The temple of Jupiter in Dyrrhachium had nothing like the opulence of the one in the forum in Rome. It had been built for Greek gods before its current role, and Pompey had chosen it for its space and central location rather than any religious significance. Nonetheless, it seemed fitting to have the head of the pantheon watch his preparations, and Pompey had noticed his servants and soldiers were subtly awed by their surroundings. There was no coarse language heard within its walls and it was rare that their voices were raised above murmurs. Pompey had made a large donation to the temple priests and it came as no surprise that they approved his choice. Jupiter Victor was a military god, after all.
Leaving their horses in the hands of legion grooms, both men strode inside through the high white columns. Pompey paused for a moment on the threshold, his eyes watching for signs that the men within were not busy at their work.
The air of quiet bustle was exactly as he had left it that morning. More than two hundred officers, clerks, and slaves were there to administer his new legions, and the clacking sound of hurrying sandals echoed in the space. Pompey had brought in heavy tables for his maps and at each of those were senior officers, their heads bent as they made marks and discussed the positions. Silence spread as they stood stiffly to salute. Pompey returned the gesture and the work resumed without ceremony.
Labienus gave his helmet and sword to a waiting slave and Pompey ordered food brought for them as they walked down the central aisle together. The main map had been hung on the wall and Pompey went straight for it, already considering the problems of the campaign. As tall and wide as a man, it was painted onto squares of soft calfskin, smoothed to velvet with pumice stones. The whole of Italy and Greece lay there, rendered in perfect color and detail.
Pompey checked his hands were free of dirt and touched the key ports of the western coast of Greece.
“I would appreciate your views, Labienus. If the fleet does not stop Caesar, he will have hundreds of miles of coast to choose for his landing, north and south. If I gather our army in any one place, he can avoid the area we control and establish his camps in perfect safety. Yet even with fifty thousand men, I cannot guard every single mile of Greece.”
Labienus looked up at the map, his hard face resembling a man at prayer.
“We must assume all seven of his legions survive the gauntlet of our ships,” Labienus said. “It is not likely, but we must plan for it. They will need a huge amount of supplies each day and he will not be able to wait for us to come to him, unless he lets them starve. I have found that food and water win battles as readily as strength of arms.”
“I have prepared,” Pompey replied. “Dyrrhachium will be our main store. The city is bursting with grain.” He expected a compliment and was surprised when Labienus frowned.
“Perhaps it would be better not to leave such a resource in one single town. I do not say it can be done, but if he were able to cut us off from Dyrrhachium, where would we be? Eleven legions need even more meat than seven.”
Pompey called a clerk and dictated an order. In the months since their first meeting, he had come to realize that Labienus had a mind for such details and a quick grasp of the problems of a long campaign. Simply gathering eleven legions in one place caused immense difficulties of supply. Labienus had first come to his attention as he had created lines from the farms and cities of Greece into the west. As far as Pompey knew, not a single man had been short of rations from the first month. It was an awesome achievement.
“If he avoids our fleet and lands in the east,” Labienus continued thoughtfully, “he will have been at sea for more than a month and be running low on freshwater. His men would have to march hundreds of miles just to reach us. If he were not given to the sort of innovation you have described, I would ignore the east completely. Far better for him to make for one of the main ports in the west, though our galleys are swarming here. Dyrrhachium in the north, Apollonia, or Oricum would be my estimate. I would bet on those three, or some stretch of the coast in between. He will not want to be at sea longer than he has to, with our galleys ready to attack.”
“Of those, which would be your choice?” Pompey asked.
Labienus laughed, a sound like chopping wood that disappeared as quickly as it came. “I can only guess at his choice, sir. If I were running his campaign, I would choose Oricum, knowing your legions will be spread around the cluster of ports further north. At least then I would not have to fight on two fronts.”
The sound of loud footsteps interrupted them and Pompey looked down the length of the temple, his good humor evaporating. Brutus.
Having one of Caesar’s most trusted men come over to him should have been a cause for rejoicing, Pompey knew. When Brutus had stepped ashore with his cohorts, the Greek legions had buzzed with the news and excitement. He had even saved the loyal members of the road guards from Caesar’s anger and the younger soldiers walked in awe of the Gaul veteran. Brutus had given up a great deal to risk his life with Pompey and he deserved to be honored. If it were only so simple.
Pompey watched coldly as Brutus strode up the central aisle toward him. The silver armor had been burnished till it glowed. He saw Brutus had removed his sword as ordered, and took a deep breath as the general came close. He could feel Labienus’s eyes on him, noting his reaction even as he tried to mask it.
Brutus saluted. “I am at your orders, sir,” he said.
Pompey frowned at him, unable to remember if he had arranged a meeting, but unwilling to admit such a thing in front of either man. There had been a time when his mind was as sharp as that of anyone in Rome, but age had taken the edge off his memory as much as his physical strength. His shoulder seemed to ache more fiercely as a reminder. Some of this irritation could be heard in his tone as he replied.
