The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
“Now, I need to decide what I am to do tomorrow morning, when I walk into the forum and declare for the consul’s post.”
Everyone tried to speak at once and the knock at the door went unheard for the first few moments. Clodia opened it and her expression brought quiet as they saw her.
“There is . . . I could not stop him,” she began.
Julius took her by the arm. “Who is it?” he asked.
He froze as he caught sight of the figure behind her and stood back with Clodia to let the door swing open.
Crassus stood there, dressed in a toga of startling white against his dark skin. A gold clasp glittered at his shoulder and Alexandria blinked as she recognized her own work, wondering if it was coincidence or subtle proof of his understanding of the relationships in the room.
“Good evening, Caesar. I believe your post of tribune was never revoked. Should I address you by that title now that you have left the praetorship of Spain behind you?”
Julius bowed his head, struggling to hide the anger he felt at the man’s casual entry into his home. His mind spun with sudden thoughts. Were there soldiers outside? If there were, Crassus would find it harder to leave than to enter, he swore silently. Julius released his grip on Clodia’s arm and she left the room quickly without looking back. He did not blame her for letting Crassus into his home. Though she had run the house as its mistress, she had been too many years a slave not to be frightened by one of the most powerful men in the Senate. No door could be barred against a consul of Rome.
Crassus saw the tension in the young man he faced and continued. “Put yourself at ease, Julius. I am a friend to this house, as I was to Marius before you. Did you think you could land a legion on my coastline without word reaching me? I would imagine even Pompey’s feeble ring of spies has heard you are back by now.” Crassus caught sight of Servilia in the room and lowered his head slightly in greeting.
“You are welcome here,” Julius said, trying to unbend. He knew he had hesitated too long and suspected the older man had enjoyed every moment of the confusion he had created.
“I am glad,” Crassus replied. “Well, if someone will fetch another chair, I will join you, with your permission. You will need a strong speech tomorrow if you mean to have a consul’s robe next year. Pompey will not be pleased to hear of it, but that is the sweetness to the sauce.”
“Are there no secrets from you?” Julius asked, beginning to recover.
Crassus smiled at him. “Confirmed by your own mouth! I thought there could be no other reason for you to leave the post as praetor. I trust you appointed a replacement before you sailed for Rome?”
“I did, of course,” Julius replied. To his surprise, he found he was enjoying the exchange.
Crassus took the chair Octavian vacated for him and settled himself, using his long fingers to tweak his toga into neatness. The tension in the room began to ease as they accepted him amongst them.
“I wonder, did you think you would just stride through the forum and ascend the speakers’ platform?” Crassus asked.
Julius looked blankly at him. “Why not? Servilia tells me Prandus will be there to speak. I have as much right as he.”
Crassus smiled, shaking his head. “I believe you would have done, at that. Better to come at my invitation, Julius. Pompey will not be asking for you to join us, after all. I look forward to seeing his face when you enter your name onto the lists.”
He accepted a cup of wine and sipped at it, wincing slightly.
“You realize Pompey may claim you have abandoned your duty by leaving before your term in Spain was finished?” he said, leaning forward in his seat.
“I am immune from prosecution as tribune,” Julius replied quickly.
“Unless it is a crime of violence, my friend, though I suppose deserting your post is safe enough. Pompey knows your protection, but how will it look to the people? From now until the elections, Julius, you must not only act well, but be seen to act well, or the votes you need will be wasted on another candidate.”
Crassus looked around at the others in the room and smiled as his eyes met Alexandria’s. His fingers caressed the gold clasp at his shoulder for an instant, and she knew he recognized her and experienced a thrill of danger. For the first time since Brutus had found her in the workshop, she realized that Julius collected as many enemies as he did friends, and she was not yet sure which Crassus was.
“What do you gain by helping me?” Julius said suddenly.
“You have a legion I helped to rebuild, Julius, when it was still named Primigenia. I have been . . . persuaded of the need for men in the city. Trained men who cannot be bribed or tempted away by the gangs of raptores.”
“You claim a debt from me?” Julius replied, tensing himself to refuse.
Crassus glanced at Servilia and exchanged a look of understanding that Julius could not fathom.
“No. I waived any debts too long ago to mention. I am asking freely for your help and in return my clients will help to spread your name in the city. You do have only a hundred days, my friend. Even with my aid, that is a short time.”
He saw Julius hesitate and went on: “I was a friend to your father and Marius. Is it too much to ask for trust from the son?”
Servilia tried to will Julius to look at her. She knew Crassus better than anyone else in the room and hoped Julius would not be fool enough to refuse him. She watched the man she loved with something like pain as she waited for his reply.
“Thank you, Consul,” Julius said formally. “I do not forget my friends.”
Crassus smiled in genuine pleasure. “With my wealth . . .” he began.
Julius shook his head. “I have enough for this, Crassus, though I thank you.”
For the first time, Crassus looked at the young general with the beginning of real respect. He had been right in his judgment, he thought. He could work with him and infuriate Pompey at the same time.
