The Gods of War. Conn Iggulden

all the gods he could think of and patted his mount’s neck excitedly before taking a long drink from the skin. The land seemed to suck the moisture out of him and the sun was fierce, but he didn’t care. He mounted again with a whoop and began to trot down the hill. Pompey would understand his value, he thought. Letters would be sent to all the legions mentioning the Gaul general who had chosen honour and the Senate over Caesar. They knew nothing of his past except what he would tell them and he would be careful not to boast or to reveal his old mistakes. It would be a new start, a new life and, eventually, he would go to war against his oldest friend. The sun seemed darker at that thought, but he shrugged it off. The choice was made.

      The sun was going down by the time Seneca arrived with his two cohorts. The bustle aboard the galley had increased as the soldiers and crew made ready to sail. It was a relief to see Brutus talking to an officer on the wooden pier and Seneca realised how much he had been depending on the man.

      He halted the cohorts, painfully aware of the scrutiny of the galley crew as they coiled ropes and heaved the last of the fresh-water barrels up the planking and into the hold. This time, his salute was as perfect as he could make it and both men turned to him.

      ‘Reporting, sir,’ Seneca said.

      Brutus nodded. He seemed angry and a glance at the galley captain told Seneca he had interrupted an argument.

      ‘Captain Gaditicus, this is Livinius Seneca, my second in command,’ Brutus said, formally.

      The captain didn’t bother to look his way and Seneca felt a surge of dislike amidst the pleasure at his new title.

      ‘There is no conflict here, Captain,’ Brutus continued. ‘You were heading for Ostia to pick up men such as these. What does it matter if you cross to Greece from here?’

      The captain scratched his chin and Seneca saw the man was unshaven and looked exhausted.

      ‘I was not aware that Caesar had come back to Rome. I should wait for orders from the city before …’

      ‘The Senate and Pompey gave you orders to join them, sir,’ Brutus interrupted. ‘I should not have to tell you your duty. Pompey ordered these men to Ostia. We would be with him now if we had not been forced to cut across country. Pompey will not be pleased if you delay my arrival.’

      The captain glared at him.

      ‘Don’t flaunt your connections, General. I have served Rome for thirty years and I knew Caesar when he was just a young officer. I have friends in power I can call on.’

      ‘I don’t recall him mentioning your name when I served with him in Gaul,’ Brutus snapped.

      Gaditicus blinked. He had lost that particular contest. ‘I should have known from the armour,’ he said slowly, looking at Brutus in a new light. ‘But you’re going to fight for Pompey?’

      ‘I am doing my duty. Do yours,’ Brutus said, his temper fraying visibly. He had had about enough of the opposition that seemed to spring up at every stage of this endless day. He looked at the galley rocking gently in the waves and ached to be leaving the land behind.

      Gaditicus swept his eyes over the column of men waiting to board. All his life he had followed orders and though it smelled wrong, he knew he had no choice.

      ‘It will be tight, with so many. One storm and we’ll go down,’ he said, with the last of his resistance.

      Brutus forced a smile. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said, turning to Seneca. ‘Take them on board.’

      Seneca saluted again and went back to his men. The pier shivered underfoot as the column approached and the first ranks began to clamber up the gangplank onto the wide deck.

      ‘So why will you be fighting against Caesar? You did not say,’ Gaditicus murmured.

      Brutus glanced at him. ‘There is bad blood between us,’ he replied, with more honesty than he had intended.

      Gaditicus nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like to face him myself. I don’t think he has ever lost a battle,’ he said thoughtfully.

      Brutus responded with a flash of anger, as Gaditicus had hoped he would. ‘The stories are exaggerated,’ he replied.

      ‘I hope so, for your sake,’ Gaditicus said.

      It was a little revenge for having been forced to back down, but he did enjoy Brutus’ expression as he looked away. Gaditicus remembered the last time he had been in Greece, when a young Caesar had organised attacks on the camp of Mithridates. If Brutus had seen that, he might have thought twice before choosing Pompey as his master. Gaditicus hoped the arrogant general in his silver armour would be taught a harsh lesson when the time came.

      When the last of the guards were on board, Gaditicus followed them, leaving Brutus alone on the dock. The sun was setting in the west and he could not look in the direction of Rome. He took a deep breath as he straightened and stepped onto the deck, gently moving on the swell. He had left them all, and for a while he could not speak for the memories that overwhelmed him.

      The ropes were coiled and hung as the galley moved out onto the waters, the chant of the slaves at their oars like a lullaby beneath his feet.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      The city was closed while the voting went on, the gates sealed. The crowd on the Campus Martius were raucous and cheerful, as if electing consuls was a public holiday rather than a rejection of Pompey and his Senate. The sun beat on them all and there were many enterprising young families charging a bronze coin to enjoy the shade of an awning they had carried out to the great field. The smell of sizzling meat, the conversations, the laughter and the shouts of vendors all mingled into a sensual cacophony that felt very much like life and home.

      Julius and Mark Antony climbed the steps up to the platform the legion carpenters had made for them. They stood together in white togas trimmed with purple. Julius wore the laurel wreath of a successful general, the dark leaves fresh-bound in gold wire. He was rarely seen in public without it, and there were some who suspected the attachment was in part to conceal the balding head beneath.

      The Tenth were polished and shining as they stood guard on the new consuls. They held their spears and shields ready to signal for silence, but Julius was content simply to stand there, gazing over the heads of the vast crowd.

      ‘The last time I was made consul in this place, I had Gaul ahead of me,’ he said to Mark Antony. ‘Pompey, Crassus and I were allies. It seems more than a lifetime ago, now.’

      ‘You did not waste the time,’ Mark Antony replied and they shared a smile as they remembered those years. As always, Mark Antony had a polished look, as if he were carved from the best Roman stone. It sometimes irked Julius that of all the men he had known, Mark Antony looked most like a consul should look. He had a strong face and a powerful frame, coupled with a natural dignity. Julius had heard that the women of Rome fluttered and blushed in his wake.

      Julius looked up at the taller man, knowing he had made the right choice in having him stand to lead the Senate. He was loyal, but not as Regulus was loyal, where a careless word might send death on quick wings to an enemy. Mark Antony cared deeply for the old Republic and would make it live while Julius went to Greece. He had shown a disdain for wealth that only those born to it could assume. He could be trusted and it was a relief for Julius not to have to worry that his precious city would suffer while he was away. Of all men, he knew the fragility of apparent peace, and the lessons of Milo and Clodius had not been lost on him, even as far away as Gaul. Rome needed a steady hand and peace to grow. Pompey could never have given that to her.

      Julius smiled wryly, knowing he too was not the man to run a peaceful city. He had loved the conquest of Gaul and Britain too much to consider spending his latter years in sleepy debates. He cared enough for the law