The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘At our best speed, eating on the march and without sleep, we should hit their rear before they are in the city,’ he said. ‘Your new walls may slow them.’ He paused to choose the right words that would not worry Pompey further. ‘Even if they reach the city, they will need time to replenish their supplies. We can deny them that.’

  Labienus was careful to keep any hint of criticism from his voice, though he was privately appalled at the turn of events. Dyrrhachium was a key port on the coast and still the main store for the army in the field. Caesar’s legions should not have been allowed to make a strike for it. He knew some of the responsibility lay on his shoulders, but it profited nothing to dwell on past mistakes. The new position was not yet lost.

  Pompey glared around him. ‘Then let us leave this barren place. Everything but food and water must come behind us at the best speed they can manage. The Senate too: they won’t stand the pace we will set.’

  As Labienus saluted, Pompey mounted, his movements stiff with anger. He did not need to say that his family and the families of the Senate were in Dyrrhachium. Once Julius had them as hostages, his position would be immeasurably stronger. Pompey shook his head to clear it of hatred and fear. His stomach seemed to have settled as he made the decision and he hoped a dose of chalk and milk would keep it docile for the day. His legions began to move around him, but he could no longer take comfort from their numbers.

  Julius calculated the distance they had come, wishing he had the map in front of him. They had marched for twelve hours and the men were dragging their feet in the dust. Though they bore it grimly, some of them were staggering along and Julius had finally given the order to close up and rest an arm on the shoulder in front. It made them resemble invalids or refugees rather than legions of Rome, but every mile was one further from the enemy behind.

  ‘It should be in sight by now, surely?’ Octavian said at his side.

  Julius stared at him in silence until his younger relative swallowed and looked away. Julius squinted into the distance, searching for the first sign of the city. The sea glimmered silver to the west and that gave him hope that they were close. His eyes felt painful with weariness and he might have closed them as he rode, if the weakness would not have been seen.

  Julius remembered marching in the wake of Spartacus’ slave army years before, and it was strange to realise there was a huge advantage in being the hunter in such a chase. Something about being followed sapped the will to go on and Julius saw more and more of the heads turn to watch the land behind as they marched. He was on the point of snapping an order to keep their eyes to the front when he saw Domitius was there ahead of him, bellowing out commands as he rode up and down the ranks.

  The ground they walked on was stained in places by dark splashes of urine. It was not an easy thing to do whilst marching, but the men were long inured to it. The ones at the back would be walking on damp ground all the way to Dyrrhachium. When they stopped to rest, there was no time to dig a latrine pit, and they had to use whatever foliage they could find to wipe themselves clean. Some of the men carried a cloth that they dampened with water, but the material became slick and foul after the first night and day. A long march was an unpleasant, stinking business for all of them and the cold ate at their strength far worse than a summer’s heat.

  The day seemed to have lasted for ever and although Julius had been irritated with Octavian’s comment, he too thought Dyrrhachium should have been in sight by then. The sun was already dropping towards the horizon and the order to snatch another four hours of precious rest would have to come soon.

  A warning note sounded from the rear of the column and Julius turned in the saddle, craning to see. In the distance, something glinted amidst a low line of dust. He shook his head in desperation. Just at the moment when he would have called a halt, Pompey had appeared on the horizon. Julius did not know whether to rage at the fact that the gap had been closed, or be thankful his aching, exhausted men had not been told to stop at this most dangerous time. He looked at the stumbling, swaying lines of men and knew they would somehow have to go on.

  Two of his far-flung extraordinarii came galloping back to his position and saluted as they turned their mounts.

  ‘What news?’ Julius asked, impatient at the slightest delay.

  ‘The city is in sight, sir. Three miles ahead.’

  Automatically, Julius looked at the sun and back at his column. It would be dark before they reached the walls, but the news would keep the men going, for all that.

  ‘There is a wall before the city, sir, about two miles away. It looks manned.’

