The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Renius came to his feet awkwardly, yanking out his sword. His eyes glinted. He nodded to Marcus, who dismounted smoothly, using his horse to block the sight of the hidden archer. He drew his gladius, reassured by its familiar weight. Peppis came off the horse in a scramble and tried to hide behind a leg, muttering nervously to himself.

  The stranger spoke again, his voice friendly. ‘Do not do anything foolish. My companions are very good with their bows. Practice is the only way to fill the hours here in the mountains, that and relieving the occasional traveller of his possessions.’

  ‘There is only one archer, I think,’ Renius growled, staying light on the balls of his feet and keeping an eye on the scrub. He knew the man would not have stayed in the same place and could be creeping in to get a clean kill as they spoke.

  ‘You wish to gamble your life on this, yes?’

  The two men looked at each other and Peppis gripped Lancer’s leg, making the horse snort with displeasure.

  The outlaw was clean and simply dressed. He looked much like one of the huntsmen Marcus had known on the estate, burned a deep brown by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He did not look like a man given to empty threats and Marcus groaned inwardly. At best, they would arrive at the legion with no kit or equipment, a beginning he might never live down. At worst, death was a few moments away.

  ‘You look like an intelligent man,’ the outlaw continued. ‘If I drop my hand, you will be dead on the instant. Put your sword on the ground and you will live a few moments more, perhaps until you grow old, yes?’

  ‘I’ve been old. It isn’t worth it,’ Renius replied, already beginning to move.

  He threw his gladius at the man, end over end in the air. Before it struck, he was leaping away into the shadow of the rock-side. An arrow cut the air where he had been, but no others accompanied it. Only one archer.

  Marcus had used the moment to duck under his horse’s belly past Peppis, and came up running, throwing himself at the slope, trusting to his speed to keep him steady. He cleared the main ridge without slowing down and accelerated, guessing where the archer must be hiding. As he approached, a man broke from the cover of a grove of fig trees off to his right and he almost skidded as he turned to follow.

  He had him in twenty paces along the loose rock surface, bringing him down from behind in a leap. The impact jarred the gladius from his hand and he found himself locked in a struggle with a man who was bigger and stronger than he was. The archer twisted violently in Marcus’ grip and they found each other’s throats with grasping hands. Marcus began to panic. The man’s face was red, but his neck appeared to be made of wood and he couldn’t seem to get a crushing grip on the thick flesh.

  He would have called for Renius, but the man couldn’t have climbed the ridge with only one arm, and anyway he could not draw breath with the archer’s great paws on his throat. Marcus dug his thumbs into the windpipe and heaved all his downward weight onto them. The man grunted in pain, but the hairy hands tightened still further and Marcus saw flashes of white light across his vision as his body began to scream for air. His own hands seemed to weaken and he despaired for a second. His right hand came off the throat, almost without his conscious thought and began to hammer the grunting face. The white lights were streaked with flashes of black and his vision began to narrow into a dark tunnel, but he kept striking over and over. The face below him was a messy red pulp, but the hands on his throat were merciless.

  Then they fell away, without drama, lying limp on the ground. Marcus sobbed in air and rolled off to one side. His heart was beating at an impossible speed and he felt light-headed, almost as if he was floating. He pulled himself onto his knees and his fingers scrabbled without strength for the hilt of his sword in ever-widening circles.

  Finally, they closed on the leather grip and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He could hear Renius and Peppis calling for him below, but had no breath to answer. Staggering, he took a few steps back to the man and froze as he saw the eyes were open and looking at him, the heavy chest heaving as raggedly as his own.

  Rasping words grated past the man’s smashed lips, but they were Greek and Marcus couldn’t understand them. Still panting, he pressed the sharp tip of the gladius against the man’s chest and shoved down hard. Then his grip slipped off the hilt and he collapsed in a sprawl, turning weakly to empty his stomach onto the ground.

