Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 (49 page)

  CHAPTER
42
  

C
ato stood in the forum under a dark sky, his toga stripped from his shoulders to reveal a mass of white flesh that shone with running beads of water. His back was marked with stripes where the whips had fallen, the pain only an echo of the anger and disgust he felt for the petty men who had brought him down. Not one of them would have disdained to act as he had, if the opportunity had come. Yet they glared and pointed at him as if they were not of his breed at all. He sneered at them, holding his head high even as the executioner came forward, the long sword gleaming in his hands.

Pompey looked on without a show of the pleasure he felt. He had delayed joining Crassus to see this task finished. He would have preferred to see the fat hands nailed to a wooden beam and displayed in the forum for a lingering death. Such an ending would be more fitting for Cato. At least there had been pleasure as Cato’s family were sold into slavery despite his cries. The house had been given over to the Senate, and the funds raised by its sale would go some way toward financing the legions Pompey took with him against the slaves.

Julius watched numbly at Pompey’s side. The general had ushered him forward in triumph to share in the pleasure of the execution, but he felt nothing. There was no joy in seeing Cato killed. It was no more than ending the life of a dog or crushing a stinging insect. The bloated senator understood nothing of the grief he had caused, and nothing he could suffer would bring Cornelia back. Let this be quick, he whispered to himself as he watched. Let it all end.

Cato spat on the stones of the forum as he looked around at the crowd of senators and citizens that had massed to see the execution. For once, there was no sense of danger from the crowd. He had never been popular with the people of the city—as if anyone could care what they thought or did. He spat again, his mouth curling in anger at the sight of the waiting mob. Animals, all of them, with no understanding of how a great man could bend the law under his hand. Marius had done it; Sulla had. None of them could understand that there was no law but that which could be held.

Footsteps sounded and Cato turned his head to see Pompey striding toward him. He grimaced. The man didn’t even have style enough to let him die without a few more jeers and taunts. He was not made for greatness. Sulla would have allowed his enemy the dignity of a private death, no matter what had passed between them. There was a man who understood what power meant.

Pompey moved close enough to speak into Cato’s ear.

“Your family will not live long as slaves. I have bought them all myself,” the sibilant voice whispered.

Cato looked coldly at him. “Germinius too?” he asked.

“He will not survive the final battle.”

Cato smiled at that. He wondered if Pompey would find Julius and Brutus any easier to deal with than he had. He raised his head in defiance. It seemed fitting to have his line end with him. He’d heard of kings in ancient times who had their families thrown alive onto their pyres. Pompey was a fool to try to hurt him.

“You will know a day like this one,” he said to Pompey. “You are too small a man to hold this city in your hand for long.” He laughed aloud then as Pompey’s face contorted with a spasm of anger.

“Take up your sword and finish him,” the general snapped at the executioner, who bowed low to the ground in response as Pompey stalked back to the waiting senators. Cato nodded to the man. He felt tired all of a sudden, almost numb.

“Not today, boy. Some things have to be done by a man’s own hand,” he muttered, removing a heavy bracelet from his wrist. With his thumb, he eased out a razor from the edge of it and turned to face the crowd, sneering at them. With a jerk of his hand, he nicked the side of his throat, cutting the heavy arteries, then stood waiting as blood poured out over his white flesh, drenching him.

The executioner stepped forward nervously, but Cato had strength enough to raise his hand, refusing the blade. The crowd watched with animal fascination as his legs began to shiver and then suddenly he fell to his knees with an audible crack on the stone. Even then, he glared at them all before slumping forward in a heap.

The gathered citizens sighed as the tension of the death was released. Despite the crimes they whispered to each other, the courage of the senator stole the pleasure they had come to find. They began to disperse without a sound, passing the slumped body with bowed heads and more than a few muttered prayers.

Pompey pursed his lips in anger. The joy of vengeance was missing at such an ending, and he felt as if something had been stolen from him. He signaled his guards to remove the body, turning to Julius.

“Now we go south, to finish it,” he said.

*      *      *

The general looked at Crassus in amazement.

“Sir, you’re talking about more than twenty miles of broken land! I urge to you reconsider. We should occupy a central position, ready to stop them breaking through.”

