Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5)

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘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 until his common sense was drowned like a puppy in wine.

  Brutus took a deep breath, letting the warm air fill his lungs and hiss out through his nose. He loved Greece. As a young soldier, he had travelled through the very land where his legions now gathered. His companion had been a grizzled old soldier named Renius, a bad-tempered and ruthless son of Rome who was many years in the grave. For a moment, Brutus could picture the two of them making their way to his first legion appointment. He found himself shaking his head in happy memory. He had been so young then. All those he loved had still been alive and he and Julius had been friends, determined to make their mark on the world.

  Brutus looked back through the years, hardly able to recognise the young man he had been when he first crossed Greece. Julius had been rising in Rome, but he had needed military power. Brutus had been determined then to be his general, his greatest support. He could not have imagined there would ever be a day when he struck to kill his friend.

  With the sun hot overhead, he sat down on a fallen tree that made the boundary of a farmhouse garden he had taken for the night. He could see all his youth and he was lost in it. He recalled Tubruk, the manager of Julius’ estate outside Rome. Brutus would not want to see the disappointment in that man’s eyes if he still lived. Tubruk would never understand how they had been driven apart. For some, it was better they were dead, so they could not have their hearts broken by everything that came after.

  His mother Servilia was still alive, an old woman with white hair now, who yet maintained a stiff back and upright carriage that belied her years. Julius had loved her, Brutus had to admit, though it had eaten at him for years to see his own mother fawn on his friend. In the end, Julius had thrown her aside for his Egyptian queen, the one woman able to bear him a son.

  Brutus sighed to himself. He had seen his mother age almost overnight as she abandoned the last pretences of youth. He had thought she might even pine away and die, but there had never been weakness in Servilia. The years only hardened her, like teak or leather. He vowed to visit her when he returned to Rome, perhaps with his young wife on his arm, though he knew they would squabble like cats.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Portia said suddenly from behind him.

  He had not heard her come back and he started, irritated that anyone could get so close without him knowing it. Age stole away all that made him who he was, he thought. Even so, he smiled at her.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing important.’

  Portia frowned prettily. ‘Shall I show you my scar? My proof that I can be trusted?’

  Before he could reply, she flicked back her cloak to reveal a long, sun-browned thigh. With one hand, she lifted the hem of the Greek tunic, showing him a deep pink ridge almost as long as his hand. Brutus looked around him, but there was no one watching. He leaned forward and kissed the mark, making her sigh and run her hands through his hair.

  ‘You should not have done that to yourself,’ he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘I have seen men die from fever after wounds less serious.’

  ‘It showed you I was not some empty-headed courtesan to be ignored. I am a Roman lady, husband, with Roman fortitude – and a marvellous cook. So I can be trusted with your thoughts, with all things. You were very far away just now.’

  ‘I was thinking of Julius,’ he admitted.

  She nodded, taking a seat on the log next to him.

  ‘I thought you were. You always have that look on your face when you do. Sadness mostly.’

  ‘Well, I have seen sad things,’ he said. ‘And I have given too much of my life to seeking out the right path to follow.’ He gestured to the legions encamped all around them, spreading over miles in formal array. ‘I only hope I have found it now. I would like to return to Rome, Portia. Though I love this land, it is not my home. I want to walk through the forum again, perhaps to serve as a consul for a time.’

  ‘I would like that – for you, but not for me, husband, do you understand? I am happy wherever you are. You have wealth enough for comfort and you are respected and loved.’ She hesitated, unsure how far she should go with an argument they had been through before, many times. ‘I do not want to lose you. You know I would die on the same day.’

  Brutus turned to her and gathered her to him. She felt small against his side and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cloth as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

  ‘You are a little mad, you know,’ he muttered. ‘But I love you anyway. And I will not lose, Portia. I have thrown down a tyrant, a king. Should I now bend my knee to some boy calling himself by the same name? I knew the real Caesar. Octavian has no right to it. No right at all.’

  Portia reached up and took his face in her hands, the touch surprisingly cool on his skin.

  ‘You cannot unbreak all that is broken, my love. You cannot fix the entire world. I think that, of all of them, you have done enough and hurt yourself enough for one lifetime. Is it such a terrible thing to enjoy the fruits of your life now? To have slaves wait on you hand and foot while you enjoy the summers? To spend those years with me in some fine villa by the sea? My father has a place in Herculaneum that is very beautiful. He writes letters every day and runs his estates. Is there shame in that? I don’t think there is.’ />
  He looked down at her. It could not be said that she didn’t understand what drove him. He had told her everything of his past and his failures as well as his triumphs. She had married him in the full knowledge of who he had been and who he still wanted to be, but that did not stop her arguing for peace and retirement. He was only sorry their son had died in childhood. Raising a growing boy might have turned her attentions away from her husband. Yet since then, she had not quickened again, as if her womb had died with the child. The thought upset him and he shook his head.

