The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Julius and Servilia went quickly to him and Julius’ congratulations died in his throat as he saw his friend’s expression. He was white with rage.

  ‘Did you have Salomin beaten?’ Brutus snapped as he came up. ‘He could barely stand. Did you do it?’

  ‘I …’ Julius began, appalled. He was interrupted by the sudden snap to attention of Pompey’s soldiers as the curtain was swept aside and the consul stepped out.

  Trembling with suppressed emotion, Brutus saluted and stood stiffly to attention while Pompey looked him over.

  ‘I gave that order. Whether you profited from it or not is of no interest to me. A foreigner who does not salute can expect no better and deserves worse. If he had not been amongst the last four, I would have had him swinging in the breeze by now.’

  He returned their astonished gazes levelly.

  ‘Even a foreigner can be taught respect, I believe. Now, Brutus, go and rest for the final.’

  Dismissed, Brutus could do no more than shoot a glance of apology at his friend and mother.

  ‘Perhaps it might have been better to wait until the tournament was over,’ Julius said after Brutus had gone. Something about Pompey’s reptilian gaze made him careful in his choice of words. The man’s arrogance was greater than he had ever realised.

  ‘Or just forget it altogether, perhaps?’ Pompey replied. ‘A consul is Rome, Caesar. He must not be mocked or treated lightly. Perhaps you will understand that in time, if the citizens give you the chance to stand where I stand today.’

  Julius opened his mouth to ask if Pompey had bet on Brutus and closed it just in time before he destroyed himself. He recalled that Pompey had not: his twisted sense of honour would have prevented taking a profit from his punishment.

  Suddenly tired and sick of it all, Julius nodded as if he understood, holding the curtain open so that Servilia and Pompey could pass through it. She did not look at him even then and he sighed bitterly to himself as he followed them. He knew she would expect him to come to her in private and though it galled him, there was little choice. His hand strayed to the pearl’s bulge and he tapped it thoughtfully.

  Still panting from his ride, Julius took a deep breath before knocking on the door. The tavern keeper had confirmed Servilia had come back to her room and Julius could hear the splash of water inside as she bathed before the last bout. Despite his agitation, Julius could not help but feel the first silken touches of arousal as he heard footsteps approach, but the voice that called was that of the slave girl who filled the baths of customers.

  ‘Julius,’ he replied to the query. Perhaps his titles might have made the girl move a little faster, but there were ears along the little corridor and there was something faintly ludicrous in addressing a closed door like a lovesick boy. He cracked his knuckles as he waited. At least the tavern was close enough to the city walls for him to make it back in time. His horse was munching hay in the small stable and he only needed a minute to give Servilia the pearl, bear her delighted embraces and gallop back to the Campus with her for the last bout at midnight.

  The slave girl opened the door at last, bowing to him. Julius could see amusement in her eyes as she edged past into the corridor, but he forgot her as soon as the door closed behind him.

  Servilia was dressed in a simple white robe, with her hair tied into a coil on her neck. Part of him wondered how she had found time to apply paint and oils to her face, but he rushed forward to her.

  ‘I do not care about the years between us. Did they matter in Spain?’ he demanded. Before he could touch her, she held up a hand, her back stiff as a queen.

  ‘You understand nothing, Julius, and that is the simple truth.’

  He tried to protest, but she spoke loudly over him, her eyes flashing.

  ‘I knew it was impossible in Spain, but everything was different there. I can’t explain … it was as if Rome was too far away and you were all that mattered. When I am here, I feel the years, the decades, Julius. Decades between us. My forty-third birthday passed yesterday. When you are in your forties, I will be an old woman with grey hair. I have them now, but covered in the best dyes from Egypt. Let me go, Julius. We can have no more time together.’

  ‘I don’t care, Servilia!’ Julius snapped. ‘You are still beautiful …’

  Servilia laughed unpleasantly. ‘Still beautiful, Julius? Yes, it is a wonder I have kept my looks, though you know nothing of the work it takes me to present a smooth face to the world.’

