Kitabı oku: «The Field of Swords»

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Julius stood by the open window, gazing out over Spanish hills. The setting sun splashed gold along a distant crest so that it seemed to hang in the air unsupported, a vein of light in the distance. Behind him, the murmur of conversation rose and fell without interrupting his thoughts. He could smell honeysuckle on the breeze and the touch of it in his nostrils made his own rank sweat even more pungent as the delicate fragrance shifted in the air and was gone.

It had been a long day. When he pressed a hand against his eyes, he could feel a surge of exhaustion rise in him like dark water. The voices in the campaign room mingled with the creak of chairs and the rustle of maps. How many hundreds of evenings had he spent on the upper floor of the fort with those men? The routine had become a comfort for them all at the end of a day and even when there was nothing to discuss, they still gathered in the campaign rooms to drink and talk. It kept Rome alive in their minds and at times they could almost forget that they had not seen their home for more than four years.

At first, Julius had embraced the problems of the regions and hardly thought of Rome for months at a time. The days had flown as he rose and slept with the sun and the Tenth made towns in the wilderness. On the coast, Valentia had been transformed with lime and wood and paint until it was almost a new city veneered over the old. They had laid roads to chain the land and bridges that opened the wild hills to settlers. Julius had worked with a frenetic, twitching energy in those first years, using exhaustion like a drug to force away his memories. Then he would sleep and Cornelia would come to him. Those were the nights when he would leave his sweat-soaked bed and ride out to the watch posts, appearing out of the darkness unannounced until the Tenth were as nervous and tired as he was himself.

As if to mock his indifference, his engineers had found gold in two new seams, richer than any they had known before. The yellow metal had its own allure and when Julius had seen the first haul spilled out of a cloth onto his desk, he had looked at it with hatred for what it represented. He had come to Spain with nothing, but the ground gave up its secrets and with the wealth came the tug of the old city and the life he had almost forgotten.

He sighed at the thought. Spain was such a treasure house it would be difficult to leave her, but part of him knew he could not lose himself there for much longer. Life was too precious to be wasted, and too short.

The room was warm with the press of bodies. The maps of the new mines were stretched out on low tables, held by weights. Julius could hear Renius arguing with Brutus and the low cadence of Domitius chuckling. Only the giant Ciro was silent. Yet even those who spoke were marking time until Julius joined them. They were good men. Each one of them had stood with him against enemies and through grief and there were times when Julius could imagine how it might have been to cross the world with them. They were men to walk a finer path than to be forgotten in Spain and Julius could not bear the sympathy he saw in their eyes. He knew he deserved only contempt for having brought them to that place and buried himself in petty work.

If Cornelia had lived, he would have taken her with him to Spain. It would have been a new start, far away from the intrigues of the city. He bowed his head as the evening breeze touched his face. It was an old pain and there were whole days when he did not think of her. Then the guilt would surface and the dreams would be terrible, as if in punishment for the lapse.

‘Julius? The guard is at the door for you,’ Brutus said, touching him on the shoulder. Julius nodded and turned back to the men in the room, his eyes seeking out the stranger amongst them.

The legionary looked nervous as he glanced around at the map-laden tables and the jugs of wine, clearly awed by the people within.

‘Well?’ Julius said.

The soldier swallowed as he met the dark eyes of his general. There was no kindness in that hard, fleshless face and the young legionary stammered slightly.

‘A young Spanish at the gate, General. He says he’s the one we’re looking for.’

The conversations in the room died away and the guard wished he were anywhere else but under the scrutiny of those men.

‘Have you checked him for weapons?’ Julius said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then bring him to me. I want to speak to the man who has caused me so much trouble.’

Julius stood waiting at the top of the stairs as the Spaniard was brought up. His clothes were too small for his gangling limbs and the face was caught in the change between man and boy, though there was no softness in the bony jaw. As their eyes met, the Spaniard hesitated, stumbling.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ Julius said as they came level.

‘Adàn,’ the Spaniard forced out.

‘You killed my officer?’ Julius said, with a sneer.

The young man froze, then nodded, his expression wavering between fear and determination. He could see the faces turned towards him in the room and his courage seemed to desert him then at the thought of stepping into their midst. He might have held back if the guard hadn’t shoved him across the threshold.

‘Wait below,’ Julius told the legionary, suddenly irritated.

Adàn refused to bow his head in the face of the hostile glares of the Romans, though he could not remember being more frightened in his life. As Julius closed the door behind him, he started silently, cursing his nervousness. Adàn watched as the general sat down facing him and a dull terror overwhelmed him. Should he keep his hands by his sides? All of a sudden, they seemed awkward and he considered folding them or clasping his fingers behind his back. The silence was painful as he waited and still they had their eyes on him. Adàn swallowed with difficulty, determined not to show his fear.

‘You knew enough to tell me your name. Can you understand me?’ Julius asked.

Adàn worked spit into his dry mouth. ‘I can,’ he said. At least his voice hadn’t quavered like a boy’s. He squared his shoulders slightly and glanced at the others, almost recoiling from the naked animosity from one of them, a bear of a man with one arm who seemed to be practically growling with anger.

‘You told the guards you were the one we were looking for, the one who killed the soldier,’ Julius said.

Adàn’s gaze snapped back to him.

‘I did it. I killed him,’ he replied, the words coming in a rush.

‘You tortured him,’ Julius added.

Adàn swallowed again. He had imagined this scene as he walked over the dark fields to the fort, but he couldn’t summon the defiance he had pictured. He felt as if he was confessing to his father, and it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet in shame, despite his intentions.

‘He was trying to rape my mother. I took him into the woods. She tried to stop me, but I would not listen to her,’ Adàn said stiffly, trying to remember the words he had practised.

Someone in the room muttered an oath, but Adàn could not tear his eyes away from the general. He felt an obscure relief that he had told them. Now they would kill him and his parents would be released.

Thinking of his mother was a mistake. Tears sprang from nowhere to rim his eyes and he blinked them back furiously. She would want him to be strong in front of these men.

Julius watched him. The young Spaniard was visibly trembling, and with reason. He had only to give the order and Adàn would be taken out into the yard and executed in front of the assembled ranks. It would be the end of it, but a memory stayed his hand.

‘Why have you given yourself up, Adàn?’

