Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (40 page)

    The group who gathered in the courtyard to go back to Rome were transformed from the dusty, terrified refugees who had knocked at the gates almost two months before. Clodia had told the children they could come out to see her any time they wished, and one or two of them had to be forcibly prized away from her on the last morning. The old nurse adored her young charges and there were tears on both sides.

    Tabbic had chafed at every day spent away from the city and barely had the patience to make his goodbyes now that the day had come. Alone of the group, he had made several trips back as soon as he had seen the walls of the city manned with Pompey’s legion once more. The shop had survived the fires in the district. Though it had been looted, the vast forge that was the heart of their business had survived unscathed. Tabbic was already planning a new door and locks to replace the one that had been broken down, and it was his reports of the new peace that had brought their time at the estate to an end. Pompey had been ruthless in destroying the leaders of the gangs, and by day at least, the city was beginning to look like herself again. There were rumors that Crassus had sent a huge sum to the Senate, and hundreds of carpenters were busy rebuilding. It would be some time before the citizens would think of such luxuries as jewelry, but Tabbic would be ready for them. His small part of the work was his gift to the city, but it meant a great deal. Picking up his scattered tools was the first step in putting the horrors of the riots behind them.

    Brutus had been tempted to rest his leg a little longer, but Alexandria had become increasingly cold with him over the previous days. He did not think she could know what had happened in the stable, but there were times when he caught her looking sideways at him, as if she wondered who he was. Without being sure how he knew, he was certain that if he stayed behind, it would be the last he saw of her.

    As far south as they were, spring had come early and the trees were already beginning to bloom in the woods. No doubt Julius would be waiting impatiently for him in the north, and reluctantly Brutus knew it was time to be on his way. He would return to the rough company of his legionaries, though somehow the thought of it did not fill him with enthusiasm as it used to. Brutus positioned the wooden block he needed to mount, glancing stealthily around the open yard as he gathered the reins. Julia was not there and he felt Alexandria’s eyes on him as he looked for her.

    A house slave opened the heavy gate and swung it wide so that they could see the track leading down to the main road into the city.

    “There you are!” Clodia said. “I thought you were going to miss them leaving.”

    Julia came out of the house and went around to all of them to say goodbye and accept their thanks as mistress of the house. Brutus watched closely as she and Alexandria exchanged a few words, but both women smiled and he could see no tension between them. He relaxed slightly as Julia came to him and reacted naturally as she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. He felt her tongue dart out against his lips for an instant, making him freeze in embarrassment. Her mouth tasted of honey.

    “Come back,” she whispered as he shoved himself into the saddle, not daring to look at Alexandria. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head and knew his cheeks were flaming as he tried to pretend nothing had happened.

    The children called and waved in a chorus as they began their journey to the city. Clodia had prepared packages of meat in boiled peppers for all of them, and one or two were already dipping greasy fingers into the cloth bags. Brutus cast one last glance at the estate he had known as a child and fixed it in his memory. When everything else in his life could twist out of all recognition, some things remained solid and gave him peace.

CHAPTER 38

    The torches flickered on the gold crown of the Arverni as the priest held it up to the warriors. In his other hand, he held a golden torc that shimmered and twisted as it wound around his fingers.

    The priest had daubed his body with blood and earth in long smears that made him seem part of the shadows in the temple. His chest was bare and his beard smoothed with clay into rough white spikes that quivered as he spoke.

    “The old king is dead, Arverni. His body will be burnt, though his name and deeds continue in our mouths for all our years. He was a man, Arverni. His cattle numbered in thousands and his sword arm was strong to the end. He spread his seed wide to bring his sons into the world, and his wives tear their hair and skin in grief. We shall not see him again.”

    The priest eyed the tribe who had packed themselves into the temple. It was a bitter night for him. For twenty years he had been the old king’s friend and counselor and shared his fear for the future when age and weakness had begun to steal his breath. Who amongst his sons had the strength to lead the tribe through such difficult times? The youngest, Brigh, was but a boy and the eldest was a blustering boaster, too weak where a king should be strong. Madoc would not be king.

    The priest looked into the eyes of Cingeto as he stood there on the dark marble with his brothers. That one was warrior enough to lead them, but his temper was already famous amongst the Arverni. He had killed three men in duels before he reached his manhood day, and the old priest would have given anything for a few more years to see who he would become.

    The words had to be spoken, though the priest felt a coldness in his heart as he drew breath.

    “Which of you will take the crown from my hand? Which of you has earned the right to lead the Arverni?”

    The three brothers exchanged glances and Brigh smiled and shook his head.

    “This is not for me,” he said and took a pace back.