  For a moment, her eyes crumpled and she struggled against tears. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with an infinite weariness.

  ‘I will not let you watch me grow old, Julius. Not you. Go back to your friends, before I call the tavern guards to throw you out. Leave me to finish dressing.’

  Julius opened his hand and showed her the pearl. He knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he had planned the gesture all the way from the Campus and now it was as if his arm moved without conscious will. She shook her head in disbelief at him.

  ‘Should I throw myself into your arms now, Julius? Should I weep and say I’m sorry I ever thought you were a boy?’

  With jerky spite, she snatched at the pearl and threw it straight at him, striking him in the forehead and making him flinch. He heard it roll into the recesses of the room and the sound seemed to go on endlessly.

  She spoke slowly, as if to one lacking in wits. ‘Now get out.’

  As the door closed behind him, she rubbed angrily at her eyes and stood to search the corners of the room for the pearl. When her fingers closed over it, she held it up to the lamplight and for a moment her expression softened. Despite its beauty, it was cold and hard in her hand, as she pretended to be.

  Servilia stroked the pearl with the pads of her long fingers, thinking of him. He had not yet lived thirty years and though he didn’t seem to think of it, he would want a wife to give him sons. Tears glittered on her eyelashes as she thought of her drying womb. No blood for three months and no life stirring within her. For a while, she had dared to hope for a child, but when another period was missed, she knew she was past the last age of youth. There would be no son from her and it was better to send him away before his thoughts turned to children she could not give him. Better than waiting for him to cast her off. He wore his strength so easily and well that she knew he would never understand her fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself. He would recover, the young always did.

  When Brutus and Sung emerged at midnight, the torches had been refilled with oil and the ring glowed in the darkness of the Campus. The betting slaves had been discreetly withdrawn and no more money was being taken. Many of the citizens had been drinking steadily through the afternoon in preparation for the climax and Julius sent runners to summon more of the Tenth in case of a riot at the end. Despite the weariness that assailed his spirit, Julius felt the thrill of pride as he watched Brutus raise one of Cavallo’s swords for the last time. The gesture had a personal, painful meaning for all of them who understood it.

  Without thinking, Julius reached out his hand to take Servilia’s and then let it drop.

  Her mood would change if Brutus won, he was almost certain.

  The moon had risen, a pale crescent that hung above the ring of torches. Though it was late, the news of the finalists had passed quickly across the city and all of Rome was awake and waiting for the result. If he won, Brutus would be famous and the wry thought occurred to Julius that if his friend stood for consul, he would almost certainly win the seat.

  As the cornicens blew their horns, Sung attacked without warning, trying for a win in the first instant. His blade blurred as it whipped out at Brutus’ legs and the young Roman batted it aside with a ring of metal. He did not counter and for a moment Sung was left off balance. The sharp slits of his eyes remained impassive as Sung shrugged and moved in again, his long sword cutting a curve in the air.

  Once again, Brutus knocked the blade away and the sound of metal was like a bell that rang out over the silent
crowd. They watched in fascination at this last battle that was so different from those that had gone before.

  Julius could see the mottle of anger still on Brutus’ face and neck and wondered whether he would kill Sung or be killed himself as his mind dwelled on the false win against Salomin.

  The bout developed into a series of dashes and clangs, but Brutus had not moved a step from his mark. Where Sung’s blade would reach him, it was blocked with a short jab of the gladius. Where the blow was a feint, Brutus ignored it, even when the metal passed close enough for him to hear it cut the air. Sung was breathing heavily as the crowd began to raise their voices with each of his attacks, falling silent for the blow and then letting out a hissing gasp that seemed like mockery. They thought Brutus was teaching the man a lesson about Rome.

  As Julius watched, he knew Brutus was wrestling with himself alone. He wanted to win almost to desperation, but the shame of Salomin’s treatment ate at him and he merely held Sung while he thought it through. Julius realised he was witnessing the display of a perfect swordsman. It was a staggering truth, but the boy he had known had become a master, greater than Renius or any other.

