Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

Crassus hid his anger. Always they saw him as the merchant, the lender, as if there were some great secret to the legions that only the chosen few could understand. As if there were some shame to his wealth. He could see Pompey was desperate not to lose this victory. How awful it would be if lowly Crassus stole it from under him! Whoever broke the rebellion would be the next consul, he was sure. How could the Senate resist the will of the people after so many months of fear? Not for the first time, Crassus felt regret at his generosity in choosing Pompey in the Senate debate. If he had known then how the campaign would go, he would have risked it alone.

“I will herd them south,” he said, and Pompey nodded, satisfied. He lifted another of the dispatches from the table and showed it to Crassus, angling it into the light. As Crassus read, Pompey stood and pointed to the map.

“Those reports of a fleet can only be for the slaves. I'd stay if I wasn't sure they will keep moving, but as long as you don't provoke them, they should head south to meet the ships. I'll call in the galleys against them. There will be no escape by sea, I swear it.”

“If that's what they intend,” Crassus muttered, still reading.

“They cannot run forever. They must be starving, no matter what they've found to scavenge. Every day weakens them if they're hoping to bring us to another battle. No, they're trying to escape and those reports are the key to it.”

“And when they see our galleys gathering to prevent it, you'll ride up with the Greek legions to finish them?” Crassus asked, some of the bile he felt creeping into his tone.

“I will,” Pompey replied sharply. “Do not take the threat lightly, Crassus. If we lose now, we lose everything. We need the extra legions I will bring. Do not join in battle until you see my flags. I'd rather see you retreat than be routed before I arrive.”

“Very well,” Crassus replied, stung by the casual dismissal of his abilities. If Spartacus attacked while Pompey was away, the moment would be his to seize, and the glory with it. “I know you will come as quickly as you can,” he said.

Pompey sagged slightly, resting his knuckles on the table. “There is another matter. I'm leaving immediately for the city and I don't know if I should keep it to myself until we're finished here or not.”

“Tell me,” Crassus said, softly.

The leather tents were heavy with rain that roared in a broken rhythm as the men slept fitfully. Julius dreamed of the estate. The day had been tiring as the legions forced the pace toward Rome, and when the order had come to set the tents, the legionaries had barely bothered to remove their armor before falling asleep. Those who had lived through the forced marches were harder than they had ever been, tight-skinned over taut muscle. They had seen friends die on the march or just fall off the road, their legs twitching. Some of them had lived to join the end of the column, but many of their wounded had died, losing blood with each step until their ailing hearts finally stopped and they lay where they fell.

Feet that had bled and been caked with a brown rime had become layered in callus, white against their sandals. Torn muscles had healed and the legions became stronger on the march, their heads rising. In the third week, Pompey called for a faster pace on the Via Flaminia and they met it without protest, feeling again the thrill of the chase.

Julius murmured irritably as someone shook his shoulder.

“There's a messenger from Pompey, Julius. Wake up, quickly.”

Julius snapped awake, shaking his head to clear it of the dream. He looked out of the tent at the messenger carrying Pompey's bronze seal and dressed quickly, leaving his armor behind. As soon as he stepped out, the rain drenched him to the skin.

The sentry at the command tent stood aside as Julius gave the password of the day. Both Crassus and Pompey were there and he saluted them, instantly wary. There was something strange in their expressions that he had not seen before.

“Sit down, Julius,” Crassus said.

The older man did not meet his eyes as he spoke, and Julius frowned slightly as he took a seat on a bench by the table. Julius waited patiently and when the generals did not speak immediately, a spike of worry twisted in his stomach. He wiped water from his face with a nervous scrubbing motion. Pompey poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward the young tribune.

“We… I have bad news, Julius. Messages have come from the city,” he began. His expression was uncomfortable as he took a slow breath to continue.

“There has been an attack on your estate. Your wife has been killed. I understand-”

Julius stood up jerkily. “No,” he said. “No, that must be wrong.”

“I'm sorry, Julius. It happened only days ago. It came with the dispatches,” Pompey said. The young man's horror tore at his own memories of finding his daughter in the garden. He handed the parchment to Julius and watched in silence as he read through it, his eyes blurring as he started over and over. Julius's breath shuddered out of him and his hands shook so that he could barely read the words.

“Sweet gods, no,” he whispered. “It hardly says anything. What about Tubruk? Octavian? My daughter is not mentioned. There's nothing there but a few words. Cornelia…” He could not finish and his head bowed in mute misery.

“It's a formal dispatch, Julius,” Pompey whispered. “It may be they still live. There will be other letters to follow.” He paused for a moment, coming to a decision. “As close as we are to the city, I will understand if you take a short leave to see to your affairs at home.”

Julius did not seem to hear him. Crassus crossed to the young man who had seen so much grief in his life.

“If you want to go back to your estate, I'll sign the orders. Do you hear?”

Julius raised his head and both men looked away rather than see his agony.

“I request permission to take the Tenth with me,” Julius said, shaking.

“I cannot allow that, Julius. Even if we could spare them, I cannot give you a legion to use against your enemies.”

“Just a fifty, then. Ten even,” Julius said, his voice breaking.

Pompey shook his head. “I am going back to the city myself, Julius. There will be justice done, I swear it to you, but it will be under the rule of law, the peace of the city. Everything Marius worked for. You will come back with me in a few days to finish the rebellion. That is your duty and mine.”

Julius turned as if to leave the tent, holding himself still with an immense effort of will. Pompey put a hand on his shoulder.

“The Republic is not to be thrown away when we tire of the restrictions, Julius. When my daughter died, I made myself wait. Marius himself said the Republic is worth a life, do you remember that?”

“Not her life,” Julius replied. He breathed in sobs that he tried to talk over even as they wrenched at him. “She wasn't part of it.”

The two generals shared a glance over his head.

“Go home, Julius,” Crassus said softly. “There's a horse waiting for you. Brutus will command the Tenth while you are gone.”

Julius stood finally, taking deep breaths to find some semblance of control in front of Crassus and Pompey.

“Thank you,” he said, attempting a salute. He still clutched the report in his hand, and he noticed it then, placing it on the seat before leaving the tent and taking the reins of the horse that had been brought for him. Some part of him wanted just to dig his heels in and gallop from the camp, but instead he wheeled and rode to where the Tenth lay sleeping in their tents. He pulled back the flap to rouse Brutus, who came out quickly when he saw his expression.