The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
Brutus looked at his friend without answering, unsure if any response was really expected. He had seen Julius in this mood before and at times it could still touch him. At that moment, however, he was beginning to worry that Julius would not contemplate an end to their battles of conquest. Even the veterans compared their young commander to Alexander, and Mark Antony did so shamelessly. When the handsome Roman had made the reference in the council, Brutus had expected Julius to scorn it for the clumsy flattery it was, but he had only smiled and gripped Mark Antony by the shoulder, refilling his cup with wine.
The plain of the Helvetii had been enclosed, the vast swaths of land sliced into farms for the settlers from Rome. Julius had been rash with his promises and, just to fulfill them, he had to stay in the field. Simply to pay his legions in silver, he was forced to sack towns and fight not for glory but to fill the coffers and send the tithe back to the senators. Brutus could see no end to it and, alone amongst Julius’s council, he had begun to doubt the purpose of the war they fought. As a Roman, he could accept the destruction that was the herald of peace, but if it was all to satisfy Julius’s desire for power, he could not take joy in it.
Julius never wavered. Though the coalition of the Belgae had pressed them cruelly in the spring, the legions had taken on some of their commander’s confidence and the tribes were swept away without mercy. It was as if they were all touched by fate and could not lose. At times, even Brutus was infected by it and could cheer the man who raised his sword to them, his iron-faced helmet glittering like some malevolent god. But he knew the man beneath it and he knew him too well to walk quietly around him as the legionaries did. Though they won their victories with strength and speed, they saw Julius as the one responsible for all of it. While he lived, they knew they could not be beaten.
Brutus sighed to himself. Perhaps they were right. The whole of eastern Gaul was under the control of the legions, and the roads were being built over hundreds of miles. Rome was growing out of the ground there and Julius was the bloody seed for the change. He looked at his friend and saw the fierce pride. Apart from the thinning hair and his scars, he was much the same man he had always known. Yet the soldiers said he was blessed by the gods. His presence on the battlefield was worth an extra cohort at least as they strove to fight well for him, and Brutus felt ashamed of his own small grievances and the kernel of dislike that he fought to deny.
Publius Crassus had been given the command of two legions to travel to the north, and Julius’s current mood was owed to the fact that the senator’s son had brought about the complete surrender of the tribes there. They had their path to the sea and, though Brutus had argued against it, he knew nothing would prevent Julius taking his precious legions to the coast. He dreamed of Alexander and the edge of the world.
Julius’s council entered the long room of the fortified camp. They too had changed in their time in Gaul, Brutus noted. Octavian and Publius Crassus had lost the last traces of their youth in the years of campaign. Both men bore scars and had survived, now stronger. Ciro commanded his cohort with a devotion to Julius that reminded Brutus of a faithful hound. While Brutus could still discuss his doubts with Domitius or Renius, he had found Ciro would leave any room where he found the slightest hint of criticism. Both Romans regarded the other with dislike, forcibly masked for Julius’s sake.
How we pretend for him, Brutus thought to himself. While Julius was there, they all acted the part of brothers, leaving their professional disagreements outside. It was almost as if they couldn’t bear to see him disappointed in them.
Julius waited for the wine to be poured and laid his notes down on the table. He had already memorized the reports and would not need to refer to them again. Even as Brutus was submerged in his misgivings, he felt himself sit a little straighter under that blue gaze and saw the others respond in like fashion.
At the end of the day, we are all his dogs, Brutus thought, reaching for his cup.
“Your treaty with the Veneti has failed, Crassus,” Julius told the young Roman.
The senator’s son shook his head in disbelief and Julius spoke to relieve his distress.
“I did not expect it to last. They are too strong by sea to feel bound by us, and the treaty was only to hold them until we could reach the northwest. I will need control of that coast if I am ever to cross the sea.” Julius looked into the distance as he contemplated the future, then shook himself free of it. “They have taken prisoners from the cohort you left and are demanding the release of their hostages in exchange. We must destroy them at sea if we are to bring them back to the negotiating table. I suspect they think that Rome fights only on the land, but there are a few of us who know better.”
He paused to let them chuckle and met Ciro’s eyes with a smile.
“I have engaged shipwrights and carpenters to build a new port and ships. Pompey will provide crews to sail through the Pillars of Hercules and beat round Spain to meet us in the north. It suits my plans well enough in any case, and we cannot let their oath breaking go unanswered. Mhorbaine tells me the other tribes are restless and watch any challenge like hawks to see if we cannot respond.”
“How long before the ships are built, though?” Renius asked.
“They will be ready by next spring, if I can find funds to pay for them. I have written to request the Senate take on the burden of paying for our new legions. Crassus has assured me he will make the loan if the Senate fails us, but there is every reason to suppose they are pleased with our progress here. Perhaps too, the winter will not be so hard this year and we can make our preparations in the dark months.”
Julius drummed his fingers on the table.