  Sung knew it, as sweat stung his eyes, and still the Roman stood before him. Sung’s face filled with rage and frustration. He had begun to grunt with every blow and without making a conscious choice, he was no longer striking to take first blood, but to kill.

  Julius couldn’t bear to watch it. He leaned out over the railing and bellowed across the sand to his friend: ‘Win, Brutus! For us, win!’

  His people roared as they heard him. Brutus turned Sung’s blade on his own, trapping it long enough to hammer his elbow into the man’s mouth. Blood spilled visibly over Sung’s pale skin and Sung stepped back, stunned. Julius saw Brutus raise his hand and speak to the man and then Sung shook his head and darted in again.

  Brutus came alive then and it was like watching a cat startled into a leap. He let the long blade slide along his ribs to get inside the guard and rammed his gladius down into Sung’s neck with every ounce of his anger. The blade vanished under the silver armour and Brutus walked away across the sand without looking back.

  Sung looked after him, his face twisted. His left hand plucked at the blade as he tried to shout, but his lungs were ribbons of flesh inside him and only a hoarse croaking could be heard in the deathly silence.

  The crowd began to jeer and Julius felt ashamed of them. He stood and bellowed for quiet, enough to silence those who could hear. The rest followed into a tense stillness as the people of Rome waited for Sung to fall.

  Sung spat angrily onto the sand, all colour seeping out of his face. Even at a distance, they could hear each heaving breath torn out. Slowly, with infinite care, he unbuckled his armour and let it fall. The cloth underneath was drenched and black in the torchlight and Sung looked at it in amazement, his dark gaze flickering up at the rows of Romans watching him.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ Renius whispered to himself. ‘Show them how to die.’

  With the precision of agony, Sung sheathed his long sword and then his legs betrayed him and he dropped to his knees. Still, he looked around at them all and the hard breaths were like screams, each one shorter than the last. Then he fell and the crowd released their breath, sitting like statues of gods in judgement.

  Pompey mopped at his brow, shaking his head.

  ‘You must congratulate your man, Caesar. I have never seen better,’ he said.

  Julius turned cold eyes on him and Pompey nodded as if to himself, calling for his guards to escort him back to the city walls.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bibilus glared in silence as Suetonius paced up and down the long room where he met visitors. Like every part of the house, it was decorated to Bibilus’ taste and even as he watched Suetonius, he took comfort from the simple colours of the couches and gold-capped columns. Somehow, the stark cleanliness never failed to calm him and on entering any room in the villa, he would know if anything was out of place at a glance. The black marble floor was so highly polished that every step Suetonius took was matched by a coloured shadow under his feet, as if he walked on water. They were alone, with even the slaves dismissed. The fire had died long before and the air was cold enough to frost their breath. Bibilus would have liked to call for wine heated with a burning iron, or some food, but he dared not interrupt his friend.

  He began to count the turns as Suetonius strode, the tension showing in his tight shoulders and the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his back. Bibilus bore the nightly use of his home with resentment, but Suetonius had a hold over him and he felt bound to listen, even as he grew to despise the man.

  Suetonius’ hard voice snapped the silence without warning, as if the anger could no longer be held within. ‘I swear if I could reach him, I would have him killed, Bibi. By Jupiter’s head, I swear it!’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Bibilus stammered, shocked. Even in his own house, some words should never be spoken.

  Suetonius broke his stride as if he had been challenged and Bibilus shrank back into his padded couch. Drops of white spittle had gathered at the corners of Suetonius’ mouth and Bibilus stared at them, unable to look away.

  ‘You don’t know him, Bibilus. You haven’t seen how he plays the part of a noble Roman, like his uncle before him. As if his family were anything more than merchants! He flatters those he needs, puffing them up in his wake like cock birds. Oh, I’ll give him that! He is a master at finding those to love him. All built on lies, Bibilus. I have seen it.’ He glared at his friend as if waiting to be contradicted.