  By the time Marcus climbed stiffly back to the path, Peppis had recovered Renius’ sword and the gladiator was holding a pad of cloth to the wound in Apollo’s shoulder. The big horse was shivering visibly with shock, but was on his feet and aware. Peppis had to hold Lancer’s reins tightly as the horse stepped and skittered, wide nostrils and eyes showing his fear at the smell of blood.

  ‘Are you all right, lad?’ Renius asked.

  Marcus nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt crushed and air seemed to whistle with each breath. He pointed at it and Renius beckoned him closer so he could take a look. He made the movement slow, so as not to alarm the horses.

  ‘Nothing permanent,’ he judged a moment later. ‘Big hands, judging by the prints.’

  Marcus could only gasp weakly. He hoped Renius couldn’t smell the sour vomit odour that seemed to surround him in a cloud, but guessed he could and chose not to mention it.

  ‘They made a mistake attacking us,’ Peppis observed, his little face serious.

  ‘Yes, they did, boy, though we were lucky as well,’ Renius replied. He looked at Marcus. ‘Don’t try to speak, just help the boy strap the equipment to your horse. Apollo will be lame for a week or two. We’ll ride in turns unless those bandits have mounts nearby.’

  Lancer whinnied and an answering snort came from further down the mountain. Renius grinned.

  ‘Luck is with us again, I see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you search the body?’

  Marcus shook his head and Renius shrugged.

  ‘Not worth climbing up again. They wouldn’t have had much and a bow’s no use to a man with one arm. Let’s get going. We can get off this rock by sunset if we keep a fast pace.’

  Marcus began removing Apollo’s packs, taking the reins. Renius patted his shoulder as he turned away. The action was worth far more than words.

  After a month of long days and cold nights, it was good to see the legion camp from far away across the plain. Even at that distance, thin sounds carried. It seemed like a town on the horizon, with eight thousand men, women and children engaged in the simple day-to-day tasks necessary to keep such a large body of men in the field. Marcus tried to imagine the armouries and smithies, built and taken apart with each camp. There would be food kitchens, building supply dumps, stonemasons, carpenters, leather-workers, slaves, prostitutes and thousands of other civilians who lived and were paid to support the might of Rome in battle. Unlike the tent rows of Marius’ legion, this was a permanent camp, with a solid wall and fortifications surrounding the main grounds. In a sense, it was a town, but a town constantly prepared for war.

  Renius pulled up and Marcus drew alongside on Lancer, tugging on the reins to halt the third horse they had named Bandit after his last owner. Peppis sat awkwardly on Bandit’s riding blanket, his mouth open at the sight of the encamped legion. Renius smiled at the boy’s awe.

  ‘That’s it, Marcus. That is your new home. Do you still have the papers Marius gave you?’

  Marcus patted his chest in response, feeling the folded pack of parchment under the tunic.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. He hoped so. Renius had been a part of his life for so long that the thought of seeing the man riding away while he rode up to the gates alone was too painful to express.

  ‘I’ll see you and Peppis to the Praefectus castrorum – the quartermaster. He will tell you which century you will join. Learn the history quickly; each has its own record and pride.’

  ‘Any other advice?’

  ‘Obey every order without complaint. At the moment you fight like an individual, like one of the savage tribes. T
hey will teach you to trust your companions and to fight as a unit, but the learning does not come easily to some.’

  He turned to Peppis. ‘Life will be hard for you. Do as you are told and when you are grown you will be allowed to join the legion. Do nothing that shames you. Do you understand?’

  Peppis nodded, his throat dry from fear of this alien life.

  ‘I will learn. So will he,’ Marcus said.

  Renius nodded and clicked his tongue at his horse to move on. ‘That you will.’

  Marcus felt an obscure satisfaction at the clean, orderly layout of streets, complete with rows of long, low buildings for the men. He and Renius had been greeted warmly at the gate as soon as he had shown his papers and proceeded on foot to the Prefect’s quarters, where he would pledge years of his life in the field service of Rome. He took confidence from Renius as the man strode confidently through the narrow roads, nodding in approval at the polished perfection of the soldiers who marched past in squads of ten. Peppis trotted behind them, carrying a heavy pack of equipment on his back.

