The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘You knew enough to tell me your name. Can you understand me?’ Julius asked.

  Adàn worked spit into his dry mouth. ‘I can,’ he said. At least his voice hadn’t quavered like a boy’s. He squared his shoulders slightly and glanced at the others, almost recoiling from the naked animosity from one of them, a bear of a man with one arm who seemed to be practically growling with anger.

  ‘You told the guards you were the one we were looking for, the one who killed the soldier,’ Julius said.

  Adàn’s gaze snapped back to him.

  ‘I did it. I killed him,’ he replied, the words coming in a rush.

  ‘You tortured him,’ Julius added.

  Adàn swallowed again. He had imagined this scene as he walked over the dark fields to the fort, but he couldn’t summon the defiance he had pictured. He felt as if he was confessing to his father, and it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet in shame, despite his intentions.

  ‘He was trying to rape my mother. I took him into the woods. She tried to stop me, but I would not listen to her,’ Adàn said stiffly, trying to remember the words he had practised.

  Someone in the room muttered an oath, but Adàn could not tear his eyes away from the general. He felt an obscure relief that he had told them. Now they would kill him and his parents would be released.

  Thinking of his mother was a mistake. Tears sprang from nowhere to rim his eyes and he blinked them back furiously. She would want him to be strong in front of these men.

  Julius watched him. The young Spaniard was visibly trembling, and with reason. He had only to give the order and Adàn would be taken out into the yard and executed in front of the assembled ranks. It would be the end of it, but a memory stayed his hand.

  ‘Why have you given yourself up, Adàn?’

  ‘My family have been taken in for questioning, General. They are innocent. I am the one you want.’

  ‘You think your death will save them?’

  Adàn hesitated. How could he explain that only that thin hope had made him come?

  ‘They have done nothing wrong.’

  Julius raised a hand to scratch his eyebrow, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair as he thought.

  ‘When I was younger than you, Adàn, I stood in front of a Roman named Cornelius Sulla. He had murdered my uncle and broken everything I valued in the world. He told me I would go free if I put aside my wife and shamed her with her father. He cherished such little acts of spite.’

  For a moment, Julius looked into the unimaginable distance of the past and Adàn felt sweat break out on his forehead. Why was the man talking to him? He had already confessed; there was nothing else. Despite his fear, he felt interest kindle. The Romans seemed to bear only one face in Spain. To hear they had rivalry and enemies within their own ranks was a revelation.

  ‘I hated that man, Adàn,’ Julius continued. ‘If I had been given a weapon, I would have used it on him even though it meant my own life. I wonder if you understand that sort of hatred.’

  ‘You did not give up your wife?’ Adàn asked.

  Julius blinked at the sudden question, then smiled bitterly.

  ‘No. I refused and he let me live. The floor at his feet was spattered with the blood of people he had killed and tortured, yet he let me live. I have often wondered why.’

  ‘He did not think you were a threat,’ Adàn said, surprised by his own courage to speak so to the general. Julius shook his head in memory.

  ‘I doubt it. I told him I would devote my life to killing him if he set me free.’ For a moment, he almost said aloud how his friend had poisoned the Dictator, but that part of the story could never be told, not even to the men in that room.

  Julius shrugged. ‘He died by someone else’s hand, in the end. It is one of the regrets of my life that I could not do it myself and watch the life fade from his eyes.’

  Adàn had to look away from the fire he saw in the Roman. He believed him and the thought of this man ordering his own death with such malice made him shudder.

  Julius did not speak again for a long time and Adàn felt weak with the tension, his head jerking upwards as the general broke the silence at last.

  ‘There are murderers in the cells here and in Valentia. One of them will be hanged for your crimes as well as his own. You, I am going to pardon. I will sign my name to it and you will go back to your home with your family and never come to my attention again.’

  Renius snorted in amazement. ‘I would like a private word, General,’ he grated, looking venomously at Adàn. The young Spaniard stood with his mouth open.

  ‘You may not have one, Renius. I have spoken and it will stand,’ Julius replied without looking at him. He watched the boy for a moment and felt a weight lift off him. He had made the right decision, he was sure. He had seen himself in the Spaniard’s eyes and it was like lifting a veil into his memory. How frightening Sulla had seemed then. To Adàn, Julius would have been another of that cruel type, wrapped in metal armour and harder thoughts. How close he had come to sending Adàn to be impaled, or burnt, or nailed to the gates of the fort, as Sulla had with so many of his enemies. It was an irony that Sulla’s old whim had saved Adàn, but Julius had caught himself before he gave the order for death and wondered at what he was becoming. He would not be those men he had hated. Age would not force him into their mould, if he had the strength. He rose from his seat and faced Adàn.

  ‘I do not expect you to waste this chance, Adàn. You will not have another from me.’

  Adàn almost burst into tears, emotions roiling and overwhelming him. He had prepared himself for death and having it snatched away and freedom promised was too much for him. On an impulse, he took a step forward and went down on one knee before anyone could react.

  Julius stood slowly, looking down at the young man before him.

  ‘We are not the enemy, Adàn. Remember that. I will have a scribe prepare the pardon. Wait below for me,’ he said.