  Julius swore aloud. Pompey had been busy. The thought of having to break through a defensive line while Pompey came racing up behind was almost too much to bear.

  ‘I’ll ride forward with you,’ he said quickly. ‘I must see this for myself.’ As he took a tighter grip on the reins, he looked over his shoulder at Octavian. ‘Tell the men to resume the standard distance between ranks. I will not be shamed in front of the enemy. Increase the pace for the last miles.’

  He saw Octavian hesitate, not daring to voice his dislike of such an order.

  ‘They will not let me down, General. My Tenth will lead them in.’

  In the gloom of the fading day, the army of Caesar sent tremors of fear into the hearts of every soldier who stood on the uncompleted wall around Dyrrhachium. At the full height of twelve feet and with a few thousand men, they might have had a chance of stopping the Gaul legions, but more than one section was just a few beams across a gap. It would not be nearly enough.

  The warning shouts of Pompey’s officers sent the Greek labourers haring back to the protection of the city, tools littering the ground around them. Those grim soldiers who were left took positions as they were ordered, drawing swords and exchanging a few last words. They did not consider turning away, though the wind made them shiver as they waited.

  ‘Hold until you are relieved,’ the senior centurion bellowed, making his voice carry. It was taken up further down the line and the defenders raised their shields and readied themselves. They all knew there would be no relief force, but it was strange how the words brought a little hope.

  Caesar’s legions came closer and closer, until faces could be seen despite the failing light. Both sides roared a challenge as the Gaul legions reached the last barrier to Dyrrhachium and forced their way through. The gaps in the wall vomited men and the defenders were cut down, their bodies tumbling. Julius’ Tenth stormed through with barely a check on their speed, loping on towards the unprotected city.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Julius rode slowly through dark streets, struggling with exhaustion. A local man led the way with a gladius prodding his back, but it was still disconcerting to be so deep in a maze of streets that none of them had ever seen before.

  Only the Tenth had been allowed into the inner city. The other six legions would see no more of it than the walls they manned. Julius was determined not to give them a loose rein in hostile territory. He still shuddered to remember a town in Gaul where he had lost control of his men. Whenever his heart was made to race by the thunder of a charge or the snap of flags in a stiff breeze, he would recall Avaricum and how the streets had looked with the coming of day. He would not allow such actions to be repeated under his command.

  If any other man had led the Greek legions, Julius would have expected an assault in the night. Pompey’s officers knew the city well and there could even have been entrances Julius had not seen. It was enough of a threat to keep his own men out of trouble on the walls, but he did not think Pompey would risk the lives he valued in Dyrrhachium. The days of reckless youth were behind for both of them.

  His guide mumbled something in Greek and pointed to a wide gate set into a wall. A single lamp hung from a brass chain to light the entrance and Julius had the whimsical thought that it had been set there to welcome him. He gestured and two men with hammers stepped forward to break the lock. In the silent street, the sound was like
a ringing bell and Julius could feel eyes on him from all the local houses. Possibilities swirled in his head and he took a deep breath of the night air, thinking of the enemy outside the walls of Dyrrhachium.

  To fight a war with subtlety and propaganda was dangerously intoxicating. Julius seized on every tiny detail of Pompey’s strengths and weaknesses, anything that might be used. He had sent men to undermine the Dictator in his own camp, knowing they could be killed. It was a vicious sort of war they had carried to Greece, but he had come too far and lost too much to lose it all.

  His sombre thoughts were interrupted as the gate fell with a clang on the stones of the street. The noise had woken the house and lamps were being lit inside, acting as a spark for the local inhabitants as they roused and sought light to banish terror.

  As he had expected, the sound of marching feet came quickly behind the hammer blows and it was only moments before the space in the wall filled with grim soldiers. Julius did not speak at first, watching with professional interest as they locked their shields to prevent a sudden rush.

