Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  Octavian’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted nothing more in the world than to have the old gladiator approve of him, and the disappointment was worse than pain.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to borrow it. I’ll sharpen it so you can’t see the marks!”

  Tubruk looked again at the blade. “What did you do, smash it deliberately? That can’t be sharpened. It needs to be completely reground, or better still, thrown away for scrap. I’ve carried that sword through bouts in the gladiator ring and three wars, and all that is undone by one thoughtless hour with a boy who can’t keep his hands away from other people’s belongings. You’ve gone too far this time, I swear it.”

  Too furious to speak further, Tubruk threw the sword onto the ground and let go of the snivelling child, storming out of the stables and leaving him alone with his misery.

  Octavian picked up the weapon and ran his thumb over the edge, which had been folded right over in some places. He thought if he could find a good sharpening stone and disappear from the estate for a few hours, by the time he returned Tubruk would have calmed down and he could give him the sword back. A vision of the old gladiator’s surprise as Octavian handed him the restored blade came into his mind.

  “I thought it couldn’t be done!” he imagined Tubruk saying as he examined the new edge. Octavian thought he might not say anything then, but simply assume a humble expression until Tubruk ruffled his hair, the incident forgotten.

  The daydream was interrupted by Tubruk’s return, and Octavian dropped the sword in fear as he saw the old gladiator had a heavy leather strap in one hand.

  “No! I said I was sorry! I’ll fix the sword, I promise,” Octavian bawled, but Tubruk kept a fierce silence as he dragged him out of the stables into the sunlight. The little boy struggled hopelessly as he was pulled across the courtyard, but the hand that held him was rigid with an adult strength he couldn’t break, for all the growing he’d done.

  Tubruk heaved open the main gate with the hand that held the strap, grunting with the effort.

  “I should have done this a long time ago. There’s the road back to the city. I suggest you take it and make sure I don’t lay eyes on you again. If you stay here, I am going to beat your backside until you know better. What’s the word? Leave or stay?”

  “I don’t want to go, Tubruk,” the boy cried, sobbing in terror and confusion. Tubruk firmed his mouth, deaf to his pleas.

  “Right then,” he said grimly, and took hold of Octavian by his tunic, bringing the strap down on his bottom with a snap that echoed around the yard. Octavian pulled madly to get away and yelled incoherently in a wail, but Tubruk ignored him, raising the strap again.

  “Tubruk! Stop that!” Cornelia said. She had come out into the yard to see the source of so much noise and now faced the pair of them, her eyes blazing. Octavian used the moment to yank his tunic from Tubruk’s grasp and ran to her, wrapping his arms around her and hiding his head in her dress.

  “What are you doing to the boy, Tubruk?” Cornelia snapped.

  The estate manager didn’t reply, stepping close to her to grab hold of Octavian once again. Even with his head pressed deep in the cloth of her dress, Octavian sensed him coming and skittered out of the way behind her. Cornelia used her hands to hold Tubruk at bay in a frantic surge of energy that made him take a step back, his chest heaving.

  “You will stop this at once. He’s terrified, can’t you see?” Cornelia demanded.

  Tubruk shook his head slowly, his eyes flickering up to hers. “It’ll do him no good when he’s grown if you let him hide behind you now. I want him to remember this and I want it to come back to him the next time he thinks of stealing something.”

  Cornelia bent down and took Octavian’s hands in hers. “What did you take this time?” she said.

  “I only borrowed his sword. I meant to put it back, but it went blunt and before I could sharpen it, Tubruk came back,” Octavian wailed wretchedly, watching Tubruk out of the corners of his eyes in case he made another attempt to lay hands on him.

  Cornelia shook her head. “You damaged his sword? Oh, Octavian. That’s too much. I have to give you back to Tubruk. I’m sorry.”

  Octavian screamed as she detached his fingers from her dress with firm strength and Tubruk took hold of his tunic again. Cornelia chewed her bottom lip unhappily as Tubruk brought the strap down four more times, then let Octavian run away into the soothing darkness of the stables.

  “He’s terrified of you,” Cornelia said, looking after the boy as he ran.

  “Perhaps, but it was called for. I’ve let him get away with things I never would have stood from Julius or Brutus when they were boys. He spends half his time in a dream world, that one. It won’t have done him any harm to have his bottom warmed. Maybe next time he looks to steal, it will slow his hands a little.”

  “Is the sword ruined?” Cornelia asked, still unsure of herself around this man who had known Julius when he was as young as Octavian.

  Tubruk shrugged. “Probably. But the boy won’t be, which is more than I could say if he’d gone his happy way in the city for much longer. Leave him in the stables for a while. He’ll have a good cry and then come in to eat, as if nothing had happened, if I know him.”

  Octavian did not turn up for the evening meal and Clodia brought out a bowl of food as darkness fell. She couldn’t find him in the stables and a search of the estate brought no sign of the little boy. He and the gladius had gone.

  * * *

  “You’re too ugly to be a good swordsman,” Brutus said cheerfully as he moved lightly on the balls of his feet around the angry legionary. As the light faded, the men had gathered in the center of the camp as they had for the previous three nights to watch the bouts Brutus had started.

