The Field of Swords. Conn Iggulden

own courage to speak so to the general. Julius shook his head in memory.

      ‘I doubt it. I told him I would devote my life to killing him if he set me free.’ For a moment, he almost said aloud how his friend had poisoned the Dictator, but that part of the story could never be told, not even to the men in that room.

      Julius shrugged. ‘He died by someone else’s hand, in the end. It is one of the regrets of my life that I could not do it myself and watch the life fade from his eyes.’

      Adàn had to look away from the fire he saw in the Roman. He believed him and the thought of this man ordering his own death with such malice made him shudder.

      Julius did not speak again for a long time and Adàn felt weak with the tension, his head jerking upwards as the general broke the silence at last.

      ‘There are murderers in the cells here and in Valentia. One of them will be hanged for your crimes as well as his own. You, I am going to pardon. I will sign my name to it and you will go back to your home with your family and never come to my attention again.’

      Renius snorted in amazement. ‘I would like a private word, General,’ he grated, looking venomously at Adàn. The young Spaniard stood with his mouth open.

      ‘You may not have one, Renius. I have spoken and it will stand,’ Julius replied without looking at him. He watched the boy for a moment and felt a weight lift off him. He had made the right decision, he was sure. He had seen himself in the Spaniard’s eyes and it was like lifting a veil into his memory. How frightening Sulla had seemed then. To Adàn, Julius would have been another of that cruel type, wrapped in metal armour and harder thoughts. How close he had come to sending Adàn to be impaled, or burnt, or nailed to the gates of the fort, as Sulla had with so many of his enemies. It was an irony that Sulla’s old whim had saved Adàn, but Julius had caught himself before he gave the order for death and wondered at what he was becoming. He would not be those men he had hated. Age would not force him into their mould, if he had the strength. He rose from his seat and faced Adàn.

      ‘I do not expect you to waste this chance, Adàn. You will not have another from me.’

      Adàn almost burst into tears, emotions roiling and overwhelming him. He had prepared himself for death and having it snatched away and freedom promised was too much for him. On an impulse, he took a step forward and went down on one knee before anyone could react.

      Julius stood slowly, looking down at the young man before him.

      ‘We are not the enemy, Adàn. Remember that. I will have a scribe prepare the pardon. Wait below for me,’ he said.

      Adàn rose and looked into the Roman’s dark eyes for a last moment before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall, wiping sweat from his face. He felt dizzy with relief and every breath he pulled in was clear and cold. He could not understand why he had been spared.

      The guard in the room below craned his head to stare up at Adàn’s slumped figure in the shadows.

      ‘Shall I heat the knives for you then?’ the Roman sneered up at him.

      ‘Not today,’ Adàn replied, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over the man’s face.

      Brutus pressed a cup of wine into Julius’ hand, pouring expertly from an amphora.

      ‘Are you going to tell us why you let him go?’ he said.

      Julius lifted the cup to cut off the flow and drank from it before holding it out again. ‘Because he was brave,’ he said.

      Renius rubbed the bristles of his chin with his hand. ‘He will be famous in the towns, you realise. He will be the man who faced us and lived. They’ll probably make him mayor when old Del Subió dies. The young ones will flock around him and before you know it …’

      ‘Enough,’ Julius interrupted, his face flushing from the heady wine. ‘The sword is not the answer to everything, no matter how you may wish it so. We have to live with them without sending our men out in pairs and watching every alley and track for ambush.’ His hands cut shapes in the air as he strained to find words for the thought.

      ‘They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?’

      ‘I understand,’ Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’ reply.

      Julius’ face lit with the idea. ‘There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is of Rome.’ He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. ‘Rome is … an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adán to cast us off would be like tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.’

      ‘Unless he killed the man for sport,’ Renius said, ‘and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.’ He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

      Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

      ‘I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?’ His voice had risen as he spoke and Renius turned to face him, realising he had gone too far.

      Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him.

      ‘If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand that?’

      Renius froze. ‘I know that, of course, you …’

      Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish and he was left feeling empty and tired.

      ‘Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.’

      Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.

      There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.

      ‘I cannot go back,’ he said aloud, his voice cracking.

      Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.

      They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.

      ‘He wants you,’ Renius said.

      Cabera looked up at his tone. ‘Hand me that pot, will you?’