The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Under Pompey’s stern eye, there was little chance of rebellion, as he had intended. One by one, the senators rose to show their support, and no one dared abstain. At last, Pompey nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Alert your households and plan for a journey. I have recalled all the soldiers in Caesar’s path to the city. They will be here to help man the fleet and arrange our departure.’

  The sun shone on the back of Julius’ neck as he sat on a fallen tree in the middle of a wheatfield. Wherever he looked, he could see dark patches of his men as they rested amongst the golden crops and ate cold meat and vegetables. Cooking fires had been forbidden as they crossed into the lowlands of Etruria. The wheat was dry and rough to the touch and a single spark could send sheets of flame racing across the fields. Julius almost smiled at the peaceful scene. Fifteen thousand of the most experienced soldiers in the world and he could hear them laughing and singing like children. It was a strange thing to be there, out in the open. He could hear the calls of birds he had known as a boy and when he reached down and took a little of the leaf mulch in his hand, he was home.

  ‘It is a fine thing to be here,’ he said to Octavian. ‘Can you feel it? I’d almost forgotten what it is like to be on my own land, surrounded by my people. Can you hear them sing? You should learn the words, lad. They’d be honoured to teach them to you.’

  Slowly, Julius rubbed the damp leaves together in his hand and let them fall. The soldiers of the Tenth reached a chorus, their voices soaring over the fields.

  ‘I heard that song from the men who followed Marius, years ago,’ he said. ‘These things seem to survive somehow.’

  Octavian looked at his general, tilting his head as he assessed his mood. ‘I feel it. This is home,’ he said.

  Julius smiled. ‘I haven’t been this close to the city in ten years. But I can sense her on the horizon. I swear I can.’ He raised his hand and pointed over the low hills, heavy with wheat. ‘Over there, waiting for us. Fearing us perhaps, while Pompey threatens and blusters.’

  His eyes grew cold as the last words were spoken. He would have continued, but Brutus rode up through the crops, leaving a snaking path behind him. Julius rose to his feet and they clasped hands.

  ‘The scouts report eleven cohorts, maybe twelve,’ Brutus said.

  Julius’ mouth twisted irritably. Every legion post and road fort had been cleared before them as they moved south. His march had shaken them free like ripe fruit and now they were within reach. Whatever their quality, six thousand men were too many to leave at his back.

  ‘They’ve gathered in Corfinium,’ Brutus continued. ‘The town looks like someone kicked a wasp nest. Either they know we’re close, or they’re getting ready to move back to Rome.’

  Julius glanced around him, noticing how many in earshot were sitting up and listening, anticipating his order. The thought of unleashing them on Roman soldiers was almost a blasphemy.

  Pompey had done well to recall the guards. They would do more good on the walls of Rome than wasted against the Gaul veterans. Julius knew he should strike fast to blood the campaign and seal the decision made on the banks of the Rubicon. Brutus shifted at the delay, but Julius still did not speak, staring into nothing. The men in Corfinium were inexperienced. It would be a slaughter.

  ‘The numbers are accurate?’ Julius said, softly.

  Brutus shrugged. ‘As far as they can be. I didn’t let the scouts risk being seen, but it’s clear ground. There’s no ambush. I’d say these are the only soldiers between us and Rome. And we can take these. The gods know we have enough experience breaking into towns.’

  Julius looked up as Domitius and Ciro came out of the wheat with Regulus. Mark Antony was only a short way behind them and he felt the pressure to give the orders to spill Roman blood on Roman land. Once those first lives were taken, every loyal hand would be raised against him. Every legion would swear vengeance unto death against his name. The civil war would be a test of strength and numbers that he could very well lose. His mind searched feverishly and he wiped sweat from his forehead.

  ‘If we kill them, we will destroy any hope of peace in the future,’ he said, slowly. Domitius and Brutus exchanged a quick glance as Julius went on, testing the thoughts aloud. ‘We need … guile, as well as a strong arm, against our people. We need to win their loyalty, and that cannot be accomplished by killing men who love Rome as I do.’