‘My family have been taken in for questioning, General. They are innocent. I am the one you want.’

‘You think your death will save them?’

Adàn hesitated. How could he explain that only that thin hope had made him come?

‘They have done nothing wrong.’

Julius raised a hand to scratch his eyebrow, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair as he thought.

‘When I was younger than you, Adàn, I stood in front of a Roman named Cornelius Sulla. He had murdered my uncle and broken everything I valued in the world. He told me I would go free if I put aside my wife and shamed her with her father. He cherished such little acts of spite.’

For a moment, Julius looked into the unimaginable distance of the past and Adàn felt sweat break out on his forehead. Why was the man talking to him? He had already confessed; there was nothing else. Despite his fear, he felt interest kindle. The Romans seemed to bear only one face in Spain. To hear they had rivalry and enemies within their own ranks was a revelation.

‘I hated that man, Adàn,’ Julius continued. ‘If I had been given a weapon, I would have used it on him even though it meant my own life. I wonder if you understand that sort of hatred.’

‘You did not give up your wife?’ Adàn asked.

Julius blinked at the sudden question, then smiled bitterly.

‘No. I refused and he let me live. The floor at his feet was spattered with the blood of people he had killed and tortured, yet he let me live. I have often wondered why.’

‘He did not think you were a threat,’ Adàn said, surprised by his 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?’

Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humour dampened.

‘You’re worried about Julius,’ the old healer said.

Renius shrugged. ‘He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I … can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.’

Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’ arm.

‘He knows you’re here, if he needs you,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a sleeping draught for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.’

Renius shook his head. ‘Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.’

Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.

‘You are a good man, Renius,’ he said, too quietly to be heard.

CHAPTER TWO

Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.

The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.

‘I will buy his catch, Captain,’ Servilia said.

The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.

‘They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,’ he said.

She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.

‘Nonetheless, the sun is hot and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.’

The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labours, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.

‘Won’t your little boat drift away?’ she asked.

The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.

‘He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.’

Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.

The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.

‘Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?’ she asked.

The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.

‘Just a few coppers will do, madam,’ he said.

Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the captain and jerked his knot free before climbing the rail and diving into the blue water below. Servilia leaned over to watch him surface and laughed with pleasure as he pulled himself back in, gleaming in the sunlight like his fish. He pulled his net out of the water and waved to her.

‘What a wonderful beginning,’ she breathed. The captain muttered something unintelligible.

The crewmen who held the fish brought wooden clubs out of a deck locker and, before Servilia realised what they were doing, brought them down on the shining heads with a grim thumping sound. The shining eyes disappeared under the force of the blows, knocked inside the head as blood spattered over the deck. Servilia grimaced as a spot of it touched her arm. The seamen were clearly enjoying themselves, suddenly more vital than they had been at any point in the voyage from Ostia. It was as if they had come alive in the killing and they chuckled and joked with each other as they finished the grisly task.

When the last of the fish were dead, the deck was coated in their blood and tiny silver scales. Servilia watched as the seamen threw a canvas bucket on a line into the sea and sluiced the planks clean.

‘The port is tight with ships, madam,’ the captain said at her shoulder, squinting against the sun. ‘I’ll take her in as close as I can, but we’ll have to anchor for a few hours until there’s a place on the dock.’ Servilia turned to look again at Valentia, suddenly longing to be on land again.

‘As you say, Captain,’ she murmured.

The mountains behind the port seemed to fill the horizon, green and red against the dark blue of the sky. Her son, Brutus, was somewhere over them and seeing him after so long would be wonderful. Strangely, her stomach tightened almost to an ache when she thought of the young man who was his friend. She wondered how the years had changed him and touched her hair unconsciously, smoothing it back where it had fallen in tendrils, made damp by the sea air.

Evening had muted the heat of the sun into grey softness by the time the Roman trade ship was able to ease between the lines of anchored shipping and take her place on the dock. Servilia had brought three of her most beautiful girls with her and they joined her on deck with the crew as they threw ropes to the dockworkers and used the steering oars to bring them safe against the massive wooden beams of the side. It was a delicate manoeuvre and the captain showed his skill in its neatness, as he communicated with the mate at the bow with a series of hand signals and calls.

There was a general air of excitement and the young girls Servilia had brought laughed and joked as the workers on the docks caught sight of them and called ribald comments. Servilia let them preen without a word; all three were the rarity in her business who had not yet lost the love for the work. In fact, Angelina, the youngest, was constantly falling in love with her customers and few months went by without some romantic offering to buy her for marriage. The price always seemed to surprise them and Angelina would sulk for days before someone else took her fancy.

The girls were dressed as modestly as the daughters of any great house. Servilia had taken enormous care with their safety, knowing that even a short sea journey gave a sense of freedom to men that could have caused trouble. Their dresses were cut to obscure the lines of their young bodies, though there were more provocative garments in the trunks Servilia had brought along. If the letters Brutus had sent were correct, there would be a market and the three girls would be the first in the new house she would buy. The sailors who grunted and complained under the heavy trunks would have been shocked at the weight of gold that had been split between them.

Servilia’s perusal of the docks was interrupted as Angelina shrieked suddenly. Servilia’s sharp glance took in the sailor hurrying away and Angelina’s pleased outrage, before she turned back. They had reached land not a moment too soon, she thought.

The captain shouted for the dockworkers to make the ropes fast and the crew cheered the announcement, already anticipating the pleasures of the port. Servilia caught the captain’s eye and he crossed the deck to her, suddenly more genial than she had grown to expect.

‘We won’t break out the cargo until tomorrow morning now,’ he said. ‘I can recommend a few places if you want to go ashore and there’s a cousin of mine who’ll rent you as many carts as you want, at a good price.’

‘Thank you, Captain. It’s been a great pleasure.’ Servilia smiled at him, pleased to see a blush start high on his cheeks. Angelina was not the only one with a circle of admirers on the ship, she thought with some pleasure.

The captain cleared his throat and raised his chin to speak again, looking suddenly nervous.

‘I will be dining alone later, if you would like to join me. There’ll be fresh fruit sent to the ship, so it’ll be better than we’re used to.’

Servilia laid a hand on his arm and felt the heat of his skin beneath his tunic.

