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

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Without stakes, there is no pleasure in it,’ he said. ‘I try to think clearly, but win or lose, it means nothing. I think perhaps I will resign.’

  Naevius looked crestfallen, his gaze darting from the board to Marcus and back down.

  ‘Perhaps then, in this one case, I could allow a small bet …’ he began. ‘If it helps your game. I would return the stakes to you, afterwards, of course.’

  Marcus frowned at the older man, an expression of deep suspicion crossing his face.

  ‘I wonder if all that talk of wicked gambling was to lull me into losing my last rings. Is that your plan?’

  Naevius flushed, truly mortified at the accusation. Marcus watched in private delight as the man began to reply. Both of them looked up at the sound of running footsteps outside the barracks room, a rarity in a place where no urgency interrupted the long summer days.

  Rinius Tolors was the youngest of the six guards manning the fortress prison. As the only other man in his twenties, Marcus had shown him great kindness and made a point of listening to every word he said as if rubies poured from his mouth. In the previous month, he had advised young Rinius on the best way to advance his father’s small business in Rome. He had recommended an honest moneylender and even advised Rinius on the rate he should demand and how to get it. Marcus knew Rinius would have followed him like a puppy if it hadn’t been for the older men, particularly the two who prepared the meals. They mocked the younger guard unmercifully, as their own way of spending idle afternoons. Marcus had plans for Rinius, perhaps involving the sailing boat, if his friends in the city couldn’t arrange his release.

  Rinius saluted, still panting from a run up the hill. He addressed Marcus as much as his officer when he spoke.

  ‘Three galleys have come into the docks. They are flying the imperial flag.’

  Naevius had risen at the younger man’s noisy entrance. His gaze dropped to where Marcus was still apparently absorbed by the Latrunculi board. To his surprise, he watched Marcus reach out and make a move, apparently unaffected by the news.

  ‘I think we should get the prisoner into his cell,’ Naevius said. ‘It would not look right to have him up here.’ He extended his arm to Marcus just as the emperor’s grandson looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘I think not,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘No. If my grandfather is here, it can only be to take me back to civilisation. I will recommend your care to him, Naevius, don’t worry. I think I’ll wait for Augustus here, or walk down to the docks, perhaps.’

  Naevius bit his lower lip, caught between the need to get out and see what was happening and the possible consequences of manhandling the blood relative of a Caesar. He made the only possible decision and nodded as if he had been persuaded.

  ‘All right, all right. Remain here, then. Rinius! Get the others. No, send the others out. You stay behind to make sure the barracks and cells are in good order. Go, boy! Quickly!’

  Rinius vanished from the doorway and for a moment, Naevius was alone with his sole captive, very aware that the young man’s goodwill could be all that stood between him and execution, with just a word of complaint. Marcus smiled lazily.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have a chance to finish the game before I go,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

  Naevius looked at him in frustration. He nodded reluctantly before leaving.

  With the smell of the seashore strong on the air, Octavian sat back on cushions, closing his eyes in the awning’s shade as the horses trotted ahead. The legionaries marching double-time alongside were the very example of perfection. They had assembled the cart and brought horses from the hold as if they did such things every day, moving with Roman efficiency and quiet cooperation. He knew he did not need to compliment the officers, but also that they would appreciate a word from him, remembering it with pride for years to come.

  The island was tiny, barely a rock in the ocean compared to Elba’s sprawling cliffs to the north-east. If he had been just twenty years younger, Octavian would have walked the path from the docks, but his hips and lower back ached terribly and he was content. The sun was bright against a deep blue sky and the air was warm, pleasant in itself. He took deep breaths of it, smelling wild olives and cypress trees on the breeze. Planasia may have been a prison, but the fortress hill could have been taken from Capri.

  Octavian found himself looking forward to seeing his grandson. The world and Rome believed Octavian was somewhere else, a strangely freeing thought. He felt none of the usual pressures on him. This day was for him alone, a stolen moment in his lifetime that could yet affect generations still unborn.

