The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Brutus smiled ruefully. Alexandria treated him as if he were a sick horse and rubbed him down with a rough detachment that left him glowing. It had been a relief to be finally strong enough to make his own way down to the bathing rooms and wash in privacy. She would have had the skin off him if he had dawdled in bed much longer.

  It was peaceful in the woods. A bird sang in the trees nearby and in the meandering line of the path, his mind’s eye could see two young boys sprinting through the bushes on their way to growing into men. Friendship had been a simple thing then, something he and Julius took for granted. Brutus remembered how they had pressed their bloody hands together as if the whole of life could be reduced to simple vows and actions. It was strange to look back on those days when so much had happened. There were times when he was proud of the man he had become and others when he would have given anything to be the boy again, with all his choices still before him. There were so many things he would change if he could.

  They had been immortal in those long summers. They had known Tubruk would always be there to protect them and the future was simply a chance to carry on their friendship over years and other lands. Nothing would ever come between them, even if Rome herself should crumble.

  Taking a knife from his belt, Brutus levered it under the first stitch and snapped the thread. With great care, he tugged the broken end through his skin, working his way down to the final knot. He was silent with concentration, though he was sweating by the time he finished and tossed the sticky cord away into the bushes. A thin trickle of blood worked its way down through the light hairs on his thigh and he wiped it into a smear with his thumb.

  He stood slowly and felt light-headed and weak. He decided to leave the stitches on his neck alone for the time being, though they too itched abominably.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Julia said.

  He turned to her and smiled at the awkward way she stood. He wondered how long she had been watching. How old was she, sixteen? Long-legged and beautiful. Alexandria would not be pleased to hear they had been talking in the woods together so he resolved not to tell her.

  ‘I thought I’d try walking a little way. The leg is getting stronger, though it will be a while before I can trust it,’ he said.

  ‘When it’s healed, you will go back to my father,’ she said.

  It was not a question, but he nodded. ‘In a few weeks at most. The city is calm enough now Pompey is Dictator. We’ll all be leaving you in peace then. This old place will be quiet again.’

  ‘I don’t mind it,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I like having people here, even the children.’

  They shared a look of understanding and Brutus chuckled. Despite the best efforts of Tabbic and his sister, the young ones had been running wild around the estate after only a few days, enthralled by the woods and the river. Clodia had saved one from drowning on three occasions in the deep pool. It was strange how quickly the young had recovered from the nightmare of their trip out of the city. Brutus guessed that when they looked back on that strange year of their lives, they would not remember seeing men killed, or if they did, it would be nothing to their first ride on a horse around the yard, with Tabbic holding them in the saddle. Children were a strange breed.

  Julia had inherited some of her mother’s grace, he could see. Her hair was long and bound with a strip of cloth at the nape of her neck. She seemed to focus on his face with a peculiar intensity whenever he spoke, as if every word was valuable. He wondered what her childhood had been like, growing up on that estate. He had always had Julius, but apart from her tutors and Clodia, it must have been lonely for his daughter.

  ‘Tell me about my father,’ she said, coming closer.

  Brutus felt an ache begin in his leg and before the muscles could spasm, he took his stick and levered himself back onto the stump. He looked into the rooms of memory and smiled.

  ‘He and I used to climb this tree when we were young,’ he said. ‘Julius was convinced he could climb anything and he used to spend hours in the lower branches trying to work out a way of going higher. If I was with him, he could step into my cupped hands, but even then the next branch was too far to reach without jumping. He knew if he missed he’d come down on his head, perhaps bringing me with him.’ He broke off to chuckle as the memories returned.

  Julia came to sit next to him on the furthest edge of the wide stump. Even from there, he could smell the flower oil she used in bathing. He didn’t know the bloom, but the scent reminded him of summer. He breathed deeply and just for a moment, he let his mind play with a picture of kissing the cool skin of her neck.

  ‘Did he fall?’ she said.

  Brutus snorted. ‘Twice. The second time, he pulled me out of the tree and I sprained my hand. He had a great bruise on the side of his face like he’d been slapped, but we still went up one last time and he reached that branch.’ He sighed to himself. ‘I don’t think he ever climbed the old oak again. For him, there was nothing more to do.’

  ‘I wish I had known you then,’ she murmured and he looked at her, shaking his head.

  ‘No you don’t. We were a difficult pair, your father and I. The surprising thing is that we survived at all.’

  ‘He’s lucky to have you as a friend,’ she said, blushing slightly.

  Brutus thought suddenly of how Alexandria would view the scene if she wandered into the woods. The girl was far too attractive for him to be playing the game of the dashing young soldier, back from the wars. In a moment or two, he’d be asking for her arm to steady him on the trip back to the house and stealing a kiss or two on the way. The scent of flowers filled his lungs and he took a grip on his wayward thoughts.

  ‘I think I’ll be getting back, Julia. You must be cold.’

