Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (2 page)

    “They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?”

    “I understand,” Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’s reply.

    Julius’s face lit with the idea. “There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is
of
Rome.” He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. “Rome is… an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adŕn to cast us off would be like tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.”

    “Unless he killed the man for sport,” Renius said, “and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.” He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

    Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

    “I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand
that
at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand
that
?” His voice had risen as he spoke, and Renius turned to face him, realizing he had gone too far.

    Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him. “If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand
that
?”

    Renius froze. “I know that, of course, you-”

    Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish, and he was left feeling empty and tired.

    “Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.”

    Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night, and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.

    There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the Senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.

    “I cannot go back,” he said aloud, his voice cracking.

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    Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them, and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.

    They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.

    “He wants you,” Renius said.

    Cabera looked up at his tone. “Hand me that pot, will you?”

    Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence, and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humor dampened.

    “You’re worried about Julius,” the old healer said.

    Renius shrugged. “He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I… can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.”

    Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’s arm. “He knows you’re here, if he needs you,” he said. “I’ll give him a sleeping draft for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.”

    Renius shook his head. “Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.”

    Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.

    “You are a good man, Renius,” he said, too quietly to be heard.

CHAPTER 2

    Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia, and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it, and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.

    The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.

    “I will buy his catch, Captain,” Servilia said.

    The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.

    “They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,” he said.

    She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.

    “Nonetheless, the sun is hot, and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.”

    The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labors, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.

    “Won’t your little boat drift away?” she asked.

    The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.

    “He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.”

    Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.

    The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish, and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.

    “Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?” she asked.

    The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.

    “Just a few coppers will do, madam,” he said.

    Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the captain and jerked his knot free before climbing the rail and diving into the blue water below. Servilia leaned over to watch him surface and laughed with pleasure as he pulled himself back in, gleaming in the sunlight like his fish. He pulled his net out of the water and waved to her.

    “What a wonderful beginning,” she breathed. The captain muttered something unintelligible.

    The crewmen who held the fish brought wooden clubs out of a deck locker and, before Servilia realized what they were doing, brought them down on the shining heads with a grim thumping sound. The eyes disappeared under the force of the blows, knocked inside the head as blood spattered over the deck. Servilia grimaced as a spot of it touched her arm. The seamen were clearly enjoying themselves, suddenly more vital than they had been at any point in the voyage from Ostia. It was as if they had come alive in the killing, and they chuckled and joked with each other as they finished the grisly task.

    When the last of the fish were dead, the deck was coated in their blood and tiny silver scales. Servilia watched as the seamen threw a canvas bucket on a line into the sea and sluiced the planks clean.

    “The port is tight with ships, madam,” the captain said at her shoulder, squinting against the sun. “I’ll take her in as close as I can, but we’ll have to anchor for a few hours until there’s a place on the dock.”

    Servilia turned to look again at Valentia, suddenly longing to be on land again. “As you say, Captain,” she murmured.

    The mountains behind the port seemed to fill the horizon, green and red against the dark blue of the sky. Her son, Brutus, was somewhere over them, and seeing him after so long would be wonderful. Strangely, her stomach tightened almost to an ache when she thought of the young man who was his friend. She wondered how the years had changed him, and touched her hair unconsciously, smoothing it back where it had fallen in tendrils, made damp by the sea air.

    Evening had muted the heat of the sun into gray softness by the time the Roman trade ship was able to ease between the lines of anchored shipping and take her place on the dock. Servilia had brought three of her most beautiful girls with her, and they joined her on deck with the crew as they threw ropes to the dockworkers and used the steering oars to bring them safe against the massive wooden beams of the side. It was a delicate maneuver and the captain showed his skill in its neatness, as he communicated with the mate at the bow with a series of hand signals and calls.

    There was a general air of excitement and the young girls Servilia had brought laughed and joked as the workers on the docks caught sight of them and called ribald comments. Servilia let them preen without a word; all three were the rarity in her business who had not yet lost the love for the work. In fact, Angelina, the youngest, was constantly falling in love with her customers, and few months went by without some romantic offering to buy her for marriage. The price always seemed to surprise them, and Angelina would sulk for days before someone else took her fancy.

    The girls were dressed as modestly as the daughters of any great house. Servilia had taken enormous care with their safety, knowing that even a short sea journey gave a sense of freedom to men that could have caused trouble. Their dresses were cut to obscure the lines of their young bodies, though there were more provocative garments in the trunks Servilia had brought along. If the letters Brutus had sent were correct, there would be a market and the three girls would be the first in the new house she would buy. The sailors who grunted and complained under the heavy trunks would have been shocked at the weight of gold that had been split between them.

    Servilia’s perusal of the docks was interrupted as Angelina shrieked suddenly. Servilia’s sharp glance took in the sailor hurrying away and Angelina’s pleased outrage, before she turned back. They had reached land not a moment too soon, she thought.

    The captain shouted for the dockworkers to make the ropes fast, and the crew cheered the announcement, already anticipating the pleasure of the port. Servilia caught the captain’s eye and he crossed the deck to her, suddenly more genial than she had grown to expect.

