The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘What’s the range?’

  The soldier saluted smartly.

  ‘With the wind behind you, three hundred paces, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Can the machine be aimed?’

  ‘A little, nothing precise at the moment. The workshop is working on a moving pedestal.’

  ‘Good. It looks a deadly thing indeed.’

  The soldier smiled proudly and wiped a rag over the winch mechanism that would wind the heavy arms back to their locking slot.

  ‘She, sir. Something as dangerous as this has to be female.’

  Julius chuckled as he thought of Cornelia and his aching muscles.

  ‘What is your name, soldier?’

  ‘Trad Lepidus, sir.’

  ‘I will look to see how many of the enemy she takes down, Lepidus.’

  The man smiled again.

  ‘Oh, it will be a few, sir. No one is coming into my city without the permission of the general, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Julius moved on, feeling a touch more confidence. If all the men were as steadfast as Trad Lepidus, there couldn’t be an army in the world that could take Rome. He caught up with his uncle, who was accepting a drink from a silver flask and spluttering over the contents.

  ‘Sweet Mars! What’s in this, vinegar?’

  The officer fought not to smile.

  ‘I dare say you are used to better vintages, sir. The spirit is a little raw.’

  ‘Raw! Mind you, it is warming,’ Marius said, tilting the flask up once more. Finally, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Excellent. Send a chit to the quartermaster in the morning. I think a small flask for officers would be just the thing against the chill of winter’s nights.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the man replied, frowning slightly as he tried to calculate the profits he would make as the sole supplier to his own legion. The answer obviously pleased him and he saluted smartly as Julius passed.

  Finally, Marius reached the flight of stone steps down to the street that marked the end of the section. Julius had spoken or nodded or listened to every one of a hundred or so soldiers on that part of the wall. His facial muscles felt stiff and yet he felt a touch of his uncle’s pride. These were good men and it was a great thing to know they were ready to lay down their lives at your order. Power was a seductive thing and Julius enjoyed the reflected warmth of it from his uncle. He felt a mounting excitement as he waited with his city for Sulla to arrive and darkness to come.

  Narrow wooden towers had been placed at intervals all round the city. As the sun set, a lookout shouted from one and the word was passed at a fierce speed. The enemy were on the horizon, marching towards the city. The gates were closed against them.

  ‘At last! The waiting was chafing on me,’ Marius bellowed, charging out of his barracks as the warning horns were sounded across the city, long wailing notes.

  The reserves took their positions. Those few Romans still on the streets ran for their homes, bolting and barricading their doors against the invaders. The people cared little for who ruled the city as long as their families were safe.

  The Senate meetings had been postponed that day and the senators too were in their palatial houses, dotted around the city. Not one of them had taken the roads to the west, though a few had sent their families away to country estates rather than leave them at risk. A few rose with tight smiles, standing at balconies and watching the horizon as the horns moaned across the darkening city. Others lay in baths or beds and had slaves ease muscles that tightened from fear. Rome had never been attacked in its history. They had always been too strong. Even Hannibal had preferred to meet Roman legions on the field rather than to assault the city itself. It had taken a man like Scipio to take his head and that of his brother. Would Marius have the same ability, or would it be Sulla that held Rome in his bloody hand at the end? One or two of the senators burned incense at their private altars for their household gods. They had supported Marius as he tightened his grip on Rome, forced to take his side in public. Many had staked their lives on his success. Sulla had never been a forgiving man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Torches were lit all around the city as night fell. Julius wondered what it would look like to the gods as they looked down, a great gleaming eye in the black vastness of the land? We look up as they look down, he thought.

  He stood with Cabera on ground level, listening to the news as it was shouted down from the wall lookouts and relayed along and deep into the city, a vein of information for those who could see and hear nothing. Over it, despite the nearby noises, he could make out the distant tramp of thousands of armoured men and horses on the move. It filled the soft night and grew louder as they approached.

