The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  He wore his silver armour, though it was now dulled with dirt and soot. One by one they nodded as he looked at them.

  ‘The troubles will pass in a few days or weeks,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen worse, believe me.’

  He thought of what Julius had told him about the civil war between Marius and Sulla and wished his friend were there. Though there were times when he hated him, there were few men he would rather have had at his back in a crisis. Only Renius would have been more of a comfort.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ Brutus asked them. He took a deep breath and opened the door to the street, peering out.

  Rubbish and filth had piled up on the corners and wild dogs that were little better than skeletons growled and snapped at each other as they fought over morsels. The smell of smoke was in the air and Brutus could see a group of armed men lounging at a crossroads as if they were the owners of the city.

  ‘Right. Move quickly now and follow me,’ he said, his voice betraying his tension.

  They walked out into the street and Brutus saw the group of men shift and stiffen as they were spotted. He cursed under his breath. One of the little girls began to cry and Tabbic’s sister picked her up and shushed her as they walked on.

  ‘Will they let us past?’ Tabbic murmured at Brutus’ shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Brutus replied, watching the group. There were ten or twelve of them, all marked with soot smeared into their skin and hair. Most were red-eyed from their night’s work and Brutus knew they would attack the slightest weakness.

  The men drew blades and strolled across the open road to block their path. Brutus swore softly.

  ‘Tabbic? If I go down, don’t stop. Alexandria knows the estate as well as I do. They won’t turn her away.’

  As he spoke, Brutus lengthened his stride, drawing his gladius in one smooth sweep. He felt a rage in him that men such as these should threaten the innocents of his city. It struck at his most basic beliefs and he was spurred on by the wail of the children behind him.

  The men scattered as Brutus took the head of the first, shouldering the body down and killing two more even as they turned to run. In moments, the rest of them were sprinting away, yelling in fear. Brutus let them go, turning back to the group that Tabbic and Alexandria were shepherding along, trying to stop the children from looking back at the bloody corpses Brutus had left in his wake.

  ‘Jackals,’ Brutus said shortly as he rejoined them. The children looked at him in terror and he realised his silver armour was splashed with blood. One of the youngest began to sob, pointing at him.

  ‘Keep moving towards the gate!’ he snapped, suddenly angry with them all. His place was with the legion of Rome, not shepherding frightened girls. He looked back and saw the men had gathered again, staring hungrily after him. They made no move in his direction and Brutus hawked and spat on the stones in disgust.

  The streets were practically empty as they made their way to the gate. As far as possible, Brutus followed the main roads, but even there the signs of normal city life were missing. The great meat market owned by Milo was empty and desolate, with the wind whipping leaves and dust around their feet. They passed a whole row of gutted shops and houses and one of the young ones began screaming at the sight of a charred body caught in a doorway. Alexandria pressed her hand over the child’s eyes until they were past and Brutus saw her hands were shaking.

  ‘There’s the gate,’ Tabbic said to cheer them, but as he spoke, a mob of laughing, drunken men turned a corner into the road and froze as they saw Brutus. Like the group before them, they were filthy with ash and dirt from the fires they had started. Their eyes and teeth shone against their grimy skin as they scrabbled for weapons.

  ‘Let us pass,’ Brutus roared at them, frightening the children at his back.

  The men only sneered as they took in his ragged followers. Their jeering was cut short as Brutus launched himself amongst them, spinning and cutting in a frenzy. His gladius had been forged by the greatest Spanish master of the blade and each of his blows sliced through their clothes and limbs, so that great gouts of blood sprang up around him. He did not hear himself screaming as he felt their blades slide off his armour.

  A heavy blow stunned him down to one knee and Brutus growled like an animal and pushed himself up with renewed strength, jerking his gladius up into a man’s chest from below. The blade ripped through ribs just as Brutus was sent staggering by a hatchet. It was aimed at his neck but cut into the silver armour, remaining wedged. He didn’t feel any pain from his wounds and only dimly knew that Tabbic was there with the younger men. For once, he lost himself completely in the battle and made no defence in his lust for killing. Without the armour, he would not have survived, but Tabbic’s voice came through his fury at last and Brutus paused to look at the carnage around him.

