“Why did they leave?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “It could be anything: invasion, disease. Perhaps they just wanted to find a new home somewhere else. I spent days here when I first came, but the houses were looted long ago and there’s little left to show how they lived. It is a strange place, though I love it. If we ever reach this valley with our bridges and new streets, I will be sad to see it go.”
A faded piece of pottery that could once have been a sign jarred his foot, and he knelt to look at it, blowing away the dust. It was blank and so thin that he could snap it in his hands.
“I suppose it looked like Valentia, once. A market and crops to sell, children running around with chickens. Difficult to imagine now.”
Servilia looked around her and tried to conjure up the image of a place full of bustling people. A lizard ran along a wall near her, catching her eye for a second before it vanished under a sagging eave. There was something eerie in walking through such a place, as if at any moment the streets would fill with life and noise again, the interruption to their lives forgotten.
“Why do you come here?” she asked.
He looked sideways at her, smiling strangely. “I’ll show you,” he said, turning a corner into a wider road.
The houses here were little more than heaps of rubble, and Servilia could see a square beyond them. The sunlight made the air warm and light as they approached it, and Julius quickened his step in anticipation as they reached the open ground.
The heavy stones of the square were cracked and lined with creeping grass and wild flowers, but Julius walked across them without looking, his eyes fastened on a broken pedestal and a statue that lay beside it in pieces. The features were almost completely worn away and the white stone was chipped and battered, yet Julius approached it with reverence. He tied their horses to a sapling that had sprung up through the stone of the square, and leaned against the statue, tracing the features with his hand. An arm had gone, but she could see the statue had been a powerful figure once. Servilia saw where words had been cut into the heavy plinth, and she traced the strange characters with her finger.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“One of the local scholars told me it says ‘Alexander the King.’”
Julius’s voice was rough with emotion and she felt again the desire to touch him, to share his thoughts. To her astonishment, she saw tears form in his eyes as he gazed at the stone face.
“What is it? I don’t understand,” she said, reaching out to him without a thought. His skin felt hot against her hand and he didn’t move away.
“Seeing him . . .” he said softly, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he pressed her hand against him with his own before letting it fall. After another long look at the stone figure, he shrugged, having found control once more.
“By the time he was my age, he had conquered the world. They said he was a god. Compared to that, I have wasted my life.”
Servilia sat on the ledge next to him, their thighs touching lightly, though she felt every part of the contact. Julius spoke again after a while, his voice distant with memory.
“When I was a boy, I used to listen to the stories of his battles and his life. He was . . . astonishing. He had the world in his hand when he was little more than a child. I used to imagine myself . . . I used to see his path once.”
Again, Servilia reached up to his face, smoothing the skin. He seemed to feel it for the first time and raised his head to look at her as she spoke.
“It is here for you, if you want it,” she said, unsure as she spoke whether she was offering more than just a hope of glory, or something more personal. He seemed to hear both meanings in her words and took her hand again. This time, his eyes searched hers at the touch, asking a silent question.
“I want it all,” he whispered, and she could not have said which of them moved to kiss the other. It simply happened, and they felt the strength of it as they sat at the feet of Alexander.
CHAPTER 5
_____________________
In the days that followed, time seemed to pass more slowly when Servilia could not find an excuse to take the horses out again. The Golden Hand was running well and she had brought two men from Rome large enough to quieten the wildest reveler. Instead of taking pleasure from the success, she found her thoughts constantly drifting back to the strange young man who could be vulnerable and frightening in the same moment. She had forced herself not to ask for him again and then waited for his invitation. When it had come, she had laughed aloud, amused at herself, yet unable to resist the excitement it brought.
She stopped to add another stem to the circlet she was weaving as they walked through a field of swaying corn. Julius paused with her, more relaxed than he had felt for a long time. The depression that had crushed him seemed to vanish in her company, and it was strange to think that their first ride into the wilderness had been only a few weeks before. She had seen the parts of his life that mattered most to him, and he felt as if he had always known Servilia.
With her, the nightmares he tried to drown like pups in heavy wine had lifted, though he felt them circling still. She was the blessing of Alexander over him, a ward against the shadows that pressed him into despair. He could forget who he had become, dropping the mantle of his authority. An hour or two each day in sunshine that warmed more than his skin.
He looked at her as she straightened, wondering at the force of the feelings she engendered. In one moment she could reveal a knowledge of the city and the senators that would leave him breathless, and in another she could be almost childlike as she laughed or chose another bloom to weave with the rest.
Brutus had encouraged the friendship after that first trip to the village of the broken statue. He saw that Servilia was like a balm to his friend’s troubled spirit, beginning to heal wounds that had festered for too long.
“Pompey was wrong to have the slaves crucified,” Julius said, remembering the line of crosses and the weeping, tortured figures on them, waiting for death. The images of the great slave rebellion were still painfully fresh in his mind, even after four years. Crows had gorged until they were too fat to fly and cawed in anger at his men as they kicked out at the staggering birds. Julius shuddered slightly.