“I have decided not to confirm your command of the Fifth legion, Brutus. Your cohorts will make up the numbers there and you will accept the orders of the Legate Selatis. I will watch you closely and if you do well . . . if I find you loyal, you will be quickly rewarded. You are dismissed.”
Not a trace of disappointment showed on Brutus’s face. It was almost as if he had expected the answer.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, saluting and spinning on his heel.
Pompey saw that every eye in the temple followed the silver general as he left, and he sighed to himself. The man was a thorn in his side, but he was also a legend. “What would you do with that one, Labienus?” he said. “Would you trust him?”
Labienus hesitated. He was far less comfortable speaking of other officers than he was of the sweep of tactics or the difficulties of supply. As Pompey turned to him, he spoke. “No more than you have, sir, though I would be ready to give him a legion as soon as I was sure of him. He is . . . a most interesting officer. I have never seen a better swordsman. The legionaries seem to revere him and his experience suggests he is capable of leading well under your command. If he has fallen out with Caesar, as he claims, he will strive to prove your trust.”
“That is the heart of the problem, Labienus. If he has been thrust upon me by some stratagem of Caesar’s, he could do as much damage as another legion on their side in the right place. A key charge withheld, a deliberate withdrawal at a crucial point, a sudden move to block my reserves. Any of those things could lose me the war.
“If I could only be certain of his loyalty, I would honor and parade him in that flashy silver armor. I could not have hoped to command one of Caesar’s own generals. I could use him, Labienus. As it is, I dare not even trust the information he brings. I’d rather be ignorant than misled into a disaster.”
“It is better to be cautious at this point, sir. When he kills the first of Caesar’s soldiers, we will know he is loyal. Or I will have him taken.”
The two men met each other’s eyes and Pompey nodded, accepting the suggestion.
The food arrived on silver plates and Pompey made sure Labienus took the best of what was offered. They ate standing by the map, continuing to discuss th
e problems of the campaign. Long after the plates were empty, they were still talking and the sun was sinking toward the horizon before it was time for Pompey to visit the angry old men of his Senate once more.
Brutus buckled on his gladius as he walked outside into the sun, leaving Labienus and the old fool to cook up their plans on their own. The pair of them suited each other, he thought. If there had ever been a spark of life in Labienus, it had been dried out on the stove of his years in Greece, and Pompey had lost his courage with his youth.
He glanced behind him and grunted as he caught sight of the two men Labienus had assigned to watch his movements. At first, he had accepted their presence, telling himself that he would have done the same. How could they trust a general of Gaul who had been Caesar’s right hand for so many years? As the months passed and Pompey had remained aloof, the injustice of his situation had begun to fester more and more. Brutus had a greater knowledge of Pompey’s enemy than any man alive, and he knew he could be the key to destroying him. Instead, his suggestions were received almost with insolence by Pompey’s clerks. Brutus had begun to doubt they even passed on the majority of his messages. It was a bitter irony, and the constant shadow of Labienus’s men irritated him more than usual that afternoon.
He grimaced as he walked, knowing they would be trotting behind him. Perhaps it was time to make them breathe a little harder than usual for their pay. He knew Dyrrhachium well enough after spending three months stationed in the barracks there, and for once he was willing to ignore the inner voice that told him to bide his time until he was trusted. On that day, he was suddenly sick of it and as he turned a corner he burst into a run, accelerating across the street under the surprised gaze of a cart driver and his oxen.
Brutus dodged down an alleyway and raced to its end without looking back. That was one thing Renius had taught him the last time he had been in Greece. In the first moments of flight, looking back can only slow you down. You know they are there, following you.
He took two more corners at high speed and his legs were warming nicely. He was as fit as any of the soldiers in the barracks with the constant training, and he felt as if he could run all day. An open door beckoned and Brutus charged straight through a strange house, coming out into a street he did not know. He didn’t stop to see if they were still following him, but pounded on for half a mile of twisting roads until he was sure he had lost them.
They would report it to the coldhearted Labienus, he was certain, though it would earn them a flogging. The general was not cruel, but he enforced his orders to the letter and Brutus did not envy the pair. Pompey would certainly be told and his suspicions aroused. Perhaps a patrol would be sent out to comb the streets. Brutus panted lightly as he considered his position. At best, he had an hour before he was captured. Labienus was nothing if not efficient and it would not take much longer to close the net. Brutus grinned, knowing there was only one place worth visiting in such a short period of freedom. He took his bearings quickly and loped off, his sandals beating the red dust of the city in a rhythm he could keep up for miles.
Once, he thought he saw running legionaries in the distance, but Brutus kept a street between them and they never came closer. Sweat drenched his hair, but his lungs were still drawing well by the time he made his way to the center of the city and the garden courtyard where he knew he would find the daughter of Caesar; a pretty bird in a cage.
Like the Senate themselves, Julia had no real role to play in the months of waiting for Caesar to build a fleet and cross. Brutus had seen her on the arm of her husband in the first few weeks after their arrival, but as the work had increased for Pompey, she had been left to her own devices. It had been a strange thing to be introduced to her in Pompey’s offices, so far from Julius’s estate. On that first meeting, Brutus had only managed a few polite words, but he thought he had caught a sparkle beneath her formality. Pompey’s slaves had painted and clothed her in jewels exactly as she had once predicted. For Brutus, the mixture of cold reserve and heavy perfume was deeply exciting, a warning and a challenge.