  “You need a certain skill, it’s true, but being handsome is also important,” Brutus continued, watching the man with a close scrutiny belied by the banter. The legionary turned to face him, gripping his practice sword a little too tightly with tension. Although the wooden weapons were hardly lethal, a solid blow could break a finger or put out an eye. The wood was hollow all along the thick blade and had been filled with lead, making it heavier than a gladius. When the soldiers took up their real swords, they felt almost miraculously light in their hands.

  Brutus turned in place to avoid a lunge, letting the blade pass only inches from him. He’d started the bouts at the end of the sixth evening, when he realized he wasn’t anywhere near as tired as he’d expected. They had quickly become the main item of entertainment for the bored soldiers, attracted by Brutus’s cocky assurance that there wasn’t one of them who could beat him. He often fought three or four legionaries in a row, and even the gambling games had ceased in the camp after the second night, with all the money placed in bets on or against Brutus. If he could keep winning, he would end the march with a small fortune.

  “People like handsome heroes, you see. You hardly qualify,” Brutus announced, turning a sudden attack with a grunt as he finished. “It’s not something obvious like a nose or a peculiar mouth. . . .” He launched a spinning combination that was fended off desperately, and Brutus stepped back to let the man recover. The legionary had been just as cocky in the beginning, but now sweat spattered from his hair as he dodged and attacked. Brutus squinted at his face, as if judging his features.

  “No, it’s accumulated ugliness, as if nothing sits right at all,” he said.

  The soldier snarled and aimed a blow with enough force to split Brutus’s skull if it landed. It sailed past and as the soldier followed it, Brutus tapped his own sword at the base of the man’s neck, just enough to force him to overbalance. He went flat and scrambled up with his chest heaving as he spoke.

  “Tomorrow? I think I could beat you if I had another chance, ugly or not.”

  Brutus shrugged and pointed to the line of waiting soldiers. “There’s a few ahead of you, but I’ll try to have Cabera put you at the front tomorrow evening, if you’re willing. You’re still holding on t
oo tightly, you know.”

  The soldier examined his grip and nodded.

  “Work on your wrists,” Brutus continued seriously. “If you can trust their strength, you’ll be able to loosen up a little.”

  The man retired to the crowd, moving the wooden sword slowly in concentration. Cabera brought up the next, ushering him forward like a favorite child.

  “This one says he’s good. He was champion of his century a few years back. The quartermaster wants to know if you’re going to let the bet ride again. I think you’ve got him worried.” Cabera grinned at Brutus, well pleased that he had eased himself into the Primigenia ranks after the first dull evening near the back.

  Brutus looked the latest opponent up and down, noting the powerful shoulders and slim waist. The man ignored the inspection, spending the time stretching his muscles.

  “What’s your name?” Brutus asked him.

  “Domitius. Centurion,” the man replied.

  There was something about him that caused Brutus to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

  “Century champion, were you? How many years ago?”

  “Three. Legion champion last year,” Domitius replied, carrying on with the exercises without looking at the younger man.

  Brutus exchanged a quick glance with Cabera and took in the fact that the crowd around them had grown to the point where everyone except the sentries must have been there. Renius had joined them and Brutus frowned at the sight of him. It was difficult to relax while the man who had taught you was shaking his head in apparent disbelief. He gathered his confidence.

  “The thing is, Domitius, I’m sure you are competent enough, but in every generation, there has to be someone who is better than everyone else. It’s a law of nature.”

  Domitius slowly stretched the muscles of his legs. He appeared to think it over.

  “You’re probably right,” he replied.

  “I am right. Someone has to be the best of his generation and I’m almost embarrassed to say that person is me.” Brutus watched Domitius for a reaction.

  “Almost embarrassed?” the man murmured as he loosened the muscles in his back.

  Brutus felt irritated by the legionary’s calm. Something about the almost hypnotic stretching nettled him.

  “Right. Cabera? Go to the quartermaster and tell him I’ll let the bet ride for one more bout with Domitius here.”

  “I don’t think . . .” Cabera began, looking doubtfully toward the newcomer. Domitius was almost a head taller than Brutus and moved with control and an ease of balance that was rare.

  “Just tell him. One more and I’m coming to collect.”

  Cabera grimaced and trotted away.

  Domitius rose as if he were uncoiling and smiled at Brutus. “That’s what I was waiting for,” he said. “My friends have lost a lot of money betting against you.”

  “And that didn’t tell you something? Let’s get on with it, then,” Brutus said curtly.

  Domitius sighed. “You short men are always so impatient,” he said, shaking his head.

  * * *

  Octavian wiped his nose along his arm, leaving a silvery trail on the skin. At first the city had seemed a different place. It had been easy enough to slip past the gate guards, using a cart as cover, but once inside, the noise and smells and sheer hurry of the crowds were disconcerting. He realized the months on the estate had made him forget the energy of the city, even at night.

