Julius nodded, holding up a hand. Mark Antony fell silent.
“It will take a month to build a road from here to the plain for the ballistae and onagers. I do not intend to go to war without them again. I will send a messenger to this Ariovistus, asking for a meeting. I will address him with the respect due to a friend of my city. Will you be satisfied then?”
Mark Antony sagged with relief. “Of course, sir. I hope you are not offended at my words. I was thinking of your position at home.”
“I understand. Perhaps you could send a messenger to me to receive the letter,” Julius replied, smiling.
Mark Antony nodded and left the room. Julius turned to Adàn, who had listened to the conversation with an open mouth.
“What are you gaping at?” Julius snapped, instantly regretting the words. His head throbbed and his stomach felt as if it had been squeezed dry by vomiting in the night. A vague memory came of staggering out to the bathhouse in the dark and losing great gushes of dark fluid into the gutters there. Only yellow bile remained, but still it churned and surged up his throat.
Adàn chose his words carefully. “It must have been this way for my country, once. Romans deciding the future for us, as if we had no say at all in the matter.”
Julius began a sharp reply, then thought better of it. “Do you think the men of Carthage wept over their conquests? And how do you think your people decided the fate of those they found when they came to Spain? These Celts came from some foreign land. Do you think your ancestors troubled themselves over the original inhabitants? Perhaps even they were invaders from some distant past. Do not think your people are better than mine, Adàn.”
Julius gripped the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the throbbing headache. “I wish I had a clear head to tell you what I mean. It is more than just the strength that matters. Carthage was strong, but beating them changed the world. Greece was once the greatest power, but when they weakened, we came and made them ours. Gods, I drank too much wine for an argument this early.”
Adàn did not interrupt. He sensed that Julius was on the edge of something important, and he strained forward in his chair to hear. Julius’s voice had a hypnotic quality, almost a whisper.
“Countries are taken in blood. Women are raped, men killed, every horror you can imagine occurs a thousand times over, but then it ends and the victors settle the land. They farm and build cities and make laws. The people thrive, Adàn, whether you like it or not. Then there is justice and rule of law. Those who prey on their neighbors are executed, cut out from the rest. They have to be, because even conquerors grow old and value peace. The blood of the invaders is mingled with the people on the land until a hundred years later they are not Celt or Carthaginian, or even Roman. They are like… wine and water, impossible to separate. It begins in battle, but they are raised by each wave, Adàn. I tell you if I ever find a country that has not been tempered in fire, I will show you savages where we have built cities.”
“You believe this?” Adàn asked.
Julius opened his eyes, the dark pupils gleaming. “I do not believe in a sword, Adàn, because I can see it. It is just the truth. Rome is more than iron swords and harder men. I will bring them up, kicking and screaming. Gaul will suffer under my hand, but I will make them greater than they can imagine by the time I’m done.”
The messenger sent by Mark Antony arrived at the door, clearing his throat softly to draw their attention. Both men snapped out of the reverie and Julius groaned, holding his head.
“Find me a cold cloth and see if Cabera has any of his powders for pain,” he told the young man. As he turned back, he saw Adàn’s expression was grim.
“It is a strange view, General,” the young Spaniard ventured. “I can see why you would think such a thing, with an army poised to rush over Gaul. But it will be little comfort to the families that lose their men in the days to come.”
Julius felt anger spike in him as the headache throbbed. “Do you think they are weaving flowers for each other while we sit here? The tribes are at each other’s throats, boy. At forty years old, Mhorbaine’s one of the tribal ancients. Think of that! Disease and war take them before they go gray. They may hate us, but they hate each other a great deal more. Now, let us leave this for another time. I have a letter to dictate for this Ariovistus. We will ask this ‘Friend of Rome’ to go quietly back from the lands he has conquered and leave Gaul behind him.”
“Do you think he will?” Adàn asked.
Julius did not answer, but gestured for Adàn to take up his writing tablet and began to dictate the letter to the king of the Suebi.
Clearing the forests for the new road out to the plain took longer than Julius had hoped. Though the legions worked full days in the summer heat, each massive oak had to be cut down and then dragged out by teams of axmen and oxen. Cabera had begun to train some of the legion boys as assistants to deal with the broken bones and wounds that were the inevitable result of such labor. Two months passed agonizingly slowly before the first stone could be laid, but by the end of the fourth, the flat stones stretched almost forty miles, wide and strong enough to take the great catapults and siege machines without a tremor. New quarries had been dug in the hills and granite posts marked the miles from Rome, spreading the shadow farther than it had reached before.
Julius gathered his council in the hall of the Roman buildings, Mhorbaine and Artorath sitting with them as his favored allies. He looked round at them all, resting his gaze at last on Adàn, who was looking strangely at him. The young Spaniard had translated the messages that had flown between Ariovistus and the Roman province, and, of all of them, he knew what Julius was about to say. Julius wondered if there had ever been a time when he was as innocent as the young Spaniard. If there had been, it was too far back to remember.
Ariovistus had not been an easy man to reach. The first two messengers had been sent back with the briefest of replies, disdaining any further interest in Julius or his legions. Mark Antony had managed to impress Julius with the need to walk carefully around the king, but the wording was dismissive and infuriating. At the end of the first month, Julius was waiting only for the road to be finished before taking his legions out to crush Ariovistus, friend of Rome or not. Yet he needed to be seen to have made every attempt to settle the issue peacefully. He knew Adàn was not the only one of his men sending letters back to Rome. Pompey would have spies keeping him well informed, and the last thing Julius wanted was to have Rome declare him an enemy of the state for his actions. Such a thing was far from impossible with Pompey at the head of the Senate. No doubt the man had the senators trained to perfection, and a single vote could remove Julius’s authority at a stroke.
The weeks had passed slowly enough, with the days filled with meeting the tribal leaders, promising them whatever they wanted if they would allow passage through their lands and provide supplies for the army as they marched. Brutus had taken to the language with a flair that surprised them both, and already he was able to take part in the negotiations, though his efforts reduced the Gauls to tears of laughter on occasion.
Adàn looked away as Julius smiled at him. The longer he spent in the company of the Roman leader, the more confused he felt. At times, when Julius tried to put him at his ease, Adàn could feel the immense personal charm and understand why others followed him. Then there were moments when he could not believe the utter callousness of the generals as they decided the fate of millions in their councils. He could never decide if Julius was as ruthless as men like Renius, or whether he truly believed bringing Rome to Gaul was a better path for the tribes than any they could have found on their own. It did matter to the young man. If he thought Julius believed his own words about the glories of civilization, Adàn could justify the respect he felt for him. If it was all a game, or a mask for conquest, then Adàn had made the biggest mistake of his life in leaving Spain to follow him.