  ‘His vanity shines out until I can’t believe I am the only one who notices, yet they fall into line for him and call him the young lion of Rome.’

  Suetonius spat on the polished floor and Bibilus looked at the wet lump of phlegm with distress. Suetonius sneered, his bitterness making an ugly mask of his features.

  ‘It’s all a game to them – Pompey and Crassus. I saw it when we came back from Greece together. The city was poor, the slaves were on the edge of the greatest rebellion in our history and they put Caesar up as a tribune. I should have known then I would never see justice. What had he done to deserve it, after all? I was there when we fought Mithridates, Bibi. Caesar was no more the leader than I was, though he played at it. Mithridates practically gave us the victory, but I never saw Julius fight. Did I mention that? I never saw him even draw his sword to help us when the blood was flying.’

  Bibilus sighed. He had heard it all before, too many times to count. The rage had seemed justified to him once, but every time he heard the tale of grievances, Caesar became more and more the villain Suetonius wanted him to be.

  ‘And Spain? Oh, Bibi, I know all about Spain. He goes there with nothing and returns with enough gold to run for consul, but do they challenge him? Is he broken by the courts? I wrote to the man who took his place there and questioned the figures he gave the Senate. I did their work for them, Bibi, those old fools.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Bibilus asked, looking up from his hands. This was a new part of the rant and it interested him. He watched as Suetonius searched for words and hoped he would not spit again.

  ‘Nothing! I wrote again and again and finally the man sent me a curt little note, a warning not to interfere with the government of Rome. A threat, Bibilus, a nasty little threat. I knew then that he was one of Caesar’s men. No doubt his hands are as dirty as the man before him. He covers himself well, does Julius, but I’ll trap him.’

  Tired and hungry, Bibilus could not resist a little barb. ‘If he becomes consul, he will be immune from prosecution, Suetonius, even for capital crimes. You will not be able to touch him then.’

  Suetonius sneered and hesitated before speaking. He remembered watching the dark men heading down to Caesar’s estate to murder Cornelia and her servants. Sometimes, he thought that memory was all that prevented him from going insane. The gods had not protected Julius that day. Julius had been sent to Spain with rumours of disgra
ce, while his beautiful wife had her throat cut. Suetonius thought he had finally conquered his anger then. The death of Cornelia was like a boil bursting in him, with all the poison flowing away.

  Suetonius sighed for the loss of that peace. Julius had abused his term in Spain, raping the country of gold. He should have been stoned in the streets, but he had come back and spoken his lies to the simple crowds and won them over. His tournament had spread his name over the city.

  ‘Is there surprise when his friend wins the sword tournament, Bibi? No, they just cheer in their empty-headed way, though anyone with eyes could see that Salomin could barely walk to his mark. That was the true Caesar, the one I know. Right there in front of thousands and they would not see it. Where was his precious honour then?’ Suetonius began to pace again, every step clattering against his mirrored image. ‘He must not be consul, Bibilus. I will do what I have to, but he must not. You are not my only hope, my friend. You may yet take enough of the century votes to break him, but I will find another way if that is not enough.’

  ‘If you are caught doing something, I …’ Bibilus began.

  Suetonius waved him to silence.

  ‘Do your own work, Bibilus, while I do mine. Wave to crowds, attend the courts, make your speeches.’

  ‘And if that is not enough?’ he asked, fearing the answer.

  ‘Do not disappoint me, Bibilus. You will see it through to the end unless your withdrawal would help my father. Is that too much to ask of you? It is nothing.’

  ‘But what if …’

  ‘I am tired of your objections, my friend,’ Suetonius said softly. ‘If you like, I can go to Pompey now and show him why you are not fit to stand for Rome. Would you like that, Bibi? Would you like him to know your secrets?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Bibilus said, tears pricking his eyes. At times like that, he felt nothing but hatred for the man before him. Suetonius made everything sound sordid.