“After the beginning, we didn’t offer the slaves anything but death. They knew we’d never let them run. They were badly led and Pompey had them tied and nailed all the way up the Via from the south. It was not greatness in him, then, responding to the terror of the mob.”
“You would not have done it?” Servilia asked.
“Spartacus and his gladiators had to die, but there were brave men in the ranks who had faced legions and beaten them. No, I would have formed a new legion and salted it with the hardest bastard centurions from all the others. Six thousand brave men, Servilia, all wasted for his ambition. It would have been a better example than putting them all on crosses, but Pompey can see no further than his petty rules and traditions. He holds his line while the rest of the world moves past him.”
“The people cheered them into the city, Julius. Pompey was the one they really wanted as consul. Crassus took the second seat in his shadow.”
“Better if the people had turned the slaves back on their own,” Julius muttered. “They would stand tall then, rather than rushing to kiss the feet of Pompey. Better to grow your crops rather than cry out for men like Pompey to give you food. It’s a sickness in us, you know. We always raise unworthy men to rule us.”
He struggled to find words and Servilia stopped, turning to face him. On such a hot day, she had chosen a stola of thin linen and wore her hair bound back with a silver thread, revealing her neck. Every day he spent with her seemed to bring some facet to his attention. He wanted to kiss her throat.
“He destroyed the pirates, Julius. Of all people, you should be pleased at that.”
“Of course I am,” he said bitterly, “though I wanted the task myself. Pompey doesn’t dream, Servilia. There are whole new lands rich wi
th pearls and gold, but he rests and organizes games for the people. They starve in the fields while he builds new temples for them to pray for wealth.”
“You would do more?” she asked, taking his arm. The touch was warm and his thoughts fled before the onslaught of a sudden passion that surprised him. He wondered if his thoughts showed, as he stammered a reply.
“I would do more. There is gold enough to raise the least of Rome, and the chance is there for us, if we can grasp it. There is nothing in the world like our city. They say Egypt is richer, but we are still young enough to fill our hands. Pompey is asleep if he thinks the borders will remain safe with the legions we have. We need to raise more, and pay for them with new lands and gold.”
She let her hand drop, feeling a shiver of desire raise the soft hairs of her skin. There was such a force in him, when it was not shuttered in grief and despair. She saw the darkness cast away with both awe and pleasure. The man who aroused her with a touch was not the one who had met her first at the gates of the fort, and she wondered what would come of the reawakening.
When she felt herself longing for him, it had shocked her, almost frightened her. That was not how it was meant to be. The men who loved her never touched more than the skin they craved. They could spend themselves in her without more than a tremble of real response. Yet this strange young man threw her into confusion whenever his blue eyes caught hers. Such strange eyes, with the dark pupil that hurt him in bright light. It seemed to see all her artifice for what it was, breaking through the smoothness of her ways to the privacy of her.
She sighed as they walked on. She was being foolish. This was no time in her life to be moonstruck by a man her son’s age. She ran her hand along the line of her bound hair unconsciously. Not that her years showed, at all. She oiled her body every night and ate well and carefully. A man could take her for thirty, she had been told, rather than the year shy of forty she had really lived. Sometimes she felt older than that, especially in the city, when Crassus came to her. Sometimes she would weep for no reason at all, the mood vanishing as quickly as it had come. She knew the young man at her side could have any of the young girls of the city. He would not want one who carried so many marks on her, that no one else could see.
She crossed her arms, almost crushing the circlet of bound flowers. She didn’t doubt she could rouse him to passion if she wanted. He was young and innocent compared to her. It would be easy, and she realized that part of her wanted it, would welcome his hands on her in the long grasses of the meadow. She shook her head slightly. Stupid girl. Should never have kissed him.
She spoke quickly to cover the pause, wondering if he had noticed her distraction, or the flush that had come to her cheeks.
“You haven’t seen Rome recently, Julius. There are so many poor now. The slave army left almost no one to work the fields, and the beggars are like flies. At least Pompey gives them a taste of glory, even when their bellies are empty. The Senate wouldn’t dare to hold him back in anything, in case the mobs rise and consume them all. It was a fragile peace when I left, and I doubt anything has improved since then. You couldn’t know how close they are to chaos. The Senate lives in fear of another uprising to rival the battles with Spartacus. Everyone who can afford them has guards and the poor kill each other in the streets with nothing done about it. They are not easy times, Julius.”
“Perhaps I should return then. I haven’t seen my daughter in four years and Pompey owes me a great deal. Perhaps it is time to call in a few of my debts and make sure I am a part of the work again.”
For a moment, his face lit with a passion that made her heart lift as she saw the image of the man she’d watched at the trial, holding the Senate rapt as he took justice from his enemies. Then, just as quickly, it was gone and he blew air through his lips in exasperation.
