The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
They seemed to spend their entire day in darkness. Julius had kept the men working as long as he could, but frozen hands slipped and a rash of injuries forced Julius to suspend the building as he came to terms with the winter at last.
Brutus passed on through the camp, his feet skidding painfully on the iced ruts left by the baggage trains. Denied grazing, they had been forced to slaughter most of the oxen, unable to afford the grain from the legion supplies. At least the meat stayed fresh, Brutus thought grimly. His glance strayed to the pile of carcasses under a dusting of snow. The meat was as hard as stone, like everything else in the country.
Brutus climbed the earthen wall of the camp and peered out into the grayness. Soft flakes touched him on the cheek and did not melt against his cold skin. He could see nothing out there but the stumps of the first trees they had felled and dragged back to be burnt for warmth.
The forest had at least protected them from the wind while it lasted. They knew now that they should have kept the closest trees to be cut last, but nothing the Romans had ever seen could have prepared them for the ferocity of that first winter. It was a killing cold.
Brutus knew many of the men were not well supplied with warm clothing. Those who had been given oxhides greased them daily, but they still became like iron. The going rate for a pair of fur gloves was more than a month’s pay, and that was rising as every hare and fox for a hundred miles was killed and brought in by the trappers.
At least the legions had been paid at last. Julius had captured enough silver and gold from Ariovistus to issue three months of back salary to each man. In Rome, it would have run through their fingers on whores and wine, but here there was little to do with it but gamble, and many of the men had been returned to poverty only a few days after their share had been handed out. The more responsible ones sent part of their pay back to relatives and dependents in Rome.
Brutus envied those who had been sent back across the Alps to Ariminum before the passes had closed. It was a gesture that had pleased the men, though Brutus had known it was made out of necessity. In such a harsh winter, just staying alive was difficult enough. The warriors of the Suebi who had survived the battle could not be guarded for so many dark months. Better to sell them as gladiators and house guards, splitting them apart and retraining them. With the tradition that the proceeds of fighting slaves went to the legionaries, the Suebi would bring at least a gold coin to each man who had fought them.
The wind gusted harder along the wall and Brutus began to count to five hundred in his head, forcing himself to stay at least that long. Those who had to stand a watch up there were in a world of gray misery, and they needed to see him bear it with them.
He pulled his cloak closer around his chest, wincing with each breath that bit at his throat until he wished it were as numb as the rest of him. Cabera had warned him about the danger and he wore two pairs of woolen socks under his sandals, though they seemed to make no difference at all. Eighteen men had lost toes or fingers since the first snow, and without Cabera it would have been more. All those had been in the first few weeks, before the men learned to respect the cold. Brutus had seen one of the shriveled black lumps clipped off with a hoof tool, and the strangest thing had been the passive look on the legionary’s face. Even with jaws of iron snipping through his bone, he had felt no pain.
The closest legionary was like a statue and as Brutus shuffled closer to him, he saw that the man’s eyes were closed, his face pale and bruised looking under a straggling beard. The penalty for falling asleep on watch was death, but Brutus clapped the man on his back in a greeting, pretending not to notice the spasm of fear as the eyes snapped open, immediately narrowing against the wind.
“Where are your gloves, lad?” Brutus asked, seeing the cramped blue fingers as the soldier pulled them out from his tunic and stood to attention.
“I lost them, sir,” he replied.
Brutus nodded. No doubt the man was as good a gambler as he was a sentry.
“You’ll lose your hands too if you don’t keep warm. Take mine. I have another pair.” Brutus watched as the young legionary tried to pull them on. He couldn’t do it and after a brief struggle, one of them fell. Brutus picked it up and worked them over the man’s frozen fingers. He hoped it was not too late. On impulse, he undid the clasp of his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it around the young soldier, trying not to wince as the wind seemed to bite every part of his exposed body, despite the underlayers. His teeth began to chatter and Brutus bit down hard to quiet them.
“Please, sir, I can’t take your cloak,” the sentry said.
“It’ll keep you warm enough to finish your watch, lad. Then you might choose to give it to the next one up in your place. I’ll leave that to you.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
Brutus watched as the first tinges of color began to return to the soldier’s cheeks before he was satisfied. For some reason, he felt surprisingly cheerful as he made his way down. The fact that he had completed his tour of the camp was part of it, of course. A hot beef stew and a bed warmed with heated bricks would help him bear the loss of his only cloak and gloves. He hoped he would be as cheerful the next night, when he had to walk the camp without them.
Julius pulled an iron poker from the fire and plunged it into two cups of wine. Shredded cloves sizzled on the surface and steam curled upward as he placed the iron back into the flames and offered a cup to Mhorbaine.
Looking around him, Julius could almost believe in the permanence of the new buildings. Even in the short time before the first snows of winter, his legions had extended the road from the Roman province in the south to within almost five miles of the new camps. The trees they had felled became the structures of new barracks, and Julius had been pleased with their progress until the winter struck in a single night and the following morning a sentry had been found frozen to death on the wall. Their quarry work had been abandoned and the pace of their lives had changed as all attempts to make a permanent link to the south were turned into a more basic struggle for survival.