Crassus waited until the man had finished, his fingers tapping nervously on his table as he listened. It was the only thing to do, he was certain. The slaves were trapped against the coast, and if Pompey had reached the galleys, there would be no one to take them off. All he had to do was hold them, bottle them up in the spit of land at the base of the country. He glanced at Pompey’s map on the wall. It looked such a tiny distance, there.

“My orders to you are clear, General. Fresh legions are coming from the north, with Pompey. We will hold the line until they arrive, and I want a fortification cutting across country. You are wasting my time.” His voice held a dangerous edge. Surely the man wouldn’t hesitate this way if Pompey were giving the orders. It was insufferable.

“Get out!” he snapped at the man, rising from his chair. When he was alone, he sank back again, rubbing nervously at his forehead as he looked at the map again.

Every noise in the night made him jolt awake, terrified the slaves had broken through to pillage the country. It could not be allowed again. At first he had thought of crushing them against the sea, but what if they fought as they had in the north? With escape barred to them, they would be desperate, and if they overran the Roman lines, Crassus knew he’d be finished, even if he survived the battle. The Senate would call for his execution. He grimaced. How many of them had debts that only his death would erase? He could imagine their pious faces as they discussed his fate in Senate. He understood the pressure a little better since Pompey had left him. There was no one to ask; the decisions were his alone.

He crossed to the map and ran his finger across the narrowest neck of land at the toe of the country.

“We will hold you here until the new legions come,” he said, frowning. Twenty miles of banked earth. Such a line had never been built before, and the people of Rome would tell their children about it when it was done. Crassus, who built a wall across a country. He scrubbed his finger across the point again and again until a darker line showed on the skin.

It would hold them unless Pompey had failed to gather enough galleys to stop the slaves escaping. Then he would be the laughingstock of the country, guarding nothing but fields. Shaking his head to clear it, he sat down again to think.

*      *      *

After the delay for Cato’s execution, Pompey pushed the Greek legions south without rest. They were the veterans of the borders of Greece, with huge numbers of hastati and triarii to bolster the younger men. With the Via Appia under their feet, they passed thirty-five-mile markers in the first day. Pompey knew the pace would slow when they were forced to turn off the road, but even if the slaves had run to the furthest tip of the country, he knew he could bring the Greek legions to them in less than two weeks.

Julius rode with Cabera at his side, changing horses as Pompey did, every twelve miles at the way stations. Pompey was puzzled by the young tribune. He had spoken only a few words to him since they stood to watch Cato die in the great forum, but he was like a different person. The inner fire that had unnerved Pompey when Julius had taken control of the new Tenth legion seemed to have been drawn out of him. It was not the same man who now rode without caring, his horse wide-eyed with nerves at the lack of signals from its rider. Pompey watched him carefully as they rode each day. He had known men to break before after a tragedy, and if Julius was no longer fit to command, he would not hesitate to remove him from his post. Marcus Brutus was equal to the task, and in his private thoughts Pompey was able to admit that Brutus could never be a threat to him, as the other could. The way Caesar had taken control of Primigenia and yet kept the friendship of Brutus spoke volumes for his ability. Perhaps it would be better to have him removed before he had fully recovered from the murder of his wife, while he was weak.

Pompey looked ahead along the wide road. Crassus hadn’t the nerve to engage the slave army, he’d known it from the moment he’d heard his name chosen in the Senate. The victory would be his alone, and it would take nothing less to unite the factions in the Senate and bring him to power over Rome. Somewhere ahead of him, the fleet of galleys was blocking the sea, and though the slaves could not yet know it, their rebellion was ended.

*      *      *

Spartacus looked out over the cliffs and watched the smoke as another vessel was captured and burned by the galleys. The sea was alive with ships fleeing the Roman fleet, their oars smacking into the choppy sea in desperation as they tried to maneuver round each other without collision. There was no mercy for those who were caught. The navy galleys had suffered too many years of impotent pursuits not to revel in the destruction. Some were boarded, but more were burned as two or three galleys rained fire onto their decks until the pirates died in flames or jumped screaming into the sea. The rest made speed away from the coast, taking the last chance for freedom with them.

The cliffs were lined with his men, just watching as the fresh sea air blew against them. The cliffs were green with spring grasses and a light drizzle of rain darkened their grubby faces unnoticed.

Spartacus looked at them, his ragged army. They were all hungry and tired, heavy with the knowledge that their great run through the country was finally over. Still, he was proud of them all.

