The Field of Swords

by Conn Iggulden

  As the guard closed the door and went down the stairs, Brutus drained his wine and grinned. “So, are you going to tell us why we’re here, Julius?”

  They all watched the man who faced them. The familiar tiredness had vanished from his features and he stood straight, his armor shining with oil.

  “Gentlemen, Servilia. We are finished here. It’s time to go home,” he said.

  There was a moment of silence and then Servilia jumped in her seat as the others cheered and laughed together.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Renius said, tilting his cup.

  Julius unrolled a map on his desk and they crowded around him as he laid weights at the corners. Servilia felt excluded and then Julius caught her eye and smiled at her. It would be all right.

  As Julius discussed the problems of moving five thousand men, she began to calculate. The Golden Hand was barely started, and who would run it if she left? Angelina didn’t have the iron in her. She’d be running a free house within a year if Servilia left her in charge. Nadia, possibly. A heart of flint and experienced enough, but could she be trusted not to steal half the profits? Hearing her own name snapped her back from her thoughts.

  “. . . not by land then, in the time. Servilia gave me the idea when we met the merchant captain she uses. I’ll write orders to commandeer every ship on the passage. That is not to be discussed except between ourselves. If they hear we’re going to use their ships, they’ll put to sea and stay there.”

  “Why are you leaving before you’re finished here?” Cabera said softly.

  The conversation around the table died to nothing and Julius paused with his finger on the map.

  “I am finished here. This is not where I should be,” he replied. “You told me that yourself. If I wait out my term, Pompey will send me somewhere else well away from my city, and if I refuse, that will be my last posting anywhere. There are no second chances from that man.” Julius tapped his finger on the map over the tiny mark of the city he loved.

  “There are elections at the end of the year for two seats as consul. I’m going back to try for one of them.”

  Cabera shrugged, still testing. “And then? Will you fight a war for the city like Sulla?”

  Julius became very still for a moment and his eyes pinned Cabera.

  “No, old friend,” he said softly. “Then I will no longer be posted at Pompey’s whim. As consul, I will be untouchable. I will be at the heart of things again.”

  Cabera wanted to let the moment pass, but his stubbornness forced him to speak.

  “But after that? Will you have Brutus drill the Tenth while you write new laws the people will not understand? Will you lose yourself in maps and bridges as you have done here?”

  Renius reached out and gripped Cabera by the shoulder to make him stop, but the old man ignored the hand.

  “You can do more than that, if you have eyes to see it,” he said, wincing as Renius closed his hand on his thin muscles, hurting him.

  “If I am consul,” Julius said slowly, “I will take what I love to the wildest places I can find. Is that what you want me to say? That Spain is too quiet for me? I know it. I will find my path there, Cabera. The gods listen more closely to those who speak from Rome. They just can’t hear me out here.” He smiled to cover his anger and felt Servilia watching him over Octavian’s shoulder. Renius dropped his hand from the old man’s arm and Cabera scowled at him.

  Brutus spoke to smooth the moment over. “If we start holding ships tonight, how long before we have enough to move the Tenth?”

  Julius nodded his head a fraction in thanks. “A month at most. I have already sent word that we need captains for a large cargo. I think no more than thirty ships will be enough to land at Ostia. The Senate would never let me approach Rome with the whole legion as it is, so I’ll need a camp at the coast. I’ll take the gold with me on that first trip. We have enough for what I have in mind.”

  Servilia watched them argue and wrangle as the sun set behind them. They barely noticed the guard enter the room to light more lamps. After a while, she left to begin her own arrangements, the night air of the yard making her feel alive after the heat of the room.

  She could still hear their voices as she walked across the yard and saw the gate sentries stiffen as they saw her.

  “Is it true we’re going to Rome, madam?” one of them said as she passed him. It came as no surprise to find the man had heard a rumor. Some of her best information in Rome came from the lower ranks.

  “It’s true,” she said.

  The man smiled. “It’s about time,” he said.

