across to the doorway and paused. Looking back, he saw the hurt in her expression and his heart urged a return to her side, but he hardened himself to speak. ‘We must forget this ever happened. For both our sakes. Even our friendship is risk enough. This...’ He shook his head. ‘This is nothing less than suicide, Portia. It must never happen again.’
Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.
10
As the mud-spattered officers began to arrive for the evening briefing, Marcus set out the waxed tablets and an ivory stylus on the small table to the side of the tent. Overhead a light rain pattered on the goatskin, and in the distance thunder rumbled occasionally. Caesar had sent for all the tribunes and senior centurions he had chosen for the campaign. The tribunes were all young men in finely spun tunics and cloaks, whereas the centurions had a far greater age range. The youngest were in their late twenties and the oldest had lined faces, some bearing the scars of many years of campaigning across the Roman Empire. They were the backbone of the legions, tough soldiers who could be counted on to spearhead the attacks, and be the last men to retreat.
Men like Titus, thought Marcus fondly.
‘Don’t I know you?’
Marcus looked round to see a muscular youth in his late teens staring at him. He had fair hair, cropped short and already thinning about the temples. His raw good looks would soon be undermined by premature baldness, Marcus decided. He recognized him at once, even though it had been months since their first and last encounter in Rome. It was Quintus Pompeius, Portia’s husband. Marcus had disliked the look of him even then, a feeling that had intensified with his awareness of Portia’s unhappiness.
‘It’s possible. I am part of Caesar’s household. I serve as his scribe now.’
‘Ah, I suppose that’s it.’ The youth nodded doubtfully. ‘But I think there’s something else about you I can’t quite place. Incidentally, you should refer to me as “master” when you address me, slave.’
‘I am not a slave,’ Marcus replied coldly, fighting back his anger. ‘I have been freed by Caesar.’
‘Have you?’ Quintus looked disappointed. ‘Well, you should not get ideas above your station. I’m a tribune. You should address me as “sir”. Is that understood, scribe?’
Yes ... sir,’ Marcus replied with the slightest dip of his head.
‘I’d advise you to show me the proper respect from now on.’ Quintus tucked his thumbs into his belt and stuck his elbows out. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Why, have you forgotten?’ Marcus asked innocently. Quintus frowned, and his eyes widened as he realized that he was being mocked. He drew himself up to his full height, a head above Marcus. ‘I am Quintus Pompeius. That name should mean something even to a common little dolt like you, scribe. I also happen to be related to Caesar by marriage, so I’d watch your step if I were you.’
He glared briefly at Marcus, then strode off to join the other junior tribunes sitting together in the front row of benches set up for the officers. They talked and laughed loudly among themselves, ignoring the disapproving expressions on the faces of the centurions and some of the senior tribunes. Marcus was certain that Titus would have been equally unimpressed by the young men.
There was a short delay after the last of the officers had taken his seat, then a burly figure with tightly curled grey hair entered the tent and called out in a loud, deep voice, ‘Commanding officer present!’
At once all the talking stopped and everyone in the tent quickly rose to their feet as Caesar entered and strode over to a parchment map that hung on a wooden frame. He stood to one side and nodded to the veteran who had announced him. ‘Thank you, Camp Prefect.’
The older man remained on his feet by the entrance to
Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.
10
As the mud-spattered officers began to arrive for the evening briefing, Marcus set out the waxed tablets and an ivory stylus on the small table to the side of the tent. Overhead a light rain pattered on the goatskin, and in the distance thunder rumbled occasionally. Caesar had sent for all the tribunes and senior centurions he had chosen for the campaign. The tribunes were all young men in finely spun tunics and cloaks, whereas the centurions had a far greater age range. The youngest were in their late twenties and the oldest had lined faces, some bearing the scars of many years of campaigning across the Roman Empire. They were the backbone of the legions, tough soldiers who could be counted on to spearhead the attacks, and be the last men to retreat.
Men like Titus, thought Marcus fondly.
‘Don’t I know you?’
Marcus looked round to see a muscular youth in his late teens staring at him. He had fair hair, cropped short and already thinning about the temples. His raw good looks would soon be undermined by premature baldness, Marcus decided. He recognized him at once, even though it had been months since their first and last encounter in Rome. It was Quintus Pompeius, Portia’s husband. Marcus had disliked the look of him even then, a feeling that had intensified with his awareness of Portia’s unhappiness.
‘It’s possible. I am part of Caesar’s household. I serve as his scribe now.’
‘Ah, I suppose that’s it.’ The youth nodded doubtfully. ‘But I think there’s something else about you I can’t quite place. Incidentally, you should refer to me as “master” when you address me, slave.’
‘I am not a slave,’ Marcus replied coldly, fighting back his anger. ‘I have been freed by Caesar.’
‘Have you?’ Quintus looked disappointed. ‘Well, you should not get ideas above your station. I’m a tribune. You should address me as “sir”. Is that understood, scribe?’
Yes ... sir,’ Marcus replied with the slightest dip of his head.
‘I’d advise you to show me the proper respect from now on.’ Quintus tucked his thumbs into his belt and stuck his elbows out. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Why, have you forgotten?’ Marcus asked innocently. Quintus frowned, and his eyes widened as he realized that he was being mocked. He drew himself up to his full height, a head above Marcus. ‘I am Quintus Pompeius. That name should mean something even to a common little dolt like you, scribe. I also happen to be related to Caesar by marriage, so I’d watch your step if I were you.’
He glared briefly at Marcus, then strode off to join the other junior tribunes sitting together in the front row of benches set up for the officers. They talked and laughed loudly among themselves, ignoring the disapproving expressions on the faces of the centurions and some of the senior tribunes. Marcus was certain that Titus would have been equally unimpressed by the young men.
There was a short delay after the last of the officers had taken his seat, then a burly figure with tightly curled grey hair entered the tent and called out in a loud, deep voice, ‘Commanding officer present!’
At once all the talking stopped and everyone in the tent quickly rose to their feet as Caesar entered and strode over to a parchment map that hung on a wooden frame. He stood to one side and nodded to the veteran who had announced him. ‘Thank you, Camp Prefect.’
The older man remained on his feet by the entrance to
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