The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  He did not know if it was enough and he felt the old signs of fear from every battle of his youth. His bladder tightened, though he had emptied it into the piss trench before mounting. His mouth was dry with the grit that swirled in the cold air. His vision became sharper as every sense drank in the land and men around him. He knew he could die on the plain and he scorned the thought. He had been consul twice and had taken Gaul and Britain. He had taken Rome herself. He had written his legacy into the laws of his city and he would not easily be forgotten.

  He searched for silver armour somewhere amongst the enemy. Brutus would be there and Julius knew him well enough to imagine his thoughts, his expression as the armies neared. The pain of the betrayal was constant in him, with the need to see Brutus one more time, even if it was over a sword’s length.

  He looked across the ranks at Octavian. He wished he had left sons to carry on his line, but the blood would survive even if he did not. Had he told Octavian how proud he was of him? He thought he had.

  ‘Let him live, if I fall,’ Julius whispered against the clasp of his helmet. ‘By Mars, let them both live.’

  Pompey looked at the legions coming against him and he could not feel the gods. Memories of Caesar’s victories in Gaul slipped like tongues into his mind. The man had beaten the hordes of the Helvetii. Pompey’s sickness throbbed at his waist, draining his confidence.

  There were men in Rome and Greece who said Caesar was the greatest general of an age; and now Pompey would try to kill him. He wished he could summon the reckless courage of his youth, but it was not there for this enemy. He was cold and uncomfortable on the saddle, at times so angry with the pain that he could barely see. Sweat poured under his armour and chilled so that he felt the cloth of his tunic chafe wetly against his neck.

  Pompey glanced to his left, where Labienus sat on his horse, stiff with anger. The general had argued against the order to place the men in such deep ranks, but Pompey knew them better than he. He had watched them closely and seen the reluctance that was the death of fighting spirit. They feared the legions of Gaul. It would not matter once they saw his cavalry crush the flank, but until the battle began, Pompey did not dare trust them.

  Even as the veteran legions neared, he could see signs of distress in his ranks. They took their positions as he had ordered, but his experienced eye saw flaws and hesitation.

  ‘Have General Labienus approach me,’ Pompey told his messengers.

  They cantered along the shifting lines and returned with him.

  ‘General, at six hundred feet, we will stop and await their charge,’ Pompey said.

  For a moment, Labienus was too shocked to speak. ‘Sir?’ he said.

  Pompey beckoned him closer.

  ‘They will break at the first charge unless we make them stand, General. I have deep lines and now I will use them. Have the men ready to halt. Their spears will be thrown accurately, at least.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes glittering. ‘If my extraordinarii break the flank as quickly as I think they will, the legions may not even have the chance to throw!’

  ‘Sir, you must not force …’

  Pompey turned abruptly away from him. ‘You have orders. Follow them.’

  Instinct made Labienus salute before he rode back to his legions, sending the new command up and down the lines. Pompey felt the gaze of his soldiers as they turned to him in puzzlement, but he stared stonily ahead. If they had shown a better spirit, he would have let them charge against the veterans. Instead, they would be his wall against the charge.

  As the armies crossed a thousand feet, the noise of so many marching men could be heard as dim thunder, felt by all of them through the soles of their sandals. Hundreds of standards flew on each side and the bronze eagles were held proudly up to catch the sun. At eight hundred feet, both armies readied their spears. The front lines were punctuated with the heavy weapons and those who marched opposite them felt the first silken touch of terror.

  At six hundred feet, Pompey saw Caesar’s entire front line twitch as they expected his men to begin the charge. Instead, Pompey raised his sword and brought it down, halting fifty thousand men in three paces. Orders echoed up and down the lines and Pompey began to breathe faster in anticipation as teams winched back the machines. He could see the faces of the enemy as the gap narrowed all along the mile.

  The scorpion bows hammered into their rests on both sides, sending bolts as long as a man out so fast they could be seen only as a dark blur. They punched their way through the ranks, scattering men in tangles of limbs.