“Shall we toast your candidacy, then?” Crassus asked, raising his cup.
At Julius’s nod, the rest of them took wine and held the vessels awkwardly as they waited. For a moment, Julius regretted finishing the Falernian, but thought better of it. Tubruk could raise a cup of it to them, wherever he was.
Julia sat out in the darkness of the stables, enjoying the warm comfort that the horses brought. She walked down the stalls and patted their soft muzzles, speaking softly to each one. She paused at the enormous gelding her father’s friend had brought that woman on. It was strange to use the word. Her father. How many times had Clodia told her about the brave man who had been sent away from the city by a consul’s whim? She had made her own pictures of him, telling herself he was held by the bonds of duty and could not return for her. Clodia always said he would come back in the end and everything would be all right, but now that he was there, Julia found him more than a little frightening. As soon as he had put his foot in the dust of the yard, everything had changed and the house had a new master.
He seemed so stern, she thought as she reached up to rub her nose against the gelding’s velvet nostrils. The horse whickered gently in reply and pushed at her, blowing warm air against her face. He was not as old as she had expected. She’d imagined him with gray hair at the temples and the quiet dignity of a member of the Senate.
The night air carried a gust of noise from where the new people had gathered. So many of them! The house had never been so full of visitors, she thought, wondering at them. From her perch on the outer wall, she had watched them come in and shaken her head at so many strangers.
They were a different breed to the visitors Clodia invited, especially the old woman with diamonds at her throat. Julia had seen her father kiss her when he thought no one could see, and Julia had felt her throat tighten with dislike. She had tried to tell herself it was just a friendship, but there had been something intimate in the way the woman relaxed against him, and Julia’s cheeks had become hot with embarrassment. Whoever she was, she vowed they would never be frien
She whiled away a little time imagining the woman trying to win her affection. She would be very cool toward her, Julia thought. Not rude; Clodia had taught her to despise rudeness. Just enough to make the woman feel unwelcome.
A heavy cloak hung on a peg by the gelding’s stall, and Julia recognized it as the one that had draped the last pair. She remembered the man’s laughter as it carried over the fields. He was very handsome, she thought. Shorter than her father, he walked like the man Clodia had employed to teach her to ride, as if he had so much energy that he could only barely stop himself from dancing with the pleasure of it.
Julia thought his companion must love him, from the way she had draped herself against his back. They always seemed to be touching, almost by accident.
She stayed in the stables for a long time, trying to get to the root of what felt different since her father had arrived. She always came there when there was a problem or when she had upset Clodia. Amongst the smell of leather and straw, in the shadows, she had always felt safe. The main house had so many empty rooms that were cold and dark at night. When she crept through them to climb the wall under the moonlight, she could imagine her mother walking there and shiver. It was too easy to think of the men who had killed her, padding up behind until Julia would spin in terror and back away from phantoms she could never see.
A burst of laughter carried to her from the house, and she raised her head to listen. The sound faded into a deeper silence and she blinked in the darkness as she realized that having her father’s friends here made her feel safe. There would be no assassins creeping over the wall for her tonight, no nightmares.
She patted the gelding’s nose and took the cloak from its peg, letting it fall onto the dusty floor in a moment of spite. Her father’s friend deserved better than that one, she thought, hugging herself in the gloom.
Pompey paced with his hands clasped tightly behind him. He wore a toga of thick white cloth that left his arms bare, and the muscles moved visibly as he worked his fingers against each other. The lamps in his city home had begun to gutter, but he did not call for slaves to refill the reservoirs. The dim light suited the mood of the consul of Rome.
“Only standing in the elections could repair the damage of leaving his post. Nothing else is worth the risk he has taken, Regulus.”
His most senior centurion stood to attention as his general paced the floor. He had been loyal to him for more than twenty years and knew his moods as well as any man.
“I am yours to command, sir,” he said, staring straight ahead.
Pompey looked at him and what he saw seemed to satisfy him.
“You are my right arm, Regulus; I know it. However, I need more than obedience if Caesar is not to inherit the city from my hands. I need ideas. Speak freely and fear nothing.”
Regulus relaxed slightly with the command. “Have you considered drafting a law to allow you to stand again? He could not take the post if you were the alternative.”
Pompey frowned. If he thought for a moment that such a thing was possible, he would have considered it. The Senate, even the citizens, would revolt against even the suggestion of a return to those old days. The irony of having helped to bring about the very restrictions that now held him was not wasted on him, but such thoughts brought him no closer to a solution.
“It is not possible,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Then we must plan for the future, sir,” Regulus said.
Pompey stopped to look at him with hope in his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”
Regulus took a deep breath before speaking. “Let me join his legion. If there is ever a time when you need him to be stopped, you would have a sword close to him.”
Pompey rubbed his face as he considered the offer. Such loyalty, coupled with so violent a man. Though part of him was repelled by the thought of such a dishonorable course, he would be a fool to refuse a weapon for the years to come. Who knew what the future held, for any of them?
