Flushed with the wine, Brutus stood once more. “We should have another toast,” he said. “To victory, but victory with honor.”

They all came to their feet and raised their cups. Julius wished his father could see them.

There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.

Sleep had been impossible the night before. When the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count, and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius, and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.

He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.

Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.

If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each success, and Julius was forced to smile his congratulation, though it was like acid in him.

He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores facedown to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage, and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favored. Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.

“… Caesar,” the magistrate cried, and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn.

Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.

The results of the second class were more even, and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’s fourteen, and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’s father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension, and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.

Over the next hour, the lead changed three times, and at the end, the total for Suetonius’s father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’s side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them, and Bibilus blushed crimson.

“Withdraw, Bibi. You must withdraw now!” Suetonius snarled at him, ignoring Pompey’s glance.

Bibilus nodded nervously, like a spasm, but Pompey laid his massive hand on Bibilus’s shoulders as if Suetonius were not there, forcing the young Roman to step away in haste rather than touch the consul.

“I hope you are not thinking of leaving the lists, Bibilus,” Pompey said.

Bibilus made a sound that could have been a reply, but Pompey went on over it.

“You have made a fair showing amongst the first classes, and may do better still before the end. See it through and who knows? Even if you are not successful, there is always a place for the old families in the Senate.”

Bibilus plastered a sick smile onto his face and Pompey patted his arm as he let him go. Suetonius turned away rather than try again and watched coldly as Bibilus took another three votes.

By noon, every result was greeted with cheers as the wine sellers sold their wares to the crowd. Julius felt able to unbend enough to drink a cup, but could not taste it. He exchanged inanities with Bibilus, but Senator Prandus remained aloof and only nodded stiffly when Julius congratulated him on his showing.

Suetonius had nothing like his father’s skill at hiding his emotions, and Julius felt his eyes on him constantly, wearing his nerves.

As the sun passed its zenith, Pompey called for awnings to shade them. A hundred centuries had voted and Julius was second and seventeen votes clear of Prandus. As things stood, Bibilus and Julius would take the seats, and the crowd began to show their interest more openly, cheering and jostling each other to observe the candidates. Julius watched as Suetonius drew a large red cloth from his toga and mopped his brow with it. It was a strangely flamboyant gesture and Julius smiled grimly, glancing to the west, where the Janiculum flag could be seen.

The Janiculum hill commanded a full view of the city and the land around it. A huge mast rose from a stone base at the highest point, and the men who watched for invasion never shifted their gaze. It was usually an easy duty, more suited to the ancient days when the city was in constant danger from outlying tribes and armies. This year, the Catiline conspiracy had brought home the continued need for the duty, and those who had won the task by lot were alert and watchful. There were six of them, four boys and two veterans from Pompey’s legion. They discussed the candidates as they ate a cold lunch, thoroughly enjoying the break from their normal duties. At sunset, they would complete their day with a note from a long horn and the solemn lowering of the flag.

They did not see the men creeping up the hill behind them until a pebble clicked against a rock and went skipping down the steep side below the crest. The boys turned to see what animal had disturbed them, and one cried out in warning at the sight of armed men scrambling up. There were seven of them: big, scarred raptores who showed their teeth as they caught sight of the small number of defenders.

Pompey’s men jumped to their feet, scattering food and knocking over a clay jug of water that darkened the dusty ground. Even as their blades came free, they were surrounded, but they knew their duty and the first of the raptores was punched flat as he came too close. The others surged in, snarling, and then another voice snapped through the air.