  Completely without his conscious control, his gaze swept over her neck and the swell of her breasts. He knew she had seen and was furious with himself. He looked away into the woods as he stood up.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ he said. ‘It will be dark soon.’

  ‘Your leg is bleeding again,’ she said. ‘It was too soon to take out the stitches.’

  ‘No. I’ve seen enough wounds to judge. From now on, I’ll walk or ride every day to build my strength.’

  ‘I’ll keep you company if you want me to,’ she said. Her eyes were wide and dark and he cleared his throat to cover his hesitation.

  ‘I don’t think a pretty girl should …’ Oh, wonderful. He stammered to a stop. ‘I’ll get by on my own, thank you.’ He walked stiffly back down the path through the woods towards the house, cursing himself silently with all the energy he could muster.

  Under the cold stars, Brutus walked his mare across the main yard towards the stables, panting slightly after his ride. He thought of Alexandria asleep in her room and frowned to himself. Nothing was as simple as he liked it to be, especially with the women in his life. If he’d wanted arguments and tense silences, he would have taken a wife. He smiled wryly at the thought, looking up at the moon and enjoying the silence. They had both suffered over the long, empty weeks at the estate, with nothing to do but heal and forget the ugliness of the riots. There were times when he itched to gallop, or fight, or take her to bed for an afternoon. His wound made him furious then. It didn’t help that their lovemaking was limited by his inability to kneel and he hated to be weak.

  He thought he loved her, in his way, but there were too many days when they would bicker over nothing until they were both sullen and hurt. He hated the long silences more than anything. Sometimes he wondered if they were only really in love when he was in another country.

  The stable was warm, despite the chill of the night air and freezing stars. The light of the moon came through a high window, giving a pale gleam to the oak stalls. It was a peaceful place with only the dark shapes of the horses for company.

  He was still sweating from the exertion of the ride and grimaced at how far he had fallen from peak condition during his illness. Just a couple of miles across country had brought him clos
e to exhaustion.

  The straw crackled behind him as he rubbed down the mare and he froze for a moment, wondering who else was up at that hour. He turned awkwardly to see Julia leaning against a post, her face pale in the dim light.

  ‘Did you go far this time?’ she murmured. She looked as if she had come from her bed, her hair loose on her shoulders. She had a soft sheet wrapped around her and he saw how it drew tightest over her breasts, wondering if she could see where his eyes lay.

  ‘Just a few miles tonight. It’s too cold for the old girl,’ he said. The mare snorted gently and nudged him to continue with the brush.

  ‘You will be leaving soon, though. I heard Tabbic talking. Pompey has beaten the gangs.’

  ‘He has. He is a hard man, that one,’ Brutus replied.

  He could hear a tension in her voice that had not been there before. Whether it was the warm stables, or the smell of leather and straw, or simply her closeness, he found himself becoming aroused and thanked the gloom for hiding him from her sight. Without a word, he turned back to the mare and ran the brush down her flanks with long, sweeping strokes.

  ‘My father promised me to him; did he tell you?’ she said, suddenly, blurting out the words. Brutus stopped his brushing and looked at her.

  ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Clodia says I should be pleased. He was not even a consul when they agreed the match, but now I shall be the wife of the Dictator.’

  ‘It will take you away from here,’ Brutus said softly.

  ‘To what? To be painted by slaves each day and unable to ride? I’ve seen the women of the Senate. A pack of crows in fine dresses. And each night, I’ll have an old man to press me down. My father is cruel.’

  ‘He can be, yes,’ Brutus replied. He would have liked to tell her of the grind of poverty he had seen in the city. She would never know hunger or fear as Pompey’s wife. Julius had made a cold choice for his daughter, but there were worse lives to lead and it had given him Gaul. Brutus saw at once how the marriage would bind the houses and perhaps give Julius an heir. As much as he liked the girl, he saw how sheltered she must have been not to know the world as it really was.

  ‘When do you go to him?’ he asked.

  She tossed her hair angrily.

  ‘I would have gone already if my father were not away from the city. It’s just a courtesy between them. The deal is already sealed and Pompey’s messenger came with such pretty words and gifts. Enough gold and silver to choke me. You should have seen the slave’s price they sent.’

  ‘No, girl, you won’t be a slave to him, not with your father’s blood in your veins. You’ll wrap him around your fingers in no time at all. You’ll see.’

  She stepped closer and again he could smell the scent of dark flowers. As she reached out to him, he held her wrists, letting the brush fall into the straw.

  ‘Now what would you be thinking?’ he muttered, his voice hoarse. None of it seemed real and even in the dimness, he could see the pale lines of her neck against the shadows.

  ‘I’m thinking I will not go to him a virgin,’ she whispered, leaning in so that her lips brushed his throat. He could feel the panting warmth of her breath and nothing else mattered half as much.

  ‘No,’ he said, at last, ‘you will not.’

  Releasing her wrists, he took hold of the wrap she wore and pulled it gently apart, exposing her to the waist. Her breasts were pale and perfect in the dark, the nipples hard. He heard her breathe faster as he ran his hand down her back, feeling her shiver.

