The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I want you to stay away from the front line when they come, Cabera. Live through this one,’ he said.

  ‘Your path is mine, remember?’ the old man said, his eyes gleaming in the rain. His white hair hung in thin strips over his face and there was something so bedraggled about him that Julius chuckled.

  Around the pair of them, men rose to their feet in silence. Julius raised his head sharply at the movement, thinking it was time to march, but they just stood and looked at him. More and more joined them as the word spread, until every one of them was standing. Plates were put down and cloaks left to grow wet as they faced him and the rain fell.

  Wonderingly, Julius reached up to touch the circlet and he felt his heart lift. These were not small men. They gave their lives without caring, trusting their generals not to waste what they offered. They smiled and laughed as he caught their eyes and he felt again the bonds that held them together.

  ‘We are Rome,’ he whispered and turned to see thousands standing for him. In that moment, he understood what held Tubruk to loyalty and his father’s faith. He would turn his hand to the dream as better men had before him, and honour them with his life.

  In the distance, cornicens sounded the long notes to break camp.

  ‘Keep moving, my brothers,’ Spartacus roared. It was the end and, somehow, there was no fear. His slaves had shown the legions could be beaten and he knew there would be a day when the cracks they had made would widen and Rome would fall. The legions behind them glittered in the morning sun, sending up a shout as Pompey’s thousands marched down to them, faster and faster like jaws to crush the slaves between them. Spartacus saw his ragged slaves would be engulfed. He drew his sword and pulled his iron helmet over his face.

  ‘My gods, we gave them a run, though,’ he said to himself as the air darkened with spears.

  EPILOGUE

  Pompey walked with Crassus between the rows of crosses. With Rome in sight, the line stretched for miles down the Via Appia behind them, six thousand men to serve as a warning and a proof of the victory. Forests had been felled to hold them and when the legion carpenters ran out of nails, the slaves had simply been tied and speared, or left to die of thirst.

  The two generals dismounted to walk the last mile into the city. Crassus would not be shamed, Pompey had promised him. Ending the rebellion erased the disasters that had gone before and Pompey was willing to let him have his moment of glory. He had nothing to fear from Crassus and there was always his wealth to be considered. He would need wealthy men to finance his time as consul. Perhaps, he thought, it would be fruitful to urge Crassus to take the second consular post when the elections came. They could share the expenses then and Crassus would always be grateful.

  In the distance, the generals could hear the tinny sounds of a cheering crowd, catching sight of them on the road. They smiled at each other, enjoying the moment.

  ‘I wonder if we should ask for a Triumph?’ Crassus said, breathing quickly at the thought. ‘There hasn’t been one since Marius.’

  ‘I remember it,’ Pompey said, thinking of the young man who had stood at Marius’ shoulder on the ride to the forum.

  As if guessing his thoughts, Crassus glanced at him.

  ‘It’s a shame Julius isn’t here to see this. He fought hard enough for us.’

  Pompey frowned. He would not admit it to Crassus, but when he’d seen the Greek legions stand for Julius in the mud and the rain, it had frightened him. All the great men were dead, but that one stood with the blood of Marius in him, general of the Tenth and with a growing fame that could be deadly if he ever chose to use it. No, he did not want Julius in his city or his precious legion. He’d signed the orders sending them to Spain without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Spain will temper him, Crassus. I have no doubt.’

  Crassus looked questioningly at him, but chose not to reply and Pompey nodded in satisfaction as the roar of the waiting crowd grew. Spain was far enough away for Marius’ nephew and when his five years there were up, the people would have forgotten him.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The fact that, as a young man, Julius Caesar was captured by pirates and held for ransom is a matter of historical record. When they suggested a ransom of twenty talents, he is said to have demanded fifty, as they had no idea whom they had captured. He told the pirates that he would have them crucified, though he would have their officers strangled out of mercy.

  When he was released on the north coast of Africa, he set about raising funds and demanding men from villages until he had enough to make a crew and hire ships. It is difficult to imagine the personal charisma that must have been necessary to accomplish this. It should be remembered that he was a young man, with no authority or Senate position.

  In the book, I have assumed that he picked up his recruits in Roman settlements, the children of retired soldiers. It is the only way I could explain how he was able to take ship, search the Mediterranean for the pirates, find them and carry out his grisly promises.

