The Gods of War. Conn Iggulden

early hour with countless merchants and labourers. With a little of the gods’ luck, the guards there would pass him with just a glance and a wave.

      As he trotted stiff-backed through the city, Brutus felt himself sweating out the poisons of the night before. It was hard to imagine the optimism he had felt on coming into the city with the others. Even the thought of it brought his anger sliding back to the surface. His glare sharpened unconsciously and those who saw his expression kept their eyes downcast until he had gone.

      There was one place in the world where he would be welcome, though he had said it half in bitter jest to his mother. Why should he weigh an old friendship in the balance of his life? It mattered nothing to Julius, after all. That had at last become clear. There would be no day when Julius turned to him and said, ‘You have been my right hand since the beginning,’ and gave him a country, or a throne, or anything approaching his worth.

      He passed through the Esquiline gate with an ease that mocked his earlier worry. Julius had not thought to warn the guards and Brutus returned their salutes without a sign of tension. He would go to Greece. He would go to Pompey and show Julius what he had lost in passing him over.

      With Rome behind, Brutus rode fast and recklessly, losing himself in the sweat and risk of hard ground. The exertion felt like tearing free, an antidote to the lingering effects of the mulled wine. The familiarity helped to keep his mind numb at first as he fell into the rhythms of a cavalry scout. He did not want to begin the endless self-examination he knew would follow his decision to leave Julius. Though it loomed over him like winter, he leaned forward in the saddle, concentrating on the ground and the sun on his face.

      The sight of a marching column interrupted his reverie, snapping him back to a world where decisions had to be made. He yanked the reins to bring the horse to a skidding stop, both front hooves flailing for a moment in the air. Was it possible that Julius had sent men ahead to cut him off? He watched the snake of legionaries in the distance. They carried no flags and Brutus hesitated, turning his mount in a tight circle. There were no armed forces in the south that had not been dragged into the threatening war. Pompey’s legion had gone with him and he thought the Gaul veterans were safe in the city. Yet he had delayed a night in Tabbic’s shop. Julius could well have sent them out to hunt him down.

      The thought brought back his anger and pride. He ignored his first impulse to circle around the column and approached warily, ready to kick his mount to a gallop. Julius would not have sent infantry, he was almost certain, and he saw that the column had no horses with them, not even for officers. Brutus felt a deep relief at that. He had trained the extraordinarii to hunt a single rider and he knew they would show no mercy to a traitor, even the man who had led them in Gaul.

      The train of thought made him flinch unconsciously. He had not had time to consider what those left behind would think when they heard. They would not understand his reasons. Friends who had known him for years would be appalled. Domitius would not believe it at first, Brutus thought bitterly. Octavian would be crushed.

      He wondered if Regulus would understand. The man had betrayed his own master, after all. Brutus doubted he would find sympathy there. The rabid loyalty that Regulus had shown to Pompey had been transferred in one violent jolt to his new master. Regulus was a zealot. There could be no half measures for him and he would hunt Brutus tirelessly if Julius gave the order.

      Oddly, it was most painful to imagine Julius’ face as he heard the news. He would assume there had been a mistake until Servilia spoke to him. Even then, Brutus knew he would be hurt and the thought made his knuckles whiten on the reins. Perhaps Julius would grieve for him in his sanctimonious way. He would shake his balding head and understand that he had lost the best of them through his own blindness. Then he would send the wolves after him. Brutus knew better than to expect forgiveness for his betrayal. Julius could not afford to let him reach Pompey.

      Brutus glanced behind him, suddenly afraid he would see the extraordinarii galloping in his wake. The fields were quiet and he took a better grip on his emotions. The column was a more immediate threat, and as he came closer he saw the pale ovals of faces glancing in his direction and the distant din of a sounding horn. He dropped his hand to his sword and grinned into the wind. Let the bastards try to take him, whoever they were. He was the best of a generation and a general of Rome.

      The column came to a halt and Brutus knew who they were the moment he saw their lack of perfect order. The road guards had been sent to the old Primigenia barracks, but Brutus guessed these were the stubborn ones, finding their own way to reach a general who cared nothing for them. Whether they realised it or not, they were natural allies and a plan sprang full-grown into his head as he rode up to them. An inner voice was amused at how his thoughts seemed to come faster and with more force the further away he was from Julius. He could become the man he should have been without that other’s shadow.

      Seneca turned in panic as the cornicen sounded a warning note. He felt a cold thumping in his chest as he expected to see the ranks of Caesar’s horsemen riding down to punish him.

      The relief of seeing only a single rider was something like ecstasy and he could almost smile at how afraid he had been. Ahenobarbus’ talk of oaths had troubled him and he knew the men shared something of the same guilt.

      Seneca narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the rider approached the head of the column, looking neither right nor left as he passed the standing ranks. Seneca recognised the silver armour of one of Caesar’s generals and on the heels of that came a fear that they were being surrounded once again. Anything was possible from those who had spun a wheel around them and made them look like children.

      He was not the only one to have the thought. Half the men in the column jerked their heads nervously, looking for the tell-tale dust that would reveal the presence of a larger force. The ground was dry in the summer’s heat and even a few riders should have given themselves away. They saw nothing, but dared not cease their searching after the harsh lesson they had been taught outside Corfinium.

      ‘Ahenobarbus! Where are you?’ Brutus called as he reined in, his dark eyes examining Seneca for a moment and moving on, dismissing him from notice.

      Seneca coloured and cleared his throat. He did remember this one, from the negotiations in Caesar’s tent. The mocking smile was always his first expression and the eyes had seen more war and death than Seneca could imagine. On the high-stepping Spanish gelding, he was a forbidding figure and Seneca found his mouth was dry from fear.

      ‘Ahenobarbus! Show yourself,’ Brutus shouted, his impatience growing.

      ‘He is not here,’ Seneca replied.

      The general’s head snapped round at his words and he wheeled his horse with obvious skill. Seneca felt a little more of his confidence drain away under the man’s stare. He felt as if he was being judged and found wanting, but the initiative seemed to have been lost from the moment they sighted the rider.

      ‘I do not remember your face,’ Brutus told him, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Livinius Seneca. I do not …’

      ‘What rank do you hold to lead these men?’

      Seneca glared. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few of the guards turn their heads to hear his answer. Against his will, he flushed again. ‘Pompey will decide how to reward my loyalty,’ he began. ‘At the moment …’

      ‘At the moment, you may be a few hours ahead of Caesar’s legions once he discovers you have left the barracks,’ Brutus snapped. ‘I assume command of these cohorts by right of my rank as general of Rome. Now, where are you heading?’

      Seneca lost his temper at last. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’ he shouted. ‘We know our duty, sir. We will not return to Rome. Ride back to the city, General. I don’t have time to stand here and bicker with you.’

      Brutus raised his eyebrows in interest, leaning forward to take a better look. ‘But I’m not going back to Rome,’ he said softly. ‘I’m taking you to Greece to fight for Pompey.’

      ‘I won’t be tricked by you, General. Not twice.