Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

The merchant Durus found him clearing poison from a well with three of the legionaries. It was common enough for an invading force to sour local water with rotting animals, and Julius was working numbly with the others, pulling up slimy dead chickens and trying not to gag at the smell as they were thrown aside.

“I need to have a word with you, sir,” Durus said.

At first Julius didn't seem to hear him, and he repeated it more loudly. Julius sighed and crossed over to him, leaving the other soldiers to drop the hooked ropes for another try. Julius wiped his stinking hands on his tunic as he walked, and Durus saw that he was exhausted, suddenly realizing how young the man was. With tiredness banking the fires in him, he looked almost lost. The merchant cleared his throat.

“I'd like to leave with my two triremes, sir. I've put my name to a letter saying you hired Ventulus to hunt pirates. It's time for me to get back to my family and my life.”

Julius looked steadily at him without replying. After a pause, Durus started again. “We did agree that when you found Celsus I would have my ship and the other trireme to make up for the lost cargo. I don't have any complaints, but I need you to give the order to have your men leave my ships so I can sail home. They won't take orders from me, sir.”

Julius felt torn and angry. He had never realized how hard it could be to keep some semblance of honor alive. He had promised Durus the two ships, but that was before he found the Greek port ravaged by a war. What did the man expect? Every martial instinct drummed into Julius said to refuse flatly. How could he think of giving up two of his most valuable assets with Mithridates cutting everything Roman from the flesh of Greece?

“Walk with me,” he said to Durus, striding past him so that the captain had to break into a trot to keep up. Julius walked quickly back to the docks where the three ships were moving gently in the swell. His guards saluted him as he approached, and Julius returned the gestures, halting suddenly at the edge, where the galleys loomed over them both.

“I don't want you to go home,” he said curtly.

Durus colored with surprise. “You gave me your word I could leave when you had taken Celsus's ship,” he snapped.

Julius turned to him and the captain gulped silently at his expression.

“I do not need to be reminded, Captain. I will not stop you leaving. However, Rome needs these ships.” He thought for a long time, his eyes dark as he watched the ships rise and settle in the dirty waters.

“I want you to take them round the coast as fast as you can and find whichever port Rome is using to land the legions in the west. Hand over the legion silver in my name… and in the name of Captain Gaditicus of Accipiter . They will put you on the run back to Rome for more soldiers, I should think. There's no profit for you in that, but both ships are fast and they'll need anything that can float.”

Durus shifted his weight from one foot to another, astonished. “I am months overdue. My family and creditors will think I'm dead as it is,” he said, playing for time.

“Romans have died, did you not see the bodies? Gods, I'm asking you for a service to the city that bore and raised you. You've never fought for her or bled for her. I'm giving you a chance to pay back a little of what you owe.”

Durus almost smiled at the words, but stopped himself as he realized the young man was completely serious. He wondered what his city friends would make of this soldier. He seemed to have a view of the city that had nothing to do with beggars and rats and disease. He realized that Julius saw the city as something greater than he did, and for a moment, he felt a touch of shame in the face of that belief.

“How do you know I won't take the money and head straight for northern Italy and home?” he asked.

Julius frowned slightly, turning his cold eyes on the merchant. “Because if you do, I will be your enemy and you know well enough that I will find you eventually and destroy you.” The words were casually spoken, but after watching the executions and hearing how Celsus had been thrown over the side of his own ship, Durus wrapped his robe tightly around himself against the chill wind.

“Very well. I will do as you say, though I curse the day you first stepped onto Ventulus, ” he replied through gritted teeth.

Julius called up to the guards at the prows of Durus's ships. “My men to disembark!”

The soldiers in sight saluted and disappeared to fetch the others. Durus felt a wave of relief leave him giddy.

“Thank you,” he said.

Julius paused as he began to walk back to the storehouses. Behind him, where the stone docks faded into soil, five figures hung from crosses.

“Don't forget,” he said, then turned his back on the captain and strode away.

Durus doubted that was possible.

As night fell, the men gathered in the best of the storehouses. One of the walls was scorched, but the fire hadn't taken. Apart from the acrid smell in the air, it was warm and dry. Outside, it had begun to rain, a low drumming on the thin wooden roof.

The oil lamps came from Celsus's ship, and once they were gone, the men would be reduced to finding private supplies in the abandoned houses of the port. As if to prepare the soldiers for that moment, the flames guttered low, barely lighting the empty space of the store. Corn kernels spilled by looters littered the floor, and the soldiers sat on torn sacking, making themselves comfortable as best they could.

Gaditicus rose to speak to the huddled men. Most had been working all day either repairing the roof or shifting supplies to and from the ships that would leave on the dawn tide.

“It is time to consider the future, gentlemen. I'd wanted to rest for a while in a solid Roman port before contacting home. Instead, a Greek king has butchered our soldiers. It must not go unpunished.”

A mutter ran through the men, though whether in agreement or frustration it was difficult to tell. Julius looked over them as he sat by Gaditicus. They were his men. He had spent so long with the simple goal of finding and killing Celsus that he had never given much thought to what would come afterward, barring the distant dream of one day confronting the Dictator of Rome. If he brought a new century into a legion, the Senate would have to recognize his authority with an official post.

He grimaced silently in the shadows. Or they might not, putting Gaditicus in charge and reducing Julius back to commanding only twenty of them. The Senate were not the sort to recognize the unusual authority he possessed over the motley group, though his new wealth could give him influence if he used it wisely. He wondered if he could be satisfied with such a position and smiled to himself, unnoticed by the men watching Gaditicus. There was a simple answer. He'd learned there was nothing finer than leading and nothing more of a challenge than having no one to ask for help. At the worst times, they had looked to him to know the way forward, to see the next step. The gods knew it was far easier to follow, without thought, but not half so satisfying. Part of him longed for the security, the simple pleasure in being part of a unit. But in his heart he wanted the heady mixture of fear and danger that came only with command.

How could Sulla be dead? The thought returned again and again to nag at him. The wounded man on board Celsus's ship had known nothing of it, just that the soldiers had been told to wear black for a whole year. When the man had fallen unconscious, Julius had left him in Cabera's hands, and as the sun sank, the man died, his heart failing at last. Julius had ordered him buried with the other Roman corpses, and it shamed him when he thought he had never even asked the man's name.