“I had a wife to share it with before all this. I had Tubruk, who was more like a father to me than a friend; my home. The future was rushing on me with a kind of . . . joy. Now I’ve nothing but new swords and mines and it seems pointless. I would give anything to have Tubruk come back for one hour to share a drink with me, or the chance to see Cornelia just for a while, long enough to say sorry for breaking my promises to her.”
He rubbed his eyes with his hand before walking on. Servilia almost reached for him then, knowing her touch could bring him comfort. She resisted with an enormous effort of will. The touch would lead to more, and though she ached to be held herself, she had the strength not to play the game she knew so well, that she had known all her life. A younger woman might have gathered him in without shame at the moment of his weakness, but Servilia knew too much to try. There would be other days.
Then he turned to her and held her tightly enough to hurt, his mouth pressing her lips to open for him. She gave way to it, unable to help herself.
Brutus slid neatly from the saddle as he passed under the gates of the fort. The Tenth had staged complex maneuvers out in the hills and Octavian had done well, using the force he had been given to flank Domitius in a skillful display. Brutus didn’t hesitate as he ran into the buildings. The dark moods that had cast a cloud over them all were already a memory, and he knew Julius would be pleased to hear how well his young relative was doing. Octavian had the shoulders to command, as Marius used to say.
The guard at the base of the steps was out of position, standing well back from his post. Brutus heard him shout as he clattered up the stairs, but only grinned.
Julius was lying on a couch with Servilia, their faces flushed in panic at the sudden, noisy arrival of Brutus into the room. Julius leapt naked to his feet and faced his friend in rage.
“Get out!” he roared.
Brutus froze in disbelief, then his face twisted and he spun around, slamming the door shut behind him.
Julius turned slowly to meet Servilia’s eyes, already regretting his anger. He pulled his clothes on roughly, sitting back on the long couch. Her perfume was heavy in his nostrils and he knew he smelled of her. As he stood, the warmth of the cloth was left behind and he drew away, thinking of what he had to do.
“I’ll go out to him,” she said, standing.
Wrapped in bitterness, Julius barely noticed her nudity. It had been madness to fall asleep where they could be found, but there was no point in regretting what was past. He shook his head as he tied his sandals.
“You have less of an apology to make. Let me find him first,” he said.
Her eyes hardened for a moment. “You won’t apologize . . . for me?” she said, her voice deceptively calm.
Julius stood and faced her. “Not for a moment of you,” he said, softly.
She came into his arms then and he found there was something indescribably erotic in holding a naked woman while fully clothed. He broke away with a grin despite his worry for Brutus.
“He’ll be all right when he’s calmed down a little,” he said to reassure her, wishing he believed it. With steady hands, he buckled his gladius to his waist. Servilia looked suddenly afraid.
“I don’t want you to fight him, Julius. You must not.”
Julius forced a laugh that seemed to echo in his empty stomach.
“He’d never hurt me,” he said as he left.
Outside the door, Julius’s expression settled into a grim mask as he came down the stairs. Domitius and Cabera were there with Ciro, and he imagined their eyes accused him.
“Where is he?” Julius snapped.
“Training yard,” Domitius said. “I’d leave him for a while if I were you, General. His blood’s running hot and it’ll do no good to have it out now.”
Julius hesitated, then his old recklessness swept through him. He had brought it about and the price was his to pay.
“Stay here,” he said curtly. “He’s my oldest friend and this is private.”
Brutus stood alone in the empty yard, a gladius by Cavallo glittering in his hand. He nodded as Julius walked toward him, and once again Julius almost hesitated at the black glare that followed
his every movement. If it came to blood, he could not beat Brutus. Even if he could steal victory, he doubted he could take that life above all others.
Brutus brought the shining blade into first position and Julius emptied his mind with the old discipline Renius had taught. This was an enemy and he could kill him.
Julius unsheathed his sword.
“Did you pay her?” Brutus said softly, breaking his concentration.
Julius fought against the spiky anger that came to him then. They had both learned from the same man, and he knew better than to listen. They began to circle each other.
“I think I knew, but I didn’t believe it,” Brutus began again. “I knew you wouldn’t shame me with her, so I didn’t worry.”
“There is no shame,” Julius replied.
“Yes. There is,” Brutus said and moved.
Of all men, Julius knew his style better than anyone, but he barely managed to parry a blade sent straight at his heart. It was a killing blow and he could not excuse it. Anger rose in him then and he moved a little faster, his step a little firmer on the ground as his senses quickened. So be it.
Julius darted in, ducking under a sweep of silver and forcing Brutus onto his back foot. He pulled his blade to the side to cut, but Brutus skipped away with a sneer, then answered with a rain of blows.
They broke clear, beginning to pant slightly. Julius clenched his left hand into a fist to close a gash across his palm. The blood dripped slowly from it as he moved around, leaving spots like glossy eyes to vanish in the sand.
The Field of Swords Page 6