  None of the raptores had survived. The stones of the road were covered in scattered limbs and bodies, each surrounded by dark spreading pools.

  ‘All right, lad, it’s over,’ he heard Tabbic say, as if from a great distance. He felt the man’s strong fingers press into his neck where the hatchet was lodged and Brutus’ mind began to clear. Blood streamed from his armour and as he looked down, he saw it pumping sluggishly from a deep wound in his thigh. He prodded the gash in a daze, wondering at the lack of pain.

  Brutus motioned with his sword towards the gate. They were so close and the thought of stopping was unbearable. He saw Alexandria tear her skirt to bind his leg while he panted like a dog, waiting for breath to tell them to keep moving.

  ‘I daren’t take that axe out until I know how deeply you’ve been cut,’ Tabbic said. ‘Put your arm around my shoulder, lad. I’ll take your sword.’

  Brutus nodded, gulping rubbery spit.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he said weakly, staggering forward with them. One of the young men supported his other arm and together they moved under the shadow of the gate. It was unmanned. As the stones changed beneath their feet, a light snow began to fall on the silent group and the smell of smoke and blood was torn away by the breeze.

  Clodius took a deep breath of the icy air, wondering at the sight of the forum around him. He had thrown everything into a last-ditch attempt to bring Milo down and the fighting had ripped through the centre of the city, spilling at last into the forum.

  As the snow fell, more than three thousand men struggled in groups and pairs to kill each other. There were no tactics or manoeuvres and each man fought in constant terror of those around him, hardly knowing friend from enemy. As one of Clodius’ men triumphed, he would be stabbed from behind or have his throat cut by another.

  The snow fell harder and Clodius saw a bloody slush being churned up around the feet of his bodyguard as a group of Milo’s gladiators tried to reach him. He found himself being forced back against the steps of a temple. He considered running into it, though he knew there would be no sanctuary from his enemies.

  Were his men winning? It was impossible to tell. It had started well enough with Pompey’s legion lured away to the east of the city to quell a false riot and a string of fires. Milo’s men were spread all over the city and Clodius had struck at his house, smashing down the gates. He had not been there and the attack had faltered as Clodius searched for him, desperate to break the stalemate of power that had to end with the death of one or the other of them.

  He could not say exactly when their silent war had erupted into open conflict. Each night had forced them closer and closer until suddenly he was fighting for his life in the forum, with snow swirling all around and the senate building overlooking them all.

  Clodius turned his head as more men rushed in from a side street. He breathed in relief when he saw they were his own, led by one of his chosen officers. Like Milo’s gladiators, they wore armour and cut through the struggling men to reach him.

  Clodius spun to see three figures leaping at him with blades outstretched. He downed the first with a crushing blow from his sword, but the second shoved a dagger into his chest,
making him gasp. He felt every inch of the metal, colder than the snow that lay so lightly on his skin. Clodius saw the man dragged off him, but the third attacker scrambled through and Clodius roared in agony as a knife entered his flesh over and over.

  He sank onto one knee as his great strength gave out and still the man stabbed at him while Clodius’ friends went berserk in fury and grief. At last they reached his attacker, but as they tore him away Clodius sank gently down into the bloody snow around him. He could see the senate steps as he died and in the distance he could hear the horns of Pompey’s legion.

  Milo fought a bitter retreat as the legion came smashing into the open space of the forum. Those who were too slow or entwined in their own struggles were cut down by the machine and Milo bawled for his men to get away before they were all destroyed. He had yelled with excitement when Clodius fell, but now he had to find a safe place to plan and regather his strength. There was nothing left to stand in his way if he could only survive the legion’s charge. He skidded in the snow as he ran with the others, streaming in their hundreds like rats before the scythe.