  As Pompey’s cavalry began to accelerate on the wing, Caesar sent in the charge at less than two hundred feet, his men pounding across the dry earth. Twenty thousand spears went up on both sides, sending a writhing shadow over the ribbon of ground between them.

  If there were screams, they were swallowed by thunder as they met.

  Across a mile of land, thousands of armoured men crashed into the shields and swords of their enemies. There was no thought of brotherhood. They killed with a manic ferocity that gave no quarter and expected none in that bloody slash across Pharsalus. The fighting mile was solid as they gave their lives.

  Pompey’s extraordinarii galloped along the edge, riding at the smaller force of cavalry they had come to destroy. Pompey wiped slippery sweat from his eyes and craned to see. As his horsemen began to push back the flank, he found himself shaking. He could not tear his eyes from their progress, knowing the battle depended on it. They hammered into Caesar’s cavalry, shattering their ranks with sheer numbers, so that every one was faced by two or three of Pompey’s riders.

  ‘Break, you bastards. Break! Give him to me,’ he shouted into the wind.

  Then the Tenth counterattacked. They widened their line to include the cavalry on the wing and Pompey saw them gutting his precious horses and riders as they slowed in the mass. Pompey cried out as he saw them press towards him. He flickered a glance at the centuries guarding his position and was reassured. As well as the best of his guards, he had kept archers back to wreak carnage on any force that threatened him. He was safe enough.

  Even the blades of the Tenth could not stop Pompey’s cavalry as they went round them. They were too fast and mobile to be caught for long and Pompey saw the line of battle blister out to the east as Caesar’s riders struggled hopelessly to halt the advance.

  Pompey could see Julius on his horse over the heads of thousands. The slight figure was gesturing calmly, sending orders over the field. Pompey looked along his own lines to check that they were holding. He stared back at the cavalry charge and with a rush of joy saw Caesar’s riders break at last, turning their backs on the enemy and galloping away. Pompey’s pain was forgotten as he raised both hands.

  Men and horses lay dying on ground made slippery with blood. Pompey saw his officers detach two hundred riders from the furthest edge and send them after the fleeing enemy. He nodded sharply, his face savage. It had happened as he had hoped it would and he thanked the gods. His messengers looked to him for new orders, but there was no need.

  The noise was appalling and the dust had risen above the ranks in such heavy clouds that riders and men appeared out of it like shadows. Pompey saw his cavalry break away to re-form and knew once they struck at full gallop, they would carve their way to the very heart of the veterans. Even the Tenth could not hold them while they fought on two sides. The reputation Caesar had built around himself would be destroyed.

  Four cohorts of the Tenth turned neatly to face the charge they knew was coming and Pompey swore at the concealing dust. These were the core of Caesar’s legend and he wanted to see them humbled as much as their commander. Julius himself was somewhere in the mass, but it was getting harder and harder to see.

  ‘Come on, come on. Cut into them,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Make the charge.’

  In the centre of the battle line, Brutus shoved a dying man backwards and raised his shield to stop a blow. His horse was dead and he had barely cleared the saddle before
it collapsed. He did not know if it was deliberate that Julius had sent his old legion against him. Perhaps they had expected it would weaken his arm. It had not. Though he had trained the men he faced, though he knew them as brothers, he killed them without a thought.

  As he had known it would, his armour drew them to him, distorting the fighting ranks as they caught sight of the silver and struggled to bring him down.

  ‘Are you afraid of your old teacher?’ he called to them, laughing wildly. ‘Is there not one of you good enough to face me now? Try me, boys. Come here and try me.’

  They heard and the response was so savage that Brutus was shoved back, his sword trapped against his body by the press of men. Something heavy thumped into his helmet and broke the strap at his chin. He swore as he hit the ground and felt the helmet come loose, but he rose up with a jerk and killed two men before they could recover.