  As his retinue jogged and clanked up the hill, Octavian sat back, enjoying the rich scents and warm sun. He signalled a halt as he reached the outskirts of the fortress complex and noted a line of five men standing to stiff attention by the main gate.

  Octavian raised his hand in a sweeping gesture and a burly soldier tied back the awning. He looked out and down on Naevius, seeing a slightly shabby officer standing pink-faced in the heat and shaking with nerves. The man’s armour had been wiped down with an oily rag, but Octavian could still see traces of dust on the helmet plume. He smiled at the quivering man, long used to the effect his presence could have.

  ‘I am the Princeps, Augustus Caesar,’ he said. ‘Quintus! Pass him the papers and my seal.’

  Naevius broke from his interpretation of a statue to unbend and look over the thick packet of papers he was given. The imperial seal sat above it all, a circle of bronze tied in purple ribbon. Swallowing painfully, Naevius made a show of examining it, though his vision swam and he could not see more than a blur.

  ‘Centurion Naevius, Princeps,’ he stammered in reply, saluting. ‘You are most welcome in Planasia fortress. We are honoured.’ Naevius handed back the papers and then dropped to one knee with his head bowed. His companions followed suit a heartbeat after. Octavian nodded to them, accepting the strong arm of his centurion to clamber down from the cart.

  ‘I will see my grandson, Naevius. In private.’

  ‘Yes, Princeps,’ Naevius replied immediately. ‘He has been informed of your arrival. I will take you to him.’ Sweat was pouring off the man, Octavian noted. For the first time, he wondered if it was simply awe at meeting the emperor, or whether the man feared some punishment. He set his jaw. He had not come to Planasia for some forgotten guards, not that day.

  ‘Lead on then, Naevius. I have come a long way to speak to my grandson.’

  The man nodded stiffly, walking forward as if he were made of wood. He led the small group through the main gate and over the first yard to the squat building that had been designed for a full cohort, but at that moment, had only one man inside. Octavian looked around him with little interest. He had seen and built a hundred such places on Roman lands and he was already impatient.

  Naevius went ahead into the barracks. As he entered the room, he found to his horror that Marcus was still seated and staring at the Latrunculi board. To Naevius, the innocent board suddenly seemed evidence of a very lax discipline. There was no time to clear it away and Naevius could only stand at attention while Octavian entered behind him.

  The emperor looked down at his grandson, seeing a man in his prime, with black hair tied back. Marcus looked up and Octavian felt his heart tighten at the features. It could almost have been himself at the same age and he suddenly felt the weight of the years since then, pressing him down. His mouth became a thin line as he turned to Naevius once more.

  ‘I see my grandson has not been treated harshly. You are dismissed, Naevius. I will want to speak to you before I leave.’

  ‘Yes, Princeps,’ Naevius said, saluting and turning on his heel. Octavian waved off his personal guards as they too began to enter.

  ‘Out, all of you. I will be alone.’ His men vanished without a sound and Octavian took Naevius’ seat, looking down at the Latrunculi board. He studied the pieces briefly and then moved one of the stones. Marcus smiled.

  ‘It’s good to see you a
gain, grandfather.’

  He too moved a piece, this time without any of the hesitation Naevius had seen. The game in progress would have been a struggle to win for anyone but the most gifted player, but Marcus was in no doubt about his own abilities. Unfortunately, he knew Octavian was renowned for his skill.

  ‘You did not stand when I entered, Marcus,’ Octavian said softly. ‘Why was that?’

  Marcus replied without taking his eyes off the board.

  ‘Because I know there is a chance that you are not here to take me back to Rome. It is possible that you are simply checking on my captivity and your galleys will leave once again. If I am to be left behind, I wanted Naevius to see I was not in awe of you. It raised me, raised my status, at no cost to you. I thought it a bargain, simply for remaining in a seat.’

  Octavian nodded.

