Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 (30 page)

Ventulus formed the wedge as if they had fought together all their lives. The shields came up to protect the edges of the arrowhead, and they crashed into the Greek lines, sending them reeling back into each other. Only the man at the head was unprotected, and Cornix fell in the first flurry of strikes. He rose lathered in blood and holding his stomach in with one hand while the other struck and struck until he fell again, this time not to rise. Julius took the point position, the giant Ciro moving to his side.

Julius could see Mithridates moving through his own men toward the Romans, his expression manic. As Julius felt rather than saw the forward thrust begin to falter, he could have cheered as the king shoved his own men aside to reach them. He knew the Greek king should have hung back and the Romans would not have reached him. Instead, Mithridates was roaring orders and those closest stepped back to allow him the kill.

He was a huge man, wrapped in a heavy purple cloak. He made no attempt at defense, but brought his sword down from above his head with terrible force. Julius ducked away and his answering blow was blocked with a clang that numbed his arm. The man was strong and fast. More Greeks fell all around them as the veterans roared once more and moved on, pushing the guards back and cutting them down with scores of blows. Mithridates seemed unaware as the line pressed past him, and he bellowed as he brought his sword round again in a vicious sweep at Julius’s chest, sending the young man staggering back, his armor dented in a line. Both men were blowing air raggedly with exertion and anger. Julius thought one of his ribs had cracked, but now Mithridates was deep behind the front rank and Julius knew he had only to call and the king would be cut down from all sides.

With their king alone and embattled, the guards were struggling desperately to reach him. The veterans tired and fell against them, their strength faltering. Mithridates seemed to sense it.

“To me, my sons!” he shouted. “Come to me!” And their efforts doubled into a frenzy.

Julius leaned back around the outside of a blow and then cut in fast, tearing his jagged blade through the shoulder. Mithridates stumbled as Ciro stabbed him in his powerful chest, shouldering into him with an explosion of strength. The king’s blood poured out and he dropped his sword from limp fingers. His eyes met Julius’s for a moment, then he slipped down into the press of mud and bodies. Julius raised a red sword in triumph and Accipiter hit the Greek flank, breaking them utterly and sending them running with the last of their brothers.

*      *      *

They had no oil to burn the bodies, so Julius ordered great pits to be dug at the rear of the camp. It took a week to make them deep enough to hold Mithridates’ dead. Julius had forbidden celebration with so many of the broken army still alive. The irony of having to set up an armed perimeter of the very camp he had attacked for so long did not escape him, but he knew that with the charismatic king dead, there was little chance of the survivors gathering for another attack. He hoped the nerve had been cut out of them, but though Mithridates’ sons had been killed at the end, Gaditicus thought more than four thousand others had escaped, and Julius wanted to get away from the valley as soon as the last of his wounded had recovered or died.

Less than five hundred of the Wolves had survived the attack on the camp, most of their number lost in the last battle around the Greek king. Julius had them buried separately and no one complained about the work. They gave them a full funeral that lasted most of a day, and the funeral torches gave off a stinking black smoke that seemed fitting for their sacrifice.

When all the dead were in the ground and the camp was clear of wreckage, Julius gathered his officers to him. From the veterans, he chose the ten most senior centurions to represent their voice and was sad that Cornix had not survived the fight to join them, though he knew the ancient warrior had chosen the manner of his death without regret. Quertorus came with the others and it was only as they sat down together that Julius noticed Suetonius too had joined them, though he held no command. The young man’s arm was heavily bound where it had been cut, and the sight of it prevented Julius from sending him away. He had earned his place, perhaps, though Julius wondered if he had enjoyed it half so much as the night attacks he seemed to relish.

“I want to move on to the coast and rejoin Durus and Prax. Somewhere between here and the sea must be a legion, unless the Senate has lost its mind completely. We will deliver Mithridates’ body to them and set sail for home. There’s nothing more to hold us here.”

“Will you disband the men?” Quertorus asked.