  Adàn rose and looked into the Roman’s dark eyes for a last moment before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall, wiping sweat from his face. He felt dizzy with relief and every breath he pulled in was clear and cold. He could not understand why he had been spared.

  The guard in the room below craned his head to stare up at Adàn’s slumped figure in the shadows.

  ‘Shall I heat the knives for you then?’ the Roman sneered up at him.

  ‘Not today,’ Adàn replied, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over the man’s face.

  Brutus pressed a cup of wine into Julius’ hand, pouring expertly from an amphora.

  ‘Are you going to tell us why you let him go?’ he said.

  Julius lifted the cup to cut off the flow and drank from it before holding it out again. ‘Because he was brave,’ he said.

  Renius rubbed the bristles of his chin with his hand. ‘He will be famous in the towns, you realise. He will be the man who faced us and lived. They’ll probably make him mayor when old Del Subió dies. The young ones will flock around him and before you know it …’

  ‘Enough,’ Julius interrupted, his face flushing from the heady wine. ‘The sword is not the answer to everything, no matter how you may wish it so. We have to live with them without sending our men out in pairs and watching every alley and track for ambush.’ His hands cut shapes in the air as he strained to find words for the thought.

  ‘They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?’

  ‘I understand,’ Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’ reply.

  Julius’ face lit with the idea. ‘There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is of Rome.’ He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. ‘Rome is … an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adán to cast us off would be like
tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.’

  ‘Unless he killed the man for sport,’ Renius said, ‘and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.’ He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

  Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

  ‘I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?’ His voice had risen as he spoke and Renius turned to face him, realising he had gone too far.

  Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him.

  ‘If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand that?’

  Renius froze. ‘I know that, of course, you …’

  Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish and he was left feeling empty and tired.

  ‘Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.’

  Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.

  There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.

  ‘I cannot go back,’ he said aloud, his voice cracking.

  Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.

  They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.

  ‘He wants you,’ Renius said.

  Cabera looked up at his tone. ‘Hand me that pot, will you?’

  Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humour dampened.

  ‘You’re worried about Julius,’ the old healer said.

  Renius shrugged. ‘He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I … can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.’

  Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’ arm.

  ‘He knows you’re here, if he needs you,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a sleeping draught for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.’

  Renius shook his head. ‘Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.’

  Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.

  ‘You are a good man, Renius,’ he said, too quietly to be heard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.

  The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.

  ‘I will buy his catch, Captain,’ Servilia said.

  The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.

  ‘They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,’ he said.

  She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.

  ‘Nonetheless, the sun is hot and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.’

  The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labours, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.

  ‘Won’t your little boat drift away?’ she asked.

  The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.

  ‘He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.’

  Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.

  The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.

  ‘Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?’ she asked.

  The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.

  ‘Just a few coppers will do, madam,’ he said.

  Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the captain and jerked his knot free before climbing the rail and diving into the blue water below. Servilia leaned over to watch him surface and laughed with pleasure as he pulled himself back in, gleaming in the sunlight like his fish. He pulled his net out of the water and waved to her.

  ‘What a wonderful beginning,’ she breathed. The captain muttered something unintelligible.

  The crewmen who held the fish brought wooden clubs out of a deck locker and, before Servilia realised what they were doing, brought them down on the shining heads with a grim thumping sound. The shining eyes disappeared under the force of the blows, knocked inside the head as blood spattered over the deck. Servilia grimaced as a spot of it touched her arm. The seamen were clearly enjoying themselves, suddenly more
vital than they had been at any point in the voyage from Ostia. It was as if they had come alive in the killing and they chuckled and joked with each other as they finished the grisly task.

  When the last of the fish were dead, the deck was coated in their blood and tiny silver scales. Servilia watched as the seamen threw a canvas bucket on a line into the sea and sluiced the planks clean.

  ‘The port is tight with ships, madam,’ the captain said at her shoulder, squinting against the sun. ‘I’ll take her in as close as I can, but we’ll have to anchor for a few hours until there’s a place on the dock.’ Servilia turned to look again at Valentia, suddenly longing to be on land again.

  ‘As you say, Captain,’ she murmured.

  The mountains behind the port seemed to fill the horizon, green and red against the dark blue of the sky. Her son, Brutus, was somewhere over them and seeing him after so long would be wonderful. Strangely, her stomach tightened almost to an ache when she thought of the young man who was his friend. She wondered how the years had changed him and touched her hair unconsciously, smoothing it back where it had fallen in tendrils, made damp by the sea air.

  Evening had muted the heat of the sun into grey softness by the time the Roman trade ship was able to ease between the lines of anchored shipping and take her place on the dock. Servilia had brought three of her most beautiful girls with her and they joined her on deck with the crew as they threw ropes to the dockworkers and used the steering oars to bring them safe against the massive wooden beams of the side. It was a delicate manoeuvre and the captain showed his skill in its neatness, as he communicated with the mate at the bow with a series of hand signals and calls.

  There was a general air of excitement and the young girls Servilia had brought laughed and joked as the workers on the docks caught sight of them and called ribald comments. Servilia let them preen without a word; all three were the rarity in her business who had not yet lost the love for the work. In fact, Angelina, the youngest, was constantly falling in love with her customers and few months went by without some romantic offering to buy her for marriage. The price always seemed to surprise them and Angelina would sulk for days before someone else took her fancy.