  ‘They won’t let us through, Julius,’ Brutus said, colouring with irritation. ‘Would you, if an army wanted a path to your city? They’ll fight just to slow us down; you know they will.’

  Julius frowned with the anger that was always close to the surface. ‘These are our own, Brutus. It is no small thing to be talking of killing them. Not for me.’

  ‘That decision was made when we crossed the river and came south,’ Brutus replied, refusing to back down. ‘You knew the price then. Or will you go alone and give yourself up to Pompey?’

  Some of those who listened winced at his tone. Ciro shifted his massive shoulders, his anger showing. Brutus ignored them all, his gaze fixed on his general.

  ‘If you stop now, Julius, we are all dead men. Pompey won’t forget we threatened the city. You know it. He’d follow us back to Britain if he had to.’ He looked into Julius’ eyes and, for a moment, his voice shook. ‘Now don’t you let me down. I’ve come this far with you. We have to see it through.’

  Julius returned the pleading gaze in silence before placing his hand on Brutus’ shoulder. ‘I am home, Brutus. If it sticks in my throat to kill men of my own city, would you begrudge me my doubts?’

  ‘What choice do you have?’ Brutus replied.

  Julius began to pace up and down amongst the crushed wheat. ‘If I take power …’ He froze for a moment as the idea formed, and spoke faster. ‘What if I declare Pompey’s dictatorship to be illegal? I could enter Rome to restore the Republic then. That is how they must see me. Adàn! Where are you?’ he called across the field. His Spanish scribe came at the run. ‘Here is your answer, Brutus,’ Julius said, his eyes gleaming. ‘Adàn? I want a letter sent to every Roman commander. It is ten years since I was consul; there is no bar against me standing once more. Tell them … I reject the dictatorship that Pompey will not end.’

  Julius watched impatiently as Adàn fussed with his writing tablets.

  ‘Let them know I will respect the courts and the senate building, that Pompey alone is my enemy. Tell them that I will welcome any man who wishes to join me as we bring back the Republic of Marius and the security of the past. I carry the gold of Gaul with me and Rome will be reborn with what I have won for her.

  ‘Tell them all that, Adàn. Let them know that I will not take Roman lives unless I am forced, that I will honour the traditions as Pompey has not. He is the one who had the senate house burnt on his watch. The gods have already shown their dislike of him.’

  The men around him watched bemused as Julius laughed aloud. He shook his head at their expressions.

  ‘They will want to believe in me, gentlemen. They will hesitate and wonder if I am a champion of the old liberties.’

  ‘And will it be true?’ Adàn asked softly.

  Julius glanced sharply at him. ‘If I make it so. My first act will be in Corfinium. If they will surrender to me, I will spare them all, if only to have them spread the word.’

  His humour was infectious and Adàn smiled as he scribbled in the soft wax, ignoring the inner voice that mocked how easily he fell under the man’s charm.

  ‘They won’t surrender,’ Domitius said. ‘Pompey would have them killed as traitors. You saw what he did to the Tenth for turning.’

  Julius frowned. ‘He may, though if he does, he will be helping me. Who would you follow, Domi? A man who stands for law and consul, who frees good Romans, or one who has them killed? Who is the better man to lead Rome?’

  Domitius nodded slowly and Julius smiled.

  ‘You see? It will be hard for them to condemn me if I am merciful. It will confound them,
Domi. Pompey will not know how to react.’

  Julius turned to Brutus, his face alight with the old energy.

  ‘But first we must take the road guards and do it without bloodshed. They must be reduced to a level of panic so total that they will not have the chance to fight. Who leads them?’

  Brutus frowned, still reeling from the sudden change in Julius’ mood. The march south had been overshadowed by doubt and gloom, but in a moment Julius was as he had been in Gaul. It was frightening.

  ‘The scouts saw no legion flags,’ he said stiffly. ‘Whoever it is will be a ranking officer.’

  ‘Let us hope he is still ambitious,’ Julius replied. ‘It will be easier if we can tempt his guards from the town. I’ll draw him out with the Tenth and see if he comes. If we can catch them in the fields, they’re ours.’

