Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

Julius thought of Servilia, and his gaze strayed to the empty chair set aside for her. He rubbed his forehead in memory of where the pearl had struck him.

“Are we going to stand all night?” Domitius asked. “Octavian should be in bed by now.”

Octavian tilted his cup back, emptying it. “I was told I could stay up late if I’m good,” he replied cheerfully.

Julius looked affectionately at his young relative as they sat. He was growing into a fine man, though his manners were a little rough. Even Brutus had remarked on the number of times Octavian had been seen at Servilia’s house, and apparently he was becoming something of a favorite with the girls there.

Julius watched as Octavian laughed at something Renius had said, and hoped the extraordinary confidence of his youth would not be too harshly taken from him. Yet if the young man was never truly tested, he would be a shell. There were many things Julius would change from his own past, but without them, he knew he would still be the angry, proud little boy that Renius had trained. It was a terrible thing to consider, but he hoped that Octavian would know at least some pain, to take him into manhood. It was the only way he knew, and while Julius could forget his triumphs, his failures had shaped him.

The food came on Julius’s own silver plates, fashioned in Spain. They were all hungry and for a long time no one spoke to interrupt the soft sound of chewing mouths.

Brutus leaned back in his chair and covered a belch with his hand.

“So, are you going to be consul, Julius?” he asked.

“If they vote in sufficient numbers,” Julius replied.

“Alexandria is making you a consul’s clasp for your cloak. It’s very fine,” Brutus continued.

Alexandria rested her head on a hand. “A surprise, remember, Brutus? I said it was to be a surprise.

What did that mean to you, exactly?”

Brutus reached out and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. It is fine, though, Julius.”

“I hope I have the chance to wear it. Thank you, Alexandria,” Julius replied. “I just wish I could be as sure of victory as Brutus.”

“Why wouldn’t you be? You lost one case in the forum that no one could have won. You won three that you should have lost. Your clients are out every night for you, and the reports are good.”

Julius nodded, thinking of the debts he had amassed to achieve it. The gold he had won from Pompey had vanished over a few short days of the campaign. Despite the extravagant reputation he had earned, he regretted some of the wilder expenses, the pearl particularly. Even worse was the way the moneylenders assumed a familiarity with him as the debts increased. It was as if they felt they owned a part of him, and he longed for the day when he would be free of their grasping hands.

Flushed with the wine, Brutus stood once more. “We should have another toast,” he said. “To victory, but victory with honor.”

They all came to their feet and raised their cups. Julius wished his father could see them.

There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.

Sleep had been impossible the night before. When the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count, and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius, and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.

He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.

Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.

If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each success, and Julius was forced to smile his congratulation, though it was like acid in him.

He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores facedown to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage, and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favored. Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.

“… Caesar,” the magistrate cried, and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn.

Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.

The results of the second class were more even, and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’s fourteen, and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’s father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension, and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.

Over the next hour, the lead changed three times, and at the end, the total for Suetonius’s father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’s side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them, and Bibilus blushed crimson.

“Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!” Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.

Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’s shoulders as if Suetonius were not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.

“I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,” Pompey said.