  More came at him then and his shield was torn from his hand as he raised it, ripping flesh from his fingers. He cried out in pain and ducked a sword, ramming his own into a man’s groin from below. His foot slipped as his sandal studs raked the face of a corpse. He saw it was Seneca, his open eyes coated in dust.

  Brutus fought without reason for a long time, cutting anything that came into range and bellowing weary defiance at the lines of men. He caught a glimpse of silver armour in a set that matched his own and yelled a challenge, seeing Octavian jerk his head around as he heard. Brutus waited for him. He could not make a space to breathe as they pressed him and he was growing tired. The endless energy of youth had somehow slipped away without him noticing. At his back, he heard Labienus calling for the Fourth to advance and the shout seemed to galvanise his old legion. They roared again and fought like berserkers, ignoring wounds. Octavian was straining to reach him and Brutus beckoned him on wearily. Blood spattered him as he struggled, panting. He wanted to see Julius, but he could not find him.

  His sword blade turned uselessly against a shield. He did not see the blow that brought him to his knees, or the second that left him on his back.

  ‘Where are you?’ he called for his old friend, looking up at the sky. A crushing weight squeezed the air from his lungs and he heard his right arm snap. Then he knew nothing more.

  Two hundred of Pompey’s horsemen galloped across the plain, leaving the noise and blood and death behind until all they could hear were the pounding rhythm of hooves and the snorting breath of their mounts. They were fierce with exhilaration as they chased the beaten enemy. They held their long spatha swords high over their heads and yelled with the pleasure of it. Casitas had risen to the post of decurion without seeing battle in the slow years of his Greece posting. He had not known it would be so exciting and he laughed aloud as he shot across Pharsalus, feeling as if he were flying.

  Ahead of them, the extraordinarii of Caesar responded to a single horn and the wild rout changed. The ranks pulled together with the precision of a parade ground and the flying column slowed to wheel as one, turning back towards the battle.

  Casitas could not believe what he was seeing. In dawning fear, he realised that the best part of two thousand crack cavalry were coming back in perfect riding order. He looked over his shoulder and considered trying to prevent them rejoining Caesar’s army. One glance at the dark line of enemy horses was enough to know it was a pointless gesture.

  ‘Get back to the lines. We’ll gut them there,’ he shouted, heaving his horse around and leading them. He saw his men look nervously over their shoulders as they rode and tried to resist the temptation himself. It was going to be close. Casitas could hear them coming.

  The bulk of Pompey’s cavalry seemed to leap from distant figures to a mass of men and horses, churning amidst a cloud of dark dust. Casitas shouted uselessly into the wind to warn them, but his voice went unheard.

  Julius bellowed orders to men he could barely see in the dust that cloaked them. His Tenth were fighting in perfect order, closing the holes in their ranks as they were cut out. It was agony to see them so hard-pressed, but Julius could not bring their whole strength to bear on the soldiers around Pompey. Out on the edges, he could see the mass of riders forming up for a charge. He could hear the whinnying of horses through the dust and every nerve and muscle was tight with strain. If they smashed his lines from behind, he knew the battle would be lost and he searched for anything he could use to blunt the attack when it came.

  There was nothing. He looked over the lines and saw more of the Tenth die, fighting to the last as he would have expected. The dust would blind the horses, he realised. Even a solid shield wall would be broken as they smashed into them. He shook his head, shivering. The Tenth could not lock shields and defend the main line at the same time. They would be destroyed.

  ‘Sir! To the east!’ one of his scouts shouted.

  The man had been taken from the extraordinarii and perhaps it was that allegiance that made him look for them. Julius turned in the saddle and his heart leapt. He saw Pompey’s chasers returning to the battle. Behind them came his extraordinarii, at full gallop.

  Julius watched dry-mouthed as the fleeing riders tried to enter their own lines. There was no time for them to slow and the result was instant chaos. The attempt to form a charge was sent reeling and then Caesar’s extraordinarii struck them from behind.