  On landing in Greece, he discovered the rebellion raised by Mithridates and gathered an army around him. In fact, the battle he fought to stiffen the resolve of wavering Roman cities was against Mithridates’ deputy rather than the king himself. Julius achieved a victory that held the region together in the face of Senate fumbling and indecision. It was Pompey who eventually defeated Mithridates and both men gained in status in Rome. Julius was made a military tribune, with the authority to levy troops, a position he still held when the Spartacus slave rebellion began.

  There is no record of Caesar’s involvement in the war against Spartacus, though I find it difficult to believe that a tribune with his drive and energy would not have been part of the legions led by Crassus and Pompey.

  Though Karl Marx described Spartacus as ‘the finest fellow that the whole of ancient history has to show,’ there is little doubt that the Thracian gladiator had the chance to cross the Alps and escape Rome for ever. We do not know what prompted him to turn south again, but, considering how close he came, perhaps it was a genuine belief that the power of the legions could be broken.

  The slave army destroyed and routed a number of the legions sent against them, sending shockwaves of fear through the city and Roman lands. Estimates are that Spartacus had upwards of seventy thousand slaves with him, roaming Italy north and south for two years in the field.

  Crassus built his wall across the toe of Italy and Spartacus’ hope of being taken off by pirates came to nothing. The slaves broke through Crassus’ barrier and streamed north once more. It took three armies to stop them in the end and there is no record of whether Spartacus fell or was crucified with the thousands of others along the Appian Way.

  Rome’s first Dictator for life, Cornelius Sulla, managed to retire from office and live comfortably until his death in 78 BC. He is best remembered for his lists of proscriptions, published each day and naming those who had displeased him or were considered enemies of the Republic at his word. Gangs of raptores would earn a fee by dragging unfortunates out to be executed and for a while Rome was as close to anarchy and terror as she had ever been. In many ways, Sulla was the architect of the downfall of the Republic, though the cracks would not show for some time.

  As with Sulla’s manner of death, I have found it necessary on occasion to make changes to events. Though Caesar fought at Mytilene, earning the oak wreath there for bravery, I have left out his travels to Asia Minor and the cases he prosecuted in Rome during this period.

  Octavian was Julius’ great-nephew and not a cousin as I have it. The change in relationship allowed me to avoid including a minor character in the first book. Similarly, for plot purposes, I have included Cato’s suicide in The Death of Kings, whereas in fact he was Caesar’s enemy for years longer.

  Julius Caesar accomplished so much that it has always been harder deciding what not to tell than to choose the events that cry out to be dramatised. Sadly, sheer limitations of length prevent me from dealing with every aspect of
his achievements. For those who are interested in the details I have been forced to omit, I once again recommend Christian Meier’s book Caesar.

  The minutiae of Roman lives were very much as I have portrayed them, from the birthing chair and jewellery making to the manner and customs of a Roman court, for which I owe a debt to The Elements of Roman Law by R.W. Lee.

  The events of the books to come will, I hope, be made richer by knowing what has gone before.

  Conn Iggulden

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A growing number of people have been kind enough to read drafts of scenes and chapters, often many times over. Nick Sayers and Tim Waller at HarperCollins have guided these books through various versions with a skill I am beginning to take for granted. In addition, I have to thank Joel, Tony, my brother David, my parents, Victoria, Ella, Marlita and Clive, in no particular order. Thank you all for your interest and contributions.

  Copyright

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

  Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2004

  Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007437139

  Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321766

  Version: 2013-12-05

  EMPEROR

  THE FIELD OF SWORDS

  CONN IGGULDEN

  To my daughter Mia, and my wife Ella

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Julius stood by the open window, gazing out over Spanish hills. The setting sun splashed gold along a distant crest so that it seemed to hang in the air unsupported, a vein of light in the distance. Behind him, the murmur of conversation rose and fell without interrupting his thoughts. He could smell honeysuckle on the breeze and the touch of it in his nostrils made his own rank sweat even more pungent as the delicate fragrance shifted in the air and was gone.