  ‘I see. Though it was an insult, of course. One I could decide to punish.’ The moves they made took place at a different tempo to the conversation, hands snapping out and collecting captured pieces almost as if two other men played while they spoke.

  Marcus shrugged, turning the full strength of his charm into his grin.

  ‘I know you are not a petty man, grandfather. If you were, I would have risen.’

  He had left Octavian with no option but to grunt and let it go. The old man moved another piece, forcing a pin in two moves. He watched as Marcus accepted the lesser of the two, playing for position over numbers.

  ‘You have not asked about the charges against you,’ Octavian noted.

  ‘I cannot change the outcome, not from here. The case will be argued, or not. Unless you are here to tell me the result?’ Marcus stared into Octavian’s eyes for a moment, intent. ‘No, I don’t think it has gone against me.’

  ‘The witnesses have vanished, or so I’ve been told. There is no case to answer any longer.’

  Marcus sat up straighter, his hand still moving out to capture a stray piece.

  ‘But you came yourself, where you could have sent any man at all to give me such news, to set me free. What should I make of that?’ For the first time, a line of worry appeared between his eyes. He looked again at his grandfather, ignoring the board. He saw how Octavian’s hands trembled and saw afresh the white hair and stick-thin arms.

  Marcus sat back suddenly, his eyes widening.

  ‘It is your move, I believe,’ Octavian said softly, staring back at him. Marcus shook his head slightly, hiding his conclusions as he looked down once more at the board. His face showed nothing then, but he saw the hard position had become nearly impossible. Discarding three poor choices, he made the best move possible.

  Octavian grunted.

  ‘Easier for you if we had started a fresh game, I think.’

  ‘I have found life is full of such choices, grandfather,’ Marcus replied lightly. ‘I chose to play with what I was given, as did you. I do not regret it.’

  ‘There is no point, even if you did,’ Octavian replied, his voice hardening. ‘Your choices are made and cannot be undone.’

  Marcus nodded, keeping his head bowed as if concentrating on the board, while thinking furiously. Their hands continued to strike and capture. By then, the board was almost empty of pieces, with both kings herded into corners and vulnerable to a fatal pin.

  Octavian played well, exchanging pieces when he had a slight advantage in numbers, so that the difference became crucial. For a time, they made the stones dance across the board, each man concentrating to the exclusion of all else.

  The end was quick, when it came. Octavian had brought up his last few stones, risking a sudden loss for the chance to win. He closed down the corner of the board and try as he might, Marcus could not save his king in the end. He shook his head, seeing it coming three moves before it happened.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, sitting back. ‘It is a relief to play against someone rather better than Naevius, believe me. Another?’

  Octavian shook his head. His back ached terribly and he knew it would be hard for him to rise from the low seat without help.

  ‘That is enough, I think. I cannot count the victory when I came in half-way through a winning game.’ His eyes were hard when Marcus smiled politely at him, inclining his head graciously.

  ‘Will you take me home?’ Marcus said, trying hard to keep his voice steady and level. ‘To see my mother, your daughter? She will have been heartbroken by the trial and my imprisonment here.’

  ‘Quintus!’ Octavian called. ‘Attend me.’ The big centurion loomed in the doorway before he had finished speaking. Octavian raised his arm and Marcus watched as the old man was helped to rise. It hurt, that much was obvious, though Octavian made no sound.

  The two men looked down on the young Roman, Quintus with the bodyguard’s constant awareness of threat, Octavian with just an air of resignation.

  ‘No,’ Octavian said at last. ‘No, I will not take you home.’

  For the first time, Marcus rose to his feet. The centurion rested his free hand on his sword hilt in unmistakeable threat.

  ‘You said the trial was dismissed, grandfather! Why then must I remain here on this godless flyspeck?’

  Octavian ignored the question. For an instant, he doubted his own judgement. He saw nothing truly wrong in Marcus being part of plots against him, or even using power and influence to rise above the law. He had done the same himself, more than once.

