The quaestor had been quietly amazed when Julius told him how productive the new mines had become during his term. They had toured them together and the man took the opportunity to secure a loan from the coffers of the Tenth to be paid back over five years. No matter who ended up in the position of praetor, the debt would stand. The mines would be developed and no doubt part of the new wealth would be declared. Not before the post was made permanent, Julius thought wryly. It would not do to excite the hunger of men like Crassus in Rome.

As Julius walked out into the courtyard, he had to shade his eyes against the fierce sun. The gates were open and the fort had a vacant feel that reminded him of the village with the statue of Alexander. It was a strange thought, but the new cohorts were expected the following dawn and the fort would come back to life then.

In the glare, he did not see the young man standing by the gate, waiting for him. Julius was crossing to the stables and was jerked out of his reverie as the man spoke. His hand dropped to his gladius in reflex.

“General? Do you have a moment?” the man said.

Julius recognized him and narrowed his eyes. His name was Adàn, he remembered, the one he had spared.

“What is it?” he said impatiently.

Adàn approached him and Julius kept his hand near his hilt. He didn’t doubt he could handle the young Spaniard, but there could be others and he had lived long enough not to drop his guard too easily.

His eyes scanned the gate, watching for moving shadows.

“The mayor, Del Subió, told me you need a scribe, sir. I can read and write Latin.”

Julius looked at him suspiciously. “Did Del Subió mention the fact that I am about to leave for Rome?” he asked.

Adàn nodded. “Everyone knows it. I would like to see the city, but I do want the work.”

Julius looked him in the eye, weighing him. He trusted his instincts and he could sense nothing hidden in the man’s open face. Perhaps the young Spaniard was telling the truth, though Julius couldn’t help but suspect his motives with the legion about to set sail.

“A free trip to Rome, then you disappear in the markets, Adàn?” he said.

The young man shrugged. “You have my word. I can offer nothing else. I work hard and I want to see more of the world. That is all.”

“Why come to work for me, though? It wasn’t long ago you had Roman blood on your hands.”

Adàn colored, but raised his head, refusing to be cowed. “You are an honorable man, General. While I would rather Rome did not lay its hand on my people, you made me curious. You would not regret hiring me, I swear it.”

Julius frowned at him. The man seemed unaware of the danger of his words. He remembered the way he had stood before Julius’s men in the long room, struggling to control his fear.

“I must be able to trust you, Adàn, and that will come only with time. What you hear from me will be worth money to those who pay for information. Can you be trusted to keep my business secret?”

“As you say, you will know in time. My word is good.”

Julius came to a decision and his frown cleared.

“Very well, Adàn. Go up to my rooms and fetch me the papers from the desk. I will dictate a letter to you and judge your hand. Then your time is your own to say goodbye to your family. We leave for Rome in three days.”

CHAPTER 7

Brutus vomited helplessly over the side into the heaving sea.

“I’d forgotten about this,” he said miserably.

Ciro could only moan in reply as the last cups of wine they’d taken in Valentia came surging back. The wind gusted and blew some of the foul liquid spattering over both of them. Brutus froze in disgust.

“Move away from me, you ox,” he shouted over the gale. Though his stomach was empty, the painful spasms began again, and he winced at the bitterness in his mouth.

The clouds had swept in from the east as the Spanish mountains sank behind them. The ships had scattered before the storm, forced away from each other. Those with oars kept some semblance of control, though the rolling decks had the long blades completely out of the water on one side and then another. The merchants who depended on their sails were trailing sea anchors, great bundles of canvas and spars to slow their progress and give the heavy rudders something to work against. It was little help. The storm brought the darkness early and they lost sight of each other, every ship suddenly alone to fight the waves.

Brutus shivered at the stern as another wild roll brought water over the side in a great rush of whiteness. He gripped the rail hard as it frothed around his knees and then poured away. The oars slapped and skipped over the mountains of dark water and Brutus wondered whether they would strike land in a sudden crash.

The blackness was absolute and even a few paces from him he could barely make out Ciro’s bulk. He heard the big man moan softly and Brutus closed his eyes, just wanting it all to stop. He’d been fine until they cleared the coast and the big rolling waves sent them heeling over. Then the sickness had begun with a bout of belching and the sudden urge to head for the rail. He’d known enough to aim out over the stern, though the men below had not had that luxury. Packed tight as they were in the hold, it was a scene from nightmares.

The small part of his mind that could think of anything except his discomfort realized they would have to anchor off Ostia for a day or two before going in, if only to wash the ship down and restore the polish to the Tenth. If they reached port at that moment, the dockworkers would think they were refugees from some terrible battle.

Brutus heard a step behind him. “Who’s that?” he asked, craning his head forward to make out the man’s features.

“Julius,” came a cheerful voice. “I have water for you. It’ll give you something to bring up, at least.”

Brutus smiled weakly, accepting the skin and pressing the bronze pipe to his lips. He swilled and spat twice before allowing some of the liquid to trickle down his throat. Ciro took it from him then and gulped noisily.

Brutus knew he should be asking about the men or the course they were cutting to take them between Sardinia and Corsica, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care. His head felt heavy with sickness and he could only manage to wave an apologetic hand to Julius before he was hanging over the rail again. It was almost worse when he wasn’t vomiting. Then there was nothing to do but give way to it.

All three of them staggered as the ship rolled at a frightening angle and something fell with a clatter in the hold. Julius lost his footing on the slippery deck and was saved by grabbing Ciro’s arm. He pulled in a deep, appreciative breath.

“I have missed this,” he said to them. “Out of sight of land in the dark.” He leaned closer to Ciro.

“You’re on the late watch with me tomorrow. The stars will take your breath away when the storm blows itself out. The sickness never lasts more than a day, or two at most.”

“I hope so,” Ciro managed doubtfully. As far as he was concerned, Julius was pushing the bounds of friendship by being so obscenely cheerful while they waited for death to take them. He would give a month’s pay for just a single hour of calm to settle his stomach. Then he could face anything, he was sure.

Julius worked his way around the rail to speak to the captain. The merchant had settled into surly acceptance of his new role, even going so far as to speak to the soldiers as they packed onto his ship. He’d warned them to have one hand for the ship and the other to save themselves at all times.

“If you go over,” he’d told the legionaries, “that’s the end of you. Even if I turn back, and I won’t, a man’s head is almost impossible to spot even when the sea is calm. If there’s a bit of wind, you might as well suck in a lungful and go under. It’ll be faster that way.”