  He kissed her then, until her mouth opened its heat for him. Without another word, he lifted her in his arms to a pile of straw and lowered her down onto it. His wounds were a distant ache he could barely feel as he pulled off his clothing. His own breath was harsh in his throat, but he made himself move slowly as he bent down over her and her soft mouth opened once again with a cry.

  The group who gathered in the courtyard to go back to Rome were transformed from the dusty, terrified refugees who had knocked at the gates almost two months before. Clodia had told the children they could come out to see her any time they wished and one or two of them had to be forcibly prised away from her on the last morning. The old nurse adored her young charges and there were tears on both sides.

  Tabbic had chafed at every day spent away from the city and barely had the patience to make his goodbyes now that the day had come. Alone of the group, he had made several trips back as soon as he had seen the walls of the city manned with Pompey’s legion once more. The shop had survived the fires in the district. Though it had been looted, the vast forge that was the heart of their business had survived unscathed. Tabbic was already planning a new door and locks to replace the one that had been broken down and it was his reports of the new peace that had brought their time at the estate to an end. Pompey had been ruthless in destroying the leaders of the gangs, and by day at least, the city was beginning to look like herself again. There were rumours that Crassus had sent a huge sum to the Senate and hundreds of carpenters were busy rebuilding. It would be some time before the citizens would think of such luxuries as jewellery, but Tabbic would be ready for them. His small part of the work was his gift to the city, but it meant a great deal. Picking up his scattered tools was the first step in putting the horrors of the riots behind them.

  Brutus had been tempted to rest his leg a little longer, but Alexandria had become increasingly cold with him over the previous days. He did not think she could know what had happened in the stable, but there were times when he caught her looking sideways at him, as if she wondered who he was. Without being sure how he knew, he was certain that if he stayed behind, it would be the last he saw of her.

  As far south as they were, spring had come early and the trees were already beginning to bloom in the woods. No doubt Julius would be waiting impatiently for him in the north and reluctantly Brutus knew it was time to be on his way. He would return to the rough company of his legionaries, though somehow the thought of it did not fill him with enthusiasm as it used to. Brutus positioned the wooden block he needed to mount, glancing stealthily around the open yard as he gathered the reins. Julia was not there and he felt Alexandria’s eyes on him as he looked for her.

  A house slave opened the heavy gate and swung it wide so that they could see the track leading down to the main road into the city.

  ‘There you are!’ Clodia said. ‘I thought you were going to miss them leaving.’

  Julia came out of the house and went around to all of them to say goodbye and accept their thanks as mistress of the house. Brutus watched closely as she and Alexandria exchanged a few words, but both women smiled and he could see no tension between them. He relaxed slightly as Julia came to him and reacted naturally as she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. He felt her tongue dart out against his lips for an instant, making him freeze in embarrassment. Her mouth tasted of honey.

  ‘Come back,’ she whispered as he shoved himself into the saddle, not daring to look at Alexandria. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head and knew his cheeks were flaming as he tried to pretend nothing had happened. Not a story for Julius, he was fairly certain.

  The children called and waved in a chorus as they began their journey to the city. Clodia had prepared packages of meat in boiled peppers for all of them and one or two were already dipping greasy fingers into the cloth packages. Brutus cast one last glance at the estate he had known as a child and fixed it in his memory. When everything else in his life could twist out of all recognition, some things remained solid and gave him peace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The torches flickered on the gold crown of the Arverni as the priest held it up to the warriors. In his other hand, he held a golden torc that shimmered and twisted as it wound around his fingers.

  The priest had daubed his body with blood and earth in long smears that made him seem part of the shadows in the temple. His chest was bare and his beard smoothed with clay into rough white spikes that qui
vered as he spoke.

  ‘The old king is dead, Arverni. His body will be burnt, though his name and deeds continue in our mouths for all our years. He was a man, Arverni. His cattle numbered in thousands and his sword arm was strong to the end. He spread his seed wide to bring his sons into the world and his wives tear their hair and skin in grief. We shall not see him again.’

  The priest eyed the tribe who had packed themselves into the temple. It was a bitter night for him. For twenty years he had been the old king’s friend and counsellor and shared his fear for the future when age and weakness had begun to steal his breath. Who amongst his sons had the strength to lead the tribe through such difficult times? The youngest, Brigh, was but a boy and the eldest was a blustering boaster, too weak where a king should be strong. Madoc would not be king.

  The priest looked into the eyes of Cingeto as he stood there on the dark marble with his brothers. That one was warrior enough to lead them, but his temper was already famous amongst the Arverni. He had killed three men in duels before he reached his manhood day and the old priest would have given anything for a few more years to see who he would become.

  The words had to be spoken, though the priest felt a coldness in his heart as he drew breath.

  ‘Which of you will take the crown from my hand? Which of you has earned the right to lead the Arverni?’