Crixus turned to him, his weariness showing. “There’s no way out of this, is there?”

“No, I don’t think so. Without the ships, we’re done,” Spartacus replied.

Crixus looked at the men around them, sitting and standing without hope in the thin rain. “I’m sorry. We should have crossed the mountains,” he said softly.

Spartacus shrugged, chuckling. “We gave them a run, though,” he said. “By all the gods, we scared them.”

They were silent again for a long time, and out at sea, the last of the pirate ships were chased or captured, the galleys sweeping back and forth on their long oars. The smoke from burning decks rose against the rain, fierce and hot as vengeance.

“Antonidus has gone,” Crixus said suddenly.

“I know. He came last night, wanting some of the gold.”

“You gave it to him?” Crixus asked.

Spartacus shrugged. “Why not? If he can get away, good luck to him. There’s nothing left for us here. You should go as well. Perhaps a few of us will make it on our own.”

“He won’t get past the legions. That damned wall they’ve built cuts us all off.”

Spartacus stood. “Then we will break it and scatter. I’ll not wait to be slaughtered like lambs, here. Gather the men close, Crix. We’ll share the gold out so they all have a piece or two, and then we’ll run one more time.”

“They’ll hunt us down,” Crixus said.

“They won’t catch us all. The country’s too big for that.”

Spartacus held out his hand and Crixus took it.

“Until we meet again, Crix.”

“Until then.”

*      *      *

There was no moon to reveal them to the soldiers on the great scar that stretched from coast to coast. When Spartacus had seen it, he had shaken his head in silent disbelief that a Roman general would attempt such a folly to pen the slaves against the sea. In a way, it was a mark of respect to his followers that the legions did not dare pursue them, but were content to sit and peer over their trenches in the darkness.

Spartacus lay on his stomach in the scrub grass, his face blackened with mud. Crixus lay at his side, and behind them a vast snake of men were hidden, waiting for the shout to attack. There had been no opposition to this last gamble when he put it to them. They had all seen the ships burn and their despair had turned into a grim fatalism. The great dream had ended. They would blow away like seeds on the wind, and the Romans would never catch the half of them.

“It’ll be a thin line guarding a trench that long,” Spartacus had told them as the sun set. “We will be the arrow through their skin, and before they can gather, most of us will be through and clear.”

There had been no cheering, but they had passed the word without excitement, sitting back then to sharpen their blades and wait. When the sun had gone, Spartacus rose and they came with him, trotting hunched over in the blackness.

The lip of the trench was a dark line against the faint shine of stars in the clear sky. Crixus looked at it and strained to make out the features of his friend.

“Ten feet high, at least, and it looks solid.” He sensed rather than saw Spartacus nod and cracked his neck with the tension. The two men stood slowly and Spartacus gave a low whistle to summon the group who would be first to the wall. They gathered around him as shadows, the strongest of them, armed with heavy hammers and axes.

“Go now. What they have built can be torn down,” Spartacus whispered, and they set off in a loping run, their weapons held ready for the first strike. The men behind came to their feet and ran toward the Roman wall.

  CHAPTER
43
  

J
ulius muttered his thanks as he was handed a bowl of warm stew. Covering the fields around him for as far as he could see, the soldiers of the Greek legions ate, the thin white snares of their cooking fires looping into the air. The ground was thick with mud and heavy clods stuck to their sandals and slowed them. Those who owned cloaks used them to sit on, turning the inside of the cloth down so the mud wouldn’t show when they started again. Many more sat on whatever they could find, flat stones, coarse grass, or even a pile of loose hay that they’d spread around.

It would be a short break, Julius knew. The extraordinarii had come in early that morning from their scouting, and rumors flew around the men, even before the official word had come through the chain of command.

There was nothing good in the reports. Julius had been with Pompey when the general heard the slave army was coming north to meet them and not one of Crassus’s eagle standards had been sighted. Pompey had raged at the rider who brought the news, demanding details he could not give. Wherever Crassus was, he had failed to hold the slaves against the sea. Julius wondered if he was still alive, but he could not bring himself to care particularly. He had seen so much of death. One more senator in this disastrous campaign would not make a difference.

