to coat his throat in a thick layer. The sound of hooves brought people out from the isolated farmhouses to watch suspiciously until he was off their land. They were as dark and hard as the ground they worked. By blood, they were more Greek than Roman, the remnants of an older empire. No one called to him and he wondered if they ever thought of the great city to the north. Somehow, he doubted it. Rome was another world to them.
He stopped at a small well and tied the reins to a stunted tree. He looked for some way of reaching the water, his gaze resting on a tiny house of white stone nearby. There was a man there, watching him from the comfort of a rough bench by his door. A small dog sat and panted at his feet, too hot to bark at the stranger.
Brutus glanced impatiently at the sun. ‘Water?’ he called, holding cupped hands to his mouth and miming drinking.
The man regarded him steadily, his eyes taking in every detail of the armour and uniform. ‘You can pay?’ he said. The accent was hard, but Brutus understood him.
‘Where I am from, we do not ask payment for a few cups of water,’ he snapped.
The man shrugged and, rising, began to move towards his door.
Brutus glared at his back. ‘How much?’ he demanded, reaching for his purse.
The farmer cracked his knuckles slowly as he considered. ‘Sesterce,’ he said at last.
It was too much, but Brutus only nodded and dug savagely amongst his coins. He passed one over and the man examined it as if he had all the time in the world. Then he disappeared into the house and returned with a stitched leather bucket and a length of rope.
Brutus reached for it and the man jerked away with surprising speed. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, walking past him towards the dusty well.
His dog struggled to its feet and wandered after him, pausing only to bare yellow teeth in Brutus’ direction. Brutus wondered if the civil war would touch these people. He doubted it. They would go on scratching a living out of the thin soil and if once in a while they saw a soldier riding past, what did that matter to them?
He watched the farmer bring up the bucket and hold it for the horse to drink, all at the same infuriatingly slow speed. At last, it was passed to Brutus and he gulped greedily. The cool liquid spilled down his chest in lines as he gasped and wiped his mouth. The man watched him without curiosity as he took his waterskin from the saddle.
‘Fill this,’ he said.
‘A sesterce,’ the man replied, holding out his hand.
Brutus was appalled. So much for honest country farmers. ‘Fill the skin or your dog goes down the well,’ Brutus said, gesturing with the sagging bag.
The animal responded to his tone by pulling its lips back in another miserable show of teeth. Brutus was tempted to draw his sword but knew how ridiculous it would look. There wasn’t a trace of fear in the farmer or his mongrel and Brutus had the unpleasant suspicion that the man would laugh at the threat. Under the pressure of the open hand, Brutus swore and dug out another coin. The skin was filled with the same slow care and Brutus tied it to his saddle, not trusting himself to speak.
When he was mounted, he looked down, ready to end the conversation with some biting comment. To his fury, the farmer was already walking away, winding the rope around his arm in neat loops. Brutus considered calling to him, but before he could think of anything, the man had disappeared into his house and the small yard was as still as he had found it. Brutus dug in his heels and rode for Tarentum, the water sloshing and gurgling behind him.
As he headed out of the valley, he caught his first scent of a salt breeze, though it was gone as soon as he had recognised it. It was only another hour of hard riding before the great blue expanse came into sight. As it always had, it lifted his spirits, though he searched in vain for a speck that would mean the galley was out. Seneca and his men would be marching behind him and he did not want to have to dash their hopes when they finally arrived at the port.
The land grew harsher before the coast, with steep tracks where he was forced to lead his horse or risk falling. In such an empty place, he thought it safe enough to remove his armour and the breeze cooled his sweat deliciously as he strode panting up the last slope and looked at the little town below.
The galley was there, at the end of a thin pier that looked as rickety as the rest of the place. Brutus thanked all the gods he could think of and patted his mount’s neck excitedly before taking a long drink from the skin. The land seemed to suck the moisture out of him and the sun was fierce, but he didn’t care. He mounted again with a whoop and began to trot down the hill. Pompey would understand his value, he thought. Letters would be sent to all the legions mentioning the Gaul general who had chosen honour and the Senate over Caesar. They knew nothing of his past except what he would tell them and he would be careful not to boast or to reveal his old mistakes. It would be a new start, a new life and, eventually, he would go to war against his oldest friend. The sun seemed darker at that thought, but he shrugged it off. The choice was made.
The sun was going down by the time Seneca arrived with his two cohorts. The bustle aboard the galley had increased as the soldiers and crew made ready to sail. It was a relief to see Brutus talking to an officer on the wooden pier and Seneca realised how much he had been depending on the man.
He halted the cohorts, painfully aware of the scrutiny of the galley crew as they coiled ropes and heaved the last of the fresh-water barrels up the planking and into the hold. This time, his salute was as perfect as he could make it and both men turned to him.
‘Reporting, sir,’ Seneca said.
Brutus nodded. He seemed angry and a glance at the galley captain told Seneca he had interrupted an argument.
‘Captain Gaditicus, this is Livinius Seneca, my second in command,’ Brutus said, formally.
The captain didn’t bother to look his way and Seneca felt a surge of dislike amidst the pleasure at his new title.
‘There is no conflict here, Captain,’ Brutus continued. ‘You were heading for Ostia to pick up men such as these. What does it matter if you cross to Greece from here?’
The captain scratched his chin and Seneca saw the man was unshaven and looked exhausted.
‘I was not aware that Caesar had come back to Rome. I should wait for orders from the city before …’
‘The Senate and Pompey gave you orders to join them, sir,’ Brutus interrupted. ‘I should not have to tell you your duty. Pompey ordered these men to Ostia. We would be with him now if we had not been forced to cut across country. Pompey will not be pleased if you delay my arrival.’
The captain glared at him.
‘Don’t flaunt your connections, General. I have served Rome for thirty years and I knew Caesar when he was just a young officer. I have friends in power I can call on.’
‘I don’t recall him mentioning your name when I served with him in Gaul,’ Brutus snapped.
Gaditicus blinked. He had lost that particular contest. ‘I should have known from the armour,’ he said slowly, looking at Brutus in a new light. ‘But you’re going to fight for Pompey?’
‘I am doing my duty. Do yours,’ Brutus said, his temper fraying visibly. He had had about enough of the opposition that seemed to spring up at every stage of this endless day.
