“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 armor,” 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. He looked at the galley rocking gently in the waves and ached to be leaving the land behind.

Gaditicus swept his eyes over the column of men waiting to board. All his life he had followed orders, and though it smelled wrong, he knew he had no choice.

“It will be tight, with so many. One storm and we’ll go down,” he said with the last of his resistance.

Brutus forced a smile. “We’ll manage,” he said, turning to Seneca. “Take them on board.”

Seneca saluted again and went back to his men. The pier shivered underfoot as the column approached and the first ranks began to clamber up the gangplank onto the wide deck.

“So why will you be fighting against Caesar? You did not say,” Gaditicus murmured.

Brutus glanced at him. “There is bad blood between us,” he replied, with more honesty than he had intended.

Gaditicus nodded. “I wouldn’t like to face him myself. I don’t think he has ever lost a battle,” he said thoughtfully.

Brutus responded with a flash of anger, as Gaditicus had hoped he would. “The stories are exaggerated,” he replied.

“I hope so, for your sake,” Gaditicus said.

It was a little revenge for having been forced to back down, but he did enjoy Brutus’s expression as he looked away. Gaditicus remembered the last time he had been in Greece, when a young Caesar had organized attacks on the camp of Mithridates. If Brutus had seen that, he might have thought twice before choosing Pompey as his master. Gaditicus hoped the arrogant general in his silver armor would be taught a harsh lesson when the time came.

When the last of the guards were on board, Gaditicus followed them, leaving Brutus alone on the dock. The sun was setting in the west and Brutus could not look in the direction of Rome. He took a deep breath as he straightened and stepped onto the deck, gently moving on the swell. He had left them all, and for a while he could not speak for the memories that overwhelmed him.

The ropes were coiled and hung as the galley moved out onto the waters, the chant of the slaves at their oars like a lullaby beneath his feet.

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8