  Many of Clodius’ men were caught before they could get clear and they too were forced into panicked flight as the legion destroyed everything in front of them. The forum emptied in all directions, the roads into it filling with running gangs, ignoring enemies in the face of a greater fear. The wounded screamed as they ran, but those that fell were cut to pieces as the line of legionaries rolled over them.

  In only a short time, the vast space of the forum was empty, leaving the still, slumped figures of the dead, already being covered by a dusting of fine flakes. The wind howled along the temples. The legion officers conferred, snapping out orders to their units. Cohorts were dispatched to their posts around the city and more reports began to come in that the rioting had sprung up in the Esquiline valley. Pompey was there in full armour. He left a thousand men to control the centre of the city and took three cohorts north through the streets to enforce the broken curfew.

  ‘Clear the streets,’ he ordered. ‘Get them back inside until we can control the gangs.’ Behind him, new fires lit the grey sky and the snow still fell.

  That night, the city erupted. Clodius’ body had been carried into the temple of Minerva and thousands of men stormed the building, wild with grief and anger at the death of their master. The legionaries there were torn apart and fires were set all over the city as those who had followed Clodius hunted for Milo and his supporters. Pitched battles were fought in the streets against Pompey’s men and twice the legionaries were forced to retreat as they were attacked on all sides and became lost in the maze of alleys. Some were trapped in buildings and burnt with them. Others were caught by large groups and overwhelmed by a savage mob. A city was no place for a legion to fight. Clodius’ officers lured them in by making women scream and then dropped on them, stabbing mindlessly until they were dead or forced to run.

  Pompey himself was forced back towards the senate house by a mass of armed men. He broke them at last with a third shield charge, but there were always more. He thought that every man in Rome had armed himself and was on the streets and the numbers were simply overwhelming. He decided to retreat to the senate steps and use that building to coordinate his remaining forces, yet as he clattered back to the open space of the forum, his jaw dropped in horror at the sight of thousands of torches clustered around the building.

  They had broken open the bronze doors and Clodius was being carried over their heads into the deeper darkness within. Pompey saw the senator’s bloody corpse jerk and flop as they passed it up the steps.

  The forum was full of armed men, shouting and roaring. Pompey hesitated. He had never run from anything in his life, and what he was witnessing was the end of everything he loved in Rome, yet he knew his men would be destroyed if he took them into the forum. Half the city seemed to be there.

  Inside the dark senate house, Pompey saw the flicker of flames. Cheering men came out onto the snow-covered steps, howling as they waved their blades in the air. Grey smoke billowed out of the doorway and Pompey felt tears on his face, warm against his cold skin.

  ‘My theatre. Re-form on my theatre,’ he called to his waiting men.

  They backed from the surging crowd around the Curia and finally Pompey turned away from the flames that crackled through the roof, shattering the marble with reports that echoed across the forum. It was a worse pain than he could have imagined seeing the capering figures against the flames. Only the darkness hid his men and he felt a raging frustration at being forced to retreat from the heart of his city. Only dawn would bring an end to it, he knew. The raptores had destroyed the rule of law and were drunk with their new power. But when the morning came, they would be dazed and exhausted, appalled at what they had done. Then he would bring order, and write it in iron and blood.

  The weak morning light streamed in from the high windows of Pompey’s theatre, illuminating the packed ranks of men he had summoned from all over the city. As well as the Senate themselves, Pompey had sent centuries of his legion to bring in the tribunes, the magistrates, the aediles, quaestors, praetors and every other rank of power in Rome. More than a thousand men sat on the wide rings around the central stage looking down on Pompey, and they were grim with fear and exhaustion. There were several faces missing from the ranks after the riots and not one of them failed to appreciate the seriousness of their position.

  Pompey cleared his throat and rubbed briefly at the goosebumps that had come up on his bare arms. The theatre was not heated and he could see their breath frost the air as they watched him in silence.

  ‘Last night was the closest I have ever come to seeing the end of Rome,’ he began.

