The sun was going down by the time Seneca arrived with his two cohorts. The bustle aboard the galley had increased as the soldiers and crew made ready to sail. It was a relief to see Brutus talking to an officer on the wooden pier and Seneca realized how much he had been depending on the man.
He halted the cohorts, painfully aware of the scrutiny of the galley crew as they coiled ropes and heaved the last of the freshwater barrels up the planking and into the hold. This time, his salute was as perfect as he could make it and both men turned to him.
“Reporting, sir,” Seneca said.
Brutus nodded. He seemed angry and a glance at the galley captain told Seneca he had interrupted an argument.
“Captain Gaditicus, this is Livinius Seneca, my second in command,” Brutus said formally.
The captain didn’t bother to look his way and Seneca felt a surge of dislike amidst the pleasure at his new title.
“There is no conflict here, Captain,” Brutus continued. “You were heading for Ostia to pick up men such as these. What does it matter if you cross to Greece from here?”
The captain scratched his chin and Seneca saw the man was unshaven and looked exhausted.
“I was not aware that Caesar had come back to Rome. I should wait for orders from the city before—”
“The Senate and Pompey gave you orders to join them, sir,” Brutus interrupted. “I should not have to tell you your duty. Pompey ordered these men to Ostia. We would be with him now if we had not been forced to cut across country. Pompey will not be pleased if you delay my arrival.”
The captain glared at him.
“Don’t flaunt your connections, General. I have served Rome for thirty years and I knew Caesar when he was just a young officer. I have friends in power I can call on.”
“I don’t recall him mentioning your name when I served with him in Gaul,” Brutus snapped.
Gaditicus blinked. He had lost that particular contest. “I should have known from the armor,” he said slowly, looking at Brutus in a new light. “But you’re going to fight for Pompey?”
“I am doing my duty. Do yours,” Brutus said, his temper fraying visibly. He had had about enough of the opposition that seemed to spring up at every stage of this endless day. He looked at the galley rocking gently in the waves and ached to be leaving the land behind.
Gaditicus swept his eyes over the column of men waiting to board. All his life he had followed orders, and though it smelled wrong, he knew he had no choice.
“It will be tight, with so many. One storm and we’ll go down,” he said with the last of his resistance.
Brutus forced a smile. “We’ll manage,” he said, turning to Seneca. “Take them on board.”
Seneca saluted again and went back to his men. The pier shivered underfoot as the column approached and the first ranks began to clamber up the gangplank onto the wide deck.
“So why will you be fighting against Caesar? You did not say,” Gaditicus murmured.
Brutus glanced at him. “There is bad blood between us,” he replied, with more honesty than he had intended.
Gaditicus nodded. “I wouldn’t like to face him myself. I don’t think he has ever lost a battle,” he said thoughtfully.
Brutus responded with a flash of anger, as Gaditicus had hoped he would. “The stories are exaggerated,” he replied.
“I hope so, for your sake,” Gaditicus said.
It was a little revenge for having been forced to back down, but he did enjoy Brutus’s expression as he looked away. Gaditicus remembered the last time he had been in Greece, when a young Caesar had organized attacks on the camp of Mithridates. If Brutus had seen that, he might have thought twice before choosing Pompey as his master. Gaditicus hoped the arrogant general in his silver armor would be taught a harsh lesson when the time came.
When the last of the guards were on board, Gaditicus followed them, leaving Brutus alone on the dock. The sun was setting in the west and Brutus could not look in the direction of Rome. He took a deep breath as he straightened and stepped onto the deck, gently moving on the swell. He had left them all, and for a while he could not speak for the memories that overwhelmed him.
The ropes were coiled and hung as the galley moved out onto the waters, the chant of the slaves at their oars like a lullaby beneath his feet.
CHAPTER 8
The city was closed while the voting went on, the gates sealed. The crowd on the Campus Martius was raucous and cheerful, as if electing consuls were a public holiday rather than a rejection of Pompey and his Senate. The sun beat on them all and there were many enterprising young families charging a bronze coin to enjoy the shade of an awning they had carried out to the great field. The smell of sizzling meat, the conversations, the laughter, and the shouts of vendors all mingled into a sensual cacophony that felt very much like life and home.
Julius and Mark Antony climbed the steps up to the platform the legion carpenters had made for them. They stood together in white togas trimmed with purple. Julius wore the laurel wreath of a successful general, the dark leaves fresh-bound in gold wire. He was rarely seen in public without it, and there were some who suspected the attachment was in part to conceal the balding head beneath.
The Tenth were polished and shining as they stood guard on the new consuls. They held their spears and shields ready to signal for silence, but Julius was content simply to stand there, gazing over the heads of the vast crowd.
“The last time I was made consul in this place, I had Gaul ahead of me,” he said to Mark Antony. “Pompey, Crassus, and I were allies. It seems more than a lifetime ago, now.”