Julius looked at him and smiled. “I will, but at the coast. There are too many survivors from the Greek army for me to be sending ours away now. As well as that, a number of the men I brought to your city died in the fighting, and I have gold to share out amongst the survivors. I think it would be fair to give shares to all those who survived.”

“Will you take the shares from your half, then?” Suetonius said quickly.

“No, I will not. The ransoms will all be given back to their rightful owners as I promised. Whatever remains from the half will be shared out amongst the Wolves. If you don’t like that, I suggest you put it to them. Tell them how they don’t deserve a little gold to take back to their city and villages for what they have done here.”

Suetonius subsided with a frown and the veterans watched him with interest. He didn’t meet their eyes.

“How much gold are we talking about?” Quertorus asked interestedly.

Julius shrugged. “Twenty, maybe thirty aurei per man. I will have to work it out when we meet Durus.”

“This man has all that gold in his ship,” one of the others broke in, “and you expect him to be there?”

“He gave his word. And I gave mine to find and kill him if he broke it. He’ll be there. Now, I want everyone ready to march within the hour. I’ve had enough of this camp. I’ve had enough of Greece.”

He turned to Gaditicus with a wistful expression. “
Now
we can go home,” he said.

*      *      *

They found the first of two legions only eighty miles inland under the command of Severus Lepidus. In the heavily fortified camp, Julius and Ciro presented the body of Mithridates to Lepidus on a bier of cut wood. Ciro remained silent as they laid the body on a low table in an empty tent, but Julius saw that his lips were moving in silent prayer, showing respect for a vanquished enemy. As Ciro finished, he felt Julius’s gaze on him and returned the look without embarrassment.

“He was a brave man,” Ciro said simply, and Julius was struck at the change in him since they had first met in a tiny village on the African coast.

“Did you pray to Roman gods?” Julius asked him.

The big man shrugged. “They do not know me yet. When I reach Rome, I will speak to them.”

The Roman legate sent an escort of soldiers to guide the Wolves to the sea. Julius did not protest the decision, though the escort felt more like a prisoner detail than a guarantee of their own safe passage.

Durus was aboard his ship when they finally arrived at the docks and called him out. He didn’t seem overjoyed that they had survived, but quickly mellowed when Julius told him he would be paid for his time as well as the passage back to Brundisium, the closest port on the Roman mainland.

It was strange to be back on a ship again and Julius spent some of his new wealth in buying every barrel of wine in the port for a final celebration. Despite Suetonius’s objections, the wealth of Celsus was shared out amongst the surviving Wolves and many would return home rich by their previous standards, even after an expensive trip in the comfort of a caravan ride or on horseback.

The veterans had asked to see Julius privately one last time before they left for home in the east. He had offered them ranks with him back in Rome, but they had only chuckled and looked at each other. It was difficult to tempt men of their age who had gold in their pouches, and he hadn’t really expected them to come. Quertorus had thanked him for all of them, and they had cheered him, filling the ship with the noise. Then they had gone.

Durus caught the dawn tide out without fanfare or announcement. The young survivors of the Wolves had all stayed on, and they relished the short experience as sailors, with the easy enthusiasm of the young. The seas were calm and it was only a few short weeks before they tied up at the Brundisium port and stepped down onto the land.

Those who had been there from the beginning looked at each other dazedly for long moments as three centuries of his Wolves formed into a column for the march to Rome. Freshly promoted to command a fifty, Ciro dressed the line and stood in wonder as he considered finally seeing the city that had called him. He shivered, rolling his shoulders. It was colder than his tiny farm on the African coast, but still he felt a rightness to the land. He sensed the ghosts of his line had come out to greet their son, and was proud.

Julius went down on his knees and kissed the dusty ground with tears in his eyes, too overwhelmed to speak. He had lost friends and suffered injuries he would carry for the rest of his life, but Sulla was dead and he was home.

PART TWO  

  CHAPTER
27
  

C
ato wiped a pudgy hand across his brow. Even with the chill of winter still gripping Rome, the Senate building was full and the air heavy with the heat of three hundred of the nobilitas packed into the small space. Cato held up his hands for silence and waited patiently as the babble of noise slowly stilled.