Cabera wiped his fingers around his bowl and handed it back to the cook servants as they made their way through the vast encampment. There was never enough to eat, and by the time the bowls were passed out, much of it was as cold as the day. Around them, the men waited in that sleepwalking peace before a battle. None of them had fought the slaves before, but the usual chatter was absent. Somewhere to the south, it was easy to imagine a field like the one where they sat, littered with Roman bodies and crows.

Julius sighed as the rain started again. It would make the ground even softer. It didn’t matter. It fitted his mood perfectly, the skies reflecting the depression that had settled on him. The picture of his wife’s pale face and the torch-lit bed was as clear as if he were still seeing it in his mind. Tubruk, even Cato. It all seemed so terribly pointless. He’d loved the struggle in the beginning, when Marius was the golden general and they knew they fought for the city and each other, but the lines had blurred along the way and now he was sickened, eaten by guilt.

Julius dipped his fingers into the stew, pushing it into his mouth without tasting it. When Pelitas had died, he had wept, but there were no more tears in him for the others. He had no more lies for them, no more speeches. The grand lie had been that there was anything to fight for at all.

His father had seemed to see something worth saving in the Republic, but there was nothing left of that. There were just small men like Cato and Pompey, who saw no farther than their own glory. Visionless men, caring nothing for the things Tubruk had told him were important. Julius had believed what the great men had taught him, but they had all died for their dreams.

He reached down into the mud between his sprawled feet to trace a line with his finger. None of it was worth the death of one of them. Not Cornelia’s, not Tubruk’s, not any of the men he had led in Greece. They had followed him and given their lives without complaint. Well, he could do that, at least.

Of all the soldiers, Julius welcomed the battle to come. He would place himself in the front line for one last hour until it all finally stopped. He was tired of the Senate and tired of the path. It made him wince to think back to the day Marius had taken him into the building for the first time. He had been awed then at the heart of power. They had seemed so noble then, before he knew them too well to respect. He pulled his cloak against him as the wind built and heavier rain began to fall, spattering the mud around. Some of the men cursed, but most were quiet, making their peace with the gods before the killing began.

“Julius?” Cabera said, startling him out of his thoughts.

Julius turned to see the old man was holding his hands out toward him. He smiled as he saw what Cabera had made for him. It was a circlet of leaves, gathered from the bushes and wound about with thread from his robe.

“What’s that for?” Julius said to him.

Cabera held it out, pressing it into his hands. “Put it on, boy. It’s yours.”

Julius shook his head. “Not today, Cabera. Not here.”

“I made it for you, Julius. Please.”

They stood up together and Julius put out a hand to grip the back of the old man’s neck.

“All right, old friend,” he said, letting out a long breath. He removed his helmet and pressed the ring of wet leaves onto his hair, feeling them prickle against his skin. Some of the men looked at him, but Julius didn’t care. Cabera had been there through all of it and he didn’t deserve to be waiting to die in a muddy field, far from his own home. Another one who would die at his side.

“I want you to stay away from the front line when they come, Cabera. Live through this one,” he said.

“Your path is mine, remember?” the old man said, his eyes gleaming in the rain. His white hair hung in thin strips over his face, and there was something so bedraggled about him that Julius chuckled.

Around the pair of them, men rose to their feet in silence. Julius raised his head sharply at the movement, thinking it was time to march, but they just stood and looked at him. More and more joined them as the word spread, until every one of them was standing. Plates were put down and cloaks left to grow wet as they faced him and the rain fell.

Wonderingly, Julius reached up to touch the circlet and he felt his heart lift. These were not small men. They gave their lives without caring, trusting their generals not to waste what they offered. They smiled and laughed as he caught their eyes and he felt again the bonds that held them together.

“We are Rome,” he whispered, and turned to see thousands standing for him. In that moment, he understood what held Tubruk to loyalty and his father’s faith. He would turn his hand to the dream as better men had before him, and honor them with his life.

In the distance, cornicens sounded the long notes to break camp.

*      *      *

“Keep moving, my brothers,” Spartacus roared. It was the end, and somehow, there was no fear. His slaves had shown that the legions could be beaten, and he knew there would be a day when the cracks they had made would widen and Rome would fall. The legions behind them glittered in the morning sun, sending up a shout as Pompey’s thousands marched down to them, faster and faster like jaws to crush the slaves between them. Spartacus saw his ragged slaves would be engulfed. He drew his sword and pulled his iron helmet over his face.

“My gods, we gave them a run, though,” he said to himself as the air darkened with spears.