Brutus entered with Domitius and Octavian, all three men wearing the silver armor they had won in the tournament, polished to a high sheen.

“The tribes have sent their representatives to see you, Julius,” Brutus said, flushed with excitement.

“There must be thirty different groups on our land, all under flags of truce and trying to hide how interested they are in our numbers and strategy.”

“Excellent,” Julius replied, responding to their enthusiasm. “Have tables put up for them in the dining hall. We should be able to get them all in, if they don’t mind the crush.”

“All done,” Domitius said. “Everyone is waiting for you to join them, but Mark Antony is frantic. He says they won’t move until you invite them to your table, and we wouldn’t let him wake you.”

Julius chuckled. “Then let us walk out to them.”

CHAPTER 25

The air in the dining hall was thick with the heat of bodies as Julius took his seat at the long table.

Though linen covered its length, Julius could not resist running a hand underneath to feel the rough new wood. It had not been there when he’d arrived that morning, and he smiled to himself at the energy of Mark Antony and the legion carpenters.

He asked Mhorbaine to sit on his right hand, and the Gaul took his place with obvious pleasure. Julius liked the man and wondered how many of the others would be friends or enemies in the years to come.

The men at his table were a mixed group, though all of them shared features as if their ancestors had sprung from the same tribe. They had hard faces, as if carved from pine. Many were bearded, though there was no style that dominated the gathering, and Julius saw as many mustaches and shaved skulls as there were beards and long braids dyed red at the roots. In the same way, there was no pattern to their clothes or armor. Some wore silver and gold brooches that he knew would fascinate Alexandria, while others were bare of any ornament. Julius saw Brutus eyeing an ornate clasp on Mhorbaine’s cloak and decided to bargain for a few fine pieces to give to her when they next saw Rome. He sighed at the thought, wondering when he would sit with his own people at a long table and hear their beautiful language rather than the throaty expectoration of the Gauls.

When they were all seated, Julius motioned for Adàn to stand at his side and rose to address the chieftains. For such an important meeting, he’d banished the elderly interpreter back to his tribe.

“You are welcome in my land,” Julius said, waiting for Adàn to echo the words in their own language. “I believe you know I prevented the Helvetii cutting through my province and that of the Aedui. I did this at Mhorbaine’s request and I use it to show my good faith to you.”

While Adàn translated, Julius watched their responses. It was an odd advantage to be removed from them by that one step. The pauses gave him the chance to marshal his arguments and see how they went across while the eyes of the Gauls were on Adàn.

“The people of Rome do not live in constant fear of enemy attack,” he continued. “They have roads, trade, theaters, bathing houses, cheap food for their families. They have clean water and laws that protect them.”

He saw from the expressions around the table that he was on the wrong track with his description.

These were not men to care about the luxuries given to those they ruled.

“More importantly,” Julius went on quickly, as Adàn struggled over a word, “the leaders of Rome have vast lands and homes ten times the size of this small fort. They have slaves to tend their needs and the finest wines and horses in the world.”

A better reaction.

“Those of you who become my allies will come to know all of that. I intend to bring the roads of Rome farther into Gaul and trade with the farthest recesses of the land. I will bring the biggest market in the world here for your goods.”

One or two of the men smiled and nodded, but then a young warrior stood and all the Gauls looked to him, becoming still. Julius could feel Brutus bristle on his left. There was nothing unusual in the figure who faced Julius twenty feet away. The Gaul wore his beard short and his blond hair tied back in a club on his neck. Like many of the others, he was a short, powerful figure dressed in wool and worn leather. Yet, despite his youth, the Gaul looked arrogantly around at the gathered representatives of the tribes. His face was badly scarred and cold blue eyes seemed to mock them all.

“And if we refuse your empty promises?” the man said.

As Adàn translated, Mhorbaine rose at Julius’s side.

“Sit down, Cingeto. You want another enemy to add to your list? When did your father’s people last know peace?”

Mhorbaine spoke in his own language and the young Gaul responded far too quickly for Adàn to follow.

The two men roared at each other across the table, and Julius swore he would learn their language. He knew Brutus was already studying it and he would join his daily lesson.

Without warning, the yellow-haired warrior stormed away from the table, slamming the door open to the outside. Mhorbaine watched him go with narrowed eyes.

“Cingeto’s people would rather fight than eat,” Mhorbaine said. “The Arverni have always been that way, but do not let it trouble you. His elder brother, Madoc, has less of a temper, and it is he who will wear his father’s crown.”

The exchange had clearly worried Mhorbaine, but he forced a smile onto his face as he looked at Julius.

“You must ignore the rudeness of the boy. Not everyone feels as Cingeto does.”

Julius called for the plates of beef and mutton to be brought in from the fire pits, glistening with oil and herbs. He tried to hide his surprise as they were followed with heaped platters of fresh bread, sliced fruit, and roasted game birds. Mark Antony had been busier than he realized.

The awkward pause after Cingeto’s departure disappeared in the clatter of plates. The chieftains fell to with a will, each man bringing out his own knife to slice and spear the hot food. Finger bowls of fresh water were used to dilute the wine, to the surprise of the servants, who quickly refilled them. Julius understood that the chieftains did not want to lose their wits in drunkenness, and on reflection, he tipped his own water bowl into his wine cup as well. Brutus and Octavian followed his example with a private grin between them.

A sudden crash from outside the hall brought two of the guests half to their feet. Julius rose with them, but Mhorbaine remained in his seat, frowning.

“That will be Artorath, my guard. He will have found some men to wrestle by now.” Another crash and grunt punctuated his words and he sighed.

“The big man?” Julius asked, amused.

Mhorbaine nodded. “He becomes bored too easily, but what can you do with family? My father raided the Arverni for his mother when he was really too old for such activities. Cingeto’s people do not forgive, though they take their own wives in the same way when they can.”

“The women must be very unhappy with such an arrangement,” Julius said slowly, trying to understand.

Mhorbaine laughed aloud. “They are if we take the wrong one in the dark. You’ll never hear the end of it then. No, Julius, when the tribes meet at the Beltane festival for barter and trade, there are a lot of matches made. You might even enjoy seeing it one year. The women make their wishes clear to the young warriors, and it’s a grand adventure trying to steal them away from their people. I remember my wife fought me like a wolf, but she never called for help.”

“Why not?” Julius asked.

“She might have been rescued! She was very taken with my beard, I think. Mind you, she pulled a handful of it out while I tried to get her over my shoulders. I had a bald patch for a while, right on the chin.”