“This Caesar, this
reckless
young man, has shown nothing but disdain for Senate will. Acting alone, he has caused the deaths of hundreds of Roman citizens, many of them veterans of our legions. As I understand it, he assumed an authority he was never granted and behaved throughout as I would expect a nephew of Marius to behave. I call on the body of the Senate to censure this little cockerel—to show our repugnance at his waste of Roman lives and his disregard of our authority over him.”

He resumed his seat with a satisfied grunt, and the Master of Debate stood, looking relaxed. He was a large, florid man with little patience for fools. Though his authority was nominal, he seemed to enjoy controlling the more powerful men of the Senate.

Cinna had risen at Cato’s words, his face flushed in anger. The Master of Debate nodded for him to speak, and Cinna swept the rows with his gaze, holding their attention.

“As many of you know, I am related to Caesar through my daughter’s marriage,” he began. “I came here not to speak in his defense, but to take part in what I expected to be our just and proper congratulation.” A wave of muttering from Cato’s supporters prevented him from carrying on for a moment, but he waited with icy patience until they subsided.

“Should we not congratulate a man who broke one of the enemies of Rome? Mithridates lies dead, his army dispersed, and some of you speak of
censure
? It is beyond belief. Instead of counting the lives of his men lost in a battle against a larger force, think instead of those innocents who live because Mithridates was crushed. How many more of our people would have died by the time our cautious legions finally edged close enough to engage the enemy? By the reports, it seems as if they might never have reached the Greek forces at all!”

Another storm of muttering broke out, with jeers and shouts rising over the rest. Many of the senators on both sides rose to speak and fidgeted as they waited. The Master of Debate caught Cinna’s eye and raised his eyebrows in question. Cinna gave way with ill grace and resumed his seat.

Senator Prandus stood at Cato’s side. He was a tall, spare figure next to the bulk of his patron, and he cleared his throat slightly as he was signaled to speak.

“My son Suetonius was one of those taken by pirates with this Caesar. I have his reports on which to base my opinions, and they point to the danger of this Roman to everything we stand for. He acts without consultation of any kind. He rushes into conflict without a thought for other methods to solve a problem. His first and last answer to everything is blind attack. I have details of executions and torture carried out in his name, unsanctioned by the Senate. He compelled old soldiers into battle for little more than personal glory. I must agree with the honorable Cato that this Caesar should be called here for a just punishment for his actions. We should not forget the allegations of piracy that have been leveled against him by Quaestor Pravitas. If he is commended, as some seem to think would be correct, we may well create another Marius and come to regret our generosity in time.”

Cato pushed a nervous-looking man to his feet. Senator Bibilus almost stumbled as he rose under the pressure of the heavy hands. His face was pale and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his brow. Breaking custom, he began to speak before he had received permission, and his first words were lost in the hoots of derision that followed.

“. . . should consider the withdrawal of Senate membership,” he said, and gulped saliva from his throat. “Or possibly a ban on holding army rank. Let him be a merchant with the looted gold he has brought back with him.”

As he spoke, the Master of Debate glared stonily at him, and a brief gesture sent Bibilus back to his seat, his face burning with embarrassment. The Master of Debate looked grim and turned to face the opposing benches, clearly determined to redress the balance with his choices. Crassus was given leave to speak. He nodded thanks and stared calmly around the packed rows until there was a proper stillness once more.

“How you do reveal your secret fears!” he snapped. “Another Marius, you say. His nephew! How we must tremble! It sickens me. Did you think our precious Republic could survive without military power? How many of you here have commanded men in successful battles?” His gaze swept the rows, knowing that Cato had served only the two-year minimum to see him up the political ladder. Other heads nodded while Cato stifled a yawn and looked away.

“We have a young man who knows how to lead soldiers,” Crassus continued. “He gathered a small army and routed a force eight or nine times their size. True, he acted without first seeking our approval, but he could hardly have waited a year or two until we had finished discussing it!”

