The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
The six legions stretched for ten miles on the road to the Helvetii plain, though that halved as Julius ordered a wider formation over open ground. As near as he was to Aedui land, he did not yet fear an attack, but he was painfully aware of the exposed column and the vast array of equipment and baggage that accompanied them. There were weak links in the chain from the province, but at the first sign of danger, the legions could re-form into wide protective squares, proof against anything he had seen thus far in Gaul. Julius knew he had the men and generals he needed. If he failed, the disgrace would be his alone.
Mhorbaine had resisted the temptation to join them against his enemy. Though he had been torn, no leader of the Aedui could spend so long away from his people without usurpers rushing to take his place. Julius had bidden him farewell from the very edge of the Roman province, with the shining legions in a vast line behind him, standing with the tension of hunting hounds.
Mhorbaine had cast his eyes over the still ranks waiting for their general and shaken his head at their discipline. His own warriors would have been milling around aimlessly before a march, and he found the Romans both depressing and frightening in comparison. As Julius turned away from him, Mhorbaine had called out the question he’d been turning over in his mind ever since he saw the strength of the force being sent against Ariovistus.
“Who guards your land while you are gone?” he called.
Julius turned back to him, his dark eyes boring into the Gaul. “You do, Mhorbaine. But there will be no need for guards.”
Mhorbaine had looked askance at the Roman general in his polished armor. “There are many tribes who would be willing to take advantage of your absence, my friend. The Helvetii may return, and the Allobroges would steal anything they can lift.”
He watched as Julius pulled his full-face helmet over his head, the iron features making him look like a statue come to life. His breastplate shone with oil and his brown arms were strong and scarred with a pattern of white lines against the darker skin.
“They know we will return, Mhorbaine,” Julius had said, smiling beneath the mask.
After the first mile, the iron helmet had come off, when the sweat pouring into his eyes began to sting and blur his vision. For all her best intentions, Alexandria had never walked a hundred miles in armor, no matter how well designed.
When they came across a town, Julius accepted grain or meat as tribute. There was never enough food to become complacent, and he fretted at the guards he had to leave behind to keep the supplies coming from Mhorbaine. Using the legion night camps as way stations, the first links to the north were laid down. Later would come more-permanent roads and the merchants of Rome would reach farther and farther into the country, bringing anything they could sell. Given two or three years, he knew the roads would be manned by forts and guardposts. Those who had no land in Rome would come then to mark out new farms and start afresh, and fortunes would be made.
It was a heady dream for Julius, though on that first march to Ariovistus his legions were never more than ten meals from starvation, a margin as desperately important as any other factor of their strength. Julius felt as if his force were being bled as he gave orders for mixed groups of cavalry and velites to keep the ground clear for the lifeline behind. He stretched his supply line as thinly as he dared, but Gaul was too vast to keep a thread right back to the Aedui, and he vowed to find other allies when he had dealt with Ariovistus.
There were times when the land itself seemed to impede them. The ground was covered in heavy mounds of grass that shifted and turned underfoot, slowing the legions still further. It was a good day when they were twenty miles from the previous camp.
When his scouts reported riders spying on the legions, Julius had thrown aside his lists and tallies with relief. The first sightings had been little more than glimpses of armed men, but the legions tautened subtly at the news. The soldiers oiled their blades with extra care each night, and there were fewer names on the discipline lists. He ordered the fastest of the extraordinarii out to search, but they lost their quarries in the woods and valleys, one of the best geldings breaking his leg at full gallop and killing his rider.
Julius was convinced the spies were from Ariovistus, but he was still surprised when a lone rider appeared as the legions paused to eat their noon meal. The man trotted his mount from an arrowhead of trees on a sharp slope of granite in the line of march, causing a flurry of signals and warning horns. At the sound, the extraordinarii left their food untouched and ran to their horses, leaping into their saddles.
“Wait!” Julius called to them, holding up a hand. “Let him come to us.”
The legions formed ranks in a terrible silence, every eye focused on the rider who approached them with no sign of fear.
The stranger dismounted as he reached the first ranks of the Tenth. Briefly, he looked around him and then nodded to himself as he saw Julius in his armor and the array of flags and extraordinarii around him. As their eyes met, Julius struggled not to show the discomfort he felt. He could hear his legionaries murmuring nervously and one or two of them made protective signs with their hands at the rider’s unearthly appearance.
He was dressed in leather armor over rough cloth, his lower legs bare. Round iron plates capped his shoulders, making him seem even more massive than he already was. He was tall, though Ciro topped his height by inches and Artorath would have dwarfed him. It was his face and skull that made the Romans glance uneasily at each other as he passed.
He looked like no race of men Julius had ever seen, with such a line of bone above his eyes that they seemed to peer out from constant shadow. His skull was shaved bare except for a long tail of hair at the joint of his neck that swung behind him as he walked, weighed down with dark metal ornaments wound into its length. The skull itself was heavily deformed, with a second ridge above the first.
“Do you understand me? What is your name and tribe?” Julius asked.
The warrior studied him without replying and Julius shook himself mentally, suddenly aware that the man must know the effect he had. Indeed, Ariovistus had probably chosen him for that reason.
