The Death of Kings

Varro Aemilanus welcomed the ragged officers into his house with a beaming smile. Although he had been retired from legion life for fifteen years, it was always a pleasure to see the young men the pirates left on his small stretch of coast. It reminded him of the world outside his village, distant enough not to trouble his peaceful life.

‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said, indicating couches that were thinly padded. They had been fine once, but time had taken the shine from the cloth, he noted with regret. Not that these soldiers would care, he thought as they took the places he indicated. Only two of them remained standing and he knew they would be the leaders. Such little tricks gave him pleasure.

‘Judging by the look of you, I’d say you have been ransomed by the pirates that infest this coastline,’ he said, his voice drenched in sympathy. He wondered what they would say if they knew that the pirate Celsus often came to the village to talk to his old friend and give him the news and gossip of the cities.

‘Yet this settlement is untouched,’ said the younger of the two.

Varro glanced sharply at him, noting the intense blue stare. One of the eyes had a wide, dark centre that seemed to look through his cheerful manner to the real man. Despite the beards, they all stood straighter and stronger than the miserable groups Celsus would leave nearby every couple of years. He cautioned himself to be careful, not yet sure of the situation. At least he had his sons outside, well armed and ready for his call. It paid to be careful.

‘Those they have ransomed are left along this coast. I’m sure they find it useful to have the men returned to civilisation to keep the ransoms coming in. What would you have us do? We are farmers here. Rome gave us the land for a quiet retirement, not to fight the pirates. That is the job of our galleys, I believe.’ He said the last with a twinkle in his eye, expecting the young man to smile or look embarrassed at failing in that task. The steady gaze never faltered and Varro found his good humour evaporating.

‘The settlement is too small for a bath-house, but there are a few private homes that will take you in and lend you razors.’

‘What about clothes?’ said the older of the two.

Varro realised he didn’t know their names and blinked. This was not the usual way of such conversations. The last group had practically wept to find a Roman in such a strange land, sitting on couches in a well-built stone house.

‘Are you the officer here?’ Varro asked, glancing at the younger man as he spoke.

‘I was the captain of Accipiter, but you have not answered my question,’ Gaditicus replied.

‘We do not have garments for you, I am afraid …’ Varro began.

The young man sprang at him, gripping his throat and pulling him out of his seat. He choked in horror and sudden fear as he was dragged over the table and pressed down onto it, looking up into those blue eyes that seemed to know all his secrets.

‘You are living in a fine house for a farmer,’ the voice hissed at him. ‘Did you think we wouldn’t notice? What rank were you? Who did you serve with?’

The grip lessened to let him speak and Varro thought of calling to his sons, but knew he didn’t dare with the man’s hand still on his throat.

‘I was a centurion, with Marius,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How dare you …’ The fingers tightened again and his voice was cut off. He could barely breathe.

‘Rich family, was it? There are two men outside, hiding. Who are they?’

‘My sons …’

‘Call them in here. They will live, but I’ll not be ambushed as we leave. You will die before they reach you if you warn them. My word on it.’

Varro believed him and called to his sons as soon as he had the breath. He watched in horror as the strangers moved quickly to the door, grabbing the men as they entered and stripping their weapons from them. They tried to shout, but a flurry of blows knocked them down.

‘You are wrong about us. We live a peaceful life here,’ Varro said, his voice almost crushed from him.

‘You have sons. Why haven’t they returned to Rome to join the armies like their fathers? What could hold them here but an alliance with Celsus and men like him?’

The young officer turned to the soldiers who held Varro’s sons.

‘Take them outside and cut their throats,’ he said.

‘No! What do you want from me?’ Varro said quickly.

The blue eyes fastened on his again.

‘I want swords and whatever gold the pirates pay you to be a safe place for them. I want clothes for the men and armour if you have it.’

Varro tried to nod, with the hand still on his neck.

‘You will have it all, though there’s not much coin,’ he said, miserably.

The grip tightened for a second.

‘Don’t play false with me,’ the young man said.

‘Who are you?’ Varro wheezed at him.

‘I am the nephew of the man you swore to serve until death. My name is Julius Caesar,’ he said quietly.

Julius let the man rise, keeping his face stern and forbidding while his spirits leapt in him. How long ago had Marius told him a soldier had to follow his instincts at times? From the first instant of walking into the peaceful village, noting the well-kept main street and the neat houses, he had known that Celsus would not have left it untouched without some arrangement. He wondered if all the villages along the coast would be the same and felt a touch of guilt for a moment. The city retired their legionaries to these distant coasts, giving them land and expecting them to fend for themselves, keeping peace with their presence alone. How else could they survive without bargaining with the pirates? Some of them might have fought at first, but they would have been killed and those that followed had no choice.

He looked over to Varro’s sons and sighed. Those same retired legionaries had children who had never seen Rome, providing new men for the pirate ships when they came. He noted the dark skin of the pair, their features a mingling of Africa and Rome. How many of these would there be, knowing nothing of their fathers’ loyalties? They could never be farmers any more than he could, with a world to see.

Varro rubbed his neck as he watched Julius and tried to guess at his thoughts, his spirits sinking as he saw the strange eyes come to rest on his beloved sons. He feared for them. He could feel the anger in the young officer even now.

‘We never had a choice,’ he said. ‘Celsus would have killed us all.’

‘You should have sent messages to Rome, telling them about the pirates,’ Julius replied distantly, his thoughts elsewhere.

Varro almost laughed. ‘Do you think the Republic cares what happens to us? They make us believe in their dreams while we are young and strong enough to fight for them, but when that is all gone, they forget who we are and go back to convincing another generation of fools, while the Senate grow richer and fatter off the back of lands we have won for them. We were on our own and I did what I had to.’

There was truth in his anger and Julius looked at him, taking in the straighter bearing.

‘Corruption can be cut out,’ he said. ‘With Sulla in control, the Senate is dying.’

Varro shook his head slowly.

‘Son, the Republic was dying long before Sulla came along, but you’re too young to see it.’

Varro collapsed back into his seat, still rubbing his throat. When Julius looked away from him, he found all the officers of Accipiter watching him, waiting patiently.

‘Well, Julius?’ Pelitas said quietly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We gather what we need and move on to the next village, then the next. These people owe us for letting the pirates thrive in their midst. I do not doubt there are many more like this one,’ he replied, indicating Varro.

‘You think you can keep doing this?’ Suetonius said, horrified at what was happening.

‘Of course. Next time, we will have swords and good clothes. It will not be so hard.’

CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_b7ab67bf-0b28-538c-afe9-f4fe191ced94)

Tubruk swung the axe smoothly into the cut in the dying oak. A sliver of healthy wood jolted out under the blow, but the dead branches showed it was time for the old tree to come down. It wouldn’t be long until he reached the heartwood and he was sure the core was rotten. He had been working for more than an hour and sweat plastered his linen bracae to him. He had removed his tunic after warming up and felt no need for it, despite the breeze that blew through the woods. The drying perspiration cooled him and he felt at peace. It was difficult not to think about the problems of running the estate after the ransom payment, but he pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating on the swing and strike of the heavy iron blade.