“Then they cannot be turned?” Julius asked, watching the shifting mass on the far shore.

Mark Antony looked down from the rampart to where the legions were arrayed in full battle order. A pleasurable shudder touched him at the thought of the strength represented in those squares. As well as the ten thousand men Julius had brought, another three legions had been summoned from the north of Italy. As nothing else could, it demonstrated the new power Julius had been granted that he had only to send riders carrying copies of his orders for them to return with fifteen thousand soldiers at a forced march over the Alps.

“If they are turned, they will starve to death this winter, sir. My scouts reported four hundred villages in flames, with all their winter grain. They know they cannot go back and they will fight all the harder as a result.”

Brutus reached the platform behind them, letting Cabera down onto it so that he could grip the wooden railing with his good arm and watch the proceedings. Brutus saluted as he approached Julius, more than usually conscious of the appearance of discipline in front of the newcomer. He could not be said to like Mark Antony, exactly. Something about the way he seemed so completely in accord with Julius’s aims and ambitions struck a false note with Brutus, though he had said nothing rather than have it interpreted as jealousy. In fact, he felt a touch of that very emotion at seeing the two men talking as easily as old friends while they watched the army of the Helvetii on the far bank. Brutus frowned as Mark Antony made a humorous comment about the vast host and both he and Julius appeared to be trying to outdo the other in studied casualness.

It did not help that Mark Antony was such a big, hearty man, the sort that amused Julius on the rare occasion that he found them. Brutus knew Julius enjoyed nothing as much as the booming laugh and courage of men like his uncle Marius, and Mark Antony seemed to fit that type as if he had known the man personally. He stood a head taller than Julius and his nose shouted to the world that he was a man of ancient Roman blood. It dominated his face under heavy brows, and unless he was laughing, in repose he looked naturally stern and dignified. At the slightest prompt, he would mention his family line, and Mark Antony seemed to believe he was of noble blood simply by the number of ancestors he could name.

No doubt Sulla would have loved the man, Brutus thought irritably. Mark Antony was full of the things that could be achieved now Julius had arrived, yet somehow he had not managed to do any of them on his own. Brutus wondered if the noble Roman realized what Julius would have achieved in his place, one legion or not.

Putting these thoughts aside, Brutus leaned on the railing himself and looked out as the boat approached the Roman side and the oarsmen leapt out into the shallow water to drag it clear of the river.

They stood in the very shadow of the wall the Romans had built to stop them. Even with their numbers,

Brutus didn’t think they would try to break the Roman line.

“They must see we could sink every boat with spears and stones before they can land. It would be suicide to attack,” Julius said.

“And if they go in peace?” Mark Antony asked, without taking his eyes from the messengers that stood aside from their oarsmen below.

Julius shrugged. “Then I will have demonstrated Roman authority over them. One way or another, I will have my foothold in this country.”

Brutus and Cabera both turned to look at the man they knew and saw a savage pleasure in his face as he stood tall on the rampart to hear the words of the Helvetii.

They had seen a similar expression when Mark Antony had addressed the first council of generals months before.

“I am glad you are here, gentlemen,” Mark Antony had said. “We are about to be overrun.”

Julius had wanted a wild land to win, Brutus thought to himself. The Helvetii were only one of the tribes in that region, never mind the entire country that Julius dreamed of taking for Rome. Yet the dark moods of Spain could never be imagined in the man who stood with them on the ramparts. They could all feel it and Cabera closed his eyes as his senses were cast loose against his will into the tumbling roads of the future.

The old man slumped and would have fallen had Brutus not caught him. No one else moved as the messengers spoke and Julius turned to his interpreter to hear the words in halting Latin. Out of sight of the riders, he grinned to himself, then stood to face them, both hands on the wide railing.

“No,” he called down. “You shall not pass.”

Julius looked at Mark Antony.

“If they march west around the Rhone before striking south, which tribes lie in their path?”

“The Aedui are directly west of us, so they would suffer most, though the Ambarri and Allobroges-”

Mark Antony began.

“Which of those is the richest?” Julius interrupted.

Mark Antony hesitated. “The Aedui are reputed to have vast herds of cattle and-”

“Summon their leader to me with the fastest riders and guarantees of safety,” Julius said, looking back over the railing. Below, the boat was already pulling for the far shore, still close enough for him to see the anger of the men in it.

Two nights later, the small fort was quiet, though Julius could hear the tramp of feet as the watch changed on the walls. New barracks had been built for the soldiers he had brought from Rome, but the three legions from Ariminum still slept in their tents in fortified camps. Julius didn’t intend building anything more permanent for them. He hoped it would not be necessary.

He waited impatiently as his words were relayed to the chief of the Aedui through the interpreter Mark Antony had supplied. The man seemed to ramble on far longer than Julius thought was justified, but he had decided not to tell them Adàn could speak their language, preferring to keep that advantage secret. His Spanish scribe had been startled when they had first heard the words of the Gauls. His people spoke a variation of the same tongue, enough for him to understand most of the conversations. Julius wondered if they had been one nation at some time in the far past, some nomadic tribe from distant lands who had settled Gaul and Spain while Rome was still a small village amongst seven hills.

Adàn attended every meeting after that, masking his listening with laborious copying out of Julius’s dictated notes and letters. When they were alone, Julius would question him closely and his memory was usually faultless.

Julius glanced at the studious young Spaniard as the interpreter repeated the danger of the Helvetii in what must have been endless detail. The leader of the Aedui was typical of his race, a dark-haired man with black eyes and a hard, fleshless face, partly hidden by a growth of beard that shone with oil. The Aedui claimed to have no king, but Mhorbaine was their chief magistrate, elected rather than born.

Julius tapped the fingers of one hand on the other as Mhorbaine answered and the interpreter paused to consider his translation.

“The Aedui are willing to accept your aid in repelling the Helvetii from their borders,” the interpreter said at last.

Julius barked a laugh that made Mhorbaine jump.

“‘Are willing’?” he said with amusement. “Tell him I will save his people from destruction if they pay in grain and meat. My men have to be fed. Thirty thousand men need more than two hundred cattle slaughtered each day, as a minimum. I will accept the equivalent in game or mutton, as well as grain, bread, oil, fish, and spices. Without supplies, I do not move.”

The negotiation began in earnest then, delayed at every stage by the slow translation. Julius ached to throw the interpreter out and have Adàn’s quick wits in his place, but held his patience as the hours stretched on and the moon rose orange over the mountains behind them. Mhorbaine too seemed to be losing his patience, and when they were all waiting for the interpreter to complete another hesitant phrase, the Gaul chopped his hand in the air, speaking in clear Latin, with an accent of Rome.