    “We won’t break out the cargo until tomorrow morning now,” he said. “I can recommend a few places if you want to go ashore, and there’s a cousin of mine who’ll rent you as many carts as you want, at a good price.”

    “Thank you, Captain. It’s been a great pleasure.” Servilia smiled at him, pleased to see a blush start high on his cheeks. Angelina was not the only one with a circle of admirers on the ship, she thought with some satisfaction.

    The captain cleared his throat and raised his chin to speak again, looking suddenly nervous.

    “I will be dining alone later, if you would like to join me. There’ll be fresh fruit sent to the ship, so it’ll be better than we’re used to.”

    Servilia laid a hand on his arm and felt the heat of his skin beneath his tunic.

    “It will have to be another time, I’m afraid. I’d like to be moving by dawn. Would you be able to have my trunks taken off first? I’ll speak to the legion to arrange a guard on it until the carts are loaded.”

    The captain nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. His first mate had told him the woman was a whore, but he had the intense impression that offering her money to stay with him would lead to an awful humiliation. For a moment he looked so terribly lonely that Servilia considered letting Angelina raise his spirits. The little blonde loved older men. They were always so desperately grateful, and for such little effort. Looking at him, Servilia guessed he would probably refuse the offer. Men of his years often wanted the company of a mature woman as much as the physical pleasures, and Angelina’s earthy frankness would only embarrass him.

    “Your trunks will be first on the dock, madam. It has been a pleasure,” he said, looking wistfully after her as she went to climb the steps onto the dock. A number of his crew had gathered in case the younger women were unsteady crossing the rail, and his eyebrows drew together as he considered them. After a moment of thought, he followed Servilia, knowing instinctively that he should be there to help the men.

    Julius was deep in work when the guard knocked on the door to his rooms.

    “What is it?”

    The legionary looked unusually nervous as he saluted.

    “I think you’d better come down to the gate, sir. You should see this.”

    Raising his eyebrows, Julius followed the man down the steps and out into the powerful afternoon sun. There was a peculiar tension affecting the soldiers who clustered around the gate, and as they parted for him Julius noticed one or two with the strained faces of men trying not to smile. Their amusement and the heat seemed to feed the prickling anger that had become the foundation of his waking hours.

    Beyond the open gate was a string of heavily laden carts, their drivers lightly coated by the dust of the road. A full twenty of the Tenth had taken station to the fore and rear of the odd procession. With narrowed eyes, Julius recognized the officer as one who had been dispatched on port duty the previous day, and his temper frayed still further. Like the carts, the legionaries were coated in enough dust to show they had walked every step of the way.

    Julius glared at them.

    “I do
not
recall giving orders for you to escort trade goods from the coast,” he snapped. “There had better be an excellent reason for leaving your post and disobeying my orders. I cannot think of one myself, but perhaps you will surprise me.”

    The officer paled slightly under the dust. “The lady, sir…” he began.

    “What? What lady?” Julius replied, losing patience with the man’s hesitation. Another voice sounded then, making him start in recognition.

    “I told your men you could not object to them helping an old friend,” Servilia said, stepping down from the riding seat of a cart and walking toward him.

    For a moment, Julius could not respond. Her dark hair was wild around her head and his eyes drank in the sight of her. Surrounded by men, she seemed fresh and cool, perfectly aware of the sensation she caused. She walked like a stalking cat, wearing a brown cotton dress that left her arms and neck uncovered. She wore no jewels but a simple chain of gold ending in a pendant that was almost hidden as it disappeared between her breasts.

    “Servilia. You should not have presumed on a friendship,” Julius said, stiffly.

    She shrugged and smiled as if it were nothing. “I hope you won’t punish them, General. The docks can be dangerous without guards, and I had no one else to help me.”

    Julius looked coldly at her, before returning his gaze to the officer. The man had followed the exchange and now stood with the glazed expression of one who waited for bad news.

    “My orders were clear?” Julius asked him.

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Then you and your men will take the next two watches. Your rank makes you more responsible than they, does it not?”

    “Yes, sir,” the hapless soldier replied.

    Julius nodded. “When you are relieved, you will report to your centurion to be flogged. Tell him twenty strokes on my order and your name to be entered in the lists for disobedience. Now
run
back.”

    The officer saluted smartly and spun on his heel. “Turn about!” he shouted to his twenty. “Double speed back to the docks.”

    With Julius there, no one dared groan, though they would be exhausted before they were halfway back to their original post and the watches to come would see them dropping with tiredness.

    Julius stared after them until they were clear of the line of carts, before turning back to Servilia. She stood stiffly, trying to hide her surprise and guilt at what her request had brought about.

    “You have come to see your son?” Julius said to her, frowning. “He is training with the legion and should be back at dusk.” He looked at the line of carts and bellowing oxen, clearly caught between his irritation at the unexpected arrival and the demands of courtesy. After a long silence, he relented.