The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Artorath glowered at him, remaining silent. Mhorbaine nodded in relief.

  ‘Thank you, brother. I think, for the rest of the day, you should consider yourself my bodyguard first and my brother second. Now are you coming with me?’

  His men were given tents while they waited for Julius to wake. Mhorbaine sent riders back to hurry on the herd he had brought for the feast and before noon had fully passed the slaughter of the animals had begun, with Mhorbaine and Artorath taking a personal hand in the preparation and spicing of the meat.

  As the other leaders began to arrive, Mhorbaine greeted them with intense inner amusement, thoroughly enjoying their surprise at seeing him red to the elbows and issuing orders to boys and men as the bellowing cattle were killed and cut into a feast for thirty thousand. The sizzle of beef filled the air as a hundred fire pits were fed and heavy iron spits erected. Drowsy legionaries were rousted out of their warm blankets to help with the work, rewarded with a taste as they licked burnt fingers.

  When Mark Antony woke, he had slaves bring buckets of river water for him to wash and shave, refusing to be hurried. If Julius was prepared to sleep through the biggest gathering of tribal leaders in living memory, then he was certainly not going out to them with two days of stubble on his face. As each hour passed, Mark Antony was forced to wake more and more of the soldiers, ignoring the swearing that came from the tents as his messages broke through the numbness of their exhaustion. The promise of hot food did wonders for their tempers and hunger silenced the complaints as they followed Mark Antony’s example and washed before dressing in their best uniforms.

  There were many small villages in the Roman province and Mark Antony sent riders out to them for oil, fish sauce, herbs and fruit. He thanked his gods the trees were heavy with unpicked apples and oranges, no matter how green. After drinking water for so long, the bitter juice was better than wine after it had been pressed out into jugs for the men.

  Julius was one of the last to wake, sticky with the heat. He had slept in the solid buildings of the original settlement, now much extended. Whoever designed them had shared the Roman taste for cleanliness and Julius was able to sluice himself with cold water in the bathing room, then lie on a hard pallet to have olive oil scraped on and off his skin, leaving him clean and refreshed. The muscles that ached in his back finally eased as he sat to be shaved and he wondered whether the daily massage kept him supple. Before he dressed, he looked down at himself, checking his bruises. His stomach in particular was tender, and marked as if he had taken a heavy impact. Strange that he did not remember it. He dressed slowly, enjoying the coolness of clean linen against his skin after the smell of his own sweat on the march. His hair snagged in the fine teeth of the comb and when he tugged, he was appalled to see the mass of strands that came away. There was no mirror in the bathing rooms and Julius tried to remember the last time he had seen an image of himself. Was he losing his hair? It was a horrible idea.

  Brutus entered with Domitius and Octavian, all three men wearing the silver armour they had won in the tournament, polished to a high sheen.

  ‘The tribes have sent their representatives to see you, Julius,’ Brutus said, flushed with excitement. ‘There must be thirty different groups on our land, all under flags of truce and trying to hide how interested they are in our numbers and strategy.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Julius replied, responding to their enthusiasm. ‘Have tables put up for them in the dining hall. We should be able to get them all in, if they don’t mind the crush.’

  ‘All done,’ Domitius said. ‘Everyone is waiting for you to join them, but Mark Antony is frantic. He says they won’t move until you invite them to your table and we wouldn’t let him wake you.’

  Julius chuckled.

  ‘Then let us walk out to them.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The air in the dining hall was thick with the heat of bodies as Julius took his seat at the long table. Though linen covered its length, Julius could not resist running a hand underneath to feel the rough new wood. It had not been there when he’d arrived that morning and he smiled to himself at the energy of Mark Antony and the legion carpenters.

  He asked Mhorbaine to sit on his right hand and the Gaul took his place with obvious pleasure. Julius liked the man and wondered how many of the others would be friends or enemies in the years to come.