  ‘You are late, gentlemen,’ he said, dismounting. ‘I could have been inside by now if I hadn’t waited for you.’

  Five hundred of his Tenth were stretched along the street and he could feel their tension in the biting air. A single word from him and they would cut the defenders down. He looked into the eyes of the centurion guarding the gate and was intrigued to find no sign of fear there. The officer did not bother to answer and merely returned his stare. Pompey had chosen well.

  ‘I am a consul of Rome,’ Julius said, taking a step forward. ‘Do not dare to block my way.’

  The men in the gateway shifted uncomfortably, the words pulling at everything they had been taught from childhood. The centurion blinked and Julius saw him reach out to one of the defenders, settling him.

  ‘My orders are from Pompey, Consul,’ the centurion said. ‘This house is not to be touched.’

  Julius frowned. It would not be a good beginning for his new policies if he butchered decent men doing their duty. With the restrictions he had imposed on himself, it was an impasse.

  ‘Will you allow me entry on my own? I will come unarmed,’ he said, stepping into range of the weapons held before him.

  The centurion narrowed his eyes and Julius heard a hiss of breath from the soldiers of the Tenth. His legion would not like him walking into danger, but he could see no other choice.

  A voice sounded from within the grounds. ‘Let me through!’

  Julius smiled as he recognised it. A low murmur of protest came from somewhere out of sight.

  ‘The man you have kept waiting is my father. I don’t care what your orders are, you will let me through to him!’

  Once again the soldiers at the gate shifted, this time in excruciating embarrassment. Julius laughed at their predicament.

  ‘I don’t think you can stop her coming out to me, can you, gentlemen? Will you lay hands on Pompey’s own wife? I think not. My daughter walks where she chooses.’

  Though he spoke to all of them, his eyes held those of the centurion, knowing the decision was his. At last the man spoke a few curt words and the shields were pulled back.

  Julia stood there, her son in her arms. Julius breathed in deeply and noticed the fragrance of the garden for the first time, as if she had brought the scent with her.

  ‘Will you invite me in, Julia?’ he asked, smiling.

  Julia cast a scornful glance at the soldiers around the gate, still standing awkwardly. Her face was flushed and Julius thought his daughter had never looked more beautiful than in the light of the single lamp.

  ‘You may stand down, Centurion,’ she said. ‘My father will be tired and hungry. Run to the kitchens and have refreshments brought.’

  The centurion opened his mouth, but she spoke again before he could voice any objection.

  ‘I want the best sausage, fresh bread, hot wine from my husband’s cellar, cheese and a little fruit.’

  The beleaguered soldier looked at father and daughter for a long moment before he gave up. With stiff dignity, he retreated at last.

  ‘My home is yours, Consul,’ Julia said and from the way her eyes sparkled, Julius knew she had enjoyed the clash of wills. ‘Your visit is an honour.’

  ‘You are kind, daughter,’ he replied, enjoying the mock formality. ‘Tell me, are the families of the Senate still in the city?’

  ‘They are.’

  Julius turned to his men, noting the nervous figure of the Greek who had guided them in from the walls. The man shook with fear as Julius considered him.

  ‘You will lead my men to the families,’ Julius said. ‘They will not be harmed, I swear it.’ The Greek bowed his head as Julius addressed his men. ‘Gather them …’

  He paused to look at his daughter. ‘I do not know this city. Is there a senate building, a meeting hall?’

  ‘The temple of Jupiter is well known,’ Julia replied.

  ‘That will do very well,’ Julius said. ‘Remember, gentlemen, that my honour protects them. I will hang you for a single bruise. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ his centurion replied for all of them.

  ‘Send men to General Domitius and tell him to begin loading the supplies onto our carts. I want to be able to leave quickly in the morning.’

  The soldiers of the Tenth marched away, the noise of their steps fading slowly in the echoing street.