  ‘I am not an old man like your father, Portia, not this year anyway. I have another battle in me. If I don’t fight it, or if we lose, they will say of me only that I was a murderer, not that I freed Rome. They will talk of Marcus Brutus as just some petty traitor and they will write the histories to suit them. I have seen it done, Portia. I will not let them do it to me. I cannot let them do it to me!’ He reached up to hold her wrists and brought her hands down to his chest, over his heart.

  ‘I know you are a good man, Marcus,’ she said, softly. ‘I know you are the best of them, better than that scrawny Cassius, or Suetonius, or any of them. I know it hurt you to be part of their plots, just as it hurts you now to be fighting still. I think you care too much about how they see you, my love. What does it matter if small men live in ignorance of who you were, who you still are? Is your dignity so fragile that the meanest beggar on the street cannot laugh like a fool when you pass? Will you answer all insults, even from men who are not worthy to tie your sandals? You did free Rome, husband. You restored the Republic, or at least you gave them the chance to see a way through without dictators and kings ruling them as slaves. That’s what you’ve said a dozen times. Isn’t that enough for you? You have done more than most men would manage in a dozen lifetimes and I love you for it, but the seasons change and there has to come a time when you put down the sword.’

  ‘I will, I swear it, after this. Just after this, Portia. The gods have given me all the lions of Rome as my enemies. If they can be beaten, there is no one else who can make an empire out of the ashes. The Republic will go on and there will be peace for a thousand years. I have that in my grasp, just as I have you in my grasp.’

  He accompanied the last words with his hands slipping down and tickling her so that she shrieked and squirmed. He went on regardless, ignoring her protests and struggles until there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘You are a monster!’ she said, laughing. ‘And you do not listen to me.’

  He shook his head. ‘I do, you know. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to walk as a free man, with his freedom bought and earned for Rome. I want that, but I will not be ruled by kings, not again. Not by Mark Antony and certainly not by Octavian. I will stand against them one last time and, if the gods smile on me, I will walk with you on my arm in Rome while all the younger men stare at your beauty. And I will be content.’

  There was sadness in her eyes as she responded, though she tried to smile.

  ‘I hope so, my love. I will pray for it.’

  She rested her head against his chest, easing into him so that for a time they sat together in silence, staring out over the plain where his legions were preparing the evening meal.

  ‘I loved him too, you know,’ Brutus said. ‘He was my greatest friend.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied drowsily.

  ‘I fought once against him, Portia. Here in Greece, at Pharsalus. I wish you could have seen it. He was incredible.’ He breathed out slowly, the memories bright before his eyes. ‘He broke the forces of Gnaeus Pompey and after the battle he came to find me on the field. He held me in his arms, as I am holding you – and he forgave me my betrayal.’

  His voice caught as he spoke, the memory bringing back old griefs and a half-buried anger. From that moment, Brutus had been the man forgiven for his treachery by the noble Caesar. His place had been set in tales and poems of Rome: the weak traitor blessed by a better man. Brutus shuddered slightly, feeling goosebumps rise on his arms as he held his wife. He had not admitted to Portia how he felt on that day in Greece, years before. He had told her he feared for the Republic when Caesar brought Cleopatra and his son to Rome. He had spoken of his belief that they had begun a dynasty to rule the world.

  It was all true, yet only part of the truth. Caesar’s fate had been written on that day at Pharsalus, when he had broken and tortured his friend by forgiving Brutus in front of them all.

  Portia seemed to be dozing in his arms and he raised her up, kissing her forehead.

  ‘Come on, love. Let me experience this herb chicken of yours.’

  She stirred, yawning and stretching like a cat while he looked fondly down at her.

  ‘The day is very warm,’ she said. ‘Is there much further to go now?’

  ‘Not so far, though I will send you back to Athens when I meet Cassius’ legions.’

  ‘I would prefer to stay with the camp,’ she said.

  ‘So you’ve said a hundred times, but a legion camp is no place for you, I know that much. I’ll see you safe before we march to the coast.’

  ‘I don’t know why you have to march to meet his men when the coast is in the opposite direction.’

