The Gods of War. Conn Iggulden

a decision and reached for it. ‘I’ve seen a ring. She has a baby at home, they say. Tabbic is the one who owns the shop. He hit me once,’ he said in a rush.

      Brutus chuckled and let him take the coin. On impulse, he reached into his pouch and brought out a gold aureus. The boy’s expression changed the instant he saw it, going from confidence to frightened anger.

      ‘Do you want it?’ Brutus said.

      The child scrambled away at high speed, leaving Brutus bemused behind him. No doubt the boy had never seen gold before and thought it would mean his death to own such a thing. Brutus sighed. If the local wolves found out he had such a treasure, it probably would. Shaking his head, he put the coin back in the pouch.

      ‘I thought it was you, General,’ a voice came.

      Brutus looked down at Tabbic as the jeweller strolled onto the road and patted his horse’s neck. His bald head gleamed from the forges and white chest hairs tufted over the apron he wore, but he was still the same steady figure Brutus remembered.

      ‘Who else?’ Brutus replied, forcing a smile.

      Tabbic squinted upwards as he rubbed the horse’s muzzle, seeing eyes still red with tears and anger. ‘Will you come in and try a drink with me?’ Tabbic said. ‘I’ll have a boy stable this fine mount of yours.’ When he saw Brutus hesitate, he went on. ‘There’s spiced wine on the forge, too much for me.’

      He looked away as he asked, making it easy to refuse. Perhaps that was why Brutus nodded and swung a leg over the saddle.

      ‘Just the one then, if you can make it strong. I’m going far tonight,’ he said.

      The interior of the shop was subtly different to how Brutus remembered it. The great forges still stood solidly, a banked fire gleaming red under the grates. The benches and tool racks were new-looking, though the smell of oil and metal was like stepping back into old memories. Brutus breathed in, smiling to himself and relaxing a fraction.

      Tabbic noticed the change as he crossed to the heavy iron kettle on the edge of the forge. ‘Are you thinking of the riots? Those were black days. We were lucky to get out with our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for helping us.’

      ‘You did,’ Brutus replied.

      ‘Draw up a seat, lad, while you taste this. Used to be, it was my winter brew, but it warms a summer evening just as well.’ Tabbic ladled steaming red liquid into a metal cup, wrapping it in cloth before handing it over.

      Brutus took it gingerly, breathing in the fumes. ‘What’s in it?’ he asked.

      Tabbic shrugged. ‘A few things from the markets. To be honest, it depends on what I have to hand. It tastes different every year, Alexandria says.’

      Brutus nodded, accepting the old man’s lead. ‘I saw her,’ he said.

      ‘You would have done. Her husband came to bring her home just before I saw you,’ Tabbic replied. ‘She’s found a good man, there.’

      Brutus almost smiled at the old jeweller’s transparent worry. ‘I’m not back to pick at old scabs. All I want is to get as far away as I can. I’ll not trouble her.’

      He hadn’t noticed the tension in Tabbic’s shoulders until the old man relaxed. They sat in peaceful silence then and Brutus sipped at the mug, wincing slightly. ‘This is sour,’ he grumbled.

      Tabbic shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t waste good wine on a hot cup. You’ll find it has a bite, though.’

      It was true that the bitter warmth was easing some of the tightness in his chest. For a moment, Brutus resisted, unwilling to let go of even a part of his anger. Rage was something he had always enjoyed as it flooded him. It brought a kind of freedom from responsibility and to feel it ebb was to face the return of regret. Then he sighed and offered his cup for Tabbic to refill.

      ‘You don’t have the face of a man who came home this morning,’ Tabbic observed, almost to himself.

      Brutus looked at him, feeling weary. ‘Maybe I have,’ he said.

      Tabbic slurped the dregs of his own cup, belching softly into a fist as he considered the response. ‘You weren’t the sort to wrap yourself in knots the last time I saw you. What’s changed?’

      ‘Has it occurred to you that I might not want to talk about it?’ Brutus growled.

      Tabbic shrugged. ‘You can finish your drink and leave, if you like. It won’t change anything. You’ll still be welcome here.’

      He turned his back on Brutus to lift the heavy kettle off the forge and fill the cups once again. Brutus could hear the dark liquid slosh.

      ‘I think it’s grown stronger,’ Tabbic said, peering into the pot. ‘This was a good batch.’

      ‘Have you any regrets, old man?’ Brutus asked him.

      Tabbic grunted. ‘I thought you had something troubling you. I’d go back and change a few things if I could – be a better husband, maybe. If you ever left your mother’s tit, there’ll be things you wish you hadn’t done, but it’s not all bad, I’ve found. A little guilt has made more than a few men live better than they would have done – trying to even the scales before they cross the river.’

      Brutus looked away as Tabbic drew up an old bench, wincing as his knees flexed.

      ‘I always wanted a little more than that,’ Brutus said at last.

      Tabbic sipped at his drink, the steam rising into his nostrils. After a time, he chuckled. ‘You know, I always thought that was the secret of happiness, right there. There are some people who know the value of a kind wife and children who don’t shame you. Maybe they’re the ones who had a cruel time of it when they were young; I don’t know. I’ve seen men who had to choose whether to feed the children or themselves each day, but they were content, even then.’

      He looked up at Brutus and the man in silver armour felt the gaze and frowned to himself.

      ‘Then there are those who are born with a hole in them,’ Tabbic continued softly. ‘They want and want until they tear themselves to pieces. I don’t know what starts the need in a man, or how it’s stopped, except for killing.’

      Brutus looked quizzically at him. ‘You’re going to tell me how to find a good woman after this, aren’t you?’

      Tabbic shook his head. ‘You don’t come in here and ask me if I have any regrets without a few of your own. Whatever you’ve done, I hope you can mend it. If you can’t, it will be with you a long time.’

      ‘Another refill,’ Brutus said, holding out his cup. He knew his senses were being dulled, but he welcomed the feeling. ‘The trouble with your rustic philosophy,’ Brutus began, tasting the new cup. ‘The trouble is that there have to be some of us who want and want, or where would we be?’ He frowned then as he considered his own words.

      ‘Happier,’ Tabbic replied. ‘It’s not a small thing to raise a family and provide for them. It might not seem much to armoured generals of Rome, but it earns my respect. No poems about us.’

      The mulled wine was more powerful than Brutus had expected on an empty stomach. He knew there was a flaw in Tabbic’s vision, but he couldn’t find the words to make him see it.

      ‘You need both,’ he said at last. ‘You have to have dreaming, or what’s the point? Cows raise families, Tabbic. Cows.’

      Tabbic looked scornful. ‘I’ve never seen a worse head for drink, I swear it. “Cows”, by the gods.’

      ‘One chance you get,’ Brutus went on, holding up a finger. ‘One chance, birth to death, to do whatever you can. To be remembered. One chance.’ He slumped, staring at the red glow of the forge in the growing darkness.

      They emptied the kettle down to bitter pulp at the bottom. Brutus had long ceased to move or speak when Tabbic eventually heaved