  ‘So this is my grandson,’ Julius said. The little boy was still half asleep and did not stir as Julius laid a hand gently on his head. ‘Am I truly welcome here, Julia?’ he said softly.

  ‘How could my father not be?’ she asked him.

  ‘Because I am at war with your husband and you are caught between us.’

  She reached out to touch the man who had been absent for all of her childhood and most of her life. He had escaped showing her the normal faults of fathers. She had never seen him beat a dog or fall down drunk, or show some petty spite. She knew him only as the general of Gaul, a consul of Rome. It was true that she had hated him with all the passion of a young girl when he first offered her to Pompey as a wife, but the habit of adoration was too strong for that to last. Brutus had brought her into her father’s conspiracies for the first time, and it was a heady joy to be valuable to this man. It was too much to put into words and instead she decided to give the only proof of loyalty that she had.

  ‘If your blood did not run true in me, I would have given Brutus away,’ she whispered into his ear.

  Time stood still for Julius as his mind raced. He struggled to remain calm.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ he said.

  She blushed a little and he could not help the suspicion that came into his thoughts.

  ‘That his betrayal is part of your planning.’ She saw that he closed his eyes for a moment and misunderstood. ‘I told no one. I even helped him get another two cohorts from my husband.’

  She raised her chin with fragile pride that wounded him. He felt the exhaustion of the long march north as if it had been waiting for just such a moment. He swayed slightly as he looked at her and put out his hand to the wall.

  ‘Good … good,’ he said absently. ‘I did not think he would tell you that.’

  ‘He trusted me,’ Julia said. ‘And I trust you to let my husband live, if it falls to your hand by the end. That is the choice I made, Father. If you win, both of you will survive.’ She looked at him with pleading eyes and he could not bear to tell her there was no secret agreement with Brutus. It would destroy her. ‘The pardon at Corfinium was news here for months,’ she went on. ‘Can you do less for him?’

  With infinite tenderness, Julius took her hand. ‘Very well. If it is in my gift, he will live.’

  The temple to Jupiter in Dyrrhachium was very nearly as cold as the streets outside. Julius’ breath was a streamer of mist as he entered, his men taking places along the walls with clattering efficiency.

  All noise ceased as he walked down the long central aisle to
wards the great white statue of the god. His sandals clicked and echoed, and at the end he saw the families of the Senate still blinking in the light. They resembled refugees after their hasty summons by armed guards. The benches were packed with them and more sat on the cold marble floor. They fluttered with renewed fear at the sight of the general their men had come to Greece to destroy.

  Julius ignored their beady-eyed scrutiny. He halted before the statue of Jupiter and went down briefly onto one knee, bowing his head. It was an effort to concentrate and he had to smother the worry and fear his daughter had caused him. Brutus was a practised seducer, and it was easy to see how vulnerable she would have been. Yet to involve her in such a way was breathtakingly callous. It was no comfort to know that Julius had given her to Pompey with as little compunction. That was his right as her father. The general who knelt in the lamplight added the information to what he knew of Pompey’s forces. Brutus was a little in love with risk and perhaps that could be used. The father and the man were so angry he could barely reason.

  ‘So will you close the doors and have us killed?’ a harsh voice came, shattering his reverie.

  Julius looked up sharply as he rose, recognising Cicero’s wife, Terentia. She looked like a raven swathed in black, with sharp features and sharper eyes.

  Julius forced himself to smile, though the effect caused some of the younger children to start bawling, grating on his ears.

  ‘I am a consul of Rome, madam. I do not make war on women and children,’ he said coldly. ‘My honour keeps you safe.’

  ‘Are we to be hostages then?’ Terentia demanded. Her voice had a particularly shrill note that made Julius wonder what Cicero saw in her.

  ‘For tonight. My men will make you as comfortable as they can in this building.’

  ‘What are you planning, Caesar?’ Terentia said, narrowing her eyes. ‘Pompey will never forget this, do you realise that? He will not rest until your armies are butchered.’