  ‘He’s bringing more than half the army, Portia. It makes sense to let them see each other before the horns start blowing. And there aren’t too many plains where ninety thousand men can form up, not in these hills.’

  ‘What was the name of the place where we’re going?’ she said.

  ‘Philippi,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It’s just a town, like any other.’

  Octavian let the breeze fill his lungs. Standing on the cliffs at Brundisium, he could see for miles out to sea. The sun was strong on his back and yet he could not relax, especially in the company of Mark Antony. Separated by a gulf of more than thirty years, he had to struggle not to be intimidated by a man who had known a very different Rome, before Caesar had risen to command the city and the world beyond it.

  Even from the height of the rocky path, he could not see the coast of Greece, somewhere across the haze. His attention was on the stretch of dark blue sea outside the port, where two fleets of galleys battled it out. They were like toy ships, too far away for him to hear the orders roared and the crack of catapults sending grapnels and stones soaring into the air.

  Agrippa had rounded the heel of Italy the night before, taking advantage of a calm sea with little wind. Octavian had learned they were coming only that morning, when an exhausted messenger had reached him after crossing the peninsula at breakneck speed. Octavian and Mark Antony had had to climb to the highest point on the coast before they could even see Agrippa’s galleys, but it had been clear from the first moments that Sextus Pompey had also been warned. His fleet was already in formation when Agrippa’s ships came into view at first light. Well rested, Pompey’s galleys had sprung into attack immediately, knowing Agrippa’s oarsmen would be tired after a night rowing along the coast.

  ‘Gods, did you see that?’ Mark Antony called.

  He had walked further down the path, following the motion of the fleet battle with grim fascination. He knew as well as Octavian that Agrippa held their own futures in his hands. If Octavian’s friend failed, the legions could not cross a sea of raptor galleys and survive. It still rankled with Mark Antony that he had not been told of the secret fleet at Avernus.

  ‘Where?’ Octavian replied without looking up.

  ‘Next to the closest one on fire, by the rock there, two ships to the left. The one that turned right over. Your friend is doing well, despite the numbers against him.’

  Octavian clenched his jaw at the reminder. Agrippa’s fleet was still badly outnumbered, though they had come round the coast with almost fifty galleys. He suspected some of those were almost for show, or to decoy the forces under Sextus Pompey. Certainly, some of the ships fought with full crews, while others only tried to ram, dodging and racing among the rest at full speed. As he watched, Octavian saw one ship crash its pro
w into another, staving in the side so that it began to sink. Yet the attacker could not free itself and the two galleys remained jammed together. Their crews were fighting on the decks, not just to win, but to decide who would stay on the ship that wasn’t sinking. Octavian saw oars sweeping backwards and knew the attacker was one of Pompey’s captains. Agrippa’s oarsmen poured up and out of his ships whenever they attacked, their oars pulled in or left to droop on chains. It was a dangerous tactic, as they were instantly vulnerable to any other ship coming in hard, but the additional numbers made a vital difference, as far as Octavian could tell.

  Even with the knowledge that Agrippa’s ships had red sails, it was almost impossible to be certain who was winning. Some of Agrippa’s ships wallowed like fat old women in the slightest breeze and Octavian could only imagine the constant terror of the men in them as they waited for the lurch that would send them right over and into the cold sea. They were safe enough while the rowers moved them, but as soon as those men left to fight, the ships became dangerously unstable. At least one had already been sunk with only a light impact from a ram.

  ‘Can you say who has the advantage?’ Mark Antony said.

  His voice sounded tight and Octavian glanced at him before shaking his head. The older man was feeling the strain, as well he might, given the stakes and with no way to influence the outcome.

  ‘Not from here,’ Octavian said loudly. His voice dropped to a mutter as he went on. ‘I can’t do anything from here.’

  He glanced at the sun and saw that he had been there all morning. The noon point had passed and the two fleets were still fighting, with more and more ships set ablaze or sunk or turned right over to become a fouling danger to the rest. Thousands of men were already dead by fire or sword or water. The mass action of the beginning had turned into a weary battering, a test of endurance and will, as each captain took their chances with one more enemy, or just held themselves clear to let rowers recover their wind. There was nothing beautiful in it, Octavian realised. He had somehow expected there would be. The reality was like two old prizefighters smashing away at each other through blinded eyes, already bloody and yet unable to fall as they hung on each other. His future lay in the balance and he sent a prayer to Julius and Mars that Agrippa would come through.