When he had first seen the garden where she sheltered from the heat of the afternoon, he had noted the entrances almost idly. He knew Pompey remained at the temple until evening and then went on to one of his dull meetings with the senators. Apart from a few personal slaves, his wife was often left practically alone.
Brutus guessed Pompey would have soldiers somewhere near her, but as he looked through the gate to the cool inner courtyard, no one else was visible. His heart beat faster at the danger of it. Pompey knew he had met Julia before through her father. It would not take a great deal for him to become suspicious of something more than a casual acquaintance.
Perhaps it was the fact that he had been denied his orders to lead a legion, or simply the irritation at the constant mistrust and distance that Pompey imposed. Either way, Brutus felt a thrill of pleasure despite the appalling risk.
“Are you well, Julia?” he called softly through the ornate bars.
He saw her stiffen and she looked round, the image of Julius’s first wife, Cornelia. She was a beautiful woman and the sight of her brought back memories of their single night together with surprising force. There had been little blood, he remembered, though enough perhaps to bind her to him.
She stood and came to the gate, her face flushed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “My husband—”
“Is discussing his dreary plans with Labienus, as always, Julia, as I’m sure you know. Why he leaves a woman like you alone on such a beautiful day, I cannot understand.”
He heard the high voice of a child sing tunelessly in the background.
“Your son? Who else is with you here?”
“You must not talk to me, Brutus!” she said, looking around nervously. “He has guards within call and there are always slaves here. This is not private.”
A little boy tottered out of the house and Brutus winked at him. The child beamed.
“He is very handsome, that one. Look at the size of his hands. He will be a great swordsman.”
Julia’s fear softened at the compliment and she turned to her son. “Go inside. I will play with you in a moment,” she said. They both watched as the boy nodded gravely and made his way back across the garden.
“Are you going to let me in?” Brutus asked.
Julia shook her head firmly. “Definitely not. I cannot be seen with you and I don’t think I could trust you.”
“I was remembering a night in a stable,” he admitted, enjoying the way she blushed. “You can’t tell me you prefer Pompey now?”
“He is my husband,” she said, but the firmness was gone from her voice.
Unconsciously, she had crept closer to the bars. If they had not been there, he could have taken her into his arms and kissed her, but he thought she was ready to leap away if he made such an attempt.
“Why did you leave my father?” she asked, suddenly. “I never expected that from you. It was not to be with me, I know that.”
His reply came so quickly that she didn’t notice him look away for a flickering instant. The lies came easily to him in that mood.
“Your father is the best man I have ever known, Julia. Pompey will have to be very lucky to beat him, for all his confidence.”
“Then why did you desert him?” she said, her eyes flashing.
He wondered at the conflict in her to have her husband planning a war with her father. As she looked at him, he had an idea as exciting as it was simple. By the gods it was a risk, though. How far could he trust what he saw in her eyes? Would she betray him?
“Do I have your oath not to tell Pompey?” he whispered.
“On the life of my son,” she replied, leaning even closer.
“I have not left Julius,” he said. “I am here to help him win.”
Her red lips opened as she took in what he was saying. He wanted to kiss them hungrily and his hand moved of its own accord to stroke her hair. She pulled back out of range on the instant.<
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“No one else knows,” he said. “I have told you only because I could not bear to have you think of me as a traitor.”
He could see she wanted to believe him and it was all he could do not to burst into laughter.
“Your husband does not trust me, though,” he continued. “He will not let me command enough men to make a difference. I think he intends to put me in the front ranks, to be killed in the first skirmish.” Was he being too obvious? He had intended a subtle barb to have her fear for him, but it was difficult to find exactly the right tone.
Still she did not reply and he could see the agony in her expression as she found herself caught between conflicting loyalties. She loved her father, he knew. He had gambled that she would not tell Pompey and see him executed. If affection had grown for the Dictator, Brutus knew his life could be measured in hours. Already he was appalled at the risk he had taken, and as she remained silent he would have given anything to take back the words.
“Does my father want you to lead a legion?” she asked faintly.
He smothered a grin then, knowing she was his and he had won. “He does, Julia,” he said.
“Then I will persuade my husband to give you a command.”
He forced surprise onto his face, as if he had never considered the idea.
“Can you do it? He will not like to be pushed,” he said. He saw she had grown pale and now that the idea had been planted, he had a sense of time running away from him. He could not be found at her gate, especially now.
“I know him well,” she said. “I will find a way.” On impulse, she pressed her face against the bars and kissed him hard on the lips. “Let my father know I have not forgotten him,” she said.
“I will, girl, but I must go now,” he replied.
He could have sworn he heard the clatter of iron-shod sandals in the distance. He would have to be far away when they found him, preferably in a tavern with a girl on his arm. It would be difficult to talk his way out of it, but not, he hoped, impossible.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
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