‘It will have to be another time, I’m afraid. I’d like to be moving by dawn. Would you be able to have my trunks taken off first? I’ll speak to the legion to arrange a guard on it until the carts are loaded.’

The captain nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. His first mate had told him the woman was a whore, but he had the intense impression that offering her money to stay with him would lead to an awful humiliation. For a moment he looked so terribly lonely that Servilia considered letting Angelina raise his spirits. The little blonde loved older men. They were always so desperately grateful, and for such little effort. Looking at him, Servilia guessed he would probably refuse the offer. Men of his years often wanted the company of a mature woman as much as the physical pleasures and Angelina’s earthy frankness would only embarrass him.

‘Your trunks will be first on the dock, madam. It has been a pleasure,’ he said, looking wistfully after her as she went to climb the steps onto the dock. A number of his crew had gathered in case the younger women were unsteady crossing the rail and his eyebrows drew together as he considered them. After a moment of thought, he followed Servilia, knowing instinctively that he should be there to help the men.

Julius was deep in work when the guard knocked on the door to his rooms.

‘What is it?’

The legionary looked unusually nervous as he saluted.

‘I think you’d better come down to the gate, sir. You should see this.’

Raising his eyebrows, Julius followed the man down the steps and out into the powerful afternoon sun. There was a peculiar tension affecting the soldiers who clustered around the gate, and as they parted for him Julius noticed one or two with the strained faces of men trying not to smile. Their amusement and the heat seemed to feed the prickling anger that had become the foundation of his waking hours.

Beyond the open gate was a string of heavily laden carts, their drivers lightly coated by the dust of the road. A full twenty of the Tenth had taken station to the fore and rear of the odd procession. With narrowed eyes, Julius recognised the officer as one who had been dispatched on port duty the previous day and his temper frayed still further. Like the carts, the legionaries were coated in enough dust to show they had walked every step of the way.

Julius glared at them.

‘I do not recall giving orders for you to escort trade goods from the coast,’ he snapped. ‘There had better be an excellent reason for leaving your post and disobeying my orders. I cannot think of one myself, but perhaps you will surprise me.’

The officer paled slightly under the dust.

‘The lady, sir …’ he began.

‘What? What lady?’ Julius replied, losing patience with the man’s hesitation. Another voice sounded then, making him start in recognition.

‘I told your men you could not object to them helping an old friend,’ Servilia said, stepping down from the riding seat of a cart and walking towards him.

For a moment, Julius could not respond. Her dark hair was wild around her head and his eyes drank in the sight of her. Surrounded by men, she seemed fresh and cool, perfectly aware of the sensation she caused. She walked like a stalking cat, wearing a brown cotton dress that left her arms and neck uncovered. She wore no jewels but a simple chain of gold ending in a pendant that was almost hidden as it disappeared between her breasts.

‘Servilia. You should not have presumed on a friendship,’ Julius said, stiffly.

She shrugged and smiled as if it were nothing.

‘I hope you won’t punish them, General. The docks can be dangerous without guards, and I had no one else to help me.’

Julius looked coldly at her, before returning his gaze to the officer. The man had followed the exchange and now stood with the glazed expression of one who waited for bad news.

‘My orders were clear?’ Julius asked him.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you and your men will take the next two watches. Your rank makes you more responsible than they, does it not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the hapless soldier replied.

Julius nodded. ‘When you are relieved, you will report to your centurion to be flogged. Tell him twenty strokes on my order and your name to be entered in the lists for disobedience. Now run back.’

The officer saluted smartly and spun on his heel. ‘Turn about!’ he shouted to his twenty. ‘Double speed back to the docks.’

With Julius there, no one dared groan, though they would be exhausted before they were halfway back to their original post and the watches to come would see them dropping with tiredness.

Julius stared after them until they were clear of the line of carts, before turning back to Servilia. She stood stiffly, trying to hide her surprise and guilt at what her request had brought about.

‘You have come to see your son?’ Julius said to her, frowning. ‘He is training with the legion and should be back at dusk.’ He looked at the line of carts and bellowing oxen, clearly caught between his irritation at the unexpected arrival and the demands of courtesy. After a long silence, he relented.

‘You may wait inside for Brutus. I will have someone water your animals and bring you a meal.’

‘Thank you for your kindness,’ Servilia replied, smiling to cover her confusion. She couldn’t begin to understand the differences in the young general. The whole of Rome knew he had lost his wife, but it was like speaking to another man from the one she had known. Dark pouches ringed his eyes, but it was more than simple tiredness. When she had seen him last, he had been ready to take arms against Spartacus and the fires in him were barely controlled. Her heart went out to him for what he had lost.

At that moment, Angelina leapt onto the road from her cart at the back of the line and waved, calling something to Servilia. Both she and Julius stiffened as the girlish voice rang out.

‘Who is that?’ Julius said, his eyes narrowing against the glare.

‘A companion, General. I have three young ladies with me for the trip.’

Something in her tone made Julius glance at her in sudden suspicion.

‘Are they …’

‘Companions, General, yes,’ she replied lightly. ‘All good girls.’ For the right price, they could be superb, she added silently.

‘I’ll put a guard on their door. The men are not used to …’ he hesitated. ‘It may be necessary to keep a guard. On the door.’

To Servilia’s intense pleasure, a slow blush had started on Julius’ cheeks. There was still life in him, somewhere deep, she thought. Her nostrils flared slightly with the excitement of a hunt. As Julius marched back between the gates, she watched him and smiled, pressing the fullness of her lower lip between her teeth in amusement. Not too old after all, she told herself, smoothing her tangled hair with a hand.

Brutus stretched his back muscles as he rode the last miles towards the fort. His century of extraordinarii were in formation behind him and he felt a touch of pride as he glanced to each side and saw the neat line of cantering horses. Domitius was in position on his right and Octavian held the line a few places along. They thundered over the plain together, raising a plume of dust that left the taste of bitter earth in their mouths. The air was warm around them and their mood was light. They were all tired, but it was that pleasant lethargy of skilled work, with food and a good night’s sleep only a little way ahead.

As the fort came into sight, Brutus called to Domitius over the noise of the horses, ‘Let’s give them a show. Split and wheel on my signal.’

