Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 (42 page)

“I’ll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?”

Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn’t have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

“Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,” Octavian said.

Tubruk turned with a frown. “What is it now?”

Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

“Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn’t sporting when a man is down.”

“Maybe not, but I owed it to him.”

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

“Maybe you did, lad.”

*      *      *

Brutus couldn’t believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he’d almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he’d never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack, and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn’t seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.

Brutus had regained some ground when he shifted into the fluid style he’d learned from a tribal warrior in Greece. As he’d hoped, the different rhythms had broken Domitius’s attack and he caught the man’s forearm with a rap that would have taken his hand off at the wrist if there were an edge on the blade.

Domitius had stepped away then, looking surprised, and Brutus had used the moment to force his anger into a calm to match his opponent’s. Domitius was hardly breathing heavily and he seemed completely relaxed.

In case it muffled the sound of an enemy attack, the watching soldiers were forbidden to cheer or shout by camp order. Instead, they hissed or gasped as the fight moved around the circle, waving clenched fists and baring their teeth in repressed excitement.

Brutus had a chance to punch as the swords were trapped together, but that too was forbidden, in case the soldiers injured each other too badly to fight or march the following day.

“I . . . could have had you then,” he grated.

Domitius nodded. “I had the chance myself earlier. Of course, I have a longer reach than you.”

The attack came again and Brutus blocked twice before the third broke through his guard and he looked down at the wooden point pressing painfully into his chest under the ribs.

“A win, I think,” Domitius said. “You really are very good. You nearly won with that style you used halfway through. You’ll have to show it to me sometime.” He saw Brutus’s crestfallen expression and chuckled.

“Son, I have been legion champion five times since I was your age. You’re still too young to have your full speed, and skill takes even longer. Try me again in a year or two and there might be a different result. You did well enough and I should know.”

Domitius walked away into a crowd of soldiers, who clapped him on the back and shoulders in congratulation. Cabera approached Brutus, looking sour.

“He was very good,” Brutus muttered. “Better than Renius or anyone.”

“Could you beat him if you fought again?”

Brutus thought about it, rubbing his chin and mouth. “Possibly, if I learned from this time.”

“Good, because I collected the winnings from the quartermaster before the fight started.”

“What? I told you to let it ride!” Brutus said with an amazed grin. “Ha! How much did we make?”

“Twenty aurei, which is the original silver doubled for the seven bouts you won. I had to leave a few on you against Domitius, out of politeness, but the rest is clear.”

Brutus laughed out loud, then winced as he began to feel the bruises he’d taken.

“He only challenged me to let his friends win back their money. It looks like I’ll get another chance after all.”

“I can set it up for tomorrow, if you like. The odds will be wonderful. If you win, there won’t be a coin in camp.”

“Do it. I’d like another crack at Domitius. You clever old man! How did you know I was going to lose?”

Cabera sighed, leaning close as if to impart a secret. “I knew because you are an idiot. No one beats a legion champion after three other bouts.”

Brutus snorted. “Next time, I’ll let Renius put the bets on,” he retorted.

“In that case, I’ll take my share out before you start.”

  CHAPTER
36
  

J
ulius thought he had seen busy ports in Africa and Greece, but Ariminum was the center of the grain trade across the country and the docks were crammed with ships loading and unloading cargoes. There was even a central forum and temples for the soldiers to make their peace and pray for safe delivery in the coming conflict. It was a little Rome, built on the edge of the great Po plain and the gateway to the south. Everything from the north that ended up in Rome passed first through Ariminum.

Crassus and Pompey had commandeered a private home on the edge of the forum, and it was to this that Julius made his way on the second night, having to ask directions more than once. He traveled with ten of the Primigenia soldiers as a precaution in a strange city, but the inhabitants seemed too concerned with trade to have time for plots or politics. Whether the huge force camped in a ring around the city troubled them, he could not tell. The ships and grain caravans went in and out and business continued without interruption, as if the only threat of war was the possibility of raised prices in the markets.

Julius passed easily through the rushing crowds with his men, listening to their chatter as they struck deals while walking, barely noticing the soldiers they stepped around. Perhaps they were right to feel secure, he thought. With the two northern legions they had met at the city, the assembled army approached forty thousand seasoned soldiers. It was difficult to imagine a force that they couldn’t handle, for all the shock the Spartacus rebellion had caused after running amok at Mutina.

He found the right place by the sentries that guarded the steps up to the door. Typical of Crassus to find such an opulent house, Julius thought with a smile. For all his personal restraint, he loved to be surrounded by beautiful things. Julius wondered if the true owner would find a couple of empty spaces amongst his treasures when the Romans had left. He remembered Marius saying Crassus could be trusted with anything except art.