    Cingeto and Madoc turned their blue eyes on each other and the silence became oppressive.

    “I am the eldest son,” Madoc said at last, the high color of anger starting on his cheeks.

    “Aye, but you’re not the man we need now,” Cingeto murmured softly. “Whoever takes the crown must prepare for war or see our tribe scattered.”

    Madoc sneered. He was taller than his brother and he used his height to intimidate, looming over Cingeto.

    “Do you see armies on our lands? You show me where they are. You
point
them out to me.” He spat the words at his brother, but Cingeto had heard them all before.

    “They are coming. They have gone north, but they will come back into the heartlands soon enough. I have met their leader and he will not let us live out our lives. His taxmen have already robbed the Senones and sold thousands as slaves. They could not stop him and now their women cry in the fields. He must be fought, my brother. You are not the man to do it.”

    Madoc sneered at him. “They were just Senones, brother. The Arverni are men. If they come to trouble us, we will ride them down.”

    “Can you see no further than that?” Cingeto snapped. “You are blind, as the Senones were blind. I will make the Arverni a torch in the dark to gather in the other tribes. I will lead them against these Romans until they are swept out of Gaul. We cannot stand alone anymore.”

    “You are too frightened of them to be a king, little brother,” Madoc said, showing his teeth.

    Cingeto smashed a hand across Madoc’s mouth and forced him back a step.

    “I will
not
see my people destroyed by you. If you will not yield to me, then I will have the crown by challenge.”

    Madoc ran his tongue over his lips, tasting blood. His eyes became hard.

    “As you wish, little brother. Fire and the gods watching… It is right.”

    Both men turned back to the priest and he nodded.

    “Bring the irons. It will be decided in fire.”

    He prayed the gods would give courage to the right man to lead the Arverni through the dark days ahead.

    Julius panted as he led his horse through the high pass. The air was thinner there, and though spring had come in the valleys, on the peaks the air hurt the lungs of even the fittest of them. Julius looked at Brutus ailing far below the century of the Tenth. He had lost much of his stamina in recovering from his wounds, and there were times when Julius thought they would have to leave him to come on later. Yet he stayed doggedly on their trail, riding whenever the pass leveled.

    When he had first seen the dusty horseman come into Ariminum, Julius’s spirits had leapt to hear the latest news of the city. The cold formality of the report he received filled him with confusion. He had wanted to shake the man who limped into the house and spoke so distantly of his experiences. The old anger had washed over him as he listened, though he had not given way to it. Servilia had gone and the rift between them was his to mend.

    Julius could recall a thousand times when he had used a few words, or a compliment, or even a nod to build the men around him. He felt only sadness when he realized his oldest friend needed the same harmless lies. It was one thing to clap a soldier on the back and see him stand a little taller. It was quite another to give up the honesty of his oldest friendship, and Julius had not yet acted on his decision. After the initial report, they had hardly spoken.

    Julius’s thoughts turned to Regulus, who trudged at his side through the snow. He was one of those who formed the core of a legion. Some became little better than animals in the ranks of Rome, but men like Regulus never seemed to lose that last part of their humanity. They could show kindness to a woman or a child and then go to battle and fling away their lives for something more than themselves. There were senators who saw them only as killing tools, never men as they were, who could understand what Rome meant. The legionaries always used their votes in the elections when they had the chance. They wrote home and swore and pissed in the snow like any other, and Julius understood how Marius had loved them.

    It was not a responsibility to be borne lightly, leading such men. They looked to him for food and shelter, for order in their lives. Their respect was hard to win and could be lost in a single moment of cowardice or indecision. He would not have had it any other way.

    “Shall we run, Regulus?” Julius said, between tearing breaths. The centurion smiled stiffly. The habit of shaving had come back to them all in Ariminum, and Julius saw the man’s face was red and raw in the wind.

    “Best not leave the horses behind, sir,” Regulus replied.

    Julius clapped him on the back and took a moment to look around at the mountains. It was a deadly beauty that they passed through. The aching white of the high peaks shone in the sun, and behind, Brutus struggled on to keep them in sight.

    Regulus saw Julius glance down the twisting path.

    “Shall I go back to him, sir? The general’s limp is getting worse.”

    “Very well. Tell him I’ll race him into Gaul. He’ll understand.”

    The long irons were heated in braziers until the tips were red. Madoc and Cingeto had stripped to the waist and now both men stood sweating on the floor of the temple. All the families were there to watch and neither of them showed the slightest fear as the priest checked the irons over and over until he was satisfied and the hairs on the back of his right hand shriveled as he passed it over the basket of iron.

