Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

Brutus woke Julius from a light sleep by shaking his shoulder.

“Is it my watch?” Julius said sleepily, sitting up in the dark tent.

“Shhh. Come outside. I want to show you something.”

Vaguely irritated, Julius followed Brutus through the camp, stopping twice to give the watchword of the day to alert sentries. Within striking range of the enemy, the camp was far from quiet. Many of the men who couldn't sleep sat outside their tents or around small fires taking quietly. Tension and fear tightened their bladders through the night, and Julius and Brutus saw the urine trench was sodden and stinking already as they passed it.

Julius realized Brutus was making straight for the praetorian gate in the north wall of the camp.

“What are you doing?” he hissed to his friend.

“I need you to get us out of the camp. They'll let a tribune through if you order it.” He whispered his idea and Julius squinted at his friend in the darkness, wondering at the wild energy that seemed such a part of him. He considered refusing and going back to his tent, but the night air had cleared his head and he doubted he would be able to sleep again. He didn't feel tired. Instead, his muscles trembled with nervous energy, and waiting idle would be worse than anything.

The gate was guarded by a century of extraordinarii, still dusty from their scouting rides. The commander trotted his horse over to them as they approached.

“Yes?” he said bluntly.

“I want to leave the camp for a couple of hours,” Julius replied.

“Orders are no one leaves camp.”

“I am the legate of Primigenia, a tribune of Rome, and the nephew of Marius. Let us pass.”

The centurion wavered in the face of the order. “I should report it, sir. If you leave, you are disobeying Pompey's direct order.”

Julius glanced at Brutus, silently cursing him for putting him into this position.

“I will clear it with the general when I return. Report as you see fit.”

“He will want to know what you are doing, sir,” the centurion continued, wincing slightly. Julius could admire his loyalty, though he dreaded what Pompey would say if the man carried out his threat to report.

“There is a spike of rock that overlooks the battleground,” he said quietly. “Brutus believes it would give us a view of the enemy force.”

“I know it, sir, but the scouts say it's too steep to be climbed. It's practically sheer,” the man replied, rubbing his chin in thought.

“It's worth a try at least,” Brutus said quickly.

The centurion looked at him for the first time, his expression brooding. “I can delay reporting it until the watch changes in three hours. If you're not back by then, I'll have to name you as deserters. I'll give that much for a nephew of Marius, but that's it.”

“Good man. It won't come to that. What's your name?” Julius asked him.

“Taranus, sir.”

Julius patted the horse on his quivering neck.

“Julius Caesar, and this is Marcus Brutus. There are your names. We'll be back before the new watch, Taranus. On my word, we will.”

The guards moved aside to let them pass on Taranus's order, and Julius found himself on the rocky plain, with the enemy somewhere ahead of them. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he rounded on Brutus.

“I can't believe I let you persuade me into this. If Pompey hears about it, he'll take the skin of our backs at least.”

Brutus shrugged, unconcerned. “He won't if we can climb that rock. His scouts are horsemen, remember. They think anywhere they can't take a horse can't be climbed. I had a look at it before the light faded and the top will give us a good view. There's enough moonlight to see the enemy camp, and that will be useful, no matter what Pompey says about us leaving camp.”

“You'd better be right,” Julius said grimly. “Come on, three hours isn't long.”

The two young men broke into a run toward the black mass they saw silhouetted against the stars. It was a forbidding crag, a tooth in the plain.

“It's bigger close up,” Brutus whispered, removing his sandals and sword for the climb. Though it would hurt their feet, the iron-shod sandals would slip and clatter on the stones and could alert the enemy. There was no way of telling how close they were to the patrols, but they had to be near.

Julius glanced at the moon and tried to estimate how long they had before it sank.

Unhappy with the calculation, he removed his sword and sandals and took a deep, slow breath. Without speaking, he reached for the first handhold, jamming his hand into a crack and heaving, his bare feet searching for grip.

Even with the moonlight to help them, it was a difficult and frightening climb. All the way up, Julius was tormented by the possibility that some slave archer would see them and spit them with shafts that would send them down to break on the rocky plain below. The spire of rock seemed to get taller as they climbed, and Julius was sure it was more than a hundred feet high, even two. After a time, his feet became numb blocks, barely able to hold him. His fingers were cramped and painful and he began to worry that they would never make it back to camp before being reported.

By his best guess, it took almost an hour to reach the barren crest of the rock, and for the first few moments, he and Brutus could do nothing more than lie panting, stretched flat as they waited for their tortured muscles to recover.

The top was an uneven space, lit almost white in the moonlight. Julius raised his head and then pulled himself into a sudden crouch, horror flooding through him.

There was someone else there, only feet away from them. Two figures sat watching as Julius's hands scrabbled for where his sword usually hung, almost cursing aloud as he remembered leaving it below.

“Looks like you two had the same idea we had,” a deep voice chuckled.

Brutus swore and rose fully, caught in sudden fear as Julius had been. The voice spoke in Latin, but any thoughts that it might have belonged to one of their own were quickly dispelled.

“You won't have managed that climb with swords, lads, but I brought a dagger along and when you're this high and barefoot, it's a good idea to keep peaceful. Move slowly over here and don't make me nervous.”

Brutus and Julius looked at each other. There was no way to retreat. The two figures rose and faced them, seeming to fill the tiny space. They too were barefoot and wore only tunics and leggings. One of them waved his dagger at them.

“I guess this makes me king for the night, lads. I see by your clothes that you're Romans. Come to see the view, eh?”

“Let's kill them,” his companion said.

Brutus looked him over with a sinking feeling. The man was as powerfully built as a wrestler and the moonlight revealed an expression without mercy. The best he could hope for was to carry the man over the edge with him, which wasn't a thought that gave him any comfort. He edged away from the drop at his back.

The other man placed a hand on his friend's chest, holding him still.

“No need for that, Crix. There'll be time enough at the battle tomorrow. We can all shed each other's blood then, roaring and threatening as the mood takes us.”

The wrestler subsided with a grunt and turned his back on the two Romans. He was almost close enough to touch, but something about the man's alert stance warned Brutus he was expecting it. Possibly he was hoping they would try.

“Are you armed?” the first man said pleasantly, gesturing them closer. When they didn't move, he inched closer to Julius with the dagger held ready. Behind him, the shorter man had turned back and was glaring at the young men, daring them to try something.

Julius allowed himself to be patted down and then stood aside as Brutus too was checked for hidden blades. The man was careful and his own shoulders looked powerful enough to give him an edge even without the dagger.