  There was no doubt now. Sulla was bringing his legion right up the Via Sacra to the gates of the city, with no attempt at subterfuge. The lookouts reported a torchlit snake of men stretching for miles back in the darkness, with the tail disappearing over hills. It was a marching formation for friendly lands, not a careful approach to close with an enemy. The confidence of such a casual march made many raise eyebrows and wonder what on earth Sulla was planning. One thing was for certain: Marius was not the man to be cowed by confidence.

  Sulla clenched his fists in excitement as the gates and walls of the fortress city began to glow with the reflected light of his legion. Thousands of fighting men and half as many again in support marched on through the night. The noise was rhythmic and deafening, the crash of feet on the stone road echoing back and around the city and the night. Sulla’s eyes sparkled in the flames of torches and he casually raised his right hand. The signal was relayed, great horns wailing into the darkness, setting off responses all the way down the great snake of soldiers.

  Stopping a moving legion required skill and training. Each section had to halt to order, or a pile-up would result, with the precision lost in chaos. Sulla turned and looked back down the hill, nodding with satisfaction as each century became still, their torches held in unwavering hands. It took almost half an hour from the first signal to the end, but at last, they all stood on the Via Sacra and the natural silence of the countryside seemed to flow back over them. His legion waited for orders, gleaming gold.

  Sulla swept his gaze over the fortifications, imagining the mixed feelings of the men and citizens inside. They would be wondering at his halt, whispering nervously to each other, passing the news back to those who could not see the great procession. The citizens would hear his echoing horns and be expecting attack at any moment.

  He smiled. Marius too would be chafing, waiting for the next move. He had to wait, that was the key weakness of the fortified position – they could only defend and play a passive role.

  Sulla bided his time, signalling for cool wine to be brought to him. As he did so, he noticed the rather rigid posture of a torch carrier. Why was the man so tense, he wondered. He leaned forward in his saddle and noticed the thin trickle of boiling hot oil that had escaped the torch and was creeping towards the slave’s bare hand. Sulla watched the man’s eyes as they flicked forward and back to the burning liquid. Was there a touch of flame in the trickle? Yes, the heat would be terrible; it would stick as it burned the man. Sulla observed with interest, noting the sweat on the man’s forehead and having a private bet with himself as to what would happen when the heat touched the skin.

  He was a believer in omens and at such a moment, before the gates of Rome herself, he knew the gods would be watching. Was this a message from them, a signal for Sulla to interpret? Certainly he was beloved of the gods, as his exalted position showed. His plans were made, but disaster was always possible with a man like Marius. The flickering flames on the oil touched the slave’s skin. Sulla raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking with surprise. Despite the obvious agony of it, the man stood still as rock, letting the oil run on past his knuckles and continue its course into the dust of the road. Sulla could see the flames light his hand with a gentle yellow glow yet still the fellow did not move!
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  ‘Slave!’ he called.

  The man turned to face his master.

  Pleased, Sulla smiled at his steadiness.

  ‘You are relieved. Bathe that hand. Your courage is a good omen for tonight.’

  The man nodded gratefully, extinguishing the tiny flames with the grasp of his other palm. He scuttled off, red-faced and panting at the release. Sulla accepted a cool goblet graciously and toasted the walls of the city, his eyes hooded as he tipped it back and tasted the wine. Nothing to do now but wait.

  Marius gripped the lip of the heavy wall with irritation.

  ‘What is he doing?’ he muttered to himself. He could see the legion of Sulla stretching away into the distance, halted not more than a few hundred paces from the gate that opened onto the Via Sacra. Around him his men waited, as tense as himself.

  ‘They are just outside missile range, General,’ a centurion observed.

  Marius had to control a flare of temper. ‘I know. If they cross inside it, begin firing at once. Hit them with everything. They’ll never take the city in that formation.’

  It made no sense! Only a broad front stood a chance against a well-prepared enemy. The single-point spearhead march stood no chance of breaching the defences. He clenched his fist in anger. What had he missed?