The Master of Debate caught his eye, but Crassus ignored him.

“No, what causes such poisonous spite in some of us is the shameful fact that this young man has shown our choice of legion commanders to be wrong. His success is proof that we did not act with enough energy and speed to defend our possessions in Greece.
That
is what rankles with these gentlemen. That is the only reason for their anger against him. Let me remind you that he won the oak wreath for his bravery at Mytilene. He is a gifted, loyal soldier of Rome, and it would shame us not to recognize that publicly. I hear Bibilus murmuring about having him stripped of legion rank, and I ask myself, what victories has Bibilus brought to us? Or Cato? And there is Prandus hinting at piracy when he knows the charges were proven idiocy when the full facts came to light. No wonder he skirts such a difficult issue when his own son was one of those accused! We should laud Caesar with honors for what he has done.”

“Enough, Crassus,” the Master of Debate said sternly, satisfied he had allowed enough time to repair the outburst by Bibilus. “Both sides of the debate have spoken. We can move on to a vote.”

Those still standing sat down reluctantly, looking around the hall and trying to gauge the result before it had started. Before the vote could begin, the massive bronze doors to the chamber swung open and Pompey entered, causing a new stir of interest. Since the death of his daughter a week before, he had not been seen anywhere near the forum or the Senate, and there were many whispered questions about his tragedy and what would come of it.

The Master of Debate motioned to Pompey, indicating a seat for him in the rows. Instead of sitting, Pompey walked to his place and stood waiting to be recognized.

Sighing, the Master of Debate raised his hand toward him. All noise ceased as every eye fastened on the new arrival.

Cato in particular watched him with glittering intensity, taking in every detail. The daughter’s ashes could not have been long in the ground, but no signs of that grief showed on the man’s face. He seemed calm as he looked around at the packed benches.

“Forgive my absences and my lateness, Senators. I have buried my daughter,” he said quietly, without a trace of infirmity in his voice. “I make a vow before you that those responsible will regret using the innocent in games of power, but that is a problem for another day.” He spoke reasonably, but those close to him could see every muscle in his shoulders was rigid, as if he held a great rage barely in check.

“Tell me, what is the vote this morning?” he asked the Master of Debate.

“It is to decide censure or approval for the actions of Julius Caesar in Greece,” the man replied.

“I see. How does Cato stand on the issue?” Pompey asked without looking over to the sprawling figure that straightened suddenly in his seat.

The Master of Debate risked a glance at Cato. “He has argued for censure,” he replied, bewildered.

Pompey joined his hands behind his back and those near him could see the whiteness of the knuckles as he spoke. “Then I shall vote against him.”

For a long moment, he held Cato’s gaze in the stillness until everyone there was aware of the new enmity between them. Whispers began as the older ones sat up with fresh interest.

“Furthermore, I call on my supporters to vote against him. I call on every vote owed me in debt. Discharge them here and clear your slate with me.”

The Senate erupted into chatter as they discussed the implications of such a move. It was practically a declaration of war, and Cato set his fleshy mouth in a thin line of irritation as the Master of Debate announced the vote. By calling in all his favors at the same time, Pompey was throwing away years of careful arrangements and alliances, simply to show his contempt in public.

Crassus paled slightly. It was a foolhardy thing for Pompey to do, though he thought he understood it. No one there could doubt that Pompey had subtly identified the man responsible for his daughter’s murder. Cato would lose a lot of his power while those around him weighed up this new threat and decided whether to distance themselves. He sighed. At least the vote would be won and Cato damaged by the decision. Though the numbers reflected many long-held obligations to Pompey, it was still difficult for the fat senator to stand almost alone with hundreds of his colleagues ranged against him.

The vote passed quickly and Pompey resumed his seat to engage in the discussion for the legion rank Julius would be given on his return to Senate. With most of the senators wanting to get out of the building into the cool fresh air, it was surprisingly quick and Cato hardly took part, stunned into immobility by the humiliation forced on him.