“You did not waste the time,” Mark Antony replied and they shared a smile as they remembered those years. As always, Mark Antony had a polished look, as if he were carved from the best Roman stone. It sometimes irked Julius that of all the men he had known, Mark Antony looked most like a consul should look. He had a strong face and a powerful frame, coupled with a natural dignity. Julius had heard that the women of Rome fluttered and blushed in his wake.
Julius looked up at the taller man, knowing he had made the right choice in having him stand to lead the Senate. He was loyal, but not as Regulus was loyal, where a careless word might send death on quick wings to an enemy. Mark Antony cared deeply for the old Republic and would make it live while Julius went to Greece. He had shown a disdain for wealth that only those born to it could assume. He could be trusted and it was a relief for Julius not to have to worry that his precious city would suffer while he was away. Of all men, he knew the fragility of apparent peace, and the lessons of Milo and Clodius had not been lost on him, even as far away as Gaul. Rome needed a steady hand and peace to grow. Pompey could never have given that to her.
Julius smiled wryly, knowing he too was not the man to run a peaceful city. He had loved the conquest of Gaul and Britain too much to consider spending his latter years in sleepy debates. He cared enough for the law when he could change it to match his vision, but the tedious administration that followed would be a slow death. Like Pompey, he preferred to tear through the skin of comfort and find new places, new struggles. It was somehow fitting that the last lions of Rome should be facing each other at last. If Pompey had not been there to try him, Julius thought he would still have found himself handing power to Mark Antony, at least for a while. He would have gone to conquer Africa, perhaps, or to follow the footsteps of Alexander to the strange lands he had described in the east.
“Shall we address our people, Consul?” he said, signaling a centurion of the Tenth.
The soldiers around the platform crashed their spears into their shields three times, and then there was silence and they could hear a breeze whisper across the field of Mars. The crowd stood respectfully, then some of them started cheering and the rest joined in before Julius could speak. The sound was carried upwards by thousands of throats as the sun beat down.
Julius looked at Mark Antony and was surprised to see there were tears in his eyes. He did not feel it so s
trongly himself, perhaps because his mind was already on the campaign to come, or because he had been a consul once before. He envied his companion, understanding without sharing the emotion.
“Will you speak first?” he asked softly.
Mark Antony inclined his head in thanks for the offer. “After you, General. They are yours.”
Julius rested his hands on the wooden rail his men had made for him, exactly at the height he wanted. He took a deep breath and flung out his voice.
“The centuries have voted today and their mark has been made in the soil of our fathers. Mark Antony and I stand before you as consuls and Pompey will hear your voices even in Greece. He will know his absent Senate has been replaced. That is our message to him. No man is more than Rome, no single man more than those I see before me today.”
They cheered and stamped to show their pleasure at his words.
“We have shown that Rome can survive the loss of those who care nothing for her. We have shown that there can be law without corruption. Have I fulfilled my promises to you?”
They roared incoherently in what may have been agreement.
“I have,” Julius told them firmly. “The courts have been cleansed and bribery punished openly. There will be no secret deals in my city by those who rule. The workings of the Senate will be published each day at sunset. Your votes are a loan of power, but only to work in your interests, not to press you down. I have not forgotten this, as some have. Your voices sound with me each day and I will take their echoes to Greece to pass them to the armies there.”
The crowd had grown denser at his feet as those behind pressed forward. He wondered how many had come to the Campus to vote in the new posts. They had been standing since dawn and would be hungry and thirsty, their few coins gone to the vendors long before. He resolved to be brief.
“The legions in Greece will have heard us here today. They will wonder how they support a man who has lost the faith of the people who matter most. There can be no authority without your voice. You have made some of your number into magistrates and quaestors, yes, and even into consuls!” He waited through the response, smiling down at them. “We have accomplished much in these last few months. Enough that when I leave I know that my city will be safe and at peace. I will take your votes to Pompey and I will tell him that he has been rejected by the citizens who raised him. I will serve my city faithfully and Mark Antony will be your hands, your eyes, your will in the Senate.”
As they cheered, he brought Mark Antony forward with a hand on his arm.
“And now they are yours,” he murmured.
Without a glance back at the massed citizens, he walked down the steps to the ground and left Mark Antony alone to face them. It was important that the new consul be seen to act on his own, and Julius walked away to where his horse was held ready. He took the reins from a legionary of the Tenth and threw a leg over the saddle, sitting straight and taking a deep breath of the cool air.
As Mark Antony began to speak, Julius shook his head in gentle amusement. Even the man’s voice was perfect. It rang over the crowd, and if Julius knew the words had been hammered out in late-night sessions, it did not show.
“To stand here, my brothers, with the city behind us, is the reason I was born . . .” Julius heard, before the voice was lost on the breeze. The extraordinarii formed up around him and they cantered toward the gates of Rome.
Julius watched in silence as two of the strongest men dismounted and walked toward the plates of bronze and wax that sealed the city. They carried heavy hammers and as they raised them Julius heard the noise of the citizens swell like the sound of distant waves. With a crack, the plates fell away and the gates swung open for him to ride back to his work. The elections had given him legitimacy, but he would still have to take his legions over a hostile sea to Greece. For a moment, the thought that he would face Brutus there made him falter. It was a pain he crushed ruthlessly whenever it surfaced. The gods would grant him another meeting with his oldest friend, or they would not. He would lead his army to triumph, or he would be killed and his path would end. He could not allow himself to weaken, having come so far.