The guards on the gate would be watching them come in, he knew. Though the extraordinarii had been together for less than two years, Julius had given him what he wanted in the way of men and horses, and he had wanted the best of the Tenth. Man for man, Brutus would have wagered on them against any army in the world. They were the charge-breakers, the first into impossible positions. Every one of them had been picked for his ability with horse and sword and Brutus was proud of them all. He knew the rest of the Tenth considered them more show than substance, but then the legion hadn’t seen a battle in their time in Spain. When the extraordinarii had been blooded and shown what they could do, they would justify their expense, he was certain. The armour alone had cost a small fortune: laced bronze and iron strips that allowed them greater movement than the heavier plates of the triarii legionaries. The men of Brutus’ extraordinarii had polished the metals to a high sheen and, against the glossy skin of their mounts, they glowed in the dying sun.

Brutus raised his hand and made sharp gestures to each side. He kicked his mount into a gallop as the group slid smoothly apart as if an invisible line had been drawn on the ground. Now the wind pressed against Brutus’ face and he laughed with excitement, not needing to look to know the formation was perfect. Specks of white spittle flew back from his horse’s mouth and he leaned forward into the saddle-horn, gripping with his legs and feeling as if he was flying.

The fort was growing with astonishing rapidity and, caught up in the moment as he was, Brutus almost left it too late for the signal to re-form the split square. The two groups swerved together only moments before they were changing their holds on the reins to halt, but there were no mistakes. As one man, they dismounted, patting the steaming necks of the stallions and geldings Julius had brought over from Rome. Only cut mounts could be used against enemy cavalry, as intact stallions could be sent berserk by the scent of a mare in season. It was a balancing act between taking the best for the extraordinarii and keeping the bloodlines strong. Even the local Spanish whistled and called when they saw those horses, their love of the breed overcoming the usual reticence they showed to the Roman soldiers.

Brutus was laughing at something Domitius had said when he caught sight of his mother. His eyes widened for a moment before he rushed under the gate arch to embrace her.

‘Your letters didn’t mention this!’ he said, lifting her up to her toes and kissing her on both cheeks.

‘I thought you might become overexcited,’ Servilia replied. They both laughed and Brutus put her down.

Servilia held him back at arm’s length and smiled to see him so full of life. The years in Spain had suited her only son. He had a force for life in him that made other men look up and stand straighter in his presence.

‘As handsome as ever, I see,’ she said with a twinkle. ‘I suppose you have a string of local girls pining after you.’

‘I daren’t go out without a guard to save me from the poor creatures,’ he replied.

Domitius appeared suddenly, moving between them to force an introduction.

‘Ah, yes, this is Domitius, who cleans the horses. Have you met Octavian? He’s kin to Julius.’ Grinning at Domitius’ appalled expression, Brutus had to wave Octavian closer.

Octavian was overcome and attempted a salute that ended in more confusion, making Brutus laugh. He was too familiar with the effect his mother could have to be surprised by it, but he noticed they were quickly becoming the centre of an admiring circle of the extraordinarii as they jostled to see the new arrival in their midst.

Servilia waved to them, enjoying the attention after the dull month at sea.

Young men were so peculiarly vibrant, untouched by the fears of age or death. They stood around her like innocent gods, and lifted her with their confidence.

‘Have you seen Julius, Mother? He …’ Brutus broke off at the sudden hush that fell over the yard. Three young women swept out of an archway and the crowd of soldiers parted before them. They were all beautiful in different ways. The youngest was blonde and slight, her cheeks lit with rising colour as she walked towards Servilia. At her shoulders were two others with features to make grown men weep into their wine.

The spell of their entrance was broken as someone let out a low whistle and the crowd came back to life.

Servilia raised an eyebrow at Angelina as they met. The girl knew exactly what she was doing. Servilia had seen that in her from the beginning. She was the sort of woman men fought each other to protect and her presence in a drinking house was usually enough to start a riot before the evening was over. Servilia had found her serving wine and giving away what men would pay well for. It had not taken much persuasion, considering the sums involved. Servilia kept two-fifths of everything Angelina earned in the house in Rome and still the young blonde was becoming a wealthy woman in her own right. As things stood, she would be looking to start her own establishment in a few years, and she would come to Servilia for the loan.

‘We were worried about you, mistress,’ Angelina lied cheerfully.

Brutus eyed her with open interest and she returned his gaze without embarrassment. Under the girl’s scrutiny, he could hardly confirm the suspicion that had come into his mind. Though he told himself he had come to terms with Servilia’s profession, the thought of his men knowing showed him he was not as secure as he’d thought.

‘Are you going to introduce us, Mother?’ he asked.

Angelina widened her eyes for a split second.

‘This is your son? He’s just as you said. How wonderful.’

Servilia had never discussed Brutus with Angelina, but was caught between exasperation at the girl’s transparency and a shrewder part of her that could smell the money to be made. The crowd had grown, around them. These were not men used to the attentions of young women. She began to suspect that from legion trade alone Valentia was going to be very profitable indeed.

‘This is Angelina,’ she said.

Brutus bowed and Angelina’s eyes sparkled at his courtesy.

‘You must join us at the general’s table this evening. I’ll raid the cellar for wine and we’ll wash the dust of the road off you.’ He held Angelina’s eyes as he spoke and managed to make the proposition sound remarkably sexual. Servilia cleared her throat to interrupt them.

‘Lead us in, Brutus.’

The extraordinarii parted again to let them through. The hot meal that awaited them in their barracks did not seem half as tempting as it had on the ride back, without the company of the women as a spice. They stood as if abandoned in the courtyard until the small procession had disappeared inside. The spell was broken then and they broke apart to care for the horses, suddenly brisk in their movements as if they had never been interrupted at all.

Despite Angelina’s protests, Servilia left her three companions in the rooms they had been given. Someone had to unpack the trunks and for that first night Servilia wanted her son’s full attention. She had not brought them to Valentia to find Brutus a wife from their number, after all.

Julius did not come down with the others, sending a curt apology with his personal guard when Brutus asked if he would join them. Servilia saw the refusal did not surprise any of the men at the table and wondered again at the changes Spain had wrought in them.

