Conn Iggulden - The Gods of war

Cleopatra came out and the crowd exclaimed at her new apparel, whistling and calling. Julius cast a glance up at her and wondered how many of the matrons of Rome would be sending new orders to seamstresses and tailors the following day.

As he touched the ground, the Tenth began to sing a mournful legion ballad he had not heard in years. The strings of the Egyptian musicians fell silent and the deep voices soared, recalling old battles and his youth. Julius had not planned this part of the Triumph and he found his eyes were stinging as he walked between the upright spears of men who knew him better than anyone.

As he strode over the stones the line closed behind him and the crowd moved forward, with those who knew the words joining in. Even the cheering was drowned by the throats of thousands of old soldiers, and Julius was deeply moved.

Mark Antony was already on the platform and Julius grew tense as he approached the final steps up to where he would speak. With an effort of will, he turned at the top and smiled at the people of Rome who had come to show their appreciation of his life.

The song died away with the final line repeated three times, and the silence that followed was shattered by a great roar.

Julius glanced at Mark Antony, knowing it was time. He raised his hands as if to quiet them, while Mark Antony stepped forward. Julius stood very still, his heart racing fast enough to make him light-headed.

Mark Antony held a crown in his hands, a simple band of gold. Julius looked out over the crowd as it was placed on his head, listening, listening for a change in the voices of Rome.

The applause began to fail as they saw what had happened. Julius waited as long as he could, painfully sensitive to the drop in volume. With a bitter smile, he forced himself to remove the crown before the cheering failed completely. Pale with tension, he handed it back.

The change was instant as the crowd responded, waves of sound that were almost a physical force. Julius could barely think at the heart of their bellowing, though a slow fury began to kindle in his breast.

On the steps of the Senate house, a group of young men exchanged guarded glances as they witnessed the event. Suetonius frowned in suspicion and Cassius gripped the arm of another. They did not applaud and yell with the rest. They were a blot of silence in the noisy forum, with eyes that were cold and hard.

Mark Antony did not seem to have understood the reaction of the crowd, and he stepped forward again, pressing the crown onto Julius's brow. Julius raised a hand to touch the soft metal and knew they wanted him to refuse it once more. His hopes were dashed, but the play had to continue.

He pressed it back into Mark Antony's hands.

"No more," he muttered through closed teeth, though his voice was lost in ten thousand others.

Mark Antony did not hear the warning. He had feared the worst when Julius had asked to be crowned in the forum. Now that he saw it was to be a demonstration of Republican honor, he was almost hysterical with excitement, buoyed up on the spirits of the citizens. Laughing, he raised the crown for a third time, and Julius lost his temper.

"Touch that thing to my head one more time and you'll never see Rome again," he snapped, making Mark Antony fall back in confusion.

Julius's face was stained with rage. The gods alone knew what he would say to them now. The speech he had prepared had depended on their acceptance of the crown. He could not see where he had failed, but he knew it was impossible to take the gold band again. They would think it a great game. He glanced up to where Cleopatra stood above the mob and shared a gaze of disappointment with her. She had known his hopes, and to have them crushed before her eyes was more than he could stand.

Blind and ignorant to the reality before them, the crowd had quieted at last, waiting for him to speak. Julius stood as if dazed while he struggled to find something to say.

"There will come a day when Rome accepts a king once more," he said at last, "but it will not be today."

They battered him with noise and he hid his anger and disappointment. It was all he could trust himself to say. He stepped down without waiting for his Tenth to form a path, but the people gave way in awe and dignity after what they had seen.

As he walked stiffly through them, he burned in humiliation. The Triumph had not finished yet. The horses and cages, dancers and carriages would make their way to his new forum and end at the temple of Venus. He vowed silently to himself that if the crowd failed to show proper appreciation there, blood would be shed before the day ended.

As the crowd moved on, a figure in silver armor turned toward the Senate house steps, seeing the white togas of wolves he knew. Brutus understood far better than they what Julius had tried to do, and the knowledge helped to firm his resolution and his strength. Rome would be washed clean and he would find his path without the shadow of Caesar to torment him.

The new spring would take Julius away from the capital. It would have to be soon.

Servilia lay awake in darkness, unable to sleep. The days had turned cold at last and Julius's calendar had begun as Februarius ended, bringing rain to a parched city. She could hear it pounding on the tiles overhead and sluicing through the gutters, carrying away the dust.

Her house was quiet, the final patrons having set out for their own homes hours before. Sleep should have come easily, but instead her aching joints could not rest as her thoughts raced and writhed in the dark.

She did not want to think of him, but memories stole through her, their brightness the sole consolation of weakening age. Even in the sun, she would find her thoughts drifting back to other times, but at night there was nothing to hold the flood of recollection that slid into troubled dreams.

She had loved him at the feet of Alexander and he had been hers, in flesh and spirit. She had been his. He had burned for her then, before the cruelty of experience had hardened him.

She sighed to herself, clutching blankets around her thin legs. There was no hope for rest, not on this night. Perhaps it was only right that she spend it in memory of him.

She could still see his face as he held up the son he had always wanted. If he had noticed her in the crowd, he had not recognized the white-haired old woman she had become. At the moment of his greatest joy, she had hated him with a passion her bones had almost forgotten. Brutus had known the shallowness of his love. She tasted bitterness in her throat at the thought of how she had once pleaded with her son. His betrayal had frightened her then, when Pompey had ruled Rome with iron. She had not listened to his warning that Julius would never need her as she had needed him.

She did not care about the pompous arguments of men like Suetonius and Cassius. She saw their jealousy for what it was, despite the honor they claimed. They were too small to love the Republic, or even to understand what it had once meant. Better by far to stand and say that they hated him because he did not notice them. Vanity and pride would be the strength that drove their knives. She knew it, as she had always known the hearts of men. They would play their games of passwords and whispers as they met in the shadows, but the truth did not frighten her as it did them. Her hatred was a clean thing.

She raised a hand to her face, surprised to find tears on her wrinkled skin. That was the reality of the years that stole, she thought. They took the joys and left only bitter pain and tears that came from emptiness.

How many wives had he taken to press his seed into life? Not once had he asked the whore he kept. Not once, even when there was life in her womb and her flesh was firm and strong. He had used her knowledge a hundred times against his enemies. She had kept him safe and now she had been forgotten. Her hands were claws in the cloth as she thought of his pride in his son. There was always a price to pay.