  He hoped Tubruk was worried about him. In a day or two, Octavian thought, he would be welcomed back with open arms. Especially if he could persuade Tabbic to grind the blade back to a good edge. All he had to do was stay out of trouble until morning, when the little shop opened. The blade was wrapped in a horse cloth and held under his arm. He wouldn’t have got far with it otherwise, he was sure. Some public-spirited citizen was sure to stop him, or, worse, a thief could snatch it for the money it would bring at one of the cheaper shops than Tabbic’s.

  Almost unconsciously, Octavian let his footsteps take him in the direction of his mother’s house. If only he could spend the night there, he would see Tabbic and be back in the estate in a day or two with Tubruk pleased with him again. He thought of her likely reaction at seeing him and winced. The sword would be discovered and she would think he had stolen it. For a mother, she was not very trusting, he admitted sadly to himself. She never believed him, even when he was telling the truth, which was always infuriating.

  Perhaps he should try to signal Alexandria, get her out to see him without disturbing the rest of the house. She might understand better than his mother what he had to do.

  He trotted through the night crowd, dodging around the street sellers and resisting the urge to grab at the hot food that filled the air with tantalizing smells. He was starving, but the empty feeling in his stomach took second place to his need to make things right with Tubruk. Getting himself caught by an angry stall-keeper would spoil things as badly as a conversation with his mother.

  “It’s the rat!”

  The sudden exclamation jarred him from his miserable thoughts. He looked up into the surprised eyes of the butcher’s apprentice, and panic flared in him. He jumped down into the street to avoid hands that clutched from behind. They were all there! Desperately, he threw open the blanket roll and got a hand on the hilt of Tubruk’s gladius. He brought it up in front of him as the butcher’s boy moved in on him, hands clutching in anticipation. A wild swipe nearly touched the outstretched fingers, and the apprentice swore in surprise.

  “You’re going to die for that, you little Thurin bastard. I’ve been wondering where you went to. Been stealing swords now, have you?”

  As the boy growled at him, Octavian could see the others edging to block his retreat. In a few moments he was surrounded and the bustling crowd moved around them without noticing the scene, or too afraid of violence to interfere.

  Octavian held the sword in first position, as Tubruk had taught him. He couldn’t run, so he vowed to get a good cut in before they rushed him.

  The butcher’s boy laughed, closing the space. “Not so cocky now, are you, rat?”

  He looked enormous to Octavian and the sword suddenly felt useless in his hands. The butcher’s boy approached with his hand held out to knock away any sudden attack, his face lit with feral excitement.

  “Give it to me and I’ll let you live,” he said, grinning.

  Octavian gripped the hilt even tighter against this threat, trying to think what Tubruk would do in his position. It came to him as the apprentice stepped inside the range of the wavering sword.

  Octavian yelled and attacked, swiping the edge across the outstretched hand. If it had been sharp, the boy could have been crippled. As it was, he yelped and danced backward out of range, swearing and gripping the hurt hand in the other.

  “Leave me alone!” Octavian shouted, looking for a gap to run through.

  There wasn’t one and the butcher’s boy inspected his cut hand before his face twisted evilly. Reaching behind himself, the apprentice took a heavy knife from his belt and showed it to Octavian. It was rusty with the blood of his trade, and Octavian could hardly tear his eyes from it.

  “I’m going to cut you, rat. I’m going to put your eyes out and leave you blinded,” the older boy snarled at him.

  Octavian tried to flee but, instead of holding him, the other apprentices laughed and pushed him back toward the butcher’s boy. He raised the sword again and then a shadow loomed over the apprentices and a heavy hand connected solidly with the butcher boy’s head, knocking him flat.

  Tubruk reached down and picked up the knife from where it had fallen on the stones of the street. The butcher’s boy began to rise and Tubruk closed his fist and punched him down into the filth of the street, where he scrabbled, dazed.

  “Never thought I’d see the day when I was fighting with children,” Tubruk muttered. “Are you all right?” Octavian watched him with openmouthed astonishment. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

  “I was .
. . taking the sword to Tabbic. I didn’t steal it,” Octavian replied, tears threatening again.

  “I know, lad. Clodia guessed you were heading that way. Looks like a good thing I came to find you, doesn’t it?” The old gladiator glanced at the ring of apprentices who stood nervously around, unsure whether to run or not.

  “If I were you, lads, I’d get away before I lose my temper,” he said. His expression made the consequences quite clear and they wasted no time disappearing.

  “I’ll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?”

  Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn’t have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

  “Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,” Octavian said.

  Tubruk turned with a frown. “What is it now?”

  Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

  “Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn’t sporting when a man is down.”

  “Maybe not, but I owed it to him.”

  Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

  “Maybe you did, lad.”

  * * *

  Brutus couldn’t believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he’d almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he’d never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack, and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn’t seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.

  Brutus had regained some ground when he shifted into the fluid style he’d learned from a tribal warrior in Greece. As he’d hoped, the different rhythms had broken Domitius’s attack and he caught the man’s forearm with a rap that would have taken his hand off at the wrist if there were an edge on the blade.