  All around them, those who could hear were getting to their feet, gathering their kit and readying themselves to move. An air of long-familiar tension stole over them all as they prepared themselves to go back to danger and hardship.

  ‘I will take the Tenth closer to the town, Brutus. You have overall command of the others. We will spin these lads until they’re blind and useless. Send your scouts out and this time let them be seen.’

  ‘I’d rather be the bait,’ Brutus said.

  Julius blinked for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Not this time. The extraordinarii will be the links between us. I’ll need you back here fast enough if we are attacked.’

  ‘What if they sit tight?’ Domitius asked, glancing at Brutus’ strained expression.

  Julius shrugged. ‘Then we surround them and offer terms. One way or another, I am beginning my run for consul and Rome. Spread the word amongst the men. These are our people, gentlemen. They will be treated with respect.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ahenobarbus read his orders again. No matter how often he went over the few words from Pompey, nothing appeared that might allow him to attack the rogue legions from Gaul. Yet the reports from his scouts gave him a chance to finally make his name and he was cruelly caught between obedience and a rush of excitement he hadn’t felt for years. Pompey would surely forgive him anything if he was able to bring the traitor back to the city in chains.

  The men who had been taken from every road post, toll-house and fort were gathered under the shadow of Corfinium’s walls, waiting for the order to march home. There was no tension amongst their ranks. The scouts had not yet managed to leak their news to the rest of them, though it could not be much longer before they all knew the enemy was closer than anyone had guessed.

  Ahenobarbus rubbed his fingers along his bony jaw, easing his thumbs into the creases at the corners of his eyes to relieve the pressure. His guards outnumbered those his scouts had spotted, but the reports had mentioned four legions coming south and the others must surely be close by. At the very worst, it could be an ambush for his men.

  Watching them as they formed up did not give him confidence. Many had never seen a more challenging contest than a few drunken farmers. Years of peace while Caesar conquered Gaul had not created the sort of force Ahenobarbus would have chosen for his chance at glory, but sometimes you had to work with what the gods gave you.

  For a moment, he was tempted to forget what he had been told and tread the safe path as he had for most of his twenty years as a soldier. He could march out and be in Rome in only three days, leaving his last chance behind him. It was hard to imagine the sneers of younger officers when they heard he had walked away from a force half his size. The other Gaul legions could be miles away and he had sworn an oath to protect his city. Running back to the gates at the first sign of an enemy was not what he had imagined when he joined the army.

  ‘Six thousand men,’ he whispered to himself, looking back at the lines of soldiers waiting to march. ‘My legion, at last.’

  He had not mentioned the thought to anyone else, but as the arrivals came in he had counted them and now walked a little taller with his private pride. In his entire career, he had never had more than a century under his orders, but for a few wonderful days he would be the equal of any one of the generals of Rome.

  Ahenobarbus recognised real fear undermining his pride. If he marched into a trap, he would lose everything. Yet if he gave up a perfect opportunity to destroy the man Pompey feared, word would leak out and he’d be followed by whispers for the rest of his life. He couldn’t bear the indecision and now, many of the men were watching him, puzzled by the lack of orders.

  ‘Sir? Shall I have the gates opened?’ his second in command said at his shoulder.

  Ahenobarbus looked into the man’s face and felt fresh irritation at the youth and confidence he saw there. The rumours were that Seneca was connected in Rome and Ahenobarbus could not help but notice the richness of his clothes. He felt old when he looked at Seneca and the comparison seemed to make his joints ache. It was really too much to be faced with his amused condescension at that moment. No doubt the younger man thought he hid his arrogance, but Ahenobarbus had seen a dozen like him over the years. There was always a glint in the eyes when they were at their most fawning and you knew you couldn’t trust them if their self-interest crossed your own.

  Ahenobarbus took a deep breath. He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying himself, but making the decision was a real pleasure.

  ‘Have you ever fought, Seneca?’ He watched as the young man’s face went carefully blank, before the smooth smile returned.

  ‘Not yet, sir, though of course I hope to serve.’

  Ahenobarbus showed his teeth then. ‘I thought you would say that, I really did. Today, you get your chance.’