  He felt grief constrict his chest as he realised he had made his decision. Tiberius would be a safe hand at the helm, the man Rome needed, or deserved. Though Octavian could feel his grandson’s charm, though he loved him as dearly as anyone alive, he knew by then that Marcus was truly dangerous. The boy had become a man of great power, a man to lead, whom others would surely follow. Octavian wondered how long it would have been before Marcus led the guards off the island in their own boat. Yet he could see the fault lines in his grandson, perhaps because they were so similar to his own. Towering vanity, rage and cold manipulation, each one a poison to the owner in its own way. All of it seething under the handsome face and faintly hurt expression.

  ‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ Octavian said. ‘I have watched you always. And I have loved you more than you will ever know.’

  Marcus opened his mouth, but made no sound, though his eyes glinted in sudden fury. The old man was dying, he was suddenly certain. He could see the traces of it on him. Marcus raised his head, thinking of the small sail boat and the guard, Rinius. None of his captors had heard what his grandfather had said. He would be able to find the right words for them, words they could believe. He’d be off the island in a week, to find somewhere quiet, somewhere just to wait, until the great Augustus had passed.

  His grandfather left the room with the big centurion standing close in case he fell.

  ‘I can still outlive you,’ Marcus whispered, when they had left.

  Outside in the yard, Octavian turned to the legionaries he had brought with him, still standing as if made of stone. Quintus stood at the fore, fit and tanned, ready for orders. Octavian took a deep breath of the warm air, hearing the song of birds in the bushes and trees that had been allowed to grow too close to the walls of the fort for decades.

  ‘Quintus?’ he said. ‘I want you to go back into that room. Kill the man you find there. Remove his head and wrap it well, before placing it in a bag. I will take it with me.’

  ‘Your will, Princeps,’ Quintus said, with no hesitation. He drew his sword and saluted with it, before disappearing back into the barracks. The group of men stood in strained silence, listening to the crashing and shouts of pain until there was peace and a thumping, repetitive sound.

  When Quintus returned, he was still breathing lightly, but stained in blood, from his forearms to spatters across his face and neck. Octavian did not look at him, could hardly see at all through the tears in his eyes. His grandson was gone and he was free to grieve. To his surprise, he felt a weight lift, his spirit suddenly less burdened. It was a strange thought, but his decision that day was surely amo
ng his last. All Octavian had left to do was die. Tiberius would become emperor.

  He looked at the cart waiting, at the shocked and disbelieving faces of Naevius and the other fortress guards. Octavian wiped his eyes.

  ‘There is no need to staff this place after today,’ he said to Naevius. ‘Let it fall into ruin. Have your men gather their belongings and come down to the docks.’ He turned to Quintus, still unable to let his gaze drop to the bloody object the man bore in his right hand.

  ‘I think I will walk down, Quintus. Have the cart come behind me, in case I tire.’

  Octavian set off, feeling his joints ease with the movement. He knew he’d lost the game of Latrunculi. It had been the work of an absolute master to grant him the victory without it being even slightly obvious. He shook his head, putting it behind him. Such a man was far too dangerous. Marcus would have eaten poor Tiberius alive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Livia had wept when Octavian returned to Capri and handed her the head. Centurion Quintus had busied himself on the trip home, rewrapping the grisly item and sewing the seams so that no trace of blood showed. It was heavy though, with guilt that burned.

  Over the next month, Livia had helped Octavian draft formal letters to Roman generals and governors. Augustus was seventy-seven years old. His health was failing and Tiberius would be Caesar after him. They were to prepare themselves for an orderly and peaceful change of power.

  The letters went out to every corner of the empire and his household moved more slowly behind them, heading to a home he’d always loved on the mainland, south of Rome. Octavian went there to wait for death to come for him, in peaceful surroundings.

  The house he’d chosen had been his for decades and had always been one of his favourite properties. For Octavian, it felt like truly coming home, a simpler place than the grand palaces of Rome and Capri. There was no barracks there, just a sprawling house with a few dozen slaves to attend to him in his final days.