“You have already doubled the holdings of Rome,” Mhorbaine reminded him.

Julius stared into the flames, gesturing with his cup at the unseen cold outside. “I cannot sit and wait for them to come to me. At any moment, I could be recalled to Rome. Another man could be appointed in my place.” He caught himself before continuing, as he noted Mhorbaine’s bright interest. For all the man had been a valuable ally, Julius had let the wine spill too many words from him.

The last letter from Crassus before the winter closed the passes over the Alps had been troubling.

Pompey was losing control of the city and Julius had been furious at the weakness of the Senate. He almost wished Pompey would declare a Dictatorship to end the tyranny of men like Clodius and Milo. They were just names to him, but Crassus took the threat seriously enough to confide his fear and Julius knew the old man was not one to jump at shadows. At one point, Julius had even considered returning to Rome to bolster Pompey in the Senate, but the winter of Gaul had put an end to that. It was appalling to think that while he won new lands, the city he loved was falling into corruption and violence. He had long accepted that the conquest of a country had to come in blood, but that vision had no place in his own home and the very thought of it made him rage.

“There is so much to do!” he said to Mhorbaine, reaching again for the poker in the flames. “All I can do is torment myself with plans and letters I cannot even send. I thought you said spring would have come by now? Where is the thaw you promised me?”

Mhorbaine shrugged. “Soon,” he said, as he had so many times before.

CHAPTER 31

When spring came, more than seven thousand families choked the roads north of Rome. Out of the teeming streets of the city, the exodus started to claim the new land that Julius promised. Those who feared the strength of Clodius and Milo took to the wide roads to start a new life away from the crime and dirt of the city, selling everything they owned to buy tools and grain and oxen to pull their carts. It was a perilous journey, with more than three hundred miles to the foothills of the Alps and unknown dangers beyond.

The legions Julius had taken from Ariminum had stripped the north of patrolling soldiers, stretching the protection of Rome to breaking point. Though the roadside inns and forts were still manned, long stretches in between were plagued by thieves, and many of the families were attacked and left by the road in despair. Some were picked up by those who took pity on them, while others were left to beg for a few coins or starve. Those who could afford to hire guards were better off, and they kept their heads down when they passed the wailing, crying people who had gone before them, standing in the spring rain with hands outstretched.

In special sessions of the Senate, Pompey read out the reports of Julius’s victories as he received them.

It was a bittersweet role he had found for himself, and he could only shake his head at the irony of supporting Caesar as a way of controlling the new men of the Senate. Crassus had made him see that the victories in Gaul were all that kept the city from erupting in sheer panic as Clodius and Milo fought for supremacy in their secret, bloody battles. Despite the real power they had gained and the influence they wielded as brutally as a club, they had done nothing for Rome but feed on her. Neither Clodius nor Milo ever missed one of the reports. They had been formed in the gutters and the back alleys of the city, but they thrilled to the details of battles in their name like any other citizen.

At first, Pompey had been prepared to declare a Dictatorship to control them. Freed from the restraints of the law, he could have had both men executed without a trial. Crassus had advised against such a final step. If they were killed, Crassus said, others would take their place, and Pompey, perhaps Rome herself, would not survive. The Hydra of the Roman mob would grow new heads, and whoever replaced them would know better than to walk in the open and attend the Senate. Crassus had spoken for hours to his old colleague, and Pompey had seen the wisdom of his suggestions. Instead of resistance, he had gone out of his way to flatter and reward the men. He had sponsored Clodius for the position of chief magistrate and thrown a great dinner in his honor. Together, they had chosen candidates for the consular elections, lesser men who would do nothing to alter the fragile state of truce. It was a delicate balance that Pompey had found, knowing Clodius had chosen it in part to aid him against Milo as their own struggle continued.

Pompey considered the men as he read the latest report on the rostrum in front of him. In raising one, he had earned the enmity of the other, and there was nothing but hatred in the eyes of Milo when he met them. Yet Clodius now spoke his name with pride of association, and as spring had turned to summer,

Pompey had even visited the man’s home in the city and been flattered and courted in his turn. It was a dangerous game, but better than scattering the pieces and trying for Dictator. As things stood, it would mean civil war and he was not at all sure he would emerge the victor by the end.

As Pompey cleared his throat to speak, he inclined his head to Clodius and saw the man’s pleasure at even the slightest mark of respect. That was what Crassus had seen in the newcomers to the Senate.

Though they were savage, they craved the respectability of office, and since Pompey had begun his new course, not one of his clients had suffered at the hands of Clodius’s bullies. When Pompey had announced his desire to refurbish the racetrack, it was Clodius who had come to him with the offer of unlimited funds.

Pompey had raised a statue to him in gratitude, praising his generosity in the Senate. Milo had responded with an offer to rebuild the Via Appia, and Pompey had masked his delight at the man’s transparency, allowing him to place his name on the Porta Capena, where that road entered the city from the south. For the first time in more than a year, he felt that he had control of the city once again in his hands as the two men directed their energies more subtly, each as hungry as the other for recognition and acceptance. The new consuls were made aware of their precarious position and did nothing without first checking with their masters. It was stalemate and the private battles went on.

Pompey read the list of tribes Julius had smashed in the first battles of the spring, taking pleasure in the riveted stillness of the Senate. They listened with awe to the numbers of slaves that had been sent back over the Alps. The Remi had become vassals. The Nervii had been destroyed almost to the last man. The Belgae had been forced to give up their arms and surrender. The Atuatuci had been confined to a single walled town and then stormed. Fifty-three thousand had been sold back to the slave markets of Rome from that last tribe alone.

Pompey read Julius’s reports and even he could barely comprehend the hidden strife that lay behind the simple lines. Julius did nothing to sell his victories to the Senate, but the dry tone was all the more impressive for what it did not say. Pompey read it through to the concluding remarks, where Caesar commended the report to the Senate and estimated the yearly revenues in tax from the lands he had taken.

Not a sound could be heard in the Curia as Pompey reached the last line.

“‘I declare that Gaul has been pacified and will now submit to the lawful rule of Rome.’ ”

The Senate rose to their feet and cheered themselves hoarse in a spontaneous display, and Pompey had to raise his hand to quiet them.

When they had managed to restrain themselves, Pompey spoke, his voice filling the chamber.