  Pompey stood alone in the senate building, listening to nothing but his own memories. At his order, blacksmiths had broken the doors from their hinges to hang awry across the opening. The old light of Rome spilled across motes of fresh-raised dust and he grunted softly as he lowered himself onto a bench.

  ‘Fifty-six years old,’ he murmured to the empty chamber. ‘Too old to be going to war again.’

  There had been moments of weakness and despair, moments when the years sat heavily and his private self ached to be allowed to rest. Perhaps it was time to leave Rome to young wolves like Caesar. After all, the bastard had shown he possessed the most important quality of a Roman leader – the ability to survive. When his thoughts were not coloured by anger, Pompey could admire the younger man’s career. There had been times when he would not have bet a bronze coin on Julius coming through unscathed.

  The crowds loved to hear of his exploits and Pompey hated him for that. It seemed that Julius could not buy a new horse without sending a triumphant letter to be read across the city. The common citizens gathered to hear fresh news, no matter how trivial. They were insatiable and only men like Pompey shook their heads at the lack of dignity. Even the subtlety of Cicero was lost against the excitement of Gaul’s battles. What appeal could the Senate offer, when Caesar wrote of storming forts and visiting white cliffs at the edge of the world?

  Pompey blew air through his lips in irritation, wishing Crassus was there to share this final indignation. Between them, they had done more to nurture Caesar’s ambition than anyone and the irony was bitter. Had Pompey not accepted the triumvirate? At the time, it seemed that they all benefited, but with the Gaul legions on their way to Rome, Pompey could only wish he had been wiser when it mattered.

  He had sent Julius to Spain and the man had returned to be consul. He had sent him to subdue the savages of Gaul, but could they do the decent thing and send him back in pieces? No, they could not. Instead, he came home as a lion, and the citizens respected nothing so much as success.

  Black anger darkened his face as Pompey thought of the members of the Senate who had betrayed him. Only two-thirds of them had answered his call to leave for Greece, for all their public vows and promises. The rest had vanished from sight, preferring to wait for an invading army rather than follow their government into exile. It had been a cruel blow on top of everything
else. They knew he would not have the luxury of time to root them out of their hiding places and it grated that they were right. He had already left it dangerously late and only the need for the road guards held him in the city. If Ahenobarbus did not bring them in quickly, Pompey knew he would have to leave without them. All his planning would come to nothing if he were still in the city when Caesar came up to the gates.

  Pompey hawked and would have swallowed the bitter phlegm back into his throat if he had not been leaving. Instead, he spat a dark mass onto the marble tiles at his feet and felt a little better for the symbolic act. No doubt the citizens would cheer in their mindless way as the Gaul legions marched into the forum. It never failed to astonish him what little gratitude they showed. For almost four years, he had ensured they could feed their families and earn their livings without fear of murder, rape or robbery. The riots of Clodius and Milo were memories and the city had thrived in the aftermath, perhaps in part because they had seen what true chaos was like. But they would still cheer Caesar as he won his battles and brought them excitement. Bread and safety were easily forgotten in comparison.

  Pompey reached out to the wooden armrest and pulled himself to his feet. His stomach ached, and he thought he might be developing an ulcer. He felt tired, without a reason. It was hard to tell himself that he had made the right decision when he would be leaving his city behind. Every general knew there were times when the only option was to retreat, regroup and attack on your own terms. It was still hard.

  He hoped Julius would follow to Greece. They had not forgotten who ruled Rome, at least. There, he would have the armies he needed and the most able and experienced commanders in the world. Julius would learn the difference between filthy tribesmen and soldiers of Rome and he would learn it in the only way that mattered.

  It was strange to think Julius was no longer the young man he remembered. Pompey wondered if he too felt the cold of winter more keenly, or the doubts that came with age. Stranger still to think that he knew his enemy better than almost anyone in Rome. He had broken bread with him, schemed and fought on the same side against enemies, for the same ideals. It was a vicious betrayal to have the man turn on him, the husband of Julius’ daughter. Pompey chuckled aloud at that thought. He suspected Julia did not love him, exactly, but she knew her duty far better than her errant father. She had produced a son who might one day inherit the world.