  When the Tenth moved, they moved quickly. Ten of the largest ships in Valentia port had guards preventing their escape within a day of the meeting in the long room. To the fury of the merchant captains, their precious cargoes were unloaded and left in the warehouses on the docks to make more room for the vast stores of equipment and men that made up a legion.

  The gold at the fort was crated and taken out to the ships, with fully armed centuries attending every foot of the journey. The forges of the swordmakers were dismantled and tied on huge wooden pallets that took teams of oxen to lift into the dark holds. The great war ballistae and onagers were reduced to spars, and the heavy ships sank lower and lower in the sea as they were filled. They would need the highest tide to sail out of the harbor, and Julius set the day exactly one month after he had made the formal announcement. If all went well, they would reach Rome just over a hundred days before the consular elections.

  The quaestor Julius had promoted was ambitious and Julius knew he would work like a slave to keep his new post. There would be no loss of discipline in the provinces when the Tenth had gone. The quaestor brought two cohorts to the east under Julius’s orders, some of them local men who had joined the Roman forces years before. It was enough of a force to keep the peace, and Julius took pleasure from the fact that the problem was no longer his.

  There were a thousand things to organize before the ships could throw their lines from the dockside and move out to sea. Julius pushed himself to exhaustion, sleeping only one night in two, at best. He met with local leaders from all over the country to explain what was happening, and the gifts he left them ensured their aid and blessing.

  The quaestor had been quietly amazed when Julius told him how productive the new mines had become during his term. They had toured them together and the man took the opportunity to secure a loan from the coffers of the Tenth to be paid back over five years. No matter who ended up in the position of praetor, the debt would stand. The mines would be developed and no doubt part of the new wealth would be declared. Not before the post was made permanent, Julius thought wryly. It would not do to excite the hunger of men like Crassus in Rome.

  As Julius walked out into the courtyard, he had to shade his eyes against the fierce sun. The gates were open and the fort had a vacant feel that reminded him of the village with the statue of Alexander. It was a strange thought, but the new cohorts were expected the following dawn and the fort would come back to life then.

  In the glare, he did not see the young man standing by the gate, waiting for him. Julius was crossing to the stables and was jerked out of his reverie as the man spoke. His hand dropped to his gladius in reflex.

  “General? Do you have a moment?” the man said.

  Julius recognized him and narrowed his eyes. His name was Adàn, he remembered, the one he had spared.

  “What is it?” he said impatiently.

  Adàn approached him and Julius kept his hand near his hilt. He didn’t doubt he could handle the young Spaniard, but there could be others and he had lived long enough not to drop his guard too easily. His eyes scanned the gate, watching for moving shadows.

  “The mayor, Del Subió, told me you need a scribe, sir. I can read and write Latin.”

  Julius looked at him suspiciously. “Did Del Subió mention the fact that I am about to leave for Rome?” he asked.

  Adàn nodded. “Everyone knows it. I would
like to see the city, but I do want the work.”

  Julius looked him in the eye, weighing him. He trusted his instincts and he could sense nothing hidden in the man’s open face. Perhaps the young Spaniard was telling the truth, though Julius couldn’t help but suspect his motives with the legion about to set sail.

  “A free trip to Rome, then you disappear in the markets, Adàn?” he said.

  The young man shrugged. “You have my word. I can offer nothing else. I work hard and I want to see more of the world. That is all.”

  “Why come to work for me, though? It wasn’t long ago you had Roman blood on your hands.”

  Adàn colored, but raised his head, refusing to be cowed. “You are an honorable man, General. While I would rather Rome did not lay its hand on my people, you made me curious. You would not regret hiring me, I swear it.”

  Julius frowned at him. The man seemed unaware of the danger of his words. He remembered the way he had stood before Julius’s men in the long room, struggling to control his fear.

  “I must be able to trust you, Adàn, and that will come only with time. What you hear from me will be worth money to those who pay for information. Can you be trusted to keep my business secret?”