  The papers had to be shown twice more as they approached the small, white building from which the camp Prefect ran the business of a Roman town in a foreign land. At last they were allowed entry and a slim man dressed in a white toga and sandals came into the outer rooms to meet them as they passed through the door.

  ‘Renius! I heard it was you in the camp. The men are already talking about you losing your arm. Gods, it is good to see you!’ He beamed at them, the image of Roman efficiency, suntanned and hard, with a strong grip as he greeted each of them in turn.

  Renius smiled back with genuine warmth.

  ‘Marius didn’t tell me you were here, Carac. I am glad to see you well.’

  ‘You haven’t aged, I swear it! Gods, you don’t look a day over forty. How do you do it?’

  ‘Clean living,’ Renius grunted, still uncomfortable with the change Cabera had wrought.

  The Prefect raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but let the subject drop.

  ‘And the arm?’

  ‘Training accident. The lad here, Marcus, cut me and I had it taken off.’

  The Prefect whistled and shook Marcus’ hand again.

  ‘I never thought I’d meet a man who could get to Renius. May I see the papers you brought with you?’

  Marcus felt nervous all of a sudden. He passed them over and the Prefect motioned them to long benches as he read.

  Finally, he passed them back. ‘You come very well recommended, Marcus. Who is the boy?’

  ‘He was on the merchant ship we took from the coast. He wants to be my servant and join the legion when he is older.’

  The Prefect nodded. ‘We have many such in the camp, usually the bastard children of the men and the whores. If he shapes up there may be a place, but the competition will be fierce. I am more interested in you, young man.’

  He turned to Renius. ‘Tell me about him. I will trust your judgement.’

  Renius spoke firmly, as if reporting. ‘Marcus is unusually fast, even more so when his blood is fired. As he matures, I expect him to become a name. He is impetuous and brash and likes to fight, which is partly his nature and partly his youth. He will serve the Fourth Macedonia well. I gave him his basic training, but he has gone beyond that and will go further.’

  ‘He reminds me of your son. Have you noticed the resemblance?’ the Prefect asked quietly.

  ‘It had not … occurred to me,’ Renius replied uncomfortably.

  ‘I doubt that. Still, we always have need of men of quality and this is the place for him to find maturity. I will place him with the fifth century, the Bronze Fist.’

  Renius took in a sharp breath. ‘You honour me.’

  The Prefect shook his head. ‘You saved my life once. I am sorry I could not save your son’s. This is a small part of my debt to you.’

  Once again they shook hands. Marcus looked on in some confusion.

  ‘What now for you, old friend? Will you return to Rome to spend your gold?’

  ‘I had hoped there would be a place for me here,’ Renius said quietly.

  The Prefect smiled. ‘I had begun to think you would not ask. The Fist is short of a weapons master to train them. Old Belius died of a fever six months ago and there is no one else as good. Will you take the post?’

  Renius grinned suddenly, the old sharp grin. ‘I will, Carac. Thank you.’

  The Prefect slapped him on the shoulder in obvious pleasure.

  ‘Welcome to the Fourth Macedonia, gentlemen.’ He signalled to a legionary standing to attention nearby. ‘Take this young man to his new quarters in the Bronze Fist century. Send the boy to the stables until I can assign duties to him with the other camp children. Renius and I have a lot of catching up to do – and a lot of wine to drink while we do it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Alexandria sat in silence, polishing grime from an ancient sword in Marius’ little armoury. She was pleased he had been able to get back his town house. She’d heard the owner had rushed to make a gift of it to the new ruler of Rome. Much better than the thought of living with the rough soldiers in the city barracks – well, it would have been difficult at best. Gods knew, she wasn’t afraid of men; some of her earliest memories were of them with her mother in the next room. They came in reeking of beer and cheap wine and went out with a swagger. They never seemed to last very long. One of them had tried to touch her once and she remembered seeing her mother properly angry for the first time in her young life. She’d cracked his skull with a poker and together they’d dragged him into an alleyway and left him. For days, her mother had expected the door to burst in and men to take her away to be hanged, but no one had come.

