Brutus moved around the sweating oxen and threw back the covering on the cart, revealing two heavy chests. He opened one and whistled softly at the gold coins within.
“Your master places a high value on his son's worth to Primigenia,” he said.
The soldier looked impassively at the vast wealth he had revealed. “The blood of Cato is without price. This is just a token. Is Germinius here?”
“You know he is,” Brutus replied, tearing his gaze away from the gold. It would be quickly swallowed by what he owed to Crassus, but it was a huge amount to turn down, nonetheless. He looked at Renius, who shrugged, knowing it had to be Brutus's decision. It would be easy to unlock the door of Germinius's room and hand him over. Rome would appreciate the beauty of such a move, and Brutus would be known as an astute bargainer to have brought Cato to this position. He sighed. Legionaries were not the property of their commanders, to be bought and sold.
“Take it back,” he said, taking a last, wistful look at the gold. “Thank your master for the gesture and tell him his son will be well treated. There should be no enemies here, but Germinius took the oath and it cannot be broken except by death.”
The soldier inclined his head stiffly. “I will bear the message, but my master will be most displeased that you cannot see a way to end this unfortunate mistake. Good night, gentlemen.”
The gates were opened again and without another word the small party of guards trundled out into the darkness, the cattle lowing mournfully as their driver poked and prodded them to turn their backs on the estate.
“I would have taken the gold,” Renius said as the gates closed.
“No, you wouldn't, old friend. And neither could I,” Brutus replied. In silence, he wondered what Cato would do when he heard.
Pompey called for his daughters as he walked into his home on Aventinus hill. The house was filled with the scent of hot bread, and he took a deep appreciative breath as he went through into the gardens, looking for them. After a long day of reports on the continuing offensive against Mithridates, he was exhausted. If it hadn't been so desperately important, the situation would have been almost farcical. After weeks of debate, the Senate had finally allowed two generals to take their legions to Greece. As far as Pompey could see, they had chosen the least able and least ambitious of any of the men under Senate command. The reasoning was all too clear, but such cautious generals had advanced slowly into the mainland, unwilling to take even the smallest risk. Painstakingly, they had encircled small settlements, laid siege if necessary, and moved on. It made Pompey want to spit.
He had wanted the command of a legion himself, but that desire instantly raised the hackles of the Sullans and they had voted down his appointment in a block the moment his name had appeared on the lists. The struggle to protect their careers at the expense of the city was an obscene display, as far as Pompey was concerned, yet they had forced him into line. If he raised a force of “volunteers” himself, with Crassus making the purse, he knew they'd declare him an enemy of the Republic before he'd reached the ships. Daily, the frustration grew as the reports revealed an almost complete lack of achievement. They hadn't even found the main army yet.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose to relieve some of the pressure. It was cool in the gardens, at least, though the breezes failed to calm his temper. To have the robe of the Senate gripped by such small dogs! Angry little terriers with no imagination and no sense of glory. Shopkeepers, and Rome was run by them.
Pompey walked slowly through the gardens, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, lost in thought. Gradually, he felt the tensions of the day disperse. For years, it had been his habit to break the working day from his home life with a short stroll in the peaceful gardens. Refreshed, he could join his family at the evening meal and laugh and play with his daughters, the miserable Senate forgotten until the new dawn.
He almost missed the body of his youngest girl, lying facedown in the bushes near the outer wall. When his eyes glanced that way, he began a smile of recognition, expecting her to leap up and embrace him. She loved to surprise him as he came home, dissolving into fits of laughter as he jumped in shock.
He saw blood on her dress in dark brown stains and his face went slowly slack, drooping in a grief he couldn't begin to resist.
“Laura? Come on, girl, get up now.”
Her skin was very white and he could see a butcher's cut where her neck met the patterned cloth of her child's dress.
“Come on, darling, up you get,” he whispered.
Someone crossed to her and sat down in the damp leaves by her small limbs.
He stroked her hair for a long time as the sun set and the shadows lengthened slowly around them. He knew vaguely that he should be calling for help, shouting, crying, but he didn't want to leave her, even for the time it would take to summon his wife. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders in the summer and the way she would copy everything he said in her high, clear voice. He had sat with her through teething fevers and sickness and now he was with her for the last of it, gently murmuring to her, tugging the collar of the dress higher to cover the red-lipped wound that was the only bright color of her.
After a time, he stood and walked stiffly into his house. Time passed and a woman screamed in grief.
CHAPTER 26
Mithridates looked out into the dawn mists, wondering if another attack would come. He pulled his heavy cloak around his shoulders and shivered, telling himself it was just the morning cold. It was hard not to feel despair.
The night attacks had grown in daring and hardly anyone slept easily in the sprawling camp anymore. Each evening, they would decide the sentries with lots, and those who were chosen would turn their red-rimmed eyes to each other and shrug, already expecting death. If it did not come, they would walk back into the protection of the main camp with a return of confidence that would last until they next took the wrong token from the pot as it was passed around.
Too often they did not return. Hundreds of sentries missed the roll call each dawn. Mithridates was sure more than half were quietly deserting him, but it looked as if the camp was surrounded by an invisible enemy who could pick and choose each kill at a whim. Some of the sentries were found with arrow wounds, the barbs carefully taken from their flesh to be used again. It did not seem to matter how many men stood watch together, or where he placed them, each day brought fewer men back into the camp.
The king glared into the damp mist that seemed to clog his lungs with winter cold. Some of his men believed they were being attacked by the ghosts of old battles, spreading tales of ancient white-bearded warriors glimpsed for a moment before they disappeared, silently. Always in silence.
Mithridates began to pace along the line of his men. As exhausted as their king, they nonetheless had their weapons ready and stood alertly waiting for the mist to lift. He tried to smile at them and lift their morale, but it was hard. The impotence of having lives whittled away for week after week had taken the heart out of too many of his men. He shuddered again and cursed the white mist that seemed to linger over the tents while the rest of the world woke. Sometimes he thought if he could just find a horse and ride quickly away, he would break into sunshine and look back to see only the valley covered in the shroud.
A body lay untouched between tents. The king paused and looked down at it, angry and ashamed that the young warrior had not been buried. That, even more than the listless stares of his men, told him how far things had gone since they first staked the hills and toasted success and the destruction of Rome. How he hated that name.