“You would have to enlist in the ranks,” Pompey said, slowly.
The centurion breathed hard as he saw his idea was not to be dismissed without a hearing.
“That will be no hardship for me. My promotions came on the battlefield, from your hand. I have been there before.”
“But your scars—they will know you for what you are,” Pompey replied.
“I will say I’m a mercenary. I can play the part easily enough. Let me get close to him, Consul. I am your man.”
Pompey considered, objections coming and going in his thoughts. He sighed. Politics was a practical business, after all.
“It could be years, Regulus. Will you be missed?”
“No, sir. I am alone.”
“Then it is my order to you, Regulus. Go with my blessing.”
Regulus struggled to find words. “It . . . it is an honor, sir. I will be close to him if you call. I swear it.”
“I know you will, Regulus. I will reward you when—”
“It is not necessary, sir,” Regulus said quickly, surprising himself. He would not usually have dared to interrupt the consul, but he wanted to give some sign that the trust was well placed. He was gratified when Pompey smiled.
“If only I had more like you, Regulus. No man is better served than I.”
“Thank you, sir,” Regulus replied, his chest swelling. He knew he faced years of hard discipline and reduced pay, but it worried him not at all.
CHAPTER 10
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Rome was never still, and as dawn came the vast space of the forum had filled with a shifting mass of citizens, constantly changing as currents moved through them. Fathers held children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the consuls, just to say they had seen the men who defeated Spartacus and saved the city.
To Julius, the crowd seemed faceless and intimidating. Should he stare into space as he spoke, or fix his gaze on one unfortunate citizen? He wondered if they would even hear him. They were silent for Pompey, but Julius didn’t doubt the consul had salted the crowd with his clients. If they shouted and jeered when Julius followed him, it would be a poor start to his candidacy. He went over and over the speech in his mind, praying he wouldn’t stumble or lose his place. There could be questions when he was finished, perhaps from men in the pay of the consuls. He could be humiliated. Carefully, Julius rested his damp palms on his knees, letting the cloth soak up the sweat that clung to them.
He sat on the raised platform with Crassus and Suetonius’s father without looking at either of them. They were listening attentively as Pompey made a witticism and held up his hands to quiet the laughter. There was no hesitation in him, Julius saw. Pompey’s skill as an orator could be read in the crowd’s reactions. They raised their faces to the consul almost in worship, and Julius felt an awful tightness in his gut at the thought of being next to speak.
Pompey’s voice became grave as he recounted his service in the consular year, and the crowd spattered applause. The military successes were interspersed with promises of free grain and bread, games and commemorative coins. Crassus stiffened slightly at the last. He wondered where Pompey would find the funds to have his face struck in silver. The worst of it was knowing the bribes were unnecessary. Pompey held the crowd, moving them to laughter and stern pride in moments. It was a masterful performance and when it finished, Julius stood and had to force a smile onto his face as Pompey stepped back and gestured to him. Julius gritted his teeth in annoyance at the outstretched hand, as if he were being brought to the front by a fatherly sponsor.
As they passed, Pompey spoke quietly to him. “No shields in cloaks, Julius? I thought you would have something prepared.”
Julius was forced to smile as if the words were some playful comment rather than a barb. Both of them remembered the trial he had won in that forum, where shields depicting scenes from Marius’s life were revealed to the crowd.
Pompey took his seat without another word, appearing calm and interested. Julius stepped
“My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, nephew of Marius, who was consul seven times in Rome. I have written my name in the Senate house for the same post. I do it not for the memory of that man, but to continue his work. Do you want to hear me make promises of coins and bread to be handed to you? You are not children to be offered pretty things for your loyalty. A good father does not spoil the child with gifts.”
Julius paused and began to relax. Every eye in the forum was on him and he felt the first touch of confidence since ascending the platform.
“I have known those who break their backs growing wheat for your bread. There are no fortunes in feeding others, but they have pride and they are men. I have known many who fought without complaint for this city. You will see them sometimes on the streets, missing eyes or limbs, passed by the crowds as we look aside, forgetting we can laugh and love only because those soldiers gave so much.
“We have grown this city on the blood and sweat of those who have gone before, but there is still much to do. Did you hear Consul Crassus talk of soldiers to make the streets safe? I give my men to you without regret, but when I take them away to find new lands and riches for Rome, who will keep you safe then, if not yourselves?”
The crowd shifted restlessly and Julius hesitated for a moment. He could see the idea in his head, but he strained for a way to make them understand.
“Aristotle said a statesman is anxious to produce a certain moral character in his citizens, a disposition to virtue. I look for it in you and it is there, ready to be called forth. You are the ones who took to the walls to defend Rome from the slave rebellion. You did not hide from your duty then and you will not now, when I ask it of you.” He went on, louder than before. “I will set aside funds for any man without work if he cleans the streets and keeps the gangs from terrorizing the weakest of us. Where is the glory of Rome if we live in fear at night? How many of you bar your doors and wait behind them for the first scratching of the murderer or the thief?”