  ‘Sound the horns the moment anything changes,’ he ordered the section leader and strode back through the ranks to the steps leading to the city street below.

  Julius, Cabera and Tubruk waited patiently for Marius to come over, watching him as he checked in with his advisers, who had nothing new to offer, judging by the shaking of heads. Tubruk loosened his gladius in his scabbard, feeling the light nerves that always came before bloodshed. It was in the air and he was glad he had stayed on through the hot day. Gaius, no, Julius now, had almost sent him home to the estate, but something in the ex-gladiator’s eyes had prevented the order.

  Julius wished the band of friends could have been complete. He would have appreciated Renius’ advice and Marcus’ odd sense of humour. As well as that, if it did come to a fight, there were few better to have at your side. He too loosened his sword, rattling the blade against the metal lip of the scabbard a few times to clear it of any obstructions. It was the fifth time he had done so in as many minutes and Cabera clapped a hand to his shoulder, making him start a little.

  ‘Soldiers always complain about the waiting. I prefer it to the killing, myself.’ In truth, he felt the swirling paths of the future pressing heavily on him and was caught between the desire to get Julius away to safety or to climb up onto the wall to meet the first assault. Anything to make the paths resolve into simple events!

  Julius scanned the walls, noting the number and positions of men, the smooth guard changes, the test runs of the ballistae and army-killer weapons. The streets were silent as Rome held its breath, but still nothing moved or changed. Marius was stamping around, roaring orders that would have been better left to the trusted men in the chain of command. It seemed the tension was affecting even him.

  The endless chains of runners were finally still. There was no more water to be carried and the stockpiles of arrows and shot were all in position. Only the breathless footsteps of a messenger from another part of the wall broke the tension every few minutes. Julius could see the worry on Marius’ face, made almost worse by the news of no other attack. Could Sulla really be willing to risk his neck in a legal entry to the city? His courage would win admirers if he walked up to the gates himself, but Julius was sure he would be dead, killed by an ‘accidental’ arrow as he approached. Marius would not leave such a dangerous snake alive if he came within bow shot.

  His thoughts were interrupted as a robed messenger jostled by him. In that moment, the scene changed. Julius watched in dawning horror as the men on the closest section of the wall were suddenly overwhelmed from behind, by their own companions. So intent were they on the legion waiting outside that scores fell in a few seconds. Water carriers dropped the buckets they held and sank daggers into the soldiers nearest them, killing men before they even realised they were under attack.

  ‘Gods!’ he whispered. ‘They’re already inside!’

  Even as he bared his gladius and felt rather than saw Tubruk do the same, he saw a flaming arrow lit calmly from a brazier and sent soaring into the night. As it arced upwards, the silence of murder was broken. From outside the walls, Sulla’s legion roared as if hell had broken open and came on.

  In the darkness of the street below, Marius had had his back to the wall when he noticed the stricken expression of a centurion. He spun in time to see the man clawing at the air, impaled on a long dagger that had been thrust into his back.

  ‘What is it? Blood of the gods …’ He pulled in a great gasp of air to rally the nearest sections and, as he did, saw a flaming arrow sweep out into the ink blackness of the starless night.

  ‘To me! First-Born to the gate! Hold the gate! Sound full warning! They come!’

  His voice cracked out, but the horn blowers were lying in pools of their own blood. One still struggled with his assailants, hanging on to the slim bronze tube despite the vicious stabbing his body was taking. Marius drew the sword that had been in his family for generations. His face was black with rage. The two men died and Marius raised the horn to his own lips, tasting the blood that had spattered onto the metal.

  All around him in the darkness, other horns answered. Sulla had won the first few moments, but he vowed it wasn’t over yet.

  Julius saw the group dressed as messengers were all armed and converging on where Marius stood with a bloody horn and his bright sword already dark with blood. The wall loomed behind him, flickering with torch shadows.