“I have a single report from a scout on the Rhine. More of the Germanic tribes have crossed into our land and must be repulsed. I have sent five of the Aedui to confirm the sightings and bring a fresh estimate of their numbers. I will engage them before they come too far into our own land. Once they have been beaten, I plan to cross the river and pursue them as I should have done with the Suebi. I cannot allow the wild tribes over the river to attack our flanks whenever they smell a hint of weakness. I will make them a reply they will not forget in a generation and seal the Rhine behind me when I return.”
He looked around the table as they digested the news.
“We must move quickly to crush each threat as it appears. Just one more at this time and we would be stretched from one end of Gaul to another. I will take my Tenth and the Third Gallica under Brutus to the Rhine. One of the new Gaul legions will accompany us in the rear. There will be no conflict of loyalty against such an enemy. Mhorbaine has agreed to have his cavalry travel with me once again. The rest of you will act independently in my name.
“Crassus, I expect you to return to the northwest and destroy the land forces of the Veneti. Burn their ships, or at least force them off the coast and prevent them landing for supplies. Domitius, you will take the Fourth Gallica with him in support. Mark Antony, you will remain here with your legion. The Twelfth and Fifth Ariminum will stay with you. You will be my center and I expect you not to lose any of the lands we have won while I am away. Use caution, but strike if the need arises.
“The last task is an easy one, Bericus. Your Ariminum legion has earned a rest and I need a good man to oversee the new settlers coming over the Alps. The Senate will be sending four praetors to govern the new provinces, and they will need to be shown the realities of our situation here.”
Bericus groaned and rolled his eyes, making Julius laugh. The thought of having to play nursemaid to thousands of green Roman settlers was hardly an ideal appointment, but Bericus was a sound administrator and Julius had spoken the truth when he said the legion had earned a period away from the pace of constant battle they had endured.
Julius continued to give out his orders and positions until each man there knew his lines of supply and the extent of his authority. He smiled when they replied with wit and he answered every query with the complete knowledge they had come
Brutus looked again around the table and found nothing but determination in those who were given tasks that meant hardship, pain, and perhaps death for some or all of them. As Julius spread out his maps and began to move to the more detailed matters of terrain and supply, Brutus watched him, barely hearing the words. How many of the men in that room would see Rome again? he wondered. As Julius traced the line of the Rhine with his finger and told them his assessments, Brutus could not imagine a time when the man he followed could ever be made to stop.
CHAPTER 32
_____________________
On the first autumn day of Julius’s fourth year in Gaul, Pompey and Crassus walked together through the forum, deep in conversation. Around them, the great open space at the center of the city was filled with thousands of citizens and slaves. Orators addressed those who could be persuaded to listen, and their voices carried over the heads of the crowd on a hundred different subjects. Slaves from wealthy houses hurried through, carrying packages and scrolls for their masters. It had become fashionable to dress house slaves in bright colors, and many wore bright blue or gold tunics, a myriad of shades that wove through the darker reds and browns of workers and merchants. Armed guards made stately progress across the forum, each group surrounding their employer at the center. It was the bustling, hurried heart of the city, and neither Pompey nor Crassus noticed the subtle differences in the mood of the crowd around them.
The first Pompey knew of the trouble to come was a rough shove as one of his legionaries was knocked into him. Sheer astonishment made Pompey forget his instincts for survival, and he stopped. The crowd was thickening even as he hesitated, and the faces were ugly with intent. Crassus recovered faster and pulled Pompey toward the Senate house. If there was to be yet another riot, it was best to get clear as quickly as possible and send the guards out to restore order.
The space around the senators was filled with pushing, jeering men. A stone flew over their heads and struck someone else in the crowd. Pompey saw one of his lictors brought down with a blow from a length of wood and felt a moment of panic before he gathered his courage. He drew a dagger from his belt and held it blade-down so that it could be used to stab or slash. When one of the crowd pressed too close, he opened the man’s cheek without hesitation, seeing him fall back with a cry.
“Guards! To me!” Pompey roared.
The crowd bayed at him and he saw three burly men force one of his legionaries to the ground, stabbing at him over and over as they were lost to view. A woman screamed nearby and Pompey heard his call taken up by the horror-struck citizens beyond the men who were attacking him. Milo’s men, he was certain. He should have expected it after their leader’s isolation in the Senate, but Pompey had only a handful of soldiers and lictors with him and they would not be enough. He used his dagger again and saw Crassus lash out a fist, snapping the nose of an attacker.
The lictors were armed with a ceremonial axe and rods for scourging. Once they had freed them from the bindings, the hatchets were fearsome weapons in a crowd and they literally cut a path for Pompey and Crassus toward the Senate house. Yet their numbers dwindled as knives were jabbed into them, and the circle of safety around the two senators shrank until there was almost no room for them to move in the press.
Pompey knew hope and despair in the same moment when he heard horns sounding across the forum. His legion had turned out for him, but it would be too late. Fingers yanked cruelly at his toga and he sliced his dagger into them, sawing in a frenzy until they fell away. Crassus was knocked from his feet by another stone, and Pompey dragged him up and onward, holding him close as the older man gathered his wits. There was blood on his mouth.