In Servilia’s honour, the meal was a mixture of local dishes, served in an array of small bowls. The spices and peppers made Octavian cough until he had to be thumped on the back and given wine to clear his throat. He had been in awe of Servilia from the first moment in the courtyard and Brutus teased him subtly, while Servilia pretended not to notice the boy’s discomfort.

The room was lit with warm, flickering lamps, and the wine was as good as Brutus had promised. It was a pleasant meal and Servilia found that she was enjoying the banter between the men. Domitius allowed himself to be persuaded into telling one of his stories, though the conclusion was spoiled slightly as Cabera called it out with enthusiasm, then thumped the table in amusement.

‘That story was old when I was a boy,’ the old man cackled, reaching over to take a portion of fish from a bowl near Octavian. The young man was about to take the same piece and Cabera slapped his fingers to make him drop it, scooping up the rich flesh as it fell. Octavian scowled at him, clearly stifling a response as he remembered the presence of Servilia at the table.

‘How did you come to be with the Tenth legion, Domitius?’ Servilia asked.

‘Brutus arranged it when we were down in the south fighting Spartacus. I’d let him win a couple of practice bouts out of fairness, but on the whole he saw that he could benefit from my training.’

‘Lies!’ Brutus said, laughing. ‘I asked him in passing if he would be willing to transfer to the new legion and he practically bit my arm off in enthusiasm. Julius had to pay a fortune in compensation to the legate. We’re all still waiting to see if he’ll be worth it.’

Domitius waited patiently until Brutus was drinking from his wine cup.

‘I’m the best of my generation, you see,’ he told Servilia, watching in amusement as Brutus fought not to choke, turning red in the process.

The sound of footsteps made them all look up and the men rose together to welcome Julius. He took his place at the head of the table and signalled for them to sit. Servants brought fresh dishes and Brutus filled a cup with wine, smiling when he saw Julius raise an eyebrow at the quality.

The conversation began again and as it did Servilia caught Julius’ eye and inclined her head slightly. He copied the gesture, accepting her at the table, and she found herself letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

There was an authority to him that she couldn’t recall seeing before. He didn’t join in the laughter, merely smiling at the more outrageous chatter. He punished the wine, Servilia noted, drinking as if it was water and with no obvious effect, though a slow flush appeared at his neck that could have been from the evening heat.

The high spirits at the table were quickly restored. The camaraderie between the men was infectious and after a while Servilia was engaged in the stories and humour with the others. Cabera flirted outrageously with her, winking at inopportune moments and making her snort with amusement. Once as she laughed she caught Julius’ eye again and the moment seemed to freeze, hinting at a deeper reality behind the lively façade of the meal.

Julius watched her, constantly surprised at the effect she had wrought on the usually sombre gathering. She laughed without affectation and in those moments he wondered how he could ever have found her less than beautiful. Her skin was dark and freckled from the sun and her nose and chin a little too strong, yet still she had something that set her apart. The calculating part of him saw how she transferred her attention to whoever spoke, flattering them simply by the interest she showed. She was a woman who liked men and they sensed it. Julius shook his head slightly. His reaction to her disturbed him, but she was so different from Cornelia that no comparison occurred to trouble his thoughts.

He had not been in female company for a long time and then only when Brutus managed to get enough drink in him that he didn’t care any more. Looking at Servilia reminded him of the world outside his soldiers’ rough gatherings. He felt unbalanced with her, out of practice. The thought crossed his mind that he should be careful to keep a distance. A woman of her experience could very well eat him alive.

He shook his head to clear it, irritated with his weakness. The first woman to sit at their table for months and he was reacting with little more sophistication than Octavian, though he hoped his thoughts weren’t so obvious. He’d never hear the end of Brutus’ mockery if they were. He imagined the amused taunts with a shudder and pushed his wine cup away firmly. No matter what, she was hardly likely to show interest in a friend of her son. It was ridiculous even to entertain the idea.

Octavian interrupted Julius’ musings as he reached across the table to offer Servilia the last morsel of a herb dish. The young Roman had grown in strength and skill under the tutelage of Brutus and Domitius. Julius wondered if Octavian would have so much to fear from the apprentices in the city as he’d used to. He doubted it. The boy seemed to thrive in the company of the rough soldiers of the Tenth and even copied the way Brutus walked, to his friend’s amusement. He seemed so young, it was strange to think Julius had been married when only a year older.

‘I learned a new feint this morning, sir,’ Octavian said proudly.

Julius smiled at him. ‘You’ll have to show it to me,’ he said, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s hair.

Octavian beamed in response to the small show of affection. ‘Will you train with us tomorrow, then?’ he asked, readying himself for disappointment.

Julius shook his head. ‘I’m going out to the gold mines with Renius for a few days,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I will when I come back.’

Octavian tried to look pleased, but they could all see he took it as a straight refusal. Julius almost changed his mind, but the dark humours that plagued him eased back into his thoughts. None of them understood his work. They had the light spirits of boys and that carelessness was no longer a luxury he could afford. Forgetting his earlier resolution, Julius reached for his cup and emptied it.

Brutus saw the depression settle on his friend and struggled to find something to divert him.

‘The Spanish swordsmith will begin working with our legion men tomorrow. Can’t you delay the trip until you’ve seen what you paid for?’

Julius stared at him, making them all uncomfortable.

‘No, the preparations are made,’ he said, refilling his cup and cursing softly as he spilled a little of the wine onto the table in the process. Julius frowned at his hands. Was there a tremble there? He couldn’t tell. As rather stilted conversation resumed, he watched them all, looking for some sign that they had seen his weakness. Only Cabera met his eyes and the old man’s face was full of kindness. Julius drained the cup, suddenly angry with all of them.

Servilia dipped her fingers in the water bowl and wiped her mouth delicately with them, a gesture that held Julius’ attention, though she seemed not to notice it.

‘I have enjoyed this, very much, but the journey here was tiring,’ she said, smiling at them all. ‘I will rise early to watch your training, Octavian, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course, come and watch,’ Brutus said pleasantly. ‘I’ll get a carriage ready for you in the stables, as well. This is a luxurious post, compared to some. You’ll love it here.’

‘Find a good horse and I won’t need the carriage,’ Servilia replied, noting the flicker in Julius’ eyes as he digested this piece of information. Men were such strange creatures, but she had yet to find one who didn’t enjoy the thought of a beautiful woman on a horse.