    At last, the old priest turned to face the two brothers. Their chests were paler than their arms and faces, he saw. Madoc was heavy with muscle, the bull his father had once been. Cingeto was a more compact figure, though there was not a piece of spare flesh on him. The old priest drew himself up to address the silent families of the Arverni.

    “A king must have strength, but he must also have determination. All men feel fear, but he must conquer it when the need is great.” He paused for a moment, savoring the words of the ritual. His old master had used a long stick to correct a faltering recital. He had hated him then, but now he used that same cane on the apprentices in the temple. The words were important.

    “By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One will take the crown and one will be banished from the lands of the Arverni. That is the law. Yet the man to lead us should have a mind as sharp as his sword. He should be cunning as well as brave. The gods grant that there is such a man before us today.”

    Both brothers remained still as he spoke, preparing themselves for what was to come. The priest grasped the first of the irons and pulled it out. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen.

    “To the elder goes the first,” he said, his eyes on the glowing tip.

    Madoc reached out and took the length of iron. His eyes were bright with malice as he turned to Cingeto. “Shall we see which one of us is blessed?” he whispered.

    Cingeto did not reply, though sweat poured off him. Madoc brought the rod closer and closer to his brother’s chest until the blond hairs began to sizzle, giving off a powerful smell. Then he laid it against his brother’s skin and pressed it deeply into the flesh.

    Cingeto’s lungs emptied in a great heave of air. Every muscle in his body went rigid with the agony, but he did not cry out. Madoc ground the iron against him until the heat had faded and then his own face tightened as he put it back into the fire.

    Cingeto looked down at the brown welt that had been raised on his skin. It leaked pale fluid as he took in a deep breath and steadied himself. Without a word, he drew another iron and Madoc began to breathe faster and faster.

    Madoc grunted as the metal touched him and, in a fury, he grabbed for another from the brazier. The priest touched his hand in reproof and he dropped it to his side, his mouth opening and his breath coming harshly.

    The trial of fire had begun.

    At the end of the second day in the mountains, the rugged path began to tilt down to Gaul. Julius paused there, leaning against a rock. When he looked up, he could see the plateau of the high pass above them and was astonished that they had put it so far behind. They were all desperate for food and sleep, and Julius felt a strange clarity of vision, as if hunger and the wind had sharpened his senses. Below him, Gaul stretched with a darker green than he could have believed existed. His lungs felt huge inside his chest and he took great breaths for the sheer pleasure of being alive in such a place.

    Brutus felt he had been trudging through the mountains all his life. His weak leg throbbed every time he put his weight on it, and without the horse to lean on, he was sure he would have fallen long before. As the century rested, he and Regulus weaved their way through the column to the front. Julius heard some of his men cheer, calling out encouragement. He turned back to see them and smiled as the pair responded to the voices, forcing themselves on. The strength of the brotherhood between his soldiers never failed to fill him with pride. As Julius watched, Brutus and Regulus grinned at the hoots and calls, laughing together as Regulus muttered some reply.

    Julius looked back at Gaul below them. Spread out before him, it looked deceptively peaceful, almost as if he could take a step and land right in the heart of it. He hoped that one day a traveler through the passes would look down on cities as great as Rome. Beyond it lay the sea that called to him, and he pictured the fleet that would carry the Tenth and Third over it. The tribes would pay their taxes in gold and he would use it to see what lay over the dim white cliffs. He would take Rome to the edge of the world, where even Alexander had not been before him.

    Brutus came to his side and Julius saw dark rings around his eyes. The climb had hurt his friend, but in his exhaustion he seemed to have lost some of the coldness he had brought back from Rome. As their eyes met, Julius motioned toward the country below.

    “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

    Brutus took a water bottle from Regulus and tilted it back between cracked lips.

    “Are we in a race or not?” he said. “I’m not waiting for you.”

    He staggered down the slope and Julius watched him with affection. Regulus hesitated by Julius’s side, unsure whether he was to follow.

    “Go on, stay with him,” Julius said. “I’ll follow you down.”

    The smell of flesh and fire was strong in the temple. Both men were bleeding as their skin cracked open with each turn of the irons. Eleven times they had withstood the pain and Cingeto now swayed with his teeth showing whitely against his skin, ready for the twelfth. He watched his brother closely. The test was as much in the mind as in the body and each man knew it could only end when one refused to touch the other. As each burn was added, they both knew it meant they would face at least one more, and the knowledge ate at them as their strength dwindled.

    Madoc hesitated as he wrapped his fingers around the black iron. If he held it to his young brother, he would have to stand another on his own skin. He did not know if he could, though the desire to see Cingeto humbled was still strong in him.