Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

“Do you understand me? What is your name and tribe?” Julius asked.

The warrior studied him without replying and Julius shook himself mentally, suddenly aware that the man must know the effect he had. Indeed, Ariovistus had probably chosen him for that reason.

“I am Redulf of the Suebi. I learned your words when my king fought for you and was named friend for life,” the man replied.

It was eerie to hear Latin from such a demonic-looking individual, but Julius nodded, relieved not to have to depend on the interpreters Mhorbaine had provided.

“You are from Ariovistus, then?” Julius said.

“I have said it,” the man replied.

Julius felt a prickle of irritation. The man was as arrogant as his master.

“Say what you have been told then, boy,” Julius replied. “I will not suffer a delay from you.”

The man stiffened at the taunt and Julius saw a slow flush spread along the bony ridges of his brow.

Was it a deformity of birth, or the result of some strange ceremony amongst the men across the Rhine?

Julius beckoned a messenger to him, murmuring that Cabera should be brought up to the front of the column. As the messenger darted away, the warrior spoke, his voice pitched to carry.

“King Ariovistus will meet you by the rock known as the Hand in the north. I am to say he will not allow your walking soldiers to accompany you. He will come with his riding men only and will allow the same for you. Those are his terms.”

“Where is this rock?” Julius asked, narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Three days’ march north. Fingers of rock crown the peak. You will know it. He will wait for you there.”

“And if I choose to ignore the terms?” Julius said.

The warrior shrugged. “Then he will not be there and will consider himself betrayed. You may expect war from us until one of our armies is broken.”

His sneer as he looked around at the Roman officers made his view of such an outcome perfectly clear.

Redulf glanced at Cabera as he arrived, moving slowly on a stick and the messenger’s arm. The old healer was haggard from the privations of the march, but still his blue eyes looked with fascination at the warrior’s unusual skull.

“Tell your master I will meet him where you say, Redulf,” Julius said. “I will honor the friendship my city has given him and meet him in peace at the rock you named. Run back now and tell him all you have seen and heard.”

Redulf glared at this dismissal, but contented himself with another sneer at the Roman ranks before striding back to his horse. Julius saw that Brutus had brought the extraordinarii up to form a wide avenue down which the man was forced to ride. He looked neither left nor right as he passed their ranks and dwindled quickly into the distance of the north.

Brutus cantered up and dismounted.

“By Mars, he was a strange one,” Brutus said. He noticed one of the Tenth near him making a protective sign with his fingers. He frowned, considering the effect on the more superstitious men under his command.

“Cabera? You saw him,” Julius said. “Was it a birth deformity?”

Cabera looked into the distance after the rider. “I have never seen one that was so regular, as if it had been made deliberately. I don’t know, General. Perhaps if I could examine him more closely, I could be sure. I will think on it.”

“I suppose this Ariovistus isn’t asking for peace and saving us the trouble of dealing with his ugly men?” Brutus asked Julius.

“Not yet. Now that we’re close to him, he has suddenly decided he will meet me, after all. Strange how Roman legions can influence a man’s mind,” Julius replied. His smile faded as he thought of the rest of the king’s message.

“He wants me to take cavalry alone to the meeting place, Brutus.”

“What? I hope you refused. I will not leave you in the hands of our Gaulish riders, Julius. Never in this life. You must not give him the chance to trap you, friend of Rome or not.” Brutus looked appalled at the idea, but then Julius spoke again.

“Rome watches us, Brutus. Mark Antony was right about that. Ariovistus must be treated with respect.”

“Mhorbaine said his people lived in the saddle,” Brutus replied. “Did you see the way that ugly bastard rode? If they’re all like him, you won’t want to be caught in the open with just the Aedui and a handful of extraordinarii.”

“Oh, I don’t think I will be,” Julius said, a slow smile stealing across his face. “Summon the Aedui to me, Brutus.”

“What are you going to do?” Brutus asked, thrown by the sudden change in his general’s demeanor.

Julius grinned like a boy. “I am going to mount the Tenth on horseback, Brutus. Three thousand of my veterans and the extraordinarii should be enough to clip his wings, don’t you think?”

Pompey finished his address to the Senate and asked for speakers before the vote to come. Though there was a brittle tension in the three hundred men of the Curia, at least the threat of violence had diminished from their debates, if not the streets outside. At the thought, Pompey glanced over to where Clodius sat, a shaven-headed bull of a man who had been born in the gutters of the city and had risen simply by being more ruthless than any of his competitors. With Crassus’s stranglehold over trade, Clodius should have found himself a quiet retirement, but instead had cut his losses and stood for election to the Senate. Pompey shuddered as he considered the brutal, flat features. Some of the things he had heard were surely exaggerated, he told himself. If they were true, it would have meant another city hidden beneath Rome, one perhaps that Clodius already ruled. The bullish figure was to be seen at every session of the Senate, and when he was balked, gangs of raptores would rampage through the city, disappearing into the maze of alleys whenever the legion guards came after them. Clodius was cunning enough to denounce the gangs in public, throwing his hands up in amazement whenever their violence coincided with some check to his ambition.

Restoring the tribune posts to the vote had removed one pillar of Clodius’s popular support. After the disgraceful funeral procession two months before, Pompey had followed Crassus’s advice. To his pleasure, only one of the original holders of the post had been brought back into the Senate. The fickle public had voted in a stranger for the second, and though Pompey’s enemies courted him outrageously, he had not yet declared any particular loyalties. It was just possible that Clodius had no hand in the man’s election, though Pompey doubted it. The man was not above threatening families to achieve his aims, and Pompey had already witnessed one vote where decent men had turned against him for no clear reason. They had not even met his eyes as they stood with Clodius, and Pompey had barely been able to restrain his rage in the face of the merchant’s cold triumph. As a result of that, the free corn issued to the citizens now took a fifth of the entire revenue of the city, and thousands more flooded in each month for the entitlement.

Pompey knew Clodius found his most brutal supporters from amongst those rootless scavengers who came to the city. He could not prove it, but he thought a heavy tithe of that grain never reached the hungriest mouths, instead going into that darker Rome where Clodius and men like him bought lives as easily as they sold grain.

Pompey motioned for Suetonius to speak and sat down as the young Roman rose and cleared his throat. Nothing of his dislike showed on Pompey’s face, though he despised a man who would apparently follow any dog for scraps. Suetonius had grown in confidence as Clodius showered him with praise and funds. He spoke well enough to hold the attention of the Senate, and his association with Clodius had given him a vicarious status he relished.