‘I hope my girls won’t be a disruption to you all. I will look for a place in the city tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen. General.’

They rose with her and again she experienced that strange frisson of excitement as Julius’ eyes met her own.

Julius stood soon after she had left, swaying slightly.

‘I have left my orders in your quarters, Brutus, for the time I am away. Make sure there is a guard on those girls while they are in our care. Good night.’ He left without another word, walking with the exaggerated stiffness of a man trying to hide the effects of too much wine in his blood. For a moment there was a pained silence.

‘It’s good to have a new face here,’ Brutus said, carefully avoiding more difficult subjects. ‘She’ll liven this place up a little. It’s been too quiet recently.’

Cabera whistled quietly to himself. ‘A woman like that … all men are fools around her,’ he said softly, his tone making Brutus stare at him in puzzlement. The old man’s expression was unreadable as he shook his head slightly and reached for more wine.

‘She is very … graceful,’ Domitius agreed, searching for the final word.

Brutus snorted. ‘What did you expect after seeing me with a sword? I’d hardly come from a carthorse, would I?’

‘I did think there was a female quality to your stance, yes,’ Domitius replied, rubbing his forehead in thought. ‘Yes, I see it now. It looks better on her though.’

‘It is a manly grace in me, Domitius, manly. I’m quite happy to demonstrate it again to you tomorrow.’ The old smile had returned to Brutus’ face as he narrowed his eyes in mock offence.

‘Do I have a manly grace, Domitius?’ Octavian asked.

Domitius nodded slowly, his manner easy.

‘You do, of course, lad. It is only Brutus who fights like a woman.’

Brutus roared with laughter and threw a plate at Domitius, who ducked it easily. It crashed on the stone floor and they all froze comically before the tension dissolved into humour once again.

‘Why does your mother want a house in the city?’ Octavian asked.

Brutus looked sharply at him, suddenly sorry to have to puncture his innocence.

‘For business, lad. I think my mother’s girls will be entertaining the legion before too long.’

Octavian looked around in confusion for a moment, then his face cleared. They were all watching him closely.

‘Will they charge full price for someone of my age, do you think?’ Octavian said.

Brutus threw another plate in his direction, hitting Cabera.

Lying on the narrow pallet in his rooms above, Julius could hear their laughter and shut his eyes tightly in the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Servilia already loved the little city of Valentia. The streets were clean and busy with people. There was an air of affluence about the place that made her palms itch. Yet despite the signs of wealth, it had a fresh feel to it that her own ancient city had lost centuries before. This was a more innocent town. Even finding the right building had been easier than she’d expected. There were no officials needing a private payment before documents could be signed; it was simply a matter of finding the right place and paying gold to the current owner. It was refreshing after the bureaucracy of Rome and the soldiers Brutus had sent out with her were able to show her three possible locations as soon as she asked. The first two were close to the water and likely to attract more of the dockworkers than she wanted. The third was perfect.

In a quiet street close to the market and away from the waterfront, it was a roomy building with an impressive façade of white lime and hardwood. Servilia was long familiar with the need to present a pleasant face to the world. No doubt there were grimy little houses hidden in the towns where widows and whores earned a little extra on their backs, but the sort of place she wanted would attract dignitaries and officers from the legion, and be correspondingly more expensive.

With so many new houses being built by the Tenth, Servilia had sensed the owner could be pressured and the final price was a bargain, even with the furnishings to come. Some of those would have to be shipped from Rome, though a swift inspection of local seamstresses resulted in a string of smaller payments and deals.

With the house in her possession, she paid for an outgoing merchant to take a list of her requirements back to Rome. At least four more women would be needed and Servilia took great care in choosing their characteristics. It was important to establish a reputation for quality.

After three days, there was little to be done but give the house a name, though that gave Servilia more trouble than she expected. Though there were no clear proscriptions in law, Servilia knew instinctively that it should be something discreet and yet suggestive. Calling it ‘The House of Rams’ or suchlike would not do at all.

In the end, Angelina surprised her with a suggestion. ‘The Golden Hand’ was sufficiently erotic without being crude and Servilia had wondered whether Angelina’s light colouring had prompted the idea. When she’d acquiesced, Angelina had leapt up and kissed her on both cheeks. The girl could be adorable when she had her own way, there was no doubt about it.

On the third morning after entering the city, Servilia watched a delicately drawn sign lifted onto iron hooks and smiled as a few of the Tenth cheered the sight. They would spread the word that the house was open for business and she expected the first night to be a busy one. After that, the future was assured and she fully expected to be able to pass over control to someone else in a few months. It was tempting to think of a similar establishment in every city of Spain. The finest girls and the feel of Rome. The market was there and the money would pour into her coffers.

Servilia turned to her son’s guards and smiled at them.

‘I hope you will be able to get passes for tonight?’ she said lightly.

They looked at each other, aware that the dock watch had suddenly become a valuable counter in their purses.

‘Perhaps your son could intercede for us, madam,’ the officer replied.

Servilia frowned at that. Though they had not discussed it openly, she suspected Brutus was more than a little uncomfortable with her business. For that matter, she wondered if Julius had been told about the new house and what he thought of the idea. He might not have heard of her plans away in the south at his mines, though she couldn’t see how he could object.

Servilia ran a hand idly along the line of her throat as she thought of him. Today was the day he was due to return. He was probably eating in the barracks at that moment and if she set off without delay, she could be back at the fort before the day was wasted.

‘I will need permanent guards for the house,’ she said as the thought occurred to her. ‘If you wish, I will ask the general to post you here,’ she told the officer. ‘I am a Roman citizen after all.’

The guards looked at each other in wild surmise. Wonderful as the idea seemed, the thought of Caesar hearing their names to guard a whorehouse was enough to cool any man’s ardour. Reluctantly, they shook their heads.

‘I think he would prefer local men as guards here,’ the officer said at last.

Servilia took the reins of her horse from one of the Tenth and leapt into the saddle. The leggings she wore were a little loose on her, but a skirt or stola would hardly have been appropriate.

‘Mount up, lads. I’ll go and ask him and we’ll see,’ she said, wheeling her horse around and kicking it into a canter. The hooves rattled loudly on the street and the local women raised their eyebrows at this strange Roman lady who rode like a soldier.

