Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

“If I see you in the Senate, your immunity will not protect you, I swear by all the gods. I will see to it that you are taken somewhere quiet and burnt and broken over days. You will beg for an end to it.”

“But I am consul!” Bibilus choked.

Julius leaned in with the sword tip, making him gasp.

“Only in name. I will not have a man like you in my Senate house. Never in this life. Your time there is over.”

“Can he hurt me now?” the slave boy asked suddenly.

Julius looked at him and saw that he had risen to his feet. He shook his head.

“Then give me a knife. I’ll cut him,” the boy said.

Julius looked into his eyes and saw nothing but resolve.

“You’ll be killed if you do,” Julius said softly.

The boy shrugged. “Worth it,” he said. “Give me a blade and I’ll do it.”

Bibilus opened his mouth and Julius twisted the gladius viciously.

“You be quiet. There are men talking here. You’ve no part in it.” He turned back to the slave and saw the way he stood a little straighter at the words.

“I won’t stop you, lad, if you want it, but he’s more use to me alive than dead. At least for now.” A corpse would mean another election and a new adversary who might not have Bibilus’s weaknesses. Yet Julius did not send the boy away.

“You want him alive?” the child said.

Julius returned the gaze for a long moment before nodding.

“All right, but I want to leave here tonight.”

“I can find you a place, lad. You have my gratitude.”

“Not just me. All of us. No more nights here.”

Julius looked at him in surprise. “All of you?”

“All of us,” the slave said, holding his eyes without the slightest tremor. Julius looked away first.

“Very well, boy. Gather them at the front door. Leave me alone with Bibilus for a little while longer and I’ll come to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said. In a few moments, all the children in the room had vanished with him, and the only sound was Bibilus’s tortured breathing.

“How d-did you find out?” Bibilus whispered.

“Until I saw them, I did not know you for what you are. Even if I had not, you are greasy with guilt.”

Julius growled, “Remember, I will know if you bring more children into your home. If I hear of a single boy or girl coming through your doors, I will know and I will not hold back from you. Do you understand me?

The Senate is mine now. Completely.”

At the last word, Julius jerked his blade and Bibilus screamed, releasing his bladder in terror.

Moaning, he clutched at the spreading stain of urine tinged with blood. Julius sheathed the sword and headed back to the front, where more than thirty of the slaves had gathered.

Each one of the refugees held a few items of clothing bundled in their arms. Their eyes were large and fearful in the light of the lamps, and the silence was almost painful as they all turned to look at him.

“All right. Tonight you’ll stay in my own home,” Julius said. “I’ll find you families who have lost a child and who will love you.” The happiness in their expression shamed him worse than knives. He had not come to the house for them.

The summer had come and gone with its long, busy days, but winter was still far off as Julius mounted his horse at the Quirinal gate, ready to join the legions in the Campus. He looked around him as he took the reins, trying to fix this last picture of the city in his mind. Who knew how long it would have to sustain him in distant Gaul? Those travelers and merchants who had been to the small Roman camp at the far foot of the Alps said it was a bitter place, colder than any they had known. Julius had punished his lines of credit for furs and provisions for ten thousand soldiers. Eventually, he knew there would have to be a reckoning, but he did not allow the thought of debt to spoil the final moments in his city.

The Quirinal gate was open and Julius could see the Campus Martius through it, with his soldiers waiting patiently in shining squares. Julius doubted there was a legion anywhere to equal the Tenth, and Brutus had worked hard to make something greater out of the men he had conscripted. Not one of them had been allowed leave in almost a year, and they had used their time well. Julius was pleased with the name Brutus had chosen for them. The Third Gallica would be hardened in the land for which they had been named.

Brutus and Octavian mounted up beside him, while Domitius checked his saddle straps for tightness one last time. Julius smiled to himself at their silver armor. All three men had earned the right to wear it, but they made an unusual sight in the streets by the gate and already there was a crowd of urchins come to point and gawk at them. As well they might. Every part of their armor shone as brightly as polish and cloths could make them, and Julius felt a thrill at riding for Rome with these men.

If Salomin had come with them, it would have been perfect, Julius thought. It was just one more nagging regret in a sea of them that he had not been able to persuade the little fighter to make the trip to Gaul. Salomin had spoken for a long time about Roman honor, and Julius had listened. It was all he could offer after Pompey’s shameful treatment of him, but he had not pressed him after the first refusal.

The months in Senate had exceeded Julius’s hopes, and the triumvirate was holding better than he had any right to expect. Crassus had begun his domination of trade and his great fleet already rivaled anything Carthage had ever put to sea. His fledgling legion had been hammered into some sort of shape by the best officers in the Tenth, and Pompey would continue that work when they were gone. The three men had developed a grudging respect for each other in their months together, and Julius did not regret the bargain he had struck with them.

After the night of the election, Bibilus had not been seen in the Senate house for a single meeting.

Rumors of a long-term illness had spread through the city, but Julius maintained his silence about what had happened. He had kept his promises to the children, sending them to be raised in loving families far in the north. His private shame at profiting from their distress had prompted him to buy them free, though it bled his funds even whiter on top of everything else. Strangely, that simple act had given him more satisfaction than almost anything else in his months as consul.

“Brutus!” a voice called, shattering the moment.

Julius turned his horse in a tight circle and Brutus laughed aloud at the sight of Alexandria struggling through the crowds to the gate. As she reached him, she stood on tiptoe to be kissed, but Brutus reached down and heaved her into the saddle. Julius looked away, not that they would have noticed. It was difficult not to think of Servilia as he saw their happiness together.

When Alexandria was lowered to the road, Julius noticed she carried a cloth package. He raised his eyebrows as she held it out for him, blushing with embarrassment from the embrace he had witnessed.

Julius took the bundle and unwrapped it slowly, his eyes widening as he revealed a helmet worked with extraordinary skill. It was polished iron and shining with oil, but the strangest thing was the full face of it, shaped to resemble his own features.

Reverently, Julius lifted it above his head and then lowered it, pressing the hinged face back until it clicked. It fitted like a second skin. The eyes were large enough to see out easily, and he knew from the reactions of his companions that it achieved the effect Alexandria had wanted.

“It has a cold expression,” Octavian murmured, gazing at him.

Brutus nodded and Alexandria reached up to Julius’s saddle to speak privately to him.