  “As you say, you will know in time. My word is good.”

  Julius came to a decision and his frown cleared.

  “Very well, Adàn. Go up to my rooms and fetch me the papers from the desk. I will dictate a letter to you and judge your hand. Then your time is your own to say goodbye to your family. We leave for Rome in three days.”

  CHAPTER 7

  _____________________

  Brutus vomited helplessly over the side into the heaving sea.

  “I’d forgotten about this,” he said miserably.

  Ciro could only moan in reply as the last cups of wine they’d taken in Valentia came surging back. The wind gusted and blew some of the foul liquid spattering over both of them. Brutus froze in disgust.

  “Move away from me, you ox,” he shouted over the gale. Though his stomach was empty, the painful spasms began again, and he winced at the bitterness in his mouth.

  The clouds had swept in from the east as the Spanish mountains sank behind them. The ships had scattered before the storm, forced away from each other. Those with oars kept some semblance of control, though the rolling decks had the long blades completely out of the water on one side and then another. The merchants who depended on their sails were trailing sea anchors, great bundles of canvas and spars to slow their progress and give the heavy rudders something to work against. It was little help. The storm brought the darkness early and they lost sight of each other, every ship suddenly alone to fight the waves.

  Brutus shivered at the stern as another wild roll brought water over the side in a great rush of whiteness. He gripped the rail hard as it frothed around his knees and then poured away. The oars slapped and skipped over the mountains of dark water and Brutus wondered whether they would strike land in a sudden crash.

  The blackness was absolute and even a few paces from him he could barely make out Ciro’s bulk. He heard the big man moan softly and Brutus closed his eyes, just wanting it all to stop. He’d been fine until they cleared the coast and the big rolling waves sent them heeling over. Then the sickness had begun with a bout of belching and the sudden urge to head for the rail. He’d known enough to aim out over the stern, though the men below had not had that luxury. Packed tight as they were in the hold, it was a scene from nightmares.

  The small part of his mind that could think of anything except his discomfort realized they would have to anchor off Ostia for a day or two before going in, if only to wash the ship down and restore the polish to the Tenth. If they reached port at that moment, the dockworkers would think they were refugees from some terrible battle.

  Brutus heard a step behind him. “Who’s that?” he asked, craning his head forward to make out the man’s features.

  “Julius,” came a cheerful voice. “I have water for you. It’ll give you something to bring up, at least.”

  Brutus smiled weakly, accepting the skin and pressing the bronze pipe to his lips. He swilled and spat twice before allowing some of the liquid to trickle down his throat. Ciro took it from him then and gulped noisily.

  Brutus knew he should be asking about the men or the course they were cutting to take them between Sardinia and Corsica, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. His head felt heavy with sickness and he could only manage to wave an apologetic hand to Julius before he was hanging over the rail again. It was almost worse when he wasn’t vomiting. Then there was nothing to do but give way to it.

  All three of them staggered as the ship rolled at a frightening angle and something fell with a clatter in the hold. Julius lost his footing on the slippery deck and was saved by grabbing Ciro’s arm. He pulled in a deep, appreciative breath.

  “I have missed this,” he said to them. “Out of sight of land in the dark.” He leaned closer to Ciro.

  “You’re on the late watch with me tomorrow. The stars will take your breath away when the storm blows itself out. The sickness never lasts more than a day, or two at most.”

  “I hope so,” Ciro managed doubtfully. As far as he was concerned, Julius was pushing the bounds of friendship by being so obscenely cheerful while they waited for death to take them. He would give a month’s pay for just a single hour of calm to settle his stomach. Then he could face anything, he was sure.

  Julius worked his way around the rail to speak to the captain. The merchant had settled into surly acceptance of his new role, even going so far as to speak to the soldiers as they packed onto his ship. He’d warned them to have one hand for the ship and the other to save themselves at all times.