Julius was guided in by a soldier and entered a room dominated by a creamy statue of a naked girl. Crassus and Pompey had planted chairs at her feet and more seats in a ring facing them.

Six of the eight legates were already there, and as the last two entered, Julius sat with his hands on his lap and waited. The last to enter was Lepidus, who had accepted the body of Mithridates from him in Greece. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the man still had the same bland, unconcerned expression as he nodded to Julius vaguely and began to clean the nails of one hand with the other.

Pompey leaned forward, the back legs of his chair leaving the floor.

“From this point on, gentlemen, I will expect to see you every night after the sentries are posted. Rather than have a vulnerable line of four camps, I have given orders for only two, with four legions in each. You should be close enough to reach the command position two hours before each midnight.”

There was a murmur of interest from the legates as they digested this. Pompey continued over it.

“The latest reports suggest the slave army is heading north as fast as they can. Crassus and I believe there is a danger they will reach the Alps mountains and Gaul. If we cannot catch them before then, they will disappear. Gaul is vast and we have little influence there. They must not be allowed to win free, or next year will see another rebellion of every slave still on Roman lands. The destruction and loss of life would be huge.”

He paused for comment, but the assembled generals were silent, watching him. One or two glanced at Crassus, clearly wondering about the Senate command, but Pompey’s companion was sitting relaxed in his chair, nodding as Pompey rattled through the points.

“Your orders are to march west along the plains road until I give the signal to cut north. It’s a longer route overall, but we’ll make better speed on the road than across country. I want thirty miles a day, then twenty, then another thirty.”

“For how long?” Lepidus interrupted.

Pompey froze and let the silence show his irritation.

“Our best estimates are for five hundred miles west and then some distance north that we cannot gauge without knowing the exact whereabouts of the enemy. It depends, of course, on how close to the mountains they get. I expect—”

“It can’t be done,” Lepidus said flatly.

Pompey paused again, then stood to look down on the general.

“I am telling you what will happen, Lepidus. If your legion cannot match the pace of the others under my command, then I will remove your rank and give it to someone who can make them march.”

Lepidus spluttered in indignation. Julius wondered if he had been told how close he had come to outright control of the legions. But for a few votes in the Senate, their positions would have been reversed. Watching Lepidus closely, Julius suspected he knew that very well indeed. No doubt Cato had let the word slip out to him while they gathered in the Campus Martius, in the hopes of fomenting trouble later.

“My men have covered three hundred miles at a hard pace on this trip already, Pompey. They could do it again, but I’ll need two weeks to rest them and no more than twenty, twenty-five miles a day afterward. Any more will lose men.”

“Then we lose men!” Pompey snapped. “Every day we wait in Ariminum is another that brings this Spartacus closer to the mountains and freedom in Gaul. I am not staying here for a day longer than it takes to load up provisions. If we have a few dozen sprains and limps by the end, it is a price worth paying. Or even a few hundred, if it is the difference between catching them and watching them escape punishment for the Roman blood on their hands. Nine thousand dead at Mutina!” Pompey’s voice had risen to a shout and he leaned toward Lepidus, who looked back with an infuriating calm.

“Who
is
in command here?” Lepidus demanded, waving a hand toward Crassus. “I was given to understand that it was Crassus the Senate chose over me. I do not recognize this business of ‘second-in-command.’ Is it even legal?”

The other legates did not miss the point that Lepidus could have led, any more than Julius did. Like cats, they watched the speakers with claws carefully hidden, waiting for the outcome. Crassus too rose from his seat to stand beside Pompey.

“Pompey speaks with my voice, Lepidus, and that is the voice of the Senate. Whatever you may have heard, you should know better than to question the command.”

Pompey’s face was tight with anger. “I tell you now, Lepidus. I will have you stripped of rank the first moment you make a mistake. Question an order of mine again and I will have you killed and left on the road. Understood?”

“Completely,” Lepidus replied, apparently satisfied.

Julius wondered what he had hoped to gain by the exchange. Did the legate hope to undermine Crassus? Julius knew he could not serve under such a man, no matter how he twisted and turned to gain authority. The threat Pompey had made was a dangerous one. If Lepidus commanded the kind of personal loyalty Julius had seen with Primigenia and Marius, then Pompey had taken a risk. In Pompey’s position, Julius thought it would have been better to have Lepidus killed immediately and his legion sent back to Rome in shame. Losing the men was a lighter penalty than marching with ones who might betray them.