Even in the midst of it, Julius had used the time. The Aedui were old hands at dealing with the bitter winters, and he employed them as messengers to as many tribes as they knew. At the last count, Julius had made alliances with nine of them and claimed the lands of three more in easy reach of the country vacated by Ariovistus. How much of it would hold when the winter finally ended, he did not know. If they fulfilled their promises, he would have enough volunteers to form two new legions in the spring. No doubt many of the smaller tribes had agreed only to learn the skills that had destroyed the Helvetii and the Suebi, but Julius had planned with Mark Antony how to seed the legions with his most trusted men. He had done it with those Cato sent to protect his son. He had even made legionaries out of the mercenaries under Catiline. Whether they knew it or not, the Gauls who came to him would become as solidly of Rome as Ciro or Julius himself.
He worried more about those tribes who would not respond to his summons. The Belgae had blinded the Aedui messenger and then led his horse within a short distance of the Roman camps, letting the animal find its own way back to food and warmth. The Nervii had refused to meet his man and three other tribes had followed their lead.
Julius could hardly wait for the spring. The moment of exultation he had experienced as Ariovistus was struck down did not repeat itself, but still he felt a confidence that could hardly be explained. Gaul would be his.
“The tribes you mention have never fought together, Julius. It is easier to imagine the Aedui standing back to back with the Arverni than any of those becoming brothers.” Mhorbaine sipped at his hot wine and leaned closer to the fire, relaxing.
“Perhaps,” Julius admitted, “but my men have barely made a mark on most of Gaul. There are still tribes who haven’t even heard of us, and how can they accept the rule of those they have never seen?”
“You cannot fight them all, Julius. Even your legions could not do that,” Mhorbaine replied.
“You have already doubled the holdings of Rome,” Mhorbaine reminded him.
Julius stared into the flames, gesturing with his cup at the unseen cold outside. “I cannot sit and wait for them to come to me. At any moment, I could be recalled to Rome. Another man could be appointed in my place.” He caught himself before continuing, as he noted Mhorbaine’s bright interest. For all the man had been a valuable ally, Julius had let the wine spill too many words from him.
The last letter from Crassus before the winter closed the passes over the Alps had been troubling. Pompey was losing control of the city and Julius had been furious at the weakness of the Senate. He almost wished Pompey would declare a Dictatorship to end the tyranny of men like Clodius and Milo. They were just names to him, but Crassus took the threat seriously enough to confide his fear and Julius knew the old man was not one to jump at shadows. At one point, Julius had even considered returning to Rome to bolster Pompey in the Senate, but the winter of Gaul had put an end to that. It was appalling to think that while he won new lands, the city he loved was falling into corruption and violence. He had long accepted that the conquest of a country had to come in blood, but that vision had no place in his own home and the very thought of it made him rage.
“There is so much to do!” he said to Mhorbaine, reaching again for the poker in the flames. “All I can do is torment myself with plans and letters I cannot even send. I thought you said spring would have come by now? Where is the thaw you promised me?”
Mhorbaine shrugged. “Soon,” he said, as he had so many times before.
CHAPTER 31
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When spring came, more than seven thousand families choked the roads north of Rome. Out of the teeming streets of the city, the exodus started to claim the new land that Julius promised. Those who feared the strength of Clodius and Milo took to the wide roads to start a new life away from the crime and dirt of the city, selling everything they owned to buy tools and grain and oxen to pull their carts. It was a perilous journey, with more than three hundred miles to the foothills of the Alps and unknown dangers beyond.
The legions Julius had taken from Ariminum had stripped the north of patrolling soldiers, stretching the protection of Rome to breaking point. Though the roadside inns and forts were still manned, long stretches in between were plagued by thieves, and many of the families were attacked and left by the road in despair. Some were picked up by those who took pity on them, while others were left to beg for a few coins or starve. Those who could afford to hire guards were better off, and they kept their heads down when they passed the wailing, crying people who had gone before them, standing in the spring rain with hands outstretched.
In special sessions of the Senate, Pompey read out the reports of Julius’s victories as he received them. It was a bittersweet role he had found for himself, and he could only shake his head at the irony of supporting Caesar as a way of controlling the new men of the Senate. Crassus had made him see that the victories in Gaul were all that kept the city from erupting in sheer panic as Clodius and Milo fought for supremacy in their secret, bloody battles. Despite the real power they had gained and the influence they wielded as brutally as a club, they had done nothing for Rome but feed on her. Neither Clodius nor Milo ever missed one of the reports. They had been formed in the gutters and the back alleys of the city, but they thrilled to the details of battles in their name like any other citizen.
