The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
“Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!” Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.
Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’s shoulders as if Suetonius were not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.
“I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,” Pompey said.
Bibilus made a sound that could have been a reply, but Pompey went on over it.
“You have made a fair showing amongst the first classes, and may do better still before the end. See it through and who knows? Even if you are not successful, there is always a place for the old families in the Senate.”
Bibilus plastered a sick smile onto his face and Pompey patted his arm as he let him go. Suetonius turned away rather than try again and watched coldly as Bibilus took another three votes.
By noon, every result was greeted with cheers as the wine sellers sold their wares to the crowd. Julius felt able to unbend enough to drink a cup, but could not taste it. He exchanged inanities with Bibilus, but Senator Prandus remained aloof and only nodded stiffly when Julius congratulated him on his showing. Suetonius had nothing like his father’s skill at hiding his emotions, and Julius felt his eyes on him constantly, wearing his nerves.
As the sun passed its zenith, Pompey called for awnings to shade them. A hundred centuries had voted and Julius was second and seventeen votes clear of Prandus. As things stood, Bibilus and Julius would take the seats, and the crowd began to show their interest more openly, cheering and jostling each other to observe the candidates. Julius watched as Suetonius drew a large red cloth from his toga and mopped his brow with it. It was a strangely flamboyant gesture and Julius smiled grimly, glancing to the west, where the Janiculum flag could be seen.
The Janiculum hill commanded a full view of the city and the land around it. A huge mast rose from a stone base at the highest point, and the men who watched for invasion never shifted their gaze. It was usually an easy duty, more suited to the ancient days when the city was in constant danger from outlying tribes and armies. This year, the Catiline conspiracy had brought home the continued need for the duty, and those who had won the task by lot were alert and watchful. There were six of them, four boys and two veterans from Pompey’s legion. They discussed the candidates as they ate a cold lunch, thoroughly enjoying the break from their normal duties. At sunset, they would complete their day with a note from a long horn and the solemn lowering of the flag.
They did not see the men creeping up the hill behind them until a pebble clicked against a rock and went skipping down the steep side below the crest. The boys turned to see what animal had disturbed them, and one cried out in warning at the sight of armed men scrambling up. There were seven of them: big, scarred raptores who showed their teeth as they caught sight of the small number of defenders.
Pompey’s men jumped to their feet, scattering food and knocking over a clay jug of water that darkened the dusty ground. Even as their blades came free, they were surrounded, but they knew their duty and the first of the raptores was punched flat as he came too close. The others surged in, snarling, and then another voice snapped through the air.
“Hold! Who moves, dies,” Brutus shouted. He was running toward them with a full twenty soldiers at his heels. Even if he had been alone, it could have been enough. There were few in Rome who would not have recognized the silver armor he wore, or the gold-hilted sword he had won.
The raptores froze. They were thieves and killers and nothing in their experience had prepared them to face the soldiers of their own city. It took only an instant for them to abandon the attempt on the flag and leap away in all directions down the steep slopes. A couple of them lost their footing and rolled, dropping their weapons in the panic. By the time Brutus arrived at the flag mast, he was panting lightly, and Pompey’s men saluted him, their faces flushed.
“It would be a shame to have the election stopped by a few thieves, wouldn’t it?” Brutus said, looking down at the dwindling figures.
“I’m sure Briny and I could have held them, sir,” one of Pompey’s men replied, “but these boys are good lads and no doubt we would have lost one or two.” The man paused as it occurred to him he was being less than gracious about the rescue. “We were glad to see you, sir. Are you letting them go?”
The legionary moved to the edge with Brutus, watching the progress of the raptores below. Brutus shook his head.
“I have a few riders at the bottom. They won’t reach the city.”
“Thank you, sir,” the soldier replied, smiling grimly. “They don’t deserve to.”
“Can you see which one of the candidates is losing at the moment?” Brutus asked, narrowing his eyes at the dark mass of citizens in the distance. He could make out where Julius was standing and saw a speck of red appear on one of the men at his side. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Julius had guessed right.
Pompey’s soldier shrugged. “We can’t see much from here, sir. Do you think that red cloth was their signal?”
Brutus chuckled. “We’ll never be able to prove it, you know. It’s tempting to try to turn those thieves with a little gold, sending them against their master. More satisfying than just leaving their bodies out here, don’t you think?”
The soldier smiled stiffly. He knew his general was no friend of the man who stood at his shoulder, but the silver armor put him in awe. He could tell his children that he had talked to the greatest swordsman of Rome.
“Better by far, sir,” he said, “if they’ll do it.”
“Oh, I think they will. My riders can be very persuasive,” Brutus replied, looking at the flag snapping in the breeze above his head.