  It had been a long day. When he pressed a hand against his eyes, he could feel a surge of exhaustion rise in him like dark water. The voices in the campaign room mingled with the creak of chairs and the rustle of maps. How many hundreds of evenings had he spent on the upper floor of the fort with those men? The routine had become a comfort for them all at the end of a day and even when there was nothing to discuss, they still gathered in the campaign rooms to drink and talk. It kept Rome alive in their minds and at times they could almost forget that they had not seen their home for more than four years.

  At first, Julius had embraced the problems of the regions and hardly thought of Rome for months at a time. The days had flown as he rose and slept with the sun and the Tenth made towns in the wilderness. On the coast, Valentia had been transformed with lime and wood and paint until it was almost a new city veneered over the old. They had laid roads to chain the land and bridges that opened the wild hills to settlers. Julius had worked with a frenetic, twitching energy in those first years, using exhaustion like a drug to force away his memories. Then he would sleep and Cornelia would come to him. Those were the nights when he would leave his sweat-soaked bed and ride out to the watch posts, appearing out of the darkness unannounced until the Tenth were as nervous and tired as he was himself.

  As if to mock his indifference, his engineers had found gold in two new seams, richer than any they had known before. The yellow metal had its own allure and when Julius had seen the first haul spilled out of a cloth onto his desk, he had looked at it with hatred for what it represented. He had come to Spain with nothing, but the ground gave up its secrets and with the wealth came the tug of the old city and the life he had almost forgotten.

  He sighed at the thought. Spain was such a treasure house it would be difficult to leave her, but part of him knew he could not lose himself there for much longer. Life was too precious to be wasted, and too short.

  The room was warm with the press of bodies. The maps of the new mines were stretched out on low tables, held by weights. Julius could hear Renius arguing with Brutus and the low cadence of Domitius chuckling. Only the giant Ciro was silent. Yet even those who spoke were marking time until Julius joined them. They were good men. Each one of them had stood with him against enemies and through grief and there were times when Julius could imagine how it might have been to cross the world with them. They were men to walk a finer path than to be forgotten in Spain and Julius could not bear the sympathy he saw in their eyes. He knew he deserved only contempt for having brought them to that place and buried himself in petty work.

  If Cornelia had lived, he would have taken her with him to Spain. It would have been a new start, far away from the intrigues of the city. He bowed his head as the evening breeze touched his face. It was an old pain and there were whole days when he did not think of her. Then the guilt would surface and the dreams would be terrible, as if in punishment for the lapse.

  ‘Julius? The guard is at the door for you,’ Brutus said, touching him on the shoulder. Julius nodded and turned back to the men in the room, his eyes seeking out the stranger amongst them.

  The legionary looked nervous as he glanced around at the map-laden tables and the jugs of wine, clearly awed by the people within.

  ‘Well?’ Julius said.

  The soldier swallowed as he met t
he dark eyes of his general. There was no kindness in that hard, fleshless face and the young legionary stammered slightly.

  ‘A young Spanish at the gate, General. He says he’s the one we’re looking for.’

  The conversations in the room died away and the guard wished he were anywhere else but under the scrutiny of those men.

  ‘Have you checked him for weapons?’ Julius said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then bring him to me. I want to speak to the man who has caused me so much trouble.’

  Julius stood waiting at the top of the stairs as the Spaniard was brought up. His clothes were too small for his gangling limbs and the face was caught in the change between man and boy, though there was no softness in the bony jaw. As their eyes met, the Spaniard hesitated, stumbling.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ Julius said as they came level.

  ‘Adàn,’ the Spaniard forced out.

  ‘You killed my officer?’ Julius said, with a sneer.

  The young man froze, then nodded, his expression wavering between fear and determination. He could see the faces turned towards him in the room and his courage seemed to desert him then at the thought of stepping into their midst. He might have held back if the guard hadn’t shoved him across the threshold.

  ‘Wait below,’ Julius told the legionary, suddenly irritated.

  Adàn refused to bow his head in the face of the hostile glares of the Romans, though he could not remember being more frightened in his life. As Julius closed the door behind him, he started silently, cursing his nervousness. Adàn watched as the general sat down facing him and a dull terror overwhelmed him. Should he keep his hands by his sides? All of a sudden, they seemed awkward and he considered folding them or clasping his fingers behind his back. The silence was painful as he waited and still they had their eyes on him. Adàn swallowed with difficulty, determined not to show his fear.