As far south as they were, spring had come early and the trees were already beginning to bloom in the woods. No doubt Julius would be waiting impatiently for him in the north, and reluctantly Brutus knew it was time to be on his way. He would return to the rough company of his legionaries, though somehow the thought of it did not fill him with enthusiasm as it used to. Brutus positioned the wooden block he needed to mount, glancing stealthily around the open yard as he gathered the reins. Julia was not there and he felt Alexandria’s eyes on him as he looked for her.
A house slave opened the heavy gate and swung it wide so that they could see the track leading down to the main road into the city.
“There you are!” Clodia said. “I thought you were going to miss them leaving.”
Julia came out of the house and went around to all of them to say goodbye and accept their thanks as mistress of the house. Brutus watched closely as she and Alexandria exchanged a few words, but both women smiled and he could see no tension between them. He relaxed slightly as Julia came to him and reacted naturally as she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. He felt her tongue dart out against his lips for an instant, making him freeze in embarrassment. Her mouth tasted of honey.
“Come back,” she whispered as he shoved himself into the saddle, not daring to look at Alexandria. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head and knew his cheeks were flaming as he tried to pretend nothing had happened.
The children called and waved in a chorus as they began their journey to the city. Clodia had prepared packages of meat in boiled peppers for all of them, and one or two were already dipping greasy fingers into the cloth bags. Brutus cast one last glance at the estate he had known as a child and fixed it in his memory. When everything else in his life could twist out of all recognition, some things remained solid and gave him peace.
CHAPTER 38
The torches flickered on the gold crown of the Arverni as the priest held it up to the warriors. In his other hand, he held a golden torc that shimmered and twisted as it wound around his fingers.
The priest had daubed his body with blood and earth in long smears that made him seem part of the shadows in the temple. His chest was bare and his beard smoothed with clay into rough white spikes that quivered as he spoke.
“The old king is dead, Arverni. His body will be burnt, though his name and deeds continue in our mouths for all our years. He was a man, Arverni. His cattle numbered in thousands and his sword arm was strong to the end. He spread his seed wide to bring his sons into the world, and his wives tear their hair and skin in grief. We shall not see him again.”
The priest eyed the tribe who had packed themselves into the temple. It was a bitter night for him. For twenty years he had been the old king’s friend and counselor and shared his fear for the future when age and weakness had begun to steal his breath. Who amongst his sons had the strength to lead the tribe through such difficult times? The youngest, Brigh, was but a boy and the eldest was a blustering boaster, too weak where a king should be strong. Madoc would not be king.
The priest looked into the eyes of Cingeto as he stood there on the dark marble with his brothers. That one was warrior enough to lead them, but his temper was already famous amongst the Arverni. He had killed three men in duels before he reached his manhood day, and the old priest would have given anything for a few more years to see who he would become.
The words had to be spoken, though the priest felt a coldness in his heart as he drew breath.
“Which of you will take the crown from my hand? Which of you has earned the right to lead the Arverni?”
The three brothers exchanged glances and Brigh smiled and shook his head.
“This is not for me,” he said and took a pace back.
Cingeto and Madoc turned their blue eyes on each other and the silence became oppressive.
“I am the eldest son,” Madoc said at last, the high color of anger starting on his cheeks.
“Aye, but you’re not the man we need now,” Cingeto murmured softly. “Whoever takes the crown must prepare for war or see our tribe scattered.”
Madoc sneered. He was taller than his brother and he used his height to intimidate, looming over Cingeto.
“Do you see armies on our lands? You show me where they are. You point them out to me.” He spat the words at his brother, but Cingeto had heard them all before.
“They are coming. They have gone north, but they will come back into the heartlands soon enough. I have met their leader and he will not let us live out our lives. His taxmen have already robbed the Senones and sold thousands as slaves. They could not stop him and now their women cry in the fields. He must be fought, my brother. You are not the man to do it.”
Madoc sneered at him. “They were just Senones, brother. The Arverni are men. If they come to trouble us, we will ride them down.”
“Can you see no further than that?” Cingeto snapped. “You are blind, as the Senones were blind. I will make the Arverni a torch in the dark to gather in the other tribes. I will lead them against these Romans until they are swept out of Gaul. We cannot stand alone anymore.”
“You are too frightened of them to be a king, little brother,” Madoc said, showing his teeth.
Cingeto smashed a hand across Madoc’s mouth and forced him back a step.
“I will not see my people destroyed by you. If you will not yield to me, then I will have the crown by challenge.”
Madoc ran his tongue over his lips, tasting blood. His eyes became hard.
“As you wish, little brother. Fire and the gods watching… It is right.”
Both men turned back to the priest and he nodded.
“Bring the irons. It will be decided in fire.”
He prayed the gods would give courage to the right man to lead the Arverni through the dark days ahead.
Julius panted as he led his horse through the high pass. The air was thinner there, and though spring had come in the valleys, on the peaks the air hurt the lungs of even the fittest of them. Julius looked at Brutus ailing far below the century of the Tenth. He had lost much of his stamina in recovering from his wounds, and there were times when Julius thought they would have to leave him to come on later. Yet he stayed doggedly on their trail, riding whenever the pass leveled.
When he had first seen the dusty horseman come into Ariminum, Julius’s spirits had leapt to hear the latest news of the city. The cold formality of the report he received filled him with confusion. He had wanted to shake the man who limped into the house and spoke so distantly of his experiences. The old anger had washed over him as he listened, though he had not given way to it. Servilia had gone and the rift between them was his to mend.
Julius could recall a thousand times when he had used a few words, or a compliment, or even a nod to build the men around him. He felt only sadness when he realized his oldest friend needed the same harmless lies. It was one thing to clap a soldier on the back and see him stand a little taller. It was quite another to give up the honesty of his oldest friendship, and Julius had not yet acted on his decision. After the initial report, they had hardly spoken.
Julius’s thoughts turned to Regulus, who trudged at his side through the snow. He was one of those who formed the core of a legion. Some became little better than animals in the ranks of Rome, but men like Regulus never seemed to lose that last part of their humanity. They could show kindness to a woman or a child and then go to battle and fling away their lives for something more than themselves. There were senators who saw them only as killing tools, never men as they were, who could understand what Rome meant. The legionaries always used their votes in the elections when they had the chance. They wrote home and swore and pissed in the snow like any other, and Julius understood how Marius had loved them.