elections could repair the damage of leaving his post. Nothing else is worth the risk he has taken, Regulus.’
His most senior centurion stood to attention as his general paced the floor. He had been loyal to him for more than twenty years and knew his moods as well as any man.
‘I am yours to command, sir,’ he said, staring straight ahead.
Pompey looked at him and what he saw seemed to satisfy him.
‘You are my right arm, Regulus, I know it. However, I need more than obedience if Caesar is not to inherit the city from my hands. I need ideas. Speak freely and fear nothing.’
Regulus relaxed slightly with the command. ‘Have you considered drafting a law to allow you to stand again? He could not take the post if you were the alternative.’
Pompey frowned. If he thought for a moment that such a thing was possible, he would have considered it. The Senate, even the citizens, would revolt against even the suggestion of a return to those old days. The irony of having helped to bring about the very restrictions that now held him was not wasted on him, but such thoughts brought him no closer to a solution.
‘It is not possible,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘Then we must plan for the future, sir,’ Regulus said.
Pompey stopped to look at him with hope in his eyes. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Regulus took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Let me join his legion. If there is ever a time when you need him to be stopped, you would have a sword close to him.’
Pompey rubbed his face as he considered the offer. Such loyalty, coupled with so violent a man. Though part of him was repelled by the thought of such a dishonourable course, he would be a fool to refuse a weapon for the years to come. Who knew what the future held, for any of them?
‘You would have to enlist in the ranks,’ Pompey said, slowly.
The centurion breathed hard as he saw his idea was not to be dismissed without a hearing.
‘That will be no hardship for me. My promotions came on the battlefield, from your hand. I have been there before.’
‘But your scars, they will know you for what you are,’ Pompey replied.
‘I will say I’m a mercenary. I can play the part easily enough. Let me get close to him, Consul. I am your man.’
Pompey considered, objections coming and going in his thoughts. He sighed. Politics was a practical business, after all.
‘It could be years, Regulus. Will you be missed?’
‘No, sir. I am alone.’
‘Then it is my order to you, Regulus. Go with my blessing.’
Regulus struggled to find words. ‘It … it is an honour, sir. I will be close to him if you call. I swear it.’
‘I know you will, Regulus. I will reward you when …’
‘It is not necessary, sir,’ Regulus said quickly, surprising himself. He would not usually have dared to interrupt the consul, but he wanted to give some sign that the trust was well placed. He was gratified when Pompey smiled.
‘If only I had more like you, Regulus. No man is better served than I.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Regulus replied, his chest swelling. He knew he faced years of hard discipline and reduced pay, but it worried him not at all.
Rome was never still, and as dawn came the vast space of the forum had filled with a shifting mass of citizens, constantly changing as currents moved through them. Fathers held children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the consuls, just to say they had seen the men who defeated Spartacus and saved the city.
To Julius, the crowd seemed faceless and intimidating. Should he stare into space as he spoke, or fix his gaze on one unfortunate citizen? He wondered if they would even hear him. They were silent for Pompey, but Julius didn’t doubt the consul had salted the crowd with his clients. If they shouted and jeered when Julius followed him, it would be a poor start to his candidacy. He went over and over the speech in his mind, praying he wouldn’t stumble or lose his place. There could be questions when he was finished, perhaps from men in the pay of the consuls. He could be humiliated. Carefully, Julius rested his damp palms on his knees, letting the cloth soak up the sweat that clung to them.
He sat on the raised platform with Crassus and Suetonius’ father without looking at either of them. They were listening attentively as Pompey made a witticism and held up his hands to quiet the laughter. There was no hesitation in him, Julius saw. Pompey’s skill as an orator could be read in the crowd’s reactions. They raised their faces to the consul almost in worship and Julius felt an awful tightness in his gut at the thought of being next to speak.
Pompey’s voice became grave as he recounted his service in the consular year and the crowd spattered applause. The military successes were interspersed with promises of free grain and bread, games and commemorative coins. Crassus stiffened slightly at the last. He wondered where Pompey would find the funds to have his face struck in silver. The worst of it was knowing the bribes were unnecessary. Pompey held the crowd, moving them to laughter and stern pride in moments. It was a masterful performance and when it finished, Julius stood and had to force a smile onto his face as Pompey stepped back and gestured to him. Julius gritted his teeth in annoyance at the outstretched hand, as if he was being brought to the front by a fatherly sponsor.
As they passed, Pompey spoke quietly to him. ‘No shields in cloaks, Julius? I thought you would have something prepared.’
Julius was forced to smile as if the words were some playful comment rather than a barb. Both of them remembered the trial he had won in that forum, where shields depicting scenes from Marius’ life were revealed to the crowd.
Pompey took his seat without another word, appearing calm and interested. Julius stepped close to the rostrum and paused for a moment, looking over the sea of faces. How many had gathered to hear the consuls give their yearly address? Eight thousand, ten? With the rising sun still hidden behind the temples that bordered the great square, the light was grey and cold as his gaze swept over them. Julius took a deep breath, willing his voice to be steady and strong from the first. It was important that they hear every word.
‘My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, nephew of Marius, who was consul seven times in Rome. I have written my name in the senate house for the same post. I do it not for the memory of that man, but to continue his work. Do you want to hear me make promises of coins and bread to be handed to you? You are not children to be offered pretty things for your loyalty. A good father does not spoil the child with gifts.’
Julius paused and began to relax. Every eye in the forum was on him and he felt the first touch of confidence since ascending the platform.
‘I have known those who break their backs growing wheat for your bread. There are no fortunes in feeding others, but they have pride and they are men. I have known many who fought without complaint for this city.