Julius was greeting an elderly Spaniard as Servilia rode up to the gates of the fort. During daylight hours the gates were left open and the guards passed them straight through into the yard with only a nod. Her escort from town led their mounts back to food and water, leaving her alone. Being Brutus’ mother was proving extremely useful, she realised.

‘I would like to have a word with you, General, if I may,’ she called, walking her horse over to the pair.

Julius frowned in barely concealed anger.

‘This is Mayor Del Subió, Servilia. I’m afraid I have no time to see you this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow.’

He turned away to guide the older man into the main building and Servilia spoke quickly, acknowledging the mayor with a swift smile.

‘I was thinking of riding out to the local towns. Are you able to recommend a route?’

Julius turned to the mayor.

‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ he said.

Del Subió bowed, glancing at Servilia from under bushy eyebrows. If he had been the Roman general, he would not have left such a beauty to pout alone. Even at his age, Del Subió could appreciate a fine woman and wondered at Caesar’s irritation.

Julius walked to Servilia.

‘These hills are not completely safe. There are rogues and travellers who would think nothing of attacking you. If you’re lucky they will just steal the horse and let you walk back.’

With the warning delivered, he tried to turn back to the mayor again.

‘Perhaps you would like to join me, then, for protection?’ Servilia said softly.

He froze, looking into her eyes. His heart thumped in his chest at the thought before he gathered his control. She was not easy to refuse, but his afternoon was filled with work. His eyes raked the yard and caught sight of Octavian coming out of the stables. Julius whistled sharply to catch the boy’s attention.

‘Octavian. Saddle a horse for yourself. Escort duty.’

Octavian saluted and disappeared back into the darkness of the stable block.

Julius looked at Servilia blankly, as if the exchange was already forgotten.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he did not reply as he took Del Subió inside.

When Octavian reappeared, he had already mounted and had to lean low on the saddle to clear the arch of the stables. His grin faded at Servilia’s expression as she took a grip on the pommel and threw a leg over her saddle. He had never seen her angry and, if anything, the fury in her eyes made her more beautiful. Without a word to him, she started forward into a gallop through the gates, forcing the guards to step aside or be knocked down. Eyes wide with surprise, Octavian followed her out.

She rode hard for a mile before reining back to a more sedate canter. Octavian closed the gap to ride at her shoulder, unconsciously showing his expertise with the way he matched her pace so exactly. She handled the horse well, he noted, with the skilled eye of the extraordinarii. Small flicks of the reins guided the blowing animal left and right around obstacles and once she urged her mount to jump a fallen tree, rising in the saddle and taking the landing without a tremor.

Octavian was entranced and told himself he wouldn’t speak until he found something sufficiently mature and interesting to say. Inspiration didn’t come, but she seemed willing to let the silence continue, taking out her anger at Julius’ snub in the exertion of the ride. At last she reined in, panting slightly. She let Octavian approach and smiled at him.

‘Brutus said you were a relation to Caesar. Tell me about him.’

Octavian smiled back, completely unable to resist her charm or question her reasons.

Julius had dismissed his last supplicant an hour before and stood alone by the window that looked out over the hills. He had signed orders to recruit another thousand for the developing mines, and granted compensation to three men whose lands had been encroached by the new buildings on the coast. How many other meetings had there been? Ten? His hand ached from the letters he had written and he massaged it slightly with the other as he stood waiting. His last scribe had retired a month before and he felt the loss keenly. His armour hung on the wooden tree by his desk and the night air was a relief on the sweat-darkened tunic underneath. He yawned and rubbed his face roughly. It was getting dark, but Octavian and Servilia were still out somewhere. He wondered if she were capable of keeping the boy late to worry him, or whether something had happened. Perhaps one of the horses had become lame and had to be walked back to the fort.

Julius snorted softly to himself. That would be a lesson well learned, if it was so. Away from the roads, the land was rugged and wild. A horse could easily break a leg, especially in the gloom of evening, when pits and animal holes would be hidden in shadow.

It was ridiculous to worry. Twice he lost patience and strode away from the window, but as he thought through the tasks for the next day, he found himself edging back to the view over the hills, looking for them. Away from the breeze, the room could be stifling, he told himself, too weary even to believe his own self-deceptions.

When the sun was little more than a red line against the mountains, he heard the clatter of hooves in the yard and stepped hurriedly back from the window rather than be seen. Who was the woman to cause him so much discomfort? He imagined how long it would take for the pair of them to brush and water their horses before coming inside. Would they be joining the officers’ table again for a meal? He was hungry, but he didn’t want to entertain a guest. He would have food sent up to him, and …

A low knocking at his door interrupted his thoughts, making him start. Somehow, he knew it would be her even as he cleared his throat to call, ‘Come in.’

Servilia opened the door and walked into the room. Her hair was wild after the ride and a smear of dirt marked her cheek where she had touched it. She smelled of straw and horses and he felt his senses heighten at the sight of her. She was still angry, he saw, summoning the will to resist whatever she had come to demand. It really was too much that she walked in without even an announcement. What was the guard doing below? Was the man asleep? He would hear about it when she had gone, Julius swore to himself.

Without speaking, Servilia walked across the wooden floor to him. Before he could react, she pressed the palm of her hand against his chest, feeling the heart thump under the cloth.

‘Still warm, then. I had begun to wonder,’ she said softly. Her tone held an intimacy that unsettled him and somehow he couldn’t muster the anger he expected. He could feel where her hand had rested, as if she had left a visible sign of her touch. She faced him, standing very close, and he was suddenly aware of the darkness of the room.

‘Brutus will be wondering where you are,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is very protective of me,’ she replied. She turned to leave and he almost reached out for her, watching in confusion as she crossed the long room.

‘I wouldn’t … have thought you needed much protecting,’ he murmured. He hadn’t really meant her to hear it, but he saw her smile before the door closed behind her and he was alone, his thoughts swirling in chaos. He breathed out slowly, shaking his head in amusement at his own reactions. He felt as if he were being stalked, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His tiredness seemed to have vanished and he thought he might join the table below for the evening meal after all.

The door opened again and he looked up to see her, still there.

‘Will you ride out with me tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Octavian said you know the area as well as anyone.’