As they filed out through the bronze doors, Cato grimaced and inclined his head in Pompey’s direction, acknowledging the victory. Pompey ignored him and left quickly for home without speaking to anyone.

*      *      *

Tubruk climbed the inner steps up the wall of the estate, thankful for the early warning brought in by the field slaves. He strained to see details of the marching column coming along the road toward them.

“Two or three centuries, it looks like,” he called down to Cornelia, who had come out from the buildings at the summons. “I can’t see standards, but they’re in full armor. It could be part of the Roman garrison.”

“Will you turn out the men?” Cornelia asked nervously.

Tubruk didn’t reply at first, intent on his scrutiny of the approaching force. They were well disciplined and armored, but the absence of standards worried him immensely. The death of Pompey’s daughter had brought a tension back to the old families of Rome that had been missing since the death of Sulla. If such a powerful senator could suffer an attack in his own home, then no one was safe. Tubruk hesitated. If he summoned Brutus and his soldiers to guard the gate, it could be seen as provocation, or an insult to a legitimate force. He gripped the hard stone of the wall as he came to a decision. He would rather offend someone than be found vulnerable, and the approaching centuries could be assassins with all legion marks removed.

“Call Brutus. Tell him I need his men out here now!” Tubruk shouted down to Cornelia. She abandoned dignity to run back into the estate buildings.

By the time the approaching column was less than a thousand paces away, Brutus had his men in formation by the gate, ready to rush out into the attack. There were only twenty with him and Tubruk wished they’d had room for more, though he’d laughed at the young commander traveling with even that many at first.

Brutus felt the old anticipation tighten his stomach. For a moment, the child in him wished he hadn’t left Renius in the city barracks, but it was a momentary weakness. As he bared his gladius, his confidence swelled and his men responded, their tension giving way to tight smiles. They could all hear the tramp of soldiers moving closer to the estate, but there was not a trace of fear in them.

A small figure ran out of the stables and skidded to a stop almost at Brutus’s feet.

“You’re not coming with us,” Brutus snapped to forestall the request. He knew very little about the urchin Tubruk had rescued, and at that moment he lacked the patience for an argument. Octavian opened his mouth and Brutus barked an order at him, made angry by the sight of a glinting dagger in the boy’s hand.

“Get away from here!”

Octavian froze, his eyes wide, then turned on his heel and stalked away without a word. Brutus ignored him, instead watching Tubruk for news of what was happening outside. It was frustrating to be waiting blind, but Brutus understood that soldiers sent by the Senate should not be met with drawn swords. Bloodshed would certainly follow, even if the original errand was an innocent one.

On the top of the wall, Tubruk squinted as the approaching army came closer, marching steadily along the road to the estate. With a deep expulsion of breath, all the tension went out of him in an instant, unseen by those below.

“Marcus Brutus,” he called down, “I request that you have your men open the gate and go out to meet them.”

Brutus looked up at him quizzically. “Are you sure? If they’re hostile, we can defend better from within the walls.”

“Open the gates,” Tubruk replied quietly, with a peculiar expression on his face.

Brutus shrugged and gave the order to the men of Primigenia, who drew their swords as they moved forward. His heart pounded and he felt the wild joy that came from his certainty. There was no one alive who could beat him with a blade, not since a day with Renius in the same yard, many years before.

“All right, you old devil, but if I get killed, I’ll be waiting for you when it’s your time!”

*      *      *

Julius saw the armed men come out of the gates and stiffened. What had happened?

“Ready weapons!” he snapped suddenly and his men lost their cheerful expressions on the instant. What had seemed a victorious return had suddenly become edged with danger. Cabera jumped at the order, scanning the unknown force with a squint. He reached out a hand to catch Julius’s attention, but thought better of it and grinned to himself, raising his dagger and gesticulating furiously with it. He was enjoying himself tremendously, but his mood wasn’t shared by the soldiers around him. They had been expecting a hero’s welcome after too many hard months of travel and killing. Their expressions were savage as their swords came out one more time.