  They sat as still as statues to listen and Pompey saw determination in their expressions. All the petty rivalries had been forgotten in the face of the previous night’s events and he knew they would give him anything to restore peace in the city before night fell once more.

  ‘You have all heard that Clodius was killed in the fighting, his body burnt in the Curia, itself reduced to ashes. Much of the city has been destroyed by fire, and bodies choke every street and gutter. The city is in chaos, without food or water over great parts of it. By tonight, much of the population will be hungry and the violence could begin once more.’

  He paused, but the silence was perfect.

  ‘My soldiers captured Senator Milo at sunrise when he tried to escape the city. I intend to use the daylight hours to search Rome for the rest in their chain of command, but trials would give their supporters time to regroup and rearm. I do not intend to give them another chance, gentlemen.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have called you here to vote me the powers of Dictatorship. If I remain bound by our laws, I cannot answer for the peace of the city tonight or any other night. I ask that you stand to confirm my appointment.’

  Almost as one, the thousand members of the ruling class stood. Some rose to their feet faster than others, but in the end Pompey nodded with fierce satisfaction and waved them back to their seats.

  ‘I stand before you as Dictator. I now declare martial law throughout Rome. A new curfew will be enforced at sunset each evening and those caught on the streets will be executed immediately. My legion will cut out the leaders and torture will give us the names of the key men from the ranks of the street gangs. I declare this building to be the seat of government until the senate house is rebuilt. Food will be distributed from the forum and the north and south gates of the city each morning until the emergency is over.’

  He looked round at the ranks of his people and smiled tightly. Now it would begin to hurt a little.

  ‘Each of you will deliver a tithe of one hundred thousand sesterces or a tenth of your wealth, whichever is the greater. The senate treasury was looted and we need funds to put the city back on her feet. You will be repaid when the coffers are full once again, but until then it is a necessary measure.’

  The first grumblings of disquiet went around the echoing chamb
er, but they were a tiny minority. The rest of them had been forced to look hard at the fragility of all they thought solid and would not baulk at paying for their safety. Pompey was sorry Crassus wasn’t there. He would have stung the old man for a huge sum. Sending a begging letter would not have the force of a demand in person, but it could not be helped.

  Pompey went on after a brief glance at his notes.

  ‘I will recall a legion from Greece, but until they reach the city, we need every man who can use a gladius. Those of you who employ guards will leave numbers with the scribes as you leave. I must know how many men we can trust to take arms in the event of further rioting. My legion took heavy losses last night and those men must be replaced as a matter of priority if we are to crush the mob before it gains strength once more. I will execute the followers of Milo and Clodius without ceremony or public announcement.

  ‘Tonight will be the most difficult, gentlemen. If we get through that, order will slowly be restored. Eventually, I will levy a tax on all citizens in Roman lands to rebuild the city.’

  He still saw numb fear on many of the faces before him, but others showed the first glimmerings of hope at his words. He called for responses and many of them rose to query the details of the new administration. Pompey relaxed as he began to work his way through the questions. Already, the stunned look was fading from their faces as they fell into the routines of the old senate house. It gave him hope for them all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Brutus eased himself down onto the stump of the old oak he had cut down with Tubruk, laying his stick next to him. In the green woods, it was easy to remember the old gladiator’s smile as he had welcomed him home.

  Wincing, Brutus stretched his leg out and scratched the purple line that ran from just above his knee almost to his groin. A similar line of stitching on his collarbone showed how close he had come to being killed in his frenzy. Both wounds had been dirty and he didn’t remember much of the first week back at the estate. Clodia said he was lucky not to have lost it, but the lips of the gash had knitted at last, though the stitches itched abominably. Vague images of being bathed with wet cloths came back to him and he grimaced with embarrassment. Julia had grown into a young woman with more than a touch of her mother’s beauty. He thought Alexandria must have taken her aside for a private word about his care. Certainly, there had been a few days when she hadn’t come near him and when he saw her, her eyes had flashed like Cornelia’s used to when she was angry. After that, only Alexandria had bathed away his sweat and grime.