The Blood of Gods A Novel of Rome - By Conn Iggulden Page 0,127

for a moment, rubbing weariness out of them with his thumbs. He could not say it had been a good life, not really. He’d had some good days, that was all.

‘Stop thinking like a legionary, Menas. It’s time to run for the coves we know.’

Menas nodded. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said.

He gave the orders and the battered galleys began to row south towards Sicily.

Maecenas was staring into the distance as the two fleets formed up. Agrippa knew by then that they’d lost only twenty galleys, though it still weighed on him like a failure. His harpax weapons had proved both deadly and effective in the battle and the double corvus bridges and expert sword crews had done the rest.

‘They are retreating … that way,’ Maecenas said.

Agrippa came to stand by his shoulder.

‘South, it’s south,’ he said. His voice was drained of any pride by then, almost too weary to speak at all.

‘Will you follow?’ Maecenas asked.

‘I have to. They are heading the way I want to go. I don’t mind losing another day to chase them down and burn the rest of them. They can’t outrun us now.’

‘You think we can do it again, against Sextus Pompey?’ Maecenas asked.

Agrippa looked around him. A dozen ships nearby were burning, avoided by his galleys as they feared burning sparks and ashes setting their own craft on fire. Others had turned over and could not be salvaged, but there were many more waiting to be taken, their crews slaughtered.

‘Given a month to make repairs and to gather new crews for the ships we haven’t burned, yes, Maecenas, I think we can do it again. We have to.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Brutus smiled. It was one of the many benefits of a young wife, he’d found. Not only did he feel a greater urge to keep lean and fit rather than surrender to age, but Portia lacked the cynicism that had been battered into him over the years of his life. She laughed more easily than he did and, in doing so, infected him with it, so that when he thought of her, his dark moods eased.

‘You are mocking me,’ Portia said. She pouted at him, knowing he loved the expression. In the nights together, he would sometimes bite gently at her lower lip, delighting in its fullness.

‘I would not dare,’ he replied. ‘I salute your Roman spirit in wanting to care for your husband on campaign. I only say that I have tasted your cooking before and this is one chore best left to the servants.’

She gasped in mock outrage, gesturing with the kettle she held as if she might throw it at him. She had dressed herself in the manner of the rustic Greeks, with a simple white tunic tied with a wide sash belt and a dark red cloak over all. As she spoke, she wound her hands through the rich cloth so that it seemed almost alive and part of her, always in movement. Brutus looked on his wife fondly, standing before him in jewelled sandals that cost more than the peasant houses they passed each day. Her feet were small and she wriggled the toes as she stood there. Her dark hair was bound in silver threads and already the fashion she had begun was being copied by Roman women in the camp, affecting simpler make-up and cloth, as if they too could look as beautiful as she did.

‘I will tend to my husband!’ she said.

He stepped close to her and his arm slid around her waist.

‘You know I would like nothing more, but perhaps your husband’s blood has enough charcoal for the moment.’

Portia gasped and pushed him away.

‘You have never tasted my herb chicken, husband. If you had, you would not mock me so.’

‘I believe you,’ he said dubiously. ‘If you want to, I will not complain. Each mouthful will be nectar to me and I will smile as I chew each leathery piece.’

‘Oh! You will see! You will be sorry you said that when you sleep alone tonight!’

She stalked away, brandishing her kettle and calling for servants. Brutus looked affectionately after her, his gaze taking in the vast camp all around him. He saw some of the legionaries smile as they caught sight of her, staring wistfully at the young wife of their commander. Brutus watched them carefully for a moment, his expression darkening. That was the disadvantage, of course. He could never be certain some young buck wasn’t risking his neck to court her, affected by lust or romance