At first, Pompey had been prepared to declare a Dictatorship to control them. Freed from the restraints of the law, he could have had both men executed without a trial. Crassus had advised against such a final step. If they were killed, Crassus said, others would take their place, and Pompey, perhaps Rome herself, would not survive. The Hydra of the Roman mob would grow new heads, and whoever replaced them would know better than to walk in the open and attend the Senate. Crassus had spoken for hours to his old colleague, and Pompey had seen the wisdom of his suggestions. Instead of resistance, he had gone out of his way to flatter and reward the men. He had sponsored Clodius for the position of chief magistrate and thrown a great dinner in his honor. Together, they had chosen candidates for the consular elections, lesser men who would do nothing to alter the fragile state of truce. It was a delicate balance that Pompey had found, knowing Clodius had chosen it in part to aid him against Milo as their own struggle continued.
Pompey considered the men as he read the latest report on the rostrum in front of him. In raising one, he had earned the enmity of the other, and there was nothing but hatred in the eyes of Milo when he met them. Yet Clodius now spoke his name with pride of association, and as spring had turned to summer, Pompey had even visited the man’s home in the city and been flattered and courted in his turn. It was a dangerous game, but better than scattering the pieces and trying for Dictator. As things stood, it would mean civil war and he was not at all sure he would emerge the victor by the end.
As Pompey cleared his throat to speak, he inclined his head to Clodius and saw the man’s pleasure at even the slightest mark of respect. That was what Crassus had seen in the newcomers to the Senate. Though they were savage, they craved the respectability of office, and since Pompey had begun his new course, not one of his clients had suffered at the hands of Clodius’s bullies. When Pompey had announced his desire to refurbish the racetrack, it was Clodius who had come to him with the offer of unlimited funds. Pompey had raised a statue to him in gratitude, praising his generosity in the Senate. Milo had responded with an offer to rebuild the Via Appia, and Pompey had masked his delight at the man’s transparency, allowing him to place his name on the Porta Capena, where that road entered the city from the south. For the first time in more than a year, he felt that he had control of the city once again in his hands as the two men directed their energies more subtly, each as hungry as the other for recognition and acceptance. The new consuls were made aware of their precarious position and did nothing without first checking with their masters. It was stalemate and the private battles went on.
Pompey read the list of tribes Julius had smashed in the first battles of the spring, taking pleasure in the riveted stillness of the Senate. They listened with awe to the numbers of slaves that had been sent back over the Alps. The Remi had become vassals. The Nervii had been destroyed almost to the last man. The Belgae had been forced to give up their arms and surrender. The Atuatuci had been confined to a single walled town and then stormed. Fifty-three thousand had been sold back to the slave markets of Rome from that last tribe alone.
Pompey read Julius’s reports and even he could barely comprehend the hidden strife that lay behind the simple lines. Julius did nothing to sell his victories to the Senate, but the dry tone was all the more impressive for what it did not say. Pompey read it through to the concluding remarks, where Caesar commended the report to the Senate and estimated the yearly revenues in tax from the lands he had taken. Not a sound could be heard in the Curia as Pompey reached the last line.
“‘I declare that Gaul has been pacified and will now submit to the lawful rule of Rome.’”
The Senate rose to their feet and cheered themselves hoarse in a spontaneous display, and Pompey had to raise his hand to quiet them.
When they had managed to restrain themselves, Pompey spoke, his voice filling the chamber.
“Our gods have granted us new lands, Senators. We must prove that we are worthy to rule them. As we brought peace to Spain, so shall we bring it to that wilder land. Our citizens will build roads and raise crops there to feed our cities. They will be heard in distant courts that take their authority from us. We will
“Pacified? You told them Gaul was pacified?” Brutus said in amazement. “There are places in Gaul where they haven’t even heard of us! What were you thinking?”
Julius frowned. “You would prefer I said ‘still dangerous, but almost pacified’? Hardly the most inspiring words to bring our settlers over the Alps, Brutus.”
“I would have stopped short of ‘almost pacified’ as well. It’s more truthful to say that these savages nearly did for us all on more occasions than I care to think of. That they fought each other for generations until they found a common enemy in Rome and now we’ve stuck our hands into the worst wasps’ nest I have ever seen. That would have been more truthful, at least.”
“All right, Brutus. It is done and that’s the end of it. I know the situation as well as you, and those tribes who have never seen a Roman soldier will see us soon enough as we build our roads across the country. If the Senate sees me as the conqueror of Gaul, there will be no more talk of recalling me or forcing me to pay my debts. They can count the gold I send back to them and use the slaves to lower the price of wheat and corn. I will be free to run right through to the sea and beyond, even. This is my path, Brutus; can’t you see I’ve found it? This is what I was born for. All I ask is another few years, five perhaps, and Gaul will be pacified. You say they have never heard of us? Well then, I will take lands that Rome does not even know exists! I will see a temple to Jupiter rise above their towns like a cliff of marble. I will bring our civilization, our science, our art to these people who live in such squalor. I will take our legions right up to where the lands meet the sea and over it. Who knows what lies beyond the far coasts? We don’t even have maps of the countries there, Brutus. Just legends from the Greeks about foggy islands on the very edge of the world. Does it not fire your imagination?”