“It is just a step,” he said to himself as he crossed the line of the walls.
Servilia was there at the old house of Marius when Julius arrived, sweating and dusty from his ride through the sweltering city. She looked fresh in comparison, but in the bright light of day, her age was ever more visible. She had always been a woman for the evening. He busied himself with the saddle for a moment while he collected his thoughts, unwilling to launch straight into another difficult discussion. The crowds of Rome were far easier to handle than Servilia, he thought.
A slave brought him a cup of iced apple juice and Julius emptied it as he walked into the rooms where she waited. Water could be heard from the fountain in the courtyard and the inner rooms were arranged as squares around an open center so that the scent of plants and flowers was always in the air. It was a beautiful home and it was rare now that he imagined the voice of Marius echoing through it.
“Consul once again,” he said to her.
Her eyes softened for an instant, touched by his pride. There had been precious little softness from her since the night Brutus had left. At first, Julius had thought she felt guilt for her son’s betrayal, but he should have known better.
“Your wife will be pleased, Caesar,” Servilia said.
Julius sighed and saw her eyes flash with anger. He went to her and took her in his arms. “But I came here to you, Servilia, as I said I would. Pompeia is at the estate to give me an heir. Nothing more than that. We have discussed this enough, don’t you think? The granddaughter of Cornelius Sulla is the best match I could have found to give me a son. He will have the blood of two noble families running through him. One day, the boy will lead Rome after me.”
Servilia shrugged and he knew the hasty marriage still festered within her.
“You were the one who warned me first that I would want a son, Servilia,” he reminded.
She snorted. “I know that, but I also know the part men think with. You are not a breeding bull, Julius, for all your boasting. Oh yes, I’ve heard your drunken soldiers talk about your stamina. What a joy it was to hear how many times you plowed her in a single night.”
Julius whooped with laughter. “You cannot hold me responsible for my soldiers!” he said. “You should know better than to listen to such things.” He took her by the shoulders, his amusement obvious. “I am here; does that tell you nothing? Pompeia will be mother to my children, that is all. I will not tell you there is no pleasure in fathering them. The girl is extremely well-proportioned—”
Servilia pushed him away.
“I have seen her,” she said. “Pompeia is beautiful. She is also witless, which I suspect you missed while you were gazing at her breasts.”
“I wanted health and strength, Servilia. As the breeding bull, I will provide the wit for my children.”
“You are a goat, at least,” she said, and he laughed again.
“A goat who is consul for the second time, Servilia. A goat who will rule.”
His humor was infectious and she could not resist him. Gently, she slapped his face to interrupt his mood.
“All men are fools around women, Julius. If you leave her out in that estate for too long without you, there will be trouble.”
“Nonsense, she will pine for me. After a touch of Caesar in the night, all women—”
She slapped him again, with a little more force. “You chose for beauty and children, but keep a close eye on that one. She is far too pretty to be left alone.”
“I will keep her away from the young men of Rome, of course. Now, enough of this, Servilia. As consul, I demand food and the best wine from the cellar. I have to go to Ostia later to see the new keels and I’m up at dawn tomorrow to take the auspices with Mark Antony. It will be a good year for Rome, I can feel it. There will be lightning tomorrow as the earnest priests look for signs.”
“Domitius will come and report he has seen some. That has always worked in the past. The priests won’t argue. We will have a year of good fortune, regardless.”
He stepped away from her and she ached to be held as strongly again. For all his laughing dismissal of his new wife, he had not shared Servilia’s bed for some weeks and the last time was almost a requiem for the closeness she remembered. There had been little hunger in him then; not for her. She swallowed her pride in his presence, but the marriage had hurt.
Yet he was with her, as he said, and his wife was out of the city with no one but slaves for company. Servilia had seen passion become friendship before. She knew she should be easing into that state, as she had once done with Crassus. But the slightest touch from Julius or a kiss would make her remember riding together in Spain and sitting at the feet of Alexander’s statue in the first glow of new love. It was too painful.
A slave entered and bowed to Julius before speaking. “Master, there are visitors at the gate,” he said.
“Excellent,” Julius replied, turning to Servilia. “I asked Domitius, Octavian, and Ciro to bring their promotion lists to me.” He seemed uncomfortable for a moment and the amusement faded from his face. “We have had to make changes since Brutus left for Greece. Will you sit in on the discussion?”
“No, you don’t need me here,” Servilia replied, raising her chin. Had she been summoned only to be ignored? Even for a leader of Rome, Julius was capable of the most appalling breaches of courtesy. It was more than possible that he thought the brief exchange was enough to fulfill his obligations to her. She folded her arms with slow care, and he looked at her then, seeing the irritation. His eyes lost their distracted blankness and she could almost feel the full force of his attention.
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