Julius clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. “Think yourself lucky. They used to call my uncle's men ‘Marius's mules' for the weight they could bear.”

Gaditicus grunted in reply, shifting his heavy pack to ease his muscles. The legs had the worst of it. Many of the veterans had huge calves, showing a strength built over years of marching. Gaditicus made a silent oath that he would not call his cohort to rest until Julius did or one of his veterans dropped. He wasn't sure which was more likely.

Julius began lengthening his stride through the ranks up to the front. He felt as if he could march all day and night and the Romans at his back would follow him. Behind, the city dwindled into the distance.

CHAPTER 23

A lifetime of fighting in foreign lands did not make for soft men, Julius reflected as he marched on toward the end of the second day, half blinded with dust and sweat. If the veterans had let themselves go in their retirement, he doubted they could have matched the eager pace of the younger men. It looked as if the hard labor of clearing land for farming had kept them strong, though some of them seemed made of sinew and skin under their old armor. Their leather tunics were cracked and brittle after so long lying in chests, but the iron straps and plates of their armor gleamed with oil and polish. They could call themselves farmers, but the speed with which they had responded to his summons showed their true natures. They had once been the most disciplined killers in the world, and every stride of the long march brought back something of their old fire. It showed in their posture and their eyes as the enthusiasm for war was rekindled. They were men for whom retirement was the death, who felt most alive in the camaraderie of soldiers, when they could spend their fading energies in sudden blows and the dry-mouthed terror of meeting the enemy charge.

Julius carried an old shield on his back, torn from its hangings over someone's door by Quertorus. It was prevented from chafing against his shoulder blades by a heavy waterskin that gurgled musically with every step. Like the others from the galleys, he felt the lack of fitness that comes from having your movements restricted to a deck, but his lungs were clear and there was no trace of the shuddering fits that had plagued him since the head wound. He didn't dare to dwell on them, but he still worried at what would become of his authority if they started again. There was nowhere private on a forced march.

For most of the first day, Julius had set a comfortable pace. They had too few men to risk losing more of the veterans than was inevitable, and they had all made it to the first camp. Julius had used the younger men for sentry duty, and none of them had complained, though Suetonius had clearly bitten back a comment before taking his post with surly obedience. There were times when Julius would have been happy to have him flogged and left on the trail, but he held his temper. He knew he had to form bonds with the men. Bonds that would be strong enough to withstand the first hectic moments of battle. They had to see him as he had once seen Marius-a man to follow into hell.

On the second day, Julius had matched pace with Gaditicus at the front of the two cohorts for most of the morning. They had little breath for discussion, but they agreed to take turns at the head, allowing the other to drift back among the units, assessing weaknesses and strengths. For Julius, the trips back were valuable, and it was during them that he had begun to see the light of excitement even in the expressions of the weakest of his men. They had shrugged off the petty laws and restrictions of city life, returning to the simplest world they had ever known.

Julius had marched abreast of a line about halfway back in Ventulus cohort for the best part of an hour. One of the veterans had caught his attention, the only one he passed not to meet his eye. The man had to have been one of the oldest there, hidden from easy sight by the bulk of the soldiers around him, which Julius guessed could be deliberate. Instead of a helmet, he wore the ragged skin of an old lion that covered his entire head and ended in a neatly sliced line at his shoulders. The dead cat's eyes were dark, sunken holes, and like its owner, the headgear looked too far gone to be useful. The old man marched while staring straight ahead, his eyes screwed up to wrinkled slits against the dust. Julius examined him with interest, taking in the hard lines of sinew that stood out in his neck and the swollen knuckles of his hands that looked more like clubs of bone than fingers. Though the veteran kept his mouth pursed shut, it was obvious from his sunken cheeks that there were few teeth left in the old jaw. Julius wondered what spirit could keep such an ancient marching through the miles, always staring toward a destination neither of them could see.

As noon approached and Julius was ready to call a halt for food and an hour of blessed rest, he saw the man develop a limp in his left leg and noted the knee had swollen in the short time he had been with him. He bellowed the halt and the Wolves crashed to a stop in two paces, together.

As Quertorus collected the cooking equipment, Julius found the old man sitting with his back to a stunted tree. His seamed face tightened as he bound the weak knee in a strip of cloth, winding on so many layers that it could hardly bend at all. He had removed the lion-head skin, placing it carefully to one side. His hair was wispy and gray, sticking to him in sweaty strands.

“What's your name?” Julius asked him.

The old man spoke as he wound the cloth, testing the movement and grunting in discomfort with each try. “Most of them call me Cornix, the old crow. I'm a hunter, a trapper in the forests.”

“I have a friend who could ease that knee for you. A healer. He's probably older than you are,” Julius said quietly.

Cornix shook his head. “Don't need him. This knee's taken me on a lot of campaigns. It will last one more.”

Julius didn't insist, impressed by the stubbornness of the man. Without another word, he fetched some of the warm bread and bean stew that Quertorus had heated through. It would be their last hot meal as they drew within scouting range of Mithridates and couldn't risk smoke being seen. Cornix took it, nodding his thanks.

“Strange sort of commander, you are,” he said through mouthfuls, “bringing me food.”

Julius watched him eat without replying for a moment.

“I'd have thought you would have left soldiering behind you. It must be, what, twenty years since you were with a legion?”

“More like thirty, and you know it,” the man replied, smiling to reveal a mash of unchewed bread. “Still miss it sometimes.”

“Do you have a family?” Julius asked, still wondering why the man wasn't safe in the hills instead of breaking the last of his strength with the others.

“They moved north and my wife died. Just me now.”

Julius stood and looked down at the placidly chewing figure, watching him wince as he flexed the bound knee. Julius's gaze strayed to where Cornix had rested his shield and sword against the tree, and the old man followed his eyes, choosing to answer the unspoken question.

“I can still use it, don't you worry.”

“You'll need to. They say Mithridates has a great host of an army.”

Cornix sniffed disdainfully. “Yes, they always say that.” He finished a mouthful of the stew and took a long pull from his waterskin. “Are you going to ask me, then?”

“Ask you what?” Julius replied.

“I could see it was eating you up all the time you was marching near me. What's a man of my age doing going to war? That was it, wasn't it? You were wondering if I could even lift that old sword of mine, I'd guess.”