nodded.
‘I thought so; he did something similar for me, when I was wounded. He is certainly a useful man to have around.’
‘I am glad he's staying with you. He has faith in your future. He should be able to keep you alive until I can come back, covered in glory and draped with beautiful women, all of whom will be the winners of foot-races.’
‘I might not recognise you underneath all that glory and those women.’
‘I'll be the same. I'm sorry I'll miss the Triumph tomorrow. It should really be something special. You know he has had silver coins printed with his face? He's going to throw them to the crowds in the streets.’
Gaius laughed. ‘Typical of my uncle. He likes to be recognised. He enjoys fame more than winning battles, I think. He's already paying the men with those coins so the money gets spread around Rome even faster. It should annoy Sulla at least, which is probably what he really wants.’
Cabera and Renius came out of the darkness and took up the spaces on Marcus' bench.
‘There you are!’ Renius said. ‘I was beginning to think I couldn't find you to say goodbye.’
Gaius noted again the fresh strength of the man. He looked no more than forty, or a well-preserved forty-five. His grip was like a trap as he put out his hand and Gaius took it.
‘We'll all meet again,’ Cabera said.
They looked at him.
He held his palms up and smiled. ‘It's not a prophecy, but I feel it. We haven't finished our paths yet.’
‘I'm glad you're staying, at least. With Tubruk back at the estate and these two off to Greece, I would be all on my own here,’ Gaius said, smiling a little shyly.
‘You look after him, you old scoundrel,’ Renius said. ‘I didn't go to all the trouble of training him to hear he's been kicked by a horse. Keep him away from bad women and too much drink.’ He turned to Gaius and held up a finger. ‘Train every day. Your father never let himself become soft and neither should you if you are to be of any use to our city.’
‘I will. What are you going to do when you have delivered Marcus?’
Renius' face darkened for a second.
‘I don't know. I don't have the funds to retire any more, so we'll see … It is in the hands of the gods as always.’
For a moment, they all looked a little sad. Nothing ever stayed the same.
‘Come on,’ he continued, gruffly. ‘Time for sleep. Dawn can't be more than a few hours away and we all have a long day ahead of us.’
They shook hands in silence for the last time and returned to their tents.
When Gaius awoke the following morning, Marcus and Renius were gone.
By him, folded carefully, was the toga virilis, a man's garment. He looked at it for a long time, trying to recall Tubruk's lessons on the correct way to wear one. A boy's tunic was so much simpler, and the low toga hem would become dirty very quickly. The message was clear in its simplicity: a man did not climb trees and throw himself through muddy rivers. Boyish pursuits were to be put behind him.
In daylight, the large ten-man tents could be seen stretching into the distance, the orderly lines showing the discipline of the men and their general. Marius had spent most of the month mapping out a six-mile route along the streets that ended, as before, at the Senate steps. The filth had been scrubbed from the stones of the roads, but they were still narrow, winding courses and the legion could get only six men or three horses across. There were going to be just under eleven hundred rows of soldiers, horses and equipment. After a lot of argument with his engineers, Marius had agreed to leave his siege weapons at the camp – there was just no way to get them around the tight corners. The estimate was that it would take three hours to complete the march and that was without hold-ups or mistakes of any kind.
By the time Gaius had washed, dressed and eaten, the sun was clear of the horizon and the great shining mass of soldiers was in position and almost ready to march. Gaius had been told to dress in a full toga and sandals and to leave his weapons in the camp. After so long carrying a legionary's tools, he felt a little defenceless without them, but obeyed.
Marius himself would be riding on a throne set atop a flat open carriage, pulled by a team of six horses. He would wear a purple toga, a colour that could only be worn by a general at the head of a Triumph. The dye was incredibly expensive, gathered from rare seashells and distilled. It was a garment to wear only once, and the colour of the ancient kings of Rome.
As he passed under the city gates, a slave would raise a gilded laurel wreath above his head and hold it there for the rest of the journey. Four words had to be whispered throughout the Triumph, cheerfully ignored by Marius: ‘Remember thou art mortal.’
The carriage had been put together by the legion engineers, made to fit perfectly between the street stepping stones. The heavy wooden wheels were shod with an iron band and the axles freshly greased. The main body had been gilded and shone in the morning sun as if made of pure gold.
As Gaius approached, the general was inspecting his troops, his expression serious. He spoke to many of the men and they answered him without moving their gaze from the middle distance.
At last, the general seemed satisfied and climbed up onto the carriage.
‘The people of our city will not forget this day. The sight of you will inspire the children to join the forces that keep us all safe. Foreign ambassadors will watch us and be cautious in their dealings with Rome, with the vision of our ranks always in their minds. Merchants will watch us and know there is something more in the world than making money. Women will watch us and compare their little husbands to the best of Rome! See your reflections in the eyes as we pass. You will give the people something more than bread and coin today; you will give them glory.’
The men cheered at the last and Gaius found himself cheering as well. He walked to the throned carriage and Marius saw him.
‘Where shall I stand, Uncle?’ he asked.
‘Up here, lad. Stand at my right shoulder, so that they will know you are beloved of my house.’
Gaius grinned and clambered on, taking position. He could see into the far distance from his new height and felt a thrill of anticipation.
Marius dropped his arm and horns sounded, echoing down the line to the far back. The legionaries took their first step on the hard-packed soil.
On each side of the great gold carriage, Gaius recognised faces from the first bloody trip to the Senate. Even on a day of rejoicing, Marius had his hand-picked men with him. Only a fool would risk a thrown knife with the legion in the streets; they would destroy the city in rage – but Marius had warned his men that there were always fools, and there were no smiles in the ranks.
‘To be alive on such a day is a precious gift of the gods,’ Marius said, his voice carrying.
Gaius nodded and rested his hand on the throne.
‘There are six hundred thousand people in the city and not one of them will be tending his business today. They have already begun lining the streets