“I am Redulf of the Suebi. I learned your words when my king fought for you and was named friend for life,” the man replied.
It was eerie to hear Latin from such a demonic-looking individual, but Julius nodded, relieved not to have to depend on the interpreters Mhorbaine had provided.
“You are from Ariovistus, then?” Julius said.
“I have said it,” the man replied.
Julius felt a prickle of irritation. The man was as arrogant as his master.
“Say what you have been told then, boy,” Julius replied. “I will not suffer a delay from you.”
The man stiffened at the taunt and Julius saw a slow flush spread along the bony ridges of his brow. Was it a deformity of birth, or the result of some strange ceremony amongst the men across the Rhine? Julius beckoned a messenger to him, murmuring that Cabera should be brought up to the front of the column. As the messenger darted away, the warrior spoke, his voice pitched to carry.
“King Ariovistus will meet you by the rock known as the Hand in the north. I am to say he will not allow your walking soldiers to accompany you. He will come with his riding men only and will allow the same for you. Those are his terms.”
“Where is this rock?” Julius asked, narrowing his eyes in thought.
“Three days’ march north. Fingers of rock crown the peak. You will know it. He will wait for you there.”
“And if I choose to ignore the terms?” Julius said.
The warrior shrugged. “Then he will not be there and will consider himself betrayed. You may expect war from us until one of our armies is broken.”
His sneer as he looked around at the Roman officers made his view of such an outcome perfectly clear. Redulf glanced at Cabera as he arrived, moving slowly on a stick and the messenger’s arm. The old healer was haggard from the privations of the march, but still his blue eyes looked
“Tell your master I will meet him where you say, Redulf,” Julius said. “I will honor the friendship my city has given him and meet him in peace at the rock you named. Run back now and tell him all you have seen and heard.”
Redulf glared at this dismissal, but contented himself with another sneer at the Roman ranks before striding back to his horse. Julius saw that Brutus had brought the extraordinarii up to form a wide avenue down which the man was forced to ride. He looked neither left nor right as he passed their ranks and dwindled quickly into the distance of the north.
Brutus cantered up and dismounted.
“By Mars, he was a strange one,” Brutus said. He noticed one of the Tenth near him making a protective sign with his fingers. He frowned, considering the effect on the more superstitious men under his command.
“Cabera? You saw him,” Julius said. “Was it a birth deformity?”
Cabera looked into the distance after the rider. “I have never seen one that was so regular, as if it had been made deliberately. I don’t know, General. Perhaps if I could examine him more closely, I could be sure. I will think on it.”
“I suppose this Ariovistus isn’t asking for peace and saving us the trouble of dealing with his ugly men?” Brutus asked Julius.
“Not yet. Now that we’re close to him, he has suddenly decided he will meet me, after all. Strange how Roman legions can influence a man’s mind,” Julius replied. His smile faded as he thought of the rest of the king’s message.
“He wants me to take cavalry alone to the meeting place, Brutus.”
“What? I hope you refused. I will not leave you in the hands of our Gaulish riders, Julius. Never in this life. You must not give him the chance to trap you, friend of Rome or not.” Brutus looked appalled at the idea, but then Julius spoke again.
“Rome watches us, Brutus. Mark Antony was right about that. Ariovistus must be treated with respect.”
“Mhorbaine said his people lived in the saddle,” Brutus replied. “Did you see the way that ugly bastard rode? If they’re all like him, you won’t want to be caught in the open with just the Aedui and a handful of extraordinarii.”
“Oh, I don’t think I will be,” Julius said, a slow smile stealing across his face. “Summon the Aedui to me, Brutus.”
“What are you going to do?” Brutus asked, thrown by the sudden change in his general’s demeanor.
Julius grinned like a boy. “I am going to mount the Tenth on horseback, Brutus. Three thousand of my veterans and the extraordinarii should be enough to clip his wings, don’t you think?”
Pompey finished his address to the Senate and asked for speakers before the vote to come. Though there was a brittle tension in the three hundred men of the Curia, at least the threat of violence had diminished from their debates, if not the streets outside. At the thought, Pompey glanced over to where Clodius sat, a shaven-headed bull of a man who had been born in the gutters of the city and had risen simply by being more ruthless than any of his competitors. With Crassus’s stranglehold over trade, Clodius should have found himself a quiet retirement, but instead had cut his losses and stood for election to the Senate. Pompey shuddered as he considered the brutal, flat features. Some of the things he had heard were surely exaggerated, he told himself. If they were true, it would have meant another city hidden beneath Rome, one perhaps that Clodius already ruled. The bullish figure was to be seen at every session of the Senate, and when he was balked, gangs of raptores would rampage through the city, disappearing into the maze of alleys whenever the legion guards came after them. Clodius was cunning enough to denounce the gangs in public, throwing his hands up in amazement whenever their violence coincided with some check to his ambition.