  The men at his table were a mixed group, though all of them shared features as if their ancestors had sprung from the same tribe. They had hard faces, as if carved from pine. Many were bearded, though there was no style that dominated the gathering, and Julius saw as many moustaches and shaved skulls as there were beards and long braids dyed red at the roots. In the same way, there was no pattern to their clothes or armour. Some wore silver and gold brooches that he knew would fascinate Alexandria, while others were bare of any ornament. Julius saw Brutus eyeing an ornate clasp on Mhorbaine’s cloak and decided to bargain for a few fine pieces to give to her when they next saw Rome. He sighed at the thought, wondering when he would sit with his own people at a long table and hear their beautiful language rather than the throaty expectoration of the Gauls.

  When they were all seated, Julius motioned for Adàn to stand at his side and rose to address the chieftains. For such an important meeting, he’d banished the elderly interpreter back to his tribe.

  ‘You are welcome in my land,’ Julius said, waiting for Adàn to echo the words in their own language. ‘I believe you know I prevented the Helvetii cutting through my province and that of the Aedui. I did this at Mhorbaine’s request and I use it to show my good faith to you.’

  While Adàn translated, Julius watched their responses. It was an odd advantage to be removed from them by that one step. The pauses gave him the chance to marshal his arguments and see how they went across while the eyes of the Gauls were on Adàn.

  ‘The people of Rome do not live in constant fear of enemy attack,’ he continued. ‘They have roads, trade, theatres, bathing houses, cheap food for their families. They have clean water and laws that protect them.’

  He saw from the expressions around the table that he was on the wrong track with his description. These were not men to care about the luxuries given to those they ruled.

  ‘More importantly,’ Julius went on quickly, as Adàn struggled over a word, ‘the leaders of Rome have vast lands and homes ten times the size of this small fort. They have slaves to tend their needs and the finest wines and horses in the world.’

  A better reaction.

  ‘Those of you who become my allies will come to know all of that. I intend to bring the roads of Rome further into Gaul and trade with the furthest recesses of the land. I will bring the biggest market in the world here for your goods.’

  One or two of the men smiled and nodded, but then a young warrior stood and all the Gauls looked to him, becoming still. Julius could feel Brutus bristle on his left. There was nothing unusual in the figure who faced Julius twenty feet away. The Gaul wore his beard short and his blond hair tied back in a club on his neck. Like many of the others, he was a short, powerful figure dressed in wool and worn leather. Yet, despite his youth, the Gaul looked arrogantly around at the gathered representatives of the tribes. His face was badly scarred and cold blue eyes seemed to mock them all.

  ‘And if we refuse your empty promises?’ the man said.

  As Adàn translated, Mhorbaine stood at Julius’ side.

  ‘Sit down, Cingeto. You want another enemy to add to your list? When did your father’s people last know peace?’

  Mhorbaine spoke in his own language and the young Gaul responded far too quickly for Adàn to follow. The two men roared at each other across the table and Julius swore he would learn their language. He knew Brutus was already studying it and he would join his daily lesson.

  Without warning, the yellow-haired warrior stormed away from the table, slamming the door open to the outside. Mhorbaine watched him go with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Cingeto’s people
would rather fight than eat,’ Mhorbaine said. ‘The Arverni have always been that way, but do not let it trouble you. His elder brother, Madoc, has less of a temper and it is he who will wear his father’s crown.’

  The exchange had clearly worried Mhorbaine, but he forced a smile onto his face as he looked at Julius.

  ‘You must ignore the rudeness of the boy. Not everyone feels as Cingeto does.’

  Julius called for the plates of beef and mutton to be brought in from the fire pits, glistening with oil and herbs. He tried to hide his surprise as they were followed with heaped platters of fresh bread, sliced fruit and roasted game birds. Mark Antony had been busier than he realised.

  The awkward pause after Cingeto’s departure disappeared in the clatter of plates. The chieftains fell to with a will, each man bringing out his own knife to slice and spear the hot food. Finger bowls of fresh water were used to dilute the wine, to the surprise of the servants, who quickly refilled them. Julius understood that the chieftains did not want to lose their wits in drunkenness and on reflection, he tipped his own water bowl into his wine cup as well. Brutus and Octavian followed his example with a private grin between them.

  A sudden crash from outside the hall brought two of the guests half to their feet. Julius rose with them, but Mhorbaine remained in his seat, frowning.

  ‘That will be Artorath, my guard. He will have found some men to wrestle by now.’ Another crash and grunt punctuated his words and he sighed.

