The Gods of War

The thought brought back his anger and pride. He ignored his first impulse to circle around the column and approached warily, ready to kick his mount to a gallop. Julius would not have sent infantry, he was almost certain, and he saw that the column had no horses with them, not even for officers. Brutus felt a deep relief at that. He had trained the extraordinarii to hunt a single rider and he knew they would show no mercy to a traitor, even the man who had led them in Gaul.

The train of thought made him flinch unconsciously. He had not had time to consider what those left behind would think when they heard. They would not understand his reasons. Friends who had known him for years would be appalled. Domitius would not believe it at first, Brutus thought bitterly. Octavian would be crushed.

He wondered if Regulus would understand. The man had betrayed his own master, after all. Brutus doubted he would find sympathy there. The rabid loyalty that Regulus had shown to Pompey had been transferred in one violent jolt to his new master. Regulus was a zealot. There could be no half measures for him and he would hunt Brutus tirelessly if Julius gave the order.

Oddly, it was most painful to imagine Julius’ face as he heard the news. He would assume there had been a mistake until Servilia spoke to him. Even then, Brutus knew he would be hurt and the thought made his knuckles whiten on the reins. Perhaps Julius would grieve for him in his sanctimonious way. He would shake his balding head and understand that he had lost the best of them through his own blindness. Then he would send the wolves after him. Brutus knew better than to expect forgiveness for his betrayal. Julius could not afford to let him reach Pompey.

Brutus glanced behind him, suddenly afraid he would see the extraordinarii galloping in his wake. The fields were quiet and he took a better grip on his emotions. The column was a more immediate threat, and as he came closer he saw the pale ovals of faces glancing in his direction and the distant din of a sounding horn. He dropped his hand to his sword and grinned into the wind. Let the bastards try to take him, whoever they were. He was the best of a generation and a general of Rome.

The column came to a halt and Brutus knew who they were the moment he saw their lack of perfect order. The road guards had been sent to the old Primigenia barracks, but Brutus guessed these were the stubborn ones, finding their own way to reach a general who cared nothing for them. Whether they realised it or not, they were natural allies and a plan sprang full-grown into his head as he rode up to them. An inner voice was amused at how his thoughts seemed to come faster and with more force the further away he was from Julius. He could become the man he should have been without that other’s shadow.

Seneca turned in panic as the cornicen sounded a warning note. He felt a cold thumping in his chest as he expected to see the ranks of Caesar’s horsemen riding down to punish him.

The relief of seeing only a single rider was something like ecstasy and he could almost smile at how afraid he had been. Ahenobarbus’ talk of oaths had troubled him and he knew the men shared something of the same guilt.

Seneca narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the rider approached the head of the column, looking neither right nor left as he passed the standing ranks. Seneca recognised the silver armour of one of Caesar’s generals and on the heels of that came a fear that they were being surrounded once again. Anything was possible from those who had spun a wheel around them and made them look like children.

He was not the only one to have the thought. Half the men in the column jerked their heads nervously, looking for the tell-tale dust that would reveal the presence of a larger force. The ground was dry in the summer’s heat and even a few riders should have given themselves away. They saw nothing, but dared not cease their searching after the harsh lesson they had been taught outside Corfinium.

‘Ahenobarbus! Where are you?’ Brutus called as he reined in, his dark eyes examining Seneca for a moment and moving on, dismissing him from notice.

Seneca coloured and cleared his throat. He did remember this one, from the negotiations in Caesar’s tent. The mocking smile was always his first expression and the eyes had seen more war and death than Seneca could imagine. On the high-stepping Spanish gelding, he was a forbidding figure and Seneca found his mouth was dry from fear.

‘Ahenobarbus! Show yourself,’ Brutus shouted, his impatience growing.

‘He is not here,’ Seneca replied.

The general’s head snapped round at his words and he wheeled his horse with obvious skill. Seneca felt a little more of his confidence drain away under the man’s stare. He felt as if he was being judged and found wanting, but the initiative seemed to have been lost from the moment they sighted the rider.

‘I do not remember your face,’ Brutus told him, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘Who are you?’

‘Livinius Seneca. I do not …’

‘What rank do you hold to lead these men?’