Suetonius glanced as casually as he could at the Janiculum flag. It was still flying! He bit his lower lip in irritation, wondering if he should take the red cloth from his toga one more time. Were they asleep? Or had they just taken his money and were sitting in some tavern drinking themselves blind? He thought he could make out figures moving on the dark crest and wondered if the men he had hired were unable to see his signal. He looked around guiltily and reached inside the soft cloth of his robe once more. At that moment, he saw Julius was smiling at him, the amused gaze seeming to know every thought in his head. Suetonius let his hand fall away to his side and stood stiffly, painfully aware of the flush that had started on his neck and cheeks.
Octavian lay in the long grass with his horse beside him, its great chest heaving in long, slow breaths. They had trained the mounts for months to be able to hold the unnatural position, and now the extraordinarii only had to lay a hand on the soft muzzles to keep them still. They watched as the raptores came slipping and leaping down the Janiculum and Octavian grinned. Julius had been right that someone might try to lower the flag if the election turned against them. Though it was a simple ploy, the effects would have been devastating. The citizens of Rome would have streamed back to the city and the results up to that point declared void. Perhaps another month would pass before they assembled again, and many things could change in that time.
Octavian waited until the running men were close, then gave a low whistle, swinging his leg into the saddle as his horse rose. The rest of his twenty leapt up smoothly with him, gaining their saddles before their mounts were fully upright.
To the fleeing thieves, it seemed as if fully armed cavalry sprang out of the ground at them. The seven men panicked completely, either throwing themselves flat or raising their hands in instant surrender. Octavian drew his sword, holding their eyes. Their leader watched him in resignation, turning his head to spit into the long grass.
“Come on, then. Get it over with,” he said.
Despite his apparent fatalism, the thief was fully aware of the positions of the riders and only relaxed when every avenue of retreat had been blocked. He had heard a man could outrun a horse over a short distance, but looking at the glossy mounts of the extraordinarii, it didn’t seem likely.
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“I don’t expect charges could ever be brought against your master,” Octavian said.
The leader spat again. “Don’t know any master, soldier, except maybe silver,” he said, his face suddenly cunning as he sensed something was up.
“It would be a shame if he escaped without even a good beating, don’t you think?” Octavian asked innocently.
The raptores nodded, even the slowest beginning to realize the order to kill wasn’t going to come.
“I can find him again, if you let us go,” their leader said, trying not to hope. There was something terrifying about horses to a man who had grown up in the city. He had never quite understood how big they were before and shuddered as one snorted behind him.
Octavian tossed a small pouch into the air and the man caught it, feeling the weight automatically before making it disappear inside his tunic.
“Do a professional job,” Octavian said, backing his horse to leave a gap for the men to pass. A couple of them tried to salute as they walked through the riders and began to make their way back to the city. None of them dared look back.
Before the last centuries had voted, Julius knew he and Bibilus had won seats as consuls for the year to come. He was reminded of the motions of bees as senators clustered around both of them, and he grinned at Bibilus’s bemused expression.
Julius had his shoulder gripped and his hand taken by scores of men he barely knew, and before he had fully understood the change in his status, he was fielding questions and requests for his time and even being told of opportunities to invest. In their role as the formal “Comitia Centuriata,” the citizens of Rome had created two new bodies for the city to suck dry, and Julius felt overwhelmed and irritated by the attention. Where had these smiling supporters been when he was campaigning?
In comparison with the shallow heartiness of the Senate, having Pompey and Crassus congratulate him was a genuine pleasure, particularly as he knew Pompey would rather have eaten glass than say the words. Julius shook the offered hand without a sign of relish, his mind already on the future. No matter whom the people had elected to lead the Senate, the outgoing consuls were still a force in the city. Only a fool would scorn them at the moment of triumph.
The magistrate climbed onto a small platform to dismiss the last centuries. They bowed their heads as he bellowed a prayer of thanks at them, finishing with the traditional order, “Discedite!”
The citizens did as they were told and scattered, laughing and joking as they began the walk back to the sealed city.
Suetonius and his father had paid their respects and Julius had spoken warmly to them, knowing it was a chance to mend the bridges broken in the campaign and the past. He could afford the gesture and Prandus seemed to accept his good wishes, bowing slightly to the consul-elect of Rome. His son Suetonius had looked straight through him, his face blank with defeat.
Pompey’s men had brought horses and Julius looked up as reins were passed into his hand. From the back of a gray gelding, Pompey looked down at him, his expression unreadable.
“It will be hours before the Senate sit again to confirm the postings, Julius. If you ride with us now, we will have the Curia to ourselves.”
Crassus leaned down on his horse’s neck to speak more privately. “Will you trust me one more time?”
Julius looked up at both men, sensing the subtle tension in them as they waited for his response. He didn’t hesitate, swinging himself up into the saddle and raising an arm to those in the crowd who were watching the exchange. They cheered him as he wheeled and set off across the vast field with the two other men, a century of Pompey’s cavalry falling in behind as their escort. The crowd parted before them and their shadows stretched behind.