Restoring the tribune posts to the vote had removed one pillar of Clodius’s popular support. After the disgraceful funeral procession two months before, Pompey had followed Crassus’s advice. To his pleasure, only one of the original holders of the post had been brought back into the Senate. The fickle public had voted in a stranger for the second, and though Pompey’s enemies courted him outrageously, he had not yet declared any particular loyalties. It was just possible that Clodius had no hand in the man’s election, though Pompey doubted it. The man was not above threatening families to achieve his aims, and Pompey had already witnessed one vote where decent men had turned against him for no clear reason. They had not even met his eyes as they stood with Clodius, and Pompey had barely been able to restrain his rage in the face of the merchant’s cold triumph. As a result of that, the free corn issued to the citizens now took a fifth of the entire revenue of the city, and thousands more flooded in each month for the entitlement. Pompey knew Clodius found his most brutal supporters from amongst those rootless scavengers who came to the city. He could not prove it, but he thought a heavy tithe of that grain never reached the hungriest mouths, instead going into that darker Rome where Clodius and men like him bought lives as easily as they sold grain.
Pompey motioned for Suetonius to speak and sat down as the young Roman rose and cleared his throat. Nothing of his dislike showed on Pompey’s face, though he despised a man who would apparently follow any dog for scraps. Suetonius had grown in confidence as Clodius showered him with praise and funds. He spoke well enough to hold the attention of the Senate, and his association with Clodius had given him a vicarious status he relished.
“Senators, tribunes,” Suetonius began, “I am no friend to Caesar, as many of you know.” He allowed himself a small smile at the chuckle from the benches. “We have all heard of his victory against the Helvetii in Gaul, a most worthy battle that had the citizens cheering in the markets. Yet the matter of his debts is not a minor concern. I have the estimate here.”
Suetonius made a show of checking a paper, though he knew the figures by heart.
“To Herminius, he owes just under a million sesterces. The other lenders together, another million, two hundred thousand. These are not small sums, gentlemen. Without these funds, the men who advanced them in good faith may well be forced into poverty. They have the right to appeal to us when Caesar shows no sign or inclination to return to the city. The law of Twelve Tables is quite clear on the matter of debt, and we should not support a general who scorns the statutes in this way. I urge the Senate to demand his return to clear his slate with the city. Failing that, perhaps an assurance from Pompey that the term in Gaul has some clear end, so that those who struggle in the wake of these debts can look forward to settlement on an agreed date. I will vote in favor of recalling Caesar.”
He sat down and Pompey was about to motion to the next speaker when he saw the new tribune had risen.
“Have you anything to add, Polonus?” Pompey said, smiling at the man.
“Only that this seems a small stick with which to beat a successful general,” Polonus replied. “As I understand the matter, these debts are personal to Caesar, despite his use of them to supply and outfit his soldiers. When he returns to the city, his creditors can lay hands on him for the sums, and if he cannot pay, the penalties are harsh. Until then, I do not see a role for the Senate in demanding his return into the hands of coarse moneylenders.”
A murmur of approval sounded from the senators and Pompey stifled a smile. Large numbers of them had debts, and Suetonius would have to be a genius to make them call back a general to satisfy the grubby urging of men like Herminius. Pompey was pleased Polonus had spoken against the vote. Perhaps he was not in Clodius’s pay after all. Pompey caught the tribune’s eye and inclined his head as the next speaker rose, barely listening to the speech by some minor son of the nobilitas.
Pompey knew there were many who described his dismissal and restoration of the tribunes as a masterful stroke. The older members especially looked to him for leadership and strength to face the new players of the game. Many of them had come to him in private, but in the Senate their fear made them weak. There were not many who dared to risk the enmity of one like Clodius.
As the young senator droned through his speech, Pompey’s gaze drifted to another of the new men, Titus Milo. Like Clodius before him, he had come to the Senate when his merchant ventures were lost. Perhaps because of that shared background, the pair appeared to dislike each other intensely. Milo was red-faced from drink and fat where Clodius was solid. Both men could be as coarse as the worst gutter whore. Pompey wondered privately if they could be set at each other’s throats. It would be a neat solution to the problem.
The vote was taken quickly and for once Pompey’s supporters did not waver. Clodius had not spoken and Pompey knew it was likely he had indulged Suetonius without pledging his full support. There would be no sudden reports of gangs rampaging through the markets that night. Clodius caught Pompey’s thoughtful gaze on him and nodded his massive head as one equal to another. Pompey returned the gesture out of habit, though his mind seethed with some of the ugliest rumors. It was said that Clodius employed bodyguards who used rape as a casual tool of persuasion when they were on his business. It was just another of the tales circulating like flies about the man. Pompey gritted his teeth as he saw the secret gleam of amusement in Clodius’s eyes. In that moment, he envied Julius in Gaul. For all the hardships of a campaign, his battles would be simpler and cleaner than those Pompey faced.
CHAPTER 28
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Brutus roared angry orders out to the Tenth as they trotted their Gaulish ponies toward the distant mass of horsemen at the foot of the crag of rock called the Hand. While he understood Julius’s desire to have the veterans of the Tenth with him, they rode like wayward children. Above a walking pace, horses drifted into each other, and on anything but the smoothest ground, the red-faced soldiers were thrown off, suffering the humiliation of being forced to run alongside until they could heave themselves back into the saddles.