  ‘With me! They’re going for the general in the confusion,’ he barked to Tubruk and Cabera, charging the back of the group as he shouted.

  His first blow took one of the running men in the neck as they slowed to negotiate struggling groups of fighters. Finally, Marius’ men seemed to have woken up to the fact that the enemy were disguised, but the fighting was difficult and, in the flashing colours and blows of combat, no man knew which of the groups were friends and which were enemies. It was a devastating ploy and inside the walls everything was chaos.

  Julius ripped his blade across a leg muscle, crashing his running feet over the body as it collapsed and feeling satisfaction as he felt the bones shift and break under his sandals. At first he was surprised at the group not standing to fight, but he quickly realised they had orders to assassinate Marius and were careless of any other dangers.

  Tubruk brought down another with a leap that had them both sprawling on the hard cobbles. Cabera took one more with a dagger throw that caught Sulla’s man in the side and sent him staggering. Julius let his blade scythe out as he clattered past and felt a satisfying shock up his arm as it connected and slid free.

  Ahead, Marius stood alone and other, black-clad figures converged on him. He roared defiance as he saw them coming and suddenly Julius knew he was too late. More than fifty men were charging at the general. All his soldiers in the area were dead or dying. One or two still screamed their frustration, but they too could not reach his uncle.

  Marius spat blood and phlegm and raised his sword menacingly.

  ‘Come on, boys. Don’t keep me waiting,’ he growled through clenched teeth, anger keeping despair at bay.

  Julius felt a hard fist jerk at his collar and drag him to a stop. He roared in anger and felt his sword arm batted away as he spun to face the threat. He found himself looking into Tubruk’s stern face.

  ‘No, boy. It’s too late. Get out while you can.’

  Julius struggled in the grip, swearing with incoherent rage.

  ‘Let go! Marius is …’

  ‘I know. We can’t save him.’ Tubruk’s face was cold and white. ‘His men are too far away. We’ve been overlooked for a moment, but there’s too many of them. Live to avenge him, Gaius. Live.’

  Julius swivelled in the grip and fifty feet away saw Mari
us go down under a heaving mass of bodies, some of which were loose and boneless, already dead from his blows. The others held clubs, he saw, and they were striking wildly at the general, beating him to the ground in mindless ferocity.

  ‘I can’t run,’ Julius said.

  Tubruk swore. ‘No. But you can retreat. This battle is lost. The city is lost. Look, Sulla’s traitors are on the gates themselves. The legion will be on us if we don’t move now. Come on.’ Without waiting for further argument, Tubruk grabbed the young man under the armpits and began pulling him away, with Cabera taking the other arm.

  ‘We’ll get the horses and cross the city to one of the other gates. Then on to the coast and a legion galley. You must get clear. Few who have supported Marius will be alive in the morning,’ Tubruk continued grimly.

  The young man went almost limp in his grasp and then stiffened in fear as the night came alive with more black shapes surrounding them. Swords were pressed up to their throats and Julius tensed for the pain to come as an order broke the night.

  ‘Not these. I know them. Sulla said to keep them alive. Get the ropes.’

  They struggled, but there was nothing they could do.

  Marius felt his sword pulled from his grasp and heard the clatter as it was thrown on the stones almost distantly. He felt the thudding blows of clubs not as pain, but simply impacts, knocking his head from side to side in the crush of bodies. He felt a rib snap with an icicle of pain and then his arm twisted and his shoulder dislocated with a rip. He pulled up to consciousness and sank again as someone stamped on his fingers, breaking them. Where were his men? Surely they would be coming to save his life. This was not how it was meant to be, how he had seen his end. This was not the man who entered Rome at the head of a great Triumph and wore purple and threw silver coins to the people that loved him. This was a broken thing that wheezed blood and life out onto the sharp stones and wondered if his men would ever come for him, who loved them all as a father loves his children.