  Pompey’s riders were ruined by them. Their own men opened the holes in the ranks that the extraordinarii battered through, scattering them apart. Julius saw horses rear in terror before the choking dust swallowed them. It swelled to a thick cloud over the killing and out of it came Pompey’s riders, broken and bloody. Some were dying and fell from their saddles. Others were pulling uselessly at the reins of their bolting mounts.

  The Tenth rushed forward as Pompey’s cavalry were smashed. Julius shouted and kicked his own horse into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the desolate figure of Pompey in the distance. The dust cloud swirled across him and he swore, pushing forward with his men.

  Pompey’s flank buckled as if a great pressure had been removed and they almost fell towards the archers surrounding the Dictator. Julius was about to order shields raised when they too broke and the Tenth slaughtered those who dared to show their backs.

  As the dust blew on, Julius saw Pompey’s cavalry were clear of the field and still going. His extraordinarii were not chasing them, he saw, almost delirious with the change in fortunes. He watched his riders cut along the rear of Pompey’s lines, selecting their points of entry to begin carving them in slices.

  Julius searched again for Pompey, but he was not there. His horse rode over the broken bodies of archers, stabbed by every rank that passed. The hooves threw up clots of blood and earth that hit his legs and slid away, leaving cold smears he did not feel.

  Somewhere in the distance horns blew and Julius snapped around in the saddle. It was the tone for surrender and he had a sudden terror that his veterans had failed while he had been busy on the right flank. He heard a crash of arms as men threw down their weapons and in the press he still did not know if he had won or lost.

  Octavian rode along the lines towards him, breathing heavily. His greave hung from a single strap and his armour and skin were torn, bruised and scraped in equal measure. One eye had swollen completely shut, but it didn’t matter. He had survived and Julius’ heart leapt to see him.

  ‘They have surrendered, sir,’ he said. ‘As soon as Pompey left the field. It is over.’ He saluted and Julius saw he was trembling with reaction.

  Julius sagged in his saddle, leaning forward with his head bowed. After a long moment, he drew himself straight and looked north. He could not let Pompey escape, but the fighting could erupt again at the slightest provocation unless he stayed with his legions. His duty was to remain on the plain and bring order, not to chase a beaten man. He knew it, but he hungered to call his extraordinarii back and ride Pompey down. He shook his head clear of the warring emotions.

  ‘Disarm them all and begin taking the wounded back to Pompey’s camp,’ he said. ‘Bring
the generals to me and treat them with courtesy. They did well to surrender, but it will be hurting them. Make sure the men understand there will be no mistreatment. They are not enemies. They will be given every courtesy.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Octavian said. His voice shook slightly and Julius looked at him, smiling wryly at the worship in the younger man’s bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I will accept a new oath of loyalty from them, as consul of Rome. Tell them the war is over.’

  He could hardly believe it himself and he knew the reality would not sink in for hours or days. He had been fighting for as long as he could remember and it had all brought him to the plain of Pharsalus in the middle of Greece. It was enough.

  ‘Sir, I saw Brutus fall,’ Octavian said.

  Julius broke out of his reverie. ‘Where?’ he snapped, ready to move.

  ‘In the centre, sir. He fought with Labienus.’

  ‘Take me there,’ Julius replied, urging his horse into a trot. A sick dread settled on him then. His hands shook slightly as he rode, though whether in reaction or fear, he could not have said.

  The two riders passed through the lines of men already involved in the routines they knew so well. Piles of captured swords were being formed and water passed to those who had not drunk for hours. When the legions saw their general, cheering began and swelled until they were all shouting in relief and triumph.

  Julius barely heard them, his eyes on a limp figure in silver armour being pulled from a pile of corpses. He felt tears sting his eyes as he dismounted. He could not speak. The men of the New Fourth legion stood back respectfully to give him room and he went down on one knee to look into the face of his oldest friend.

  There was blood everywhere and Brutus’ skin was marble white against the stain. Julius took a cloth from his belt and reached out with it, gently wiping away the