“We will march in two days, at dawn,” Pompey said. “I have spies out already on the road with orders to meet the main force when we get close. Tactics for the battle will have to wait on better information. You are dismissed. Tribune Caesar, I’d like a word with you, if you could stay.”

Lepidus stood with the other legates, beginning a conversation with two of them as they passed out of the room. Before their voices had faded, Julius heard him laugh at some witticism and saw Pompey stiffen in irritation.

“He’s the eyes and ears of Cato, that one,” Pompey said to Crassus. “You can be sure he’s taking little notes of everything we do to report back when we come home.”

Crassus shrugged. “Send him back to Rome, then. I’ll put my seal on it and we can beat the rebels with seven legions as easily as eight.”

Pompey shook his head. “Maybe, but there are other reports I haven’t mentioned. Julius, this is to go no further, understand? There’s no point having the rumors all over the camp before tomorrow, which is what would happen if I told the others, especially Lepidus. The slave army has grown alarmingly. I’m getting reports of more than fifty thousand. Hundreds of farms and estates have been stripped. There is no way back for them now and that will make for desperate fighting. They know how we punish escaped slaves and the rebellion won’t end without a massive show of force. I think we’re going to need every legion we have.”

Julius whistled softly. “We can’t depend on a rout,” he said.

Pompey frowned. “It doesn’t look like it, no. I’d expect them to fold and run on the first attack except for the fact that they have women and children with them and nowhere to go if they lose. Those gladiators have brought off more than one success already, and they must be more than a rabble.” He snorted softly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if Cato was hoping to see us lose, but, no, that’s too much even for him. They could still turn south again, and from Ariminum the whole country is open. They have to be crushed and I need good commanders to do it, Julius.”

“I have more than two thousand under the Primigenia eagle,” Julius replied. He chose not to mention that Cato had supplied half of them to protect his son. Renius had trained them to exhaustion, but they were still of poor quality compared to the established legions. He wondered how many were waiting for the right moment to put a knife in him. Such men at his back didn’t inspire confidence, for all his assurances to Renius that they would become Primigenia.

“It’s good to see that name in the field again. I can’t tell you how much,” Pompey replied, losing his grimness for a moment and looking surprisingly boyish as he smiled. Then the mantle of his continual anger settled on him again, as it had ever since his daughter’s death. “I want Primigenia to march flank to Lepidus. I don’t trust any man who has Cato as his sponsor. When it comes to the fighting, stay close to him. I’ll trust you to do whatever has to be done. You’ll be my own extraordinarii, I think. You did well in Greece. Do well for me.”

“I am at your command,” Julius confirmed with a quick bow of his head. He met Crassus’s eyes, including him even as he began to plan. Brutus would have to be told.

As he left, with the soldiers of Primigenia falling in around him, Julius felt a touch of excitement and pride. He had not been forgotten and he would make certain Pompey didn’t regret the trust.

*      *      *

The slave sank his hoe into the hard ground, splitting the clods of pale earth with a grunt. Sweat dripped from his face to leave dark marks in the dust, and his shoulders burned with the effort. At first he did not notice the man standing near him, as he was too wrapped up in his own misery. He raised the tool again and caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He did not react immediately, his surprise covered in the motions of his work. The blisters on his hands had broken again and he laid down the hoe to tend them, aware of the man, but not yet willing to give his knowledge away. He had learned to guard the slightest advantage from his masters.

“Who are you?” the dark figure asked softly.

The slave turned to him calmly. The man was wrapped in a rough brown robe over a ragged tunic. His face was partially covered, but the eyes were alight with interest and pity.

“I am a slave,” he said, narrowing his eyes against the sun. Even in the vine rows, it beat down on his skin, burning and blistering him. His shoulders were mottled with raw redness and loose, flaking skin that itched all the time. He scratched idly at the area while he watched the newcomer. He wondered if the man knew how close the guards were.

“You should not stay here, friend. The owner has guards in the fields. They’ll kill you for trespassing if they find you.”

The stranger shrugged without shifting his gaze. “The guards are dead.”

The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn’t rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.

“I . . . have to get back,” he muttered.

“The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don’t have to go anywhere. Who are you?”

“I am a slave,” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The stranger’s eyes creased in such a way that he knew he was smiling under the cloth.

“No, my brother. We have made you a freeman.”

“Impossible.”

The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.

Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.

“Whoever you are, let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here,” he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.

The first man laughed. “There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?”

“What about . . .” He could not bring himself to say “master” in front of these men. “The owner and his family?”

“They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?”

The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.

“Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.”