towards them with a full twenty soldiers at his heels. Even if he had been alone, it could have been enough. There were few in Rome who would not have recognised the silver armour he wore, or the gold-hilted sword he had won.
The raptores froze. They were thieves and killers and nothing in their experience had prepared them to face the soldiers of their own city. It took only an instant for them to abandon the attempt on the flag and leap away in all directions down the steep slopes. A couple of them lost their footing and rolled, dropping their weapons in the panic. By the time Brutus arrived at the flag mast, he was panting lightly and Pompey’s men saluted him, their faces flushed.
‘It would be a shame to have the election stopped by a few thieves, wouldn’t it?’ Brutus said, looking down at the dwindling figures.
‘I’m sure Briny and I could have held them, sir,’ one of Pompey’s men replied, ‘but these boys are good lads and no doubt we would have lost one or two.’ The man paused as it occurred to him he was being less than gracious about the rescue. ‘We were glad to see you, sir. Are you letting them go?’
The legionary moved to the edge with Brutus, watching the progress of the raptores below. Brutus shook his head.
‘I have a few riders at the bottom. They won’t reach the city.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the soldier replied, smiling grimly. ‘They don’t deserve to.’
‘Can you see which one of the candidates is losing at the moment?’ Brutus asked, narrowing his eyes at the dark mass of citizens in the distance. He could make out where Julius was standing and saw a speck of red appear on one of the men at his side. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Julius had guessed right.
Pompey’s soldier shrugged. ‘We can’t see much from here, sir. Do you think that red cloth was their signal?’
Brutus chuckled. ‘We’ll never be able to prove it, you know. It’s tempting to try to turn those thieves with a little gold, sending them against their master. More satisfying than just leaving their bodies out here, don’t you think?’
The soldier smiled stiffly. He knew his general was no friend of the man who stood at his shoulder, but the silver armour put him in awe. He could tell his children that he had talked to the greatest swordsman of Rome.
‘Better by far, sir,’ he said, ‘if they’ll do it.’
‘Oh, I think they will. My riders can be very persuasive,’ Brutus replied, looking at the flag snapping in the breeze above his head.
Suetonius glanced as casually as he could at the Janiculum flag. It was still flying! He bit his lower lip in irritation, wondering if he should take the red cloth from his toga one more time. Were they asleep? Or had they just taken his money and were sitting in some tavern drinking themselves blind? He thought he could make out figures moving on the dark crest and wondered if the men he had hired were unable to see his signal. He looked around guiltily and reached inside the soft cloth of his robe once more. At that moment, he saw Julius was smiling at him, the amused gaze seeming to know every thought in his head. Suetonius let his hand fall away to his side and stood stiffly, painfully aware of the flush that had started on his neck and cheeks.
Octavian lay in the long grass with his horse beside him, its gr
eat chest heaving in long, slow breaths. They had trained the mounts for months to be able to hold the unnatural position and now the extraordinarii only had to lay a hand on the soft muzzles to keep them still. They watched as the raptores came slipping and leaping down the Janiculum and Octavian grinned. Julius had been right that someone might try to lower the flag if the election turned against them. Though it was a simple ploy, the effects would have been devastating. The citizens of Rome would have streamed back to the city and the results up to that point declared void. Perhaps another month would pass before they assembled again and many things could change in that time.
Octavian waited until the running men were close, then gave a low whistle, swinging his leg into the saddle as his horse rose. The rest of his twenty leapt up smoothly with him, gaining their saddles before their mounts were fully upright.
To the fleeing thieves, it seemed as if fully armed cavalry sprang out of the ground at them. The seven men panicked completely, either throwing themselves flat or raising their hands in instant surrender. Octavian drew his sword, holding their eyes. Their leader watched him in resignation, turning his head to spit into the long grass.
‘Come on, then. Get it over with,’ he said.
Despite his apparent fatalism, the thief was fully aware of the positions of the riders and only relaxed when every avenue of retreat had been blocked. He had heard a man could outrun a horse over a short distance, but looking at the glossy mounts of the extraordinarii, it didn’t seem likely.
When the last few blades had been taken from the men, Octavian unstrapped his helmet from the saddle and put it on. The plume waved gently in the breeze, adding to his height and giving him a forbidding aspect. He thought it was well worth the portion of his pay that had gone to buy it. Certainly, the raptores all looked to him now, waiting grimly for the order to cut them down.
‘I don’t expect charges could ever be brought against your master,’ Octavian said.
The leader spat again. ‘Don’t know any master, soldier, except maybe silver,’ he said, his face suddenly cunning as he sensed something was up.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 107