He nodded slowly, unable to remember what meetings he had planned and not caring, particularly. How long had it been since he’d last had a day away from his work?

‘All right, Servilia. Tomorrow morning,’ he said.

She grinned then without replying, shutting the door noiselessly behind her. He waited for a moment until he heard her light step going downstairs and relaxed. He was surprised to find he was looking forward to it.

As the light faded, the furnace turned the workshop into a place of fire and shadow. The only light came from the forge and the glow lit the Roman smiths as they waited impatiently to be shown the secret of hard iron. Julius had paid a fortune in gold for them to be taught by a Spanish master, but it was not something to be handed over in a moment, or even a single day. To their exasperation, Cavallo had taken them through the entire process, step by step. At first, they had resisted being treated as apprentices, but then the more experienced of them had seen the Spaniard was exact in every part of his skill and begun to listen. They had cut cypress and alder wood to his order and stacked the logs under clay in a pit as large as a house for the first four days. While it charred, he showed them his ore furnace and lectured them on washing the rough rocks before sealing them with the charcoal to burn clean.

They were all men who loved their craft and by the end of the fifth day they were filled with excited anticipation as Cavallo brought a lump of iron bloom to his furnace and poured it molten into clay racks, finally turning out heavy bars of the metal onto a workbench for them to examine.

‘The alder wood burns cooler than most and slows the changes. It makes a harder metal as more of it takes the charcoal, but that is only part of it,’ he told them, thrusting one of the bars into the bright yellow heat of his forge. There was barely enough room to heat two pieces at a time, so they clustered around the second, copying every move and instruction he gave them. The cramped workshop could not hold all of them, so they took turns coming in and out of the cooling night air. Only Renius stayed throughout as an observer and he poured with enough sweat to blind him, silently noting each stage of the process.

He too was fascinated. Though he had used swords for all his adult life, he had never watched them being made and it gave him an appreciation for the skills of the dour men who worked earth into shining blades.

Cavallo used a hammer to beat the bar into the shape of a sword, reheating it again and again until the spike looked like a black gladius, crusted with impurities. Part of the skill came in judging the temperature by the colour as it came out of the forge. Each time the sword was at the right heat, Cavallo held it up for them to see the shade of yellow before it faded. He filed and beat the soft metal as his own sweat sizzled on it, falling in fat drops to vanish on contact.

Their own bar was matched to his at every point and as the moon rose, he nodded to the Romans, satisfied. His sons had lit a low pan of charcoal as long as a man and before its metal cover was removed, it glowed as brightly as his forge. While his sword heated again, Cavallo signalled to a row of leather aprons on pegs. They were clumsy things to wear, thick and stiff with age. They covered the whole body from neck to feet, leaving only the arms bare. He smiled as they pulled them on, used by now to following his instructions without question.

‘You will need the protection,’ he told them as they struggled to move against the constricting coverings. At his signal, his sons used tongs to lift the cover from the charcoal pan and Cavallo pulled the yellow blade from the furnace with a flourish. The Roman smiths crowded closer, knowing they were seeing a stage of the process they did not recognise. Renius had to step back from the sudden wave of heat and craned to watch what was going on.

In the white heat of the charcoal, Cavallo hammered the blade again, sending sparks and whirring pieces of fire into the air. One landed in his hair and he patted the flame out automatically. Over and over he turned the blade, his hammer working it up and down without the force of his first blows. The ringing sound was almost gentle, but they could all see the charcoal sticking to the metal in dark crusts.

‘It has to be fast here. It must not cool too far before the quenching. Watch the colour … now!’

Cavallo’s voice had softened, his eyes filled with love for the metal. As the redness darkened, he lifted his tongs and jammed the sword into a bucket of water in a roar of steam that filled the little workshop.

‘Then back into the heat. The most important stage. If you misjudge the colour now, the sword will be brittle and useless. You must learn the shade, or everything I have taught you has been wasted. For me, it is the colour of day-old blood, but you must find your own memory and fix it in your minds.’

The second sword was ready and he repeated the beating in the charcoal bed, once again scattering embers into the air. It was clear enough by then why they wore the leathers. One Roman grunted in pain as a fiery chip settled on his arm before he could pluck it away.

The swords were reheated and shoved into the charcoal four more times before Cavallo finally nodded. They were all sweating and practically blind from the moisture-laden fog in the workshop. Only the blades cut through the steam, the air burning away from their heat in clear trails.

Dawn lit the mountains outside, though they could not see the light. They had all stared into the furnace for so long that wherever they looked was darkness.

Cavallo’s sons covered the tray and dragged it back to the wall. As the Romans breathed and wiped sweat from their eyes, Cavallo shut up his forge and removed the bellows from the air-holes, hanging them neatly on hooks ready to be used again. The heat was still oppressive, but there was a sense of it all coming to an end as he faced them, holding a black blade in each hand, his fingers wrapped around a narrow tang that would be encased in a hilt before use.

The blades were matt and rough-looking. Though he had hammered each using only his eye, they were identical in length and width and when they were cool enough to be handed around, the Roman smiths felt the same balance in each. They nodded at the skill, no longer resentful of the time they had spent away from their own forges. Each of them realised they had been given something of value and they smiled like children as they hefted the bare blades.

Renius took his turn with them, though he lacked the experience to be able to judge the weight without a hilt. The blades had been taken from the earth of Spain and he stroked a finger along the rough metal, hoping he would be able to make Julius understand the glory of the moment.

‘The charcoal bed gives them the hard skin over a softer core. These blades will not snap in battle, unless you leave impurities within, or quench them at the wrong colour. Let me show you,’ Cavallo said, his voice stiff with pride. He took the blades from the Roman smiths and gestured them to stand back. Then he rapped each one hard onto the edge of his forge, causing a deep tone as if a bell sounded the dawn. The swords remained whole and he breathed slowly in satisfaction.

‘They will kill men, these ones. They will make an art of death.’ He spoke with reverence and they understood him. ‘The new day begins, gentlemen. Your charcoal will be ready by noon and you will return to your own forges to make examples of the new swords. I will want to see them, from all of you, in say … three days. Leave them without a hilt and I will craft those with you. Now, I am going to bed.’

The grizzled Roman smiths murmured their thanks and trooped out of the workshop, looking back longingly at the blades they had made that night.