The noise hammered at them and then changed slightly. New faces appeared in even greater numbers and Pompey saw them cut down the ones who struggled to reach him. Knots of bellowing men separated from the mass, fighting not as legionaries but with cleavers and meathooks and stones held in their hands. Pompey saw one man’s face smashed into pulp by repeated blows before he fell.
All forward movement ceased and though Pompey could see the steps of the Senate house only a short distance away, it was too far. He jabbed his dagger into everything he could reach in a fury and didn’t know he was shouting in a mindless rage.
The press of bodies lightened without warning and Pompey saw the bloody knives of raptores held almost in salute as they backed away. Crushed bodies and screaming, wounded men lay all about them, but they did not attack. Pompey beckoned, holding his dagger ready, the blade parallel to his forearm. Sweat poured from him and he watched in astonishment as the men pulled back to form a pathway to the steps of the Senate house. He darted a glance in that direction and considered how far he would get if he ran, then decided against it. He would not show them his back.
In that moment, he saw the uniforms of his legions battering through the press and Clodius standing there, panting. The mob leader seemed terribly solid compared to the others. Though he was not a tall man, he was tremendously strong and the crowd gave ground instinctively around him, as wolves will look away from the most brutal of the pack. His shaven head gleamed with sweat in the morning sun. Pompey could only stare.
“They’ve scattered, Pompey, the ones who lived,” Clodius said. “Call off your soldiers.” His right hand was wet with blood and the blade he carried had snapped off close to the hilt.
Pompey turned as an officer of his legion raised his sword to cut Clodius down.
“Hold!” Pompey cried, understanding at last. “These are allies.”
Clodius nodded at that and Pompey heard the order repeated as the legion gathered around him, forming a fighting square. Clodius began to be pushed away, but Pompey took his arm.
“Do I need to guess who is behind this attack?” he asked.
Clodius shrugged his massive shoulders. “He is already in the Senate building. There will be no link back to him, you can be sure. Milo is cunning enough to keep his hands clean.” As if in irony, Clodius threw down his broken knife and wiped his bloody fists on the hem of his robe.
“You had men ready?” Pompey asked, hating the constant suspicion that was part of his life.
Clodius narrowed his eyes at the implication. “No. I never set foot in the forum without fifty of my lads. They were enough to reach you in time. I knew nothing until it started.”
“Then we owe our lives to your quick thinking,” Pompey said. He heard a whimper cut off nearby and spun round. “Are there any left alive to be questioned?”
Clodius looked at him. “Not now. There are no names given in that sort of work. Believe me, I know.”
Pompey nodded, trying to ignore the inner voice that wondered if Clodius had staged the whole thing. It was an unpleasant thought, but he owed a debt to the man that would bind him for years. To many men in the Senate, such a debt would be worth the deaths of a few of their servants, and Clodius was known to be ruthless in every part of his life. Pompey met Crassus’s eyes and guessed the old man was thinking along similar lines. Very slightly, Crassus lifted his shoulders and let them drop, and Pompey looked back to the man who had saved them. There was no way of knowing and probably never would be.
Pompey realized he was still gripping his dagger and uncurled his fingers painfully from the hilt. He felt old next to the bull-like strength of Clodius. While part of him wanted to wash the blood from his skin and soak in a hot bath somewhere private and, above all, safe, he knew more was expected from him. Hundreds of men stood within earshot and before nightfall the whole grisly incident would be the talking point of every shop and tavern in the city.
“I am late for the Senate, gentlemen,” he said, his voice growing in strength. “C
It wasn’t much in the way of wit, but Clodius chuckled.
With Crassus at his shoulder, Pompey walked along the avenue of Clodius’s men, and many bowed their heads respectfully as they passed.
The Tenth withdrew in panic, their orderly lines dissolving into the chaos of a complete rout. Thousands of the Senones cavalry pursued them, breaking off from the main battle where the Ariminum legions fought solidly and held the line.
The fortified camp from the night before was less than a mile away, and the retreating Tenth covered it at great speed, Julius with them. The extraordinarii protected the rear from the wild assaults by the Senones, and not a man was lost as they reached the heavy gates of the fort and rushed inside.
The Senones were proving to be difficult adversaries. Julius had lost large numbers of the Third Gallica in an ambush from woodland and others since then. The tribe had learned not to offer a direct battle against the legions. Instead, they skirmished and moved away, using their cavalry to harass the Roman forces without ever allowing themselves to be caught where they could be crushed.
The extraordinarii followed the men of the Tenth under the gates of the fort and closed them behind. It was a humiliating position, but the fort had been designed for exactly that purpose. As well as giving protection for the night, it allowed the legions to retreat to a strong position. The Senones riders whooped and yelled as they rode round the huge banked walls, though they were careful to keep out of range. Twice before, Julius had been forced to bring back his entire force within the walls, and the Senones hooted as they brought it about again.