The Death Of Kings

CHAPTER 43

Julius muttered his thanks as he was handed a bowl of warm stew. Covering the fields around him for as far as he could see, the soldiers of the Greek legions ate, the thin white snares of their cooking fires looping into the air. The ground was thick with mud and heavy clods stuck to their sandals and slowed them. Those who owned cloaks used them to sit on, turning the inside of the cloth down so the mud wouldn't show when they started again. Many more sat on whatever they could find, flat stones, coarse grass, or even a pile of loose hay that they'd spread around.

It would be a short break, Julius knew. The extraordinarii had come in early that morning from their scouting, and rumors flew around the men, even before the official word had come through the chain of command.

There was nothing good in the reports. Julius had been with Pompey when the general heard the slave army was coming north to meet them and not one of Crassus's eagle standards had been sighted. Pompey had raged at the rider who brought the news, demanding details he could not give. Wherever Crassus was, he had failed to hold the slaves against the sea. Julius wondered if he was still alive, but he could not bring himself to care particularly. He had seen so much of death. One more senator in this disastrous campaign would not make a difference.

Cabera wiped his fingers around his bowl and handed it back to the cook servants as they made their way through the vast encampment. There was never enough to eat, and by the time the bowls were passed out, much of it was as cold as the day. Around them, the men waited in that sleepwalking peace before a battle. None of them had fought the slaves before, but the usual chatter was absent. Somewhere to the south, it was easy to imagine a field like the one where they sat, littered with Roman bodies and crows.

Julius sighed as the rain started again. It would make the ground even softer. It didn't matter. It fitted his mood perfectly, the skies reflecting the depression that had settled on him. The picture of his wife's pale face and the torch-lit bed was as clear as if he were still seeing it in his mind. Tubruk, even Cato. It all seemed so terribly pointless. He'd loved the struggle in the begi

Julius dipped his fingers into the stew, pushing it into his mouth without tasting it. When Pelitas had died, he had wept, but there were no more tears in him for the others. He had no more lies for them, no more speeches. The grand lie had been that there was anything to fight for at all.

His father had seemed to see something worth saving in the Republic, but there was nothing left of that. There were just small men like Cato and Pompey, who saw no farther than their own glory. Visionless men, caring nothing for the things Tubruk had told him were important. Julius had believed what the great men had taught him, but they had all died for their dreams.

He reached down into the mud between his sprawled feet to trace a line with his finger. None of it was worth the death of one of them. Not Cornelia's, not Tubruk's, not any of the men he had led in Greece. They had followed him and given their lives without complaint. Well, he could do that, at least.

Of all the soldiers, Julius welcomed the battle to come. He would place himself in the front line for one last hour until it all finally stopped. He was tired of the Senate and tired of the path. It made him wince to think back to the day Marius had taken him into the building for the first time. He had been awed then at the heart of power. They had seemed so noble then, before he knew them too well to respect. He pulled his cloak against him as the wind built and heavier rain began to fall, spattering the mud around. Some of the men cursed, but most were quiet, making their peace with the gods before the killing began.

“Julius?” Cabera said, startling him out of his thoughts.

Julius turned to see the old man was holding his hands out toward him. He smiled as he saw what Cabera had made for him. It was a circlet of leaves, gathered from the bushes and wound about with thread from his robe.

“What's that for?” Julius said to him.

Cabera held it out, pressing it into his hands. “Put it on, boy. It's yours.”

Julius shook his head. “Not today, Cabera. Not here.”

“I made it for you, Julius. Please.”

They stood up together and Julius put out a hand to grip the back of the old man's neck.

“All right, old friend,” he said, letting out a long breath. He removed his helmet and pressed the ring of wet leaves onto his hair, feeling them prickle against his skin. Some of the men looked at him, but Julius didn't care. Cabera had been there through all of it and he didn't deserve to be waiting to die in a muddy field, far from his own home. Another one who would die at his side.

“I want you to stay away from the front line when they come, Cabera. Live through this one,” he said.

“Your path is mine, remember?” the old man said, his eyes gleaming in the rain. His white hair hung in thin strips over his face, and there was something so bedraggled about him that Julius chuckled.

Around the pair of them, men rose to their feet in silence. Julius raised his head sharply at the movement, thinking it was time to march, but they just stood and looked at him. More and more joined them as the word spread, until every one of them was standing. Plates were put down and cloaks left to grow wet as they faced him and the rain fell.

Wonderingly, Julius reached up to touch the circlet and he felt his heart lift. These were not small men. They gave their lives without caring, trusting their generals not to waste what they offered. They smiled and laughed as he caught their eyes and he felt again the bonds that held them together.

“We are Rome,” he whispered, and turned to see thousands standing for him. In that moment, he understood what held Tubruk to loyalty and his father's faith. He would turn his hand to the dream as better men had before him, and honor them with his life.

In the distance, cornicens sounded the long notes to break camp.

“Keep moving, my brothers,” Spartacus roared. It was the end, and somehow, there was no fear. His slaves had shown that the legions could be beaten, and he knew there would be a day when the cracks they had made would widen and Rome would fall. The legions behind them glittered in the morning sun, sending up a shout as Pompey's thousands marched down to them, faster and faster like jaws to crush the slaves between them. Spartacus saw his ragged slaves would be engulfed. He drew his sword and pulled his iron helmet over his face.

“My gods, we gave them a run, though,” he said to himself as the air darkened with spears.