  ‘The big man?’ Julius asked, amused.

  Mhorbaine nodded. ‘He becomes bored too easily, but what can you do with family? My father raided the Arverni for his mother when he was really too old for such activities. Cingeto’s people do not forgive, though they take their own wives in the same way when they can.’

  ‘The women must be very unhappy with such an arrangement,’ Julius said slowly, trying to understand.

  Mhorbaine laughed aloud. ‘They are if we take the wrong one in the dark. You’ll never hear the end of it, then. No, Julius, when the tribes meet at the Beltane festival for barter and trade, there are a lot of matches made. You might even enjoy seeing it one year. The women make their wishes clear to the young warriors and it’s a grand adventure trying to steal them away from their people. I remember my wife fought me like a wolf, but she never called for help.’

  ‘Why not?’ Julius asked.

  ‘She might have been rescued! She was very taken with my beard, I think. Mind you, she pulled a handful of it out while I tried to get her over my shoulders. I had a bald patch for a while, right on the chin.’

  Julius poured wine for the Gaul and watched as Mhorbaine topped it up with water.

  ‘I’ve never seen a finger bowl used like this before,’ Mhorbaine said. ‘Good idea, though, when the wine is so sharp.’

  Artorath dropped his weight, shifting his centre of balance. Domitius collapsed over him and found himself being lifted into the air. There was a brief sensation of terrifying flight and then the ground connected and Domitius had the wind knocked out of him. He lay groaning while Artorath chuckled.

  ‘You’re strong for such a little fellow,’ he said, though he knew by then that not one of the Romans could understand real words. They did not seem particularly bright to the big Gaul. At first, when he had held up a coin and mimed holds for them, they seemed to think he was insane. Then one of them had come too close and Artorath had flipped him onto his back with a grunt. Their faces had lit up at that and they dug in their pouches for coins to match his own.

  Domitius was his fifth opponent for the evening and though Artorath still went through the routine of biting the silver coins he was given, he thought he could well have enough for a new horse by the time Mhorbaine had finished charming the Roman leader.

  Artorath had noticed Ciro standing apart from the others. Their eyes had met only once, but Artorath knew he had him. He relished the challenge and took pleasure from throwing Domitius as close to Ciro’s feet as he could.

  ‘Any more?’ Artorath boomed at them, pointing to each one and waggling his bushy eyebrows as if he spoke to children. Domitius had pulled himself upright by then and had a mischievous grin on his face. He held up a flat palm in an unmistakable gesture.

  ‘Wait here, elephant. I know the man for you,’ Domitius said slowly.

  Artorath shrugged. As Domitius jogged away into the main buildings, Artorath looked questioningly at Ciro, beckoning him forward and waving a coin in the air with the other hand. To his pleasure, Ciro nodded and began to remove his armour until he stood wearing only a breechcloth and sandals.

  Artorath had drawn a ring in the ground with a stick and he pointed for Ciro to step over the line. He loved to fight big men. Small ones were used to looking up at their opponents, but warriors of Ciro’s size had probably never met a man who towered over them as Artorath did. It gave him a great advantage, though the crowd never knew it.

  Ciro began to stretch his back and legs and Artorath gave him room, moving swiftly into his own loosening routine. After five bouts, he hardly needed it, but he enjoyed showing off to a crowd and the Roman soldiers were already three deep around the little space. Artorath spun and leapt, enjoying himself immensely.

  ‘Do they say big men are slow where you come from, little soldiers?’ he taunted their blank faces. The evening was cool and he felt invincible.

  As Ciro stepped into the ring, a voice called out and many of the soldiers grinned in anticipation as Brutus came running back with Domitius.

  ‘Hold, Ciro. Brutus wants a turn before you beat the big ox,’ Domitius said, panting.

  Brutus came to a halt as he caught sight of Artorath. The man was enormous and more heavily muscled than anyone he had ever seen. It was not simply a question of strength, he saw. Artorath’s skull was half as large again as Ciro’s and every other bone was thicker than a normal man’s.

  ‘You have to be joking,’ Brutus said. ‘He must be seven feet tall! You go ahead, Ciro. Don’t wait for me.’