CHAPTER 20
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Without the voting centuries, the city was strangely empty as the three men rode through the streets. Julius was reminded of the night of the storm when he had gone down into the cells of the prison house and seen the tortured figures of Catiline’s men. He glanced at Crassus as they dismounted before the Senate house, and the old man raised his eyebrows, guessing at the reason for the attention.
Julius had never before entered the Senate house without its being filled with men on the benches. It echoed extraordinarily, reflecting each footstep as they took seats together near the rostrum. The door had been left open and the sun shone in as a bar of gold, making the marble walls feel light and airy. Julius leaned back against the hard wooden bench with a sense of vast satisfaction. His election was just beginning to sink in and he could barely resist grinning to himself at the thought.
“Crassus and I thought we might all benefit from a private conversation before the Senate sits,” Pompey began. He stood and began to pace as he spoke. “Leaving aside the flowery words for the public, we three have little friendship between us. There is respect, I hope, but no great liking.” He paused and Crassus shrugged. Julius said nothing.
“If we do not come to some arrangement for next year,” Pompey went on, “I expect it to be a wasted time for the city. You saw the influence Suetonius has over Bibilus. The whole Senate has heard his bleating complaints about you over the years. Together, they will delay or frustrate anything you propose until nothing can be done. It would not be good for Rome.”
Julius looked up at the man, remembering when he had first met him, in that very hall. Pompey was a superb tactician on the field and in the Senate, but both he and Crassus were facing the loss of the power and respect they enjoyed. That was the real reason for the private meeting, rather than any concern for the best use of Julius’s consular year. A deal was certainly possible, if he could find terms that would satisfy them all.
“I have already given the matter some thought,” Julius said.
Suetonius rode back to the stables of the inn near the gates, where he had taken a room for the day of the election. His father had hardly spoken to him and only nodded when Suetonius had offered his condolences for the loss. Senator Prandus had eaten quickly and in silence before making his way up to the room above, leaving his son to drown his own frustration in cheap wine.
The door to the tavern opened and Suetonius looked up, hoping it was Bibilus come to join him. No doubt his friend was back at his palatial home in the center of the city, being massaged by attractive slaves without a care in the world. Suetonius had not yet begun to consider the implications of Bibilus as consul. His first, panicky thought was that the consular immunity would remove the hold he had over the man, but he dismissed that as soon as he thought of it. Immune or not, Bibilus would be terrified of his habits becoming generally known in the city. Perhaps there could even be benefits to having his fat friend leading the Senate. It was not what he had planned, but having a consul at his bidding could be interesting. Suetonius resolved blearily to visit his home and remind Bibilus of their relationship.
The man who entered was a stranger and Suetonius ignored him after the first glance. He was too drunk to be startled when the man cleared his throat and spoke.
“Sir, the stable boy says there is a problem with your horse. He thinks it has taken a thorn in the hoof.”
“I’ll have him flogged if it has,” Suetonius snapped, rising too quickly. He barely noticed the steadying hand on his shoulder as he was guided out of the inn into the darkness.
The night air did something to remove the fog of wine from his thoughts, and he pulled away from the arm that held him as he entered the low stables. There were men there, too many to be looking after the horses. They grinned at him as a cold panic settled his heaving blood.
“What do you want? Who are you?” Suetonius blus
The leader of the raptores stepped out from the shadows, and Suetonius fell back at the man’s expression.
“Just a job to me, this, though I always give value if I can,” he said, strolling toward the young Roman.
Suetonius was held tightly by both arms even as he began to struggle, and a hand was clamped over his mouth.
The leader flexed his hands menacingly.
“Snuff the lamps, lads. I don’t need light for this,” he said, and in the sudden darkness there came the thud of heavy blows.
Julius wished he had slept the night before. His weariness weighed on him, but now, of all times, he needed to be sharp to deal with the two men.
“Together, you still command enough support in the Senate to force anything through.”
“Unless there is a consular veto,” Pompey replied immediately.
Julius shrugged. “Do not consider it. I will deal with Bibilus when the time comes.”
Pompey blinked at him as Julius continued.
“Without that block, your factions in the Senate are enough. The question is merely what I must give you to ensure your support.”
“I don’t think—” Crassus began stiffly, but Pompey held up a hand.
“Let him speak, Crassus. You and I have discussed this enough without a solution. I want to hear what he has in mind.”
Julius chuckled at their eagerness. “Crassus wants trade. Together, Pompey, we could grant him an absolute monopoly throughout Roman lands. A license for two years, say. He would have a stranglehold on every coin in the dominions, and yet, I do not doubt, the total wealth will increase under his hand. If I know Crassus, the treasury of Rome will be swollen to bursting in less than a year.”
Crassus smiled at the compliment, but he did not seem especially moved. Julius had hoped the old man would be tempted by the license alone, but the deal had to leave them all satisfied or it would be broken at the first test.