  “If you go over,” he’d told the legionaries, “that’s the end of you. Even if I turn back, and I won’t, a man’s head is almost impossible to spot even when the sea is calm. If there’s a bit of wind, you might as well suck in a lungful and go under. It’ll be faster that way.”

  “Are we on course, Captain?” Julius asked as he came up to the dark figure, hunched against the wind in heavy oilcloth.

  “We’ll know if we hit Sardinia, but I’ve made the run enough times,” the captain replied. “The wind is coming from the southeast and we’re running across it.”

  Julius couldn’t see his features in the pitch dark, but the voice didn’t seem worried. When the first gales had slapped at the ship, the captain had lashed the steering oars down to a few degrees of arc and taken his post, occasionally shouting orders to the crew as they moved invisibly around the deck.

  With the railing at his back, Julius swayed with the roll, enjoying himself immensely. His time on Accipiter with Gaditicus as captain seemed a lifetime before, but if he let his mind drift he could almost have been back there, on a different sea in the dark. He wondered if Ciro ever thought of those times. They’d gambled their lives on countless occasions in the hunt for the pirate who had destroyed the little ship.

  Julius closed his eyes as he thought of the ones who had died in the chase. Pelitas in particular had been a good man, now long gone. Everything had seemed so simple then, as if his path were waiting for him. Now there were more choices than he wanted. If he found a seat as consul, he could stay in Rome or take his legion to a new land anywhere in the world. Alexander had done it before him. The boy king had taken his armies east into the rising sun, to lands so distant they were little more than legends. Part of Julius wanted the wild freedom he had known in Africa and Greece. No one to persuade or answer to, just a new path to cut.

  He smiled in the dark at the thought. Spain was behind them and all his worries and routines and meetings were lifted from his shoulders with the storm.

  As he leaned against the rail, a patter of footsteps brought another one out to lose his last meal. Julius heard Adàn’s exclamation as he found the way blocked by Ciro and swore in frustration.

  “What is this, an elephant? Make room, heavy one!” the you
ng Spaniard snapped and Ciro chuckled weakly, pleased at the chance to share his misery with another.

  Rain began to fall in torrents, and somewhere ahead, a spike of lightning made them all jerk round at the sudden brightness.

  Unseen, Julius raised his hands in a silent prayer to welcome the storm. Rome was somewhere ahead and he felt more alive than he had for years.

  The rain poured from the dark sky over the city. Though Alexandria tried to take comfort from her two guards, she found that she was frightened as night fell early under the clouds. Without the sun, the streets emptied quickly as families barred their doors and lit the evening lamps. The stones of the roads were quickly lost under a slow-moving tide of filth that swirled and clutched at her feet. Alexandria almost slipped on a hidden cobble and grimaced at the thought of getting it on her hands.

  There were no lights on the streets and every dark figure out in them looked threatening. The gangs of raptores would be looking for easy victims to rape and rob, and Alexandria could only hope Teddus and his son would put them off.

  “Stay close, miss. Not long now,” Teddus said from ahead of her.

  She could barely make out his shape as he limped along, but the sound of his voice helped to steady her fear.

  The wind carried the smell of human excrement in a sudden, ripe gust, and Alexandria had to swallow quickly as she gagged. It was difficult not to be afraid. Teddus was far from his best years and an old injury to his leg gave him a staggering gait that looked almost comical. His sullen son almost never spoke and she didn’t know if she could trust him.

  As they moved through the empty street, Alexandria could hear the doors she passed being bolted with grunts as families made themselves secure. The good people of Rome had no protection from the gangs, and only those with guards dared the city after dark.

  A huddled group appeared at a corner ahead of them, shadows that watched the three figures and made Alexandria shudder. She heard Teddus draw his hunting knife. They would either have to cross the street or go through the group, and she controlled the urge to run. She knew she would die if she broke away from her guards, and only that thought held her steady as they approached the corner. Teddus’s son moved to her side, brushing her arm but bringing no feeling of safety.