  ‘I fought him,’ Domitius said. ‘Nearly had him over as well.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Brutus said flatly. ‘Where are your marks? One punch from those big fists would put your nose through the back of your head.’

  ‘Ah, but he isn’t punching. It’s like Greek wrestling, if you’ve ever seen it. He uses his feet to trip you, but the rest is holds and balance. Very skilful, but as I said, I almost had him.’

  Ciro still waited patiently and Artorath only raised an eyebrow in Brutus’ direction, completely oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

  ‘I can beat him,’ Ciro said, in the pause.

  Brutus looked dubiously at Artorath. ‘How? He’s like a mountain.’

  Ciro shrugged. ‘My father was a big man. He taught me a few throws. It is not Greek wrestling that he is doing. My father learned it from an Egyptian. Let me show you.’

  ‘He’s yours, then,’ Brutus said, clearly relieved.

  Artorath looked at him as he spoke and Brutus waved a hand to Ciro, stepping back.

  Once again, Ciro stepped over the line and this time he moved forward in a quick lunge. Artorath matched him and the two men met with a hard smack of flesh that made the watching soldiers wince. Without pausing, Ciro broke the grip on his shoulders and took an outside line, narrowly avoiding the big Gaul’s horny feet as they swept towards his ankles. Ciro slid past him and tried to leap away, but Artorath spun and held him before he was clear.

  Their legs entwined as each man fought to throw the other. Artorath twisted out of Ciro’s hands and very nearly threw him over his hip, the move spoilt by Ciro dropping into a low crouch and then launching himself, trying to take Artorath off his feet. Against such a big opponent, it only made Artorath stagger and automatically he crossed his forearms and pressed them against Ciro’s throat, heaving backwards.

  It might have been the end, if Ciro’s heel hadn’t blocked his step, so that Artorath fell like a tree, crashing into the earth with Ciro on top o
f him. Before the Romans could begin to cheer, the twined figures exploded into an even faster struggle, breaking and taking grips and using the slightest purchase to apply holds on joints that would have broken in smaller men.

  Artorath used his powerful hands to lock Ciro’s throat again and Ciro found his little finger and snapped it with a jerk. Though he growled, Artorath maintained the grip and Ciro was growing purple as he found another finger and sent that the way of the first. Only then did the big man let go, holding the injured hand.

  Ciro came to his feet first, bouncing lightly. The big Gaul rose more slowly, with anger showing for the first time.

  ‘Should we stop it?’ Domitius asked. No one answered.

  Artorath launched a hard kick that missed, stamping the ground as Ciro sidestepped and grabbed Artorath around the waist. He failed completely to lift the big man. Artorath managed to lock Ciro’s wrist, but his broken fingers lost their hold and he bellowed in Ciro’s ear as the Roman chopped his foot into Artorath’s knee and brought him down on his head. The Gaul lay stunned, his great chest heaving. Ciro nodded to him and helped him to his feet.

  Brutus watched with fascination as Artorath grudgingly opened his belt pouch to give back one of the coins he had won. Ciro waved it away and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘You next, Brutus?’ Domitius asked slyly. ‘His fingers are broken, you know.’

  ‘I would, of course, but it wouldn’t be fair to hurt him further,’ Brutus replied. ‘Take him to Cabera and have that hand splinted.’

  He tried to mime the action for Artorath, who shrugged. He’d had worse and there was still more silver in his belt than when he’d started. He was surprised to see open cheerfulness on the faces of the soldiers around the ring, even those he had beaten. One of them brought him an amphora of wine and broke the wax seal. Another patted him on the back before walking away. Mhorbaine was right, he thought. They really were a strange people.

  The stars were incredibly sharp in the summer sky. Though Venus had set, Julius could see the tiny red disc of Mars and he saluted it with his cup before holding it out for Mhorbaine to fill. The rest of the Gauls had retired long before and even the watered wine had helped to relax the wariest of them towards the end of the feast. Julius had spoken to many of the men, learning their names and the locations of their tribes. He owed a debt to Mhorbaine for the introductions and felt a pleasant, drunken regard for the Gaul as they sat together.