  She sighed as she worked at the layers of crusted oil on the bronze blade, relic of some old campaign. At first, Rome had seemed a city with limitless possibilities, but Marius had taken control three months before and here she was still working all day for nothing and every day a little older. Others were changing the world, but her life remained the same. Only at night, when she sat with ancient Bant in his little metalwork room, did she feel she was making any progress in her life. He had shown her the uses of his tools and guided her hands through the first clumsy steps. He didn’t speak much, but seemed to enjoy her company and she liked his silences and kind blue eyes. She had seen him first as he was shaping a brooch in the workshop and knew in that moment that it was something she could do. It was a skill worth learning, even for a slave.

  She rubbed more vigorously. To be worth no more to a man than a horse, or even a good sword like the one she held! It wasn’t fair.

  ‘Alexandria!’ Carla’s voice, calling. For a moment, she was tempted to remain silent, but the woman had a tongue like a whip and her disapproval was feared by most of the female slaves.

  ‘Here,’ she called, putting the sword down and wiping her hands on a rag. There would be another task for her, another few hours of labour before sleep.

  ‘There you are, love. I need someone to run down to the market for me; would you do that?’

  ‘Yes!’ Alexandria stood up quickly. She had come to look forward to these rare errands over the previous few months. They were the only occasions when she was allowed to leave Marius’ house and on the last few she had been trusted on her own. After all, where could she run?

  ‘I have a list of things for you to buy for the house. You always seem to get the best price,’ Carla said as she passed a slate over.

  Alexandria nodded. She enjoyed bargaining with the traders. It made her feel like a free woman. The first time she hadn’t been alone, but, even with a witness, Carla had been shocked at how much money the girl had saved the house. The traders had been charging over market value for years, knowing Marius had deep pockets. The older woman realised the girl had a talent and sent her out as much as possible, seeing also that she needed the little touches of freedom. Some never got used to the condition of slavery and were slowly broken down into depression and occasionally desp
air. Carla enjoyed watching Alexandria’s face light up at the thought of a trip out.

  She guessed the girl was keeping a coin or two from what she was given, but what did that matter? She was saving them silvers, so if she kept the odd bronze, Carla didn’t begrudge them to her.

  ‘Go on with you. I want you back in two hours and not a minute later, understand?’

  ‘I do, Carla. Two hours. Thank you.’

  The older woman grinned at her, remembering when she had been young and the world was such an exciting place. She knew all about Alexandria’s visits to Bant the metalworker. The old man had taken quite a liking to her, it seemed. There was very little in the house that Carla didn’t find out about sooner or later and she knew that in Alexandria’s room was a small bronze disc that she had decorated with a lion’s head using Bant’s tools. It was a pretty piece.

  As she watched the trim figure vanish around a corner, Carla wondered if it was a present for Gaius. Bant had said the girl had a talent for the work. Aye, perhaps because she was making it for love.

  The market was a riot of smells and swirling crowds, but Alexandria didn’t dawdle over the items on the list for once. She completed her business quickly, getting good prices, but leaving the discussion before they were pared right to the bone. The shopkeepers seemed to enjoy the arguments with the pretty girl, throwing their hands into the air and calling for witnesses to see what she was demanding. She smiled at them then, and for a few the smile dropped the price further than they could believe after she had left. Certainly more than their wives could believe.

  With packages stowed safely in two cloth bags, Alexandria hurried on to her real destination, a tiny jewellery shop at the end of the stalls. She had been inside many times to look at the man’s designs. Most of the pieces were bronze or pewter. Silver was rarely worked in jewellery, and gold was too expensive unless particular pieces were commissioned. The metalsmith himself was a short man, dressed in a rough tunic and a heavy leather apron. He watched her as she came into the tiny shop and stopped work on a small gold ring to keep an eye on the girl. Tabbic was not a trusting man and Alexandria could feel his steady gaze on her as she looked over his wares.