Seneca glared. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few of the guards turn their heads to hear his answer. Against his will, he flushed again. ‘Pompey will decide how to reward my loyalty,’ he began. ‘At the moment …’

‘At the moment, you may be a few hours ahead of Caesar’s legions once he discovers you have left the barracks,’ Brutus snapped. ‘I assume command of these cohorts by right of my rank as general of Rome. Now, where are you heading?’

Seneca lost his temper at last. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’ he shouted. ‘We know our duty, sir. We will not return to Rome. Ride back to the city, General. I don’t have time to stand here and bicker with you.’

Brutus raised his eyebrows in interest, leaning forward to take a better look. ‘But I’m not going back to Rome,’ he said softly. ‘I’m taking you to Greece to fight for Pompey.’

‘I won’t be tricked by you, General. Not twice. I saw you in Caesar’s tent with Ahenobarbus. Are you telling me you have turned traitor in a day? That’s a lie.’

To Seneca’s horror, the silver-armoured general swung a leg over his saddle and vaulted lightly to the ground. He took three paces to stand close enough to feel the sun’s heat off his armour and his eyes were terrible.

‘You call me a liar and a traitor and expect to live, Seneca? I am no man’s servant but Rome’s. My sword has killed more men than stand here for the Senate and you dare to use those words to me?’

His hand caressed the hilt of his gladius and Seneca took a step back from his rage.

‘I have told you where I’m going,’ Brutus continued relentlessly. ‘I have told you I will fight for Pompey. Don’t question me again, boy. Be warned.’ The last words were a harsh whisper, before the light of madness fell from his gaze and his voice changed to a more normal tone. ‘Tell me where you are heading.’

‘The coast,’ Seneca said. He could feel a fat line of sweat run down his cheek and did not dare to scratch the itching trail.

Brutus shook his head. ‘Not with two cohorts. There aren’t fishing boats enough for all of us. We’ll need to head for a port and hope there is a merchant vessel Pompey didn’t manage to burn. Brundisium is two hundred miles south and east from here. It’s large enough.’

‘It’s too far,’ Seneca said instantly. ‘If they send the extraordinarii …’

‘You think you’ll be safer with your back to the sea? Then you’re a fool. We need a ship and there must be some trader still working.’

‘But if they send the riders?’ Seneca said desperately.

Brutus shrugged. ‘I trained those men. If Caesar sends the extraordinarii out against us, we’ll gut them.’

As Seneca stared at him, Brutus walked calmly back to his horse and leapt into the saddle. From that lofty position, he looked down at Seneca and waited for further opposition. When none came, he nodded to himself, satisfied.

‘Brundisium it is. I hope your lads are fit, Seneca. I want to be in Brundisium in ten days or less.’

He turned his horse to face the south and waved on the first rank of guards. To Seneca’s private fury, they turned to follow him and the column began to move once more. As he matched his pace to the ranks around him, Seneca realised that he would spend the next week staring at the rear of the horse.

In the soft light of morning, Julius paced the length of Marius’ old entrance hall, watched by the generals he had summoned. He looked exhausted and pale, a man made older by the news.

‘It’s not just that the betrayal will hurt our standing with the remaining senators,’ he said. ‘We could keep that quiet if we say he was sent away on some private task. But he has with him the knowledge of our strengths, our weaknesses, even our methods of attack! Brutus knows the details of every battle we fought in Gaul. He practically invented the extraordinarii as we use them. He has the Spanish secret of hard iron. Gods, if he gives all that to Pompey we will be beaten before we begin. Tell me how I can win against that sort of knowledge.’

‘Kill him before he can reach Pompey,’ Regulus said into the silence.

Julius glanced up, but did not reply. Domitius frowned in bemusement, wiping clammy sweat from his face. His thoughts were still heavy from a wild party in a house off the forum. The sweet smell of drink was on all of them, but they were steady. Domitius shook his head to clear it. They could not be discussing Brutus as an enemy, he told himself. It was not possible. They had taken salt and pay together, shed blood and bound each other’s wounds. They had become generals in hard years and Domitius could not shake the thought that Brutus would return with an explanation and a joke, with a woman on his arm, perhaps. The man was practically a father to Octavian. How could he have thrown that away for his stupid temper?

Domitius rubbed his callused hands over his face, looking at the floor as the angry conversation continued around him. They had come into the city only the morning before and already one of them was an enemy.

Mark Antony spoke as Julius resumed his pacing. ‘We could spread the word that Brutus is a spy for us. That would undermine his value to the forces in Greece. Pompey won’t be willing to trust him as it is. With just a little push, he might reject Brutus altogether.’

‘How? How do we do that?’ Julius demanded.

Mark Antony shrugged. ‘Send a man to be captured on the Greek coast. Give him your ring or something, to show he spies for us. Pompey will torture it out of him and then Brutus will lose his value.’

Julius considered this in angry silence. ‘And who shall I send to be tortured, Mark Antony? We are not discussing a beating. Pompey would take hours over him to be certain he has the truth. I’ve seen him work on traitors before. Our spy would lose his eyes to hot irons and with them the hope of surviving the ordeal. Pompey will be thorough with him. Do you understand? There’ll be nothing left but meat.’

Mark Antony did not reply and Julius snorted in disgust, his sandals clicking as he walked the marble floor. At the furthest point from them, he paused and turned. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept and his mind was numb.

‘You are right. We must lessen the coup of having Brutus go over to them. Pompey will trumpet it far and wide if he has any sense, but if we can sow distrust, Pompey could well waste our precious general. Do the men know yet that he has left?’

‘Some will, though they may not guess he has gone to Pompey,’ Mark Antony replied. ‘It is beyond belief for any of us. They would not think of it.’

‘Then a loyal man will suffer the worst agonies to undo this betrayal,’ Julius said grimly. ‘It is the first of what he will owe us. Whoever we send cannot know the truth. It would be burnt out of him. He must be told that Brutus is still one of us, but playing a subtle game. Perhaps we can have him overhear the secret, so he does not become too suspicious. Who can you send?’

The generals looked at each other reluctantly. It was one thing to order men into a battle line, but this was a dirty business and Brutus was hated in that room.

Mark Antony cleared his throat at last. ‘I have one who has worked for me in the past. He is clumsy enough to get himself caught if we send him alone. His name is Caecilius.’

‘Does he have family, children?’ Julius asked, clenching his jaw.

‘I don’t know,’ Mark Antony said.

‘If he has, I will send a blood-price to them when he is clear of the city,’ Julius said. It did not seem enough.

‘I will summon Caecilius here, with your permission?’ Mark Antony asked.

As always, the final order and the final responsibility rested with Julius. He felt annoyed that Mark Antony would not take the burden with a few easy words, but Brutus would have and Brutus had turned traitor. It was better to be surrounded by weaker men, perhaps.

‘Yes. Have him come here. I will give the orders myself,’ Julius confirmed.

‘We should send an assassin with him, to be certain,’ Octavian said suddenly. All eyes turned to him and he faced them without apology. ‘Well? Regulus has said what we are all thinking. Am I the only other one who will say it? Brutus was as much my friend as any of you, but you think he should live? Even if he tells Pompey nothing, or this spy weakens his position, he must be killed.’

Julius took Octavian by the shoulders and the younger man could not look him in the eyes. ‘No. There will be no assassins sent by me. No one else has the right to make that decision, Octavian. I will not order the death of my friend.’

At the last word, Octavian’s eyes blazed with fury and Julius gripped him harder.

‘Perhaps I share the blame for Brutus, lad. I did not see the signs in him until he had gone, though they trouble me now. I have been a fool, but what he has done changes nothing, in the end. Whether Pompey appoints him general or not, we must still go to Greece and fight those legions.’ He paused until Octavian looked up. ‘When we do, if Brutus is there, I shall order that he is kept alive. If the Gods kill him with a spear or an arrow, then my hands are clean. But if he lives through the war to come, I will not take his life until I have spoken to him, perhaps not even then. There is too much between us to think otherwise. Do you understand?’

‘No,’ Octavian said. ‘Not at all.’

Julius ignored the anger, feeling it himself. ‘I hope you will in time. Brutus and I have shared blood and life and more years than I can remember. I will not see him dead at my order. Not today, for this, nor at any other time. We are brothers, he and I, whether he chooses to remember it or not.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seeing Brundisium without the usual bustle of merchant and legion galleys was strange for such a key port in the south. When Brutus crested the last hill with the exhausted guard cohorts, he was disappointed not to find anything larger than a lobster boat tied to the quays. He tried to remember if he knew the quaestor of the port and then shrugged to himself. Whatever small contingent of Roman soldiers was stationed there would not be able to interfere. Outside of Rome herself, there was nothing in the south to trouble them.

The guards followed him down to the port, ignoring the stares and pointing fingers of the workers there. It was a strange feeling for most of them, but Brutus was familiar with hostile territory and fell back into the attitudes of Gaul without really thinking about it. The sight of soldiers would have brought a sense of peace and order only a short time before, but with a looming civil war they would be feared as much as any other band of scavengers. It was unpleasant to see the faces of those who stepped aside for the two cohorts of guards. Even with all his experience, Brutus could not ignore a subtle discomfort and found himself growing increasingly irritable as he led the column through to the import buildings on the docks. He left them there in the sun as he dismounted and strode inside.

The quaestor’s clerk was on his feet, arguing with two burly men. All three turned to face him as he entered and Brutus saluted lazily, knowing his arrival had been the subject of their debate.

‘I need food and water for my men,’ he said abruptly. ‘See to that first. We will not trouble you for long, gentlemen, so put yourselves at ease. I want to find a ship to take me to Greece.’

As he mentioned his destination, he noticed the clerk’s eyes flicker to a piece of parchment on his desk and then back up, guiltily. Brutus smiled, crossing the room. The dockworkers moved to block him and he dropped a casual hand onto his sword.

‘You are unarmed, gentlemen. Are you certain you’d like to try me?’ he asked.

One of the men licked his bottom lip nervously and would have spoken, but his companion tapped him on the arm and they both edged away.

‘Very good,’ Brutus said to them, letting his hand fall. ‘Now then; food, water and … a ship.’

He reached down to the desk and gripped the clerk’s bony hand, moving it firmly off the papers. Brutus took the sheaf and scanned them quickly, letting each fall until he came to one midway through the pile. It was a record of a legion galley that had landed at the port just the day before to replenish its fresh-water barrels. There was little detail to be gleaned from it. The captain had returned from the north according to the record and set sail after only a few hours in Brundisium.

‘Where was he heading?’ Brutus demanded.

The clerk opened his mouth and closed it, shaking his head.

Brutus sighed. ‘I have a thousand men standing on your docks. All we want is to leave here without trouble, but I am not patient today. I can give the word to set fire to this building and anything else you value. Or you can just tell me. Where is this galley?’

The clerk bolted for a back room and Brutus heard the clatter of his sandals as he rushed up a flight of stairs. He waited in uncomfortable silence with the two dockworkers, ignoring them.

A man wearing a toga that had seen better days came down the steps behind the clerk. Brutus sighed at the quaestor’s appearance.

‘Provincials,’ he murmured under his breath.

The man heard him and glared. ‘Where are your letters of authority?’ the quaestor demanded.

Brutus stared at him, focusing on a food stain on the man’s robe until he flushed.

‘You have no right to threaten us here,’ the quaestor blustered. ‘We are loyal.’

‘Really? To whom?’ Brutus asked. The man hesitated and Brutus enjoyed his discomfort before he went on. ‘I have two cohorts going to join Pompey and the Senate in Greece. That is my authority. Your clerk was good enough to show me the records and a galley passed through here yesterday. Tell me where they were heading.’

The quaestor fired a poisonous glance at his hapless servant before coming to a decision. ‘I spoke to the captain myself,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He was on patrol off Ariminum when the message reached him to come in. He was going to land at Ostia.’ He hesitated.

‘But you told him that Pompey had already left,’ Brutus said. ‘I imagine he would want to join the fleet by sailing around the south coast, meeting them halfway. Does that sound like the conversation you remember?’

The quaestor stiffened at the tone. ‘I had no new orders for him. I believe he may have put to sea to deny the value of his ship to … rebel forces.’

‘A sensible man,’ Brutus said. ‘But we are loyal to Pompey, sir. We need that galley. I expect such a thoughtful captain would have told you his next port in case the right person came asking. Somewhere further south, yes?’

As he spoke, he watched the clerk’s eyes and saw them shift guiltily. The quaestor was a far better gambler than his servant, but he caught the glance and the muscles stood out on his jaw as he considered what to do.

‘How do I know you are not with Caesar?’ he asked.

The question had a far greater effect than the quaestor could have intended. Brutus seemed to grow slightly, making the little office feel smaller and oppressively hot. The fingers of his right hand drummed for a moment on the silver breastplate, the noise startlingly loud in the silence.

‘Do you think I have a secret password for you?’ he snapped. ‘A special sign to show I am loyal? These are complicated days. There is nothing more I can say to you, except this. If you do not tell me, I will burn this port to the ground and you in it. I will have my men bar the doors and listen to you scratching at them. That is all I offer.’ He stared the quaestor down, knowing there would be no hint of a bluff in his eyes.

‘Tarentum. He said he would make a landing at Tarentum,’ the clerk said, breaking the tension.

The quaestor was visibly relieved to have had the decision taken from him, but he still raised his fist in reaction, making the clerk flinch. Brutus looked for some hint that they were lying, but he was satisfied and then ignored the pair, calculating quickly. Tarentum was a port he could reach in just a few hours of hard riding across an isthmus the galley would have to sail around.

‘Thank you, gentlemen, your loyalty will be rewarded,’ he said, watching their fear and confusion as they digested his words. He supposed it would be much the same all over Roman lands very soon, as the question of allegiance became more and more important. Civil war engendered a distrust that had already begun to eat at the foundations of their world.

Outside in the sun, Brutus watched the cohorts fill their waterskins from a well in reasonable order. He was tempted for a moment of wildness to have them burn the port as he had threatened. After all, it could well be one of those Julius would use to send a fleet to Greece. He did not give the order, preferring not to send a column of smoke to show their position. There was also a little pride in wanting Julius to make the crossing as soon as he could. Brutus needed just a few months to establish himself in Pompey’s forces and after that Julius could come and be welcome.

‘Seneca, there’s a legion galley heading for Tarentum. I shall ride there. Follow me when you have found provisions.’

Seneca looked at his men and his mouth became a firm line.

‘We have no silver to pay for food,’ he said.

Brutus snorted. ‘This is a port without ships. I’d say the warehouses are full of whatever you need. Take what you want and come after me as fast as you are able. Understood?’

‘Yes, I suppose …’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brutus snapped. ‘Then you salute as if you know what you’re doing, understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Seneca replied, saluting stiffly.

Brutus led his mount over to the well and Seneca watched irritably as he moved amongst the guards with an ease Seneca could only envy. He saw Brutus make some comment and heard their laughter. The general was a hero to men who had done nothing more than keep road forts safe for Rome. Seneca felt a touch of the same admiration himself and wished he could find a way to start again.

As he watched Brutus mount and trot out onto the southern road, Seneca felt the men look to him for orders once more. He realised that few others of his generation had the chance to learn their trade from a veteran of Gaul. He approached the group around the well, as he had seen Brutus do. It had not been his practice to mix with them and they glanced at each other, but then one of them handed him a waterskin and Seneca drank.

‘Do you think he’ll find us a galley, sir?’ one of the men asked.

Seneca wiped his mouth. ‘If he can’t, he’ll probably swim across, towing us behind him,’ he replied, smiling to see them relax. It was such a small thing, but he felt more satisfaction in that moment than he could remember from all his tactical drills.

Brutus galloped across the scrub grass of the southern hills, his eyes steady on the horizon for his first glimpse of the sea. He was hungry, tired and itching under his armour, but if the galley was making only a brief stop at Tarentum, he had to push himself on. He did not dwell on what he would do if the captain had gone. The longer Brutus was on land, the more the danger increased, but there was no point worrying. In his years in Gaul, he had learned the mental trick that allowed him to ignore what he could not control and bring his full weight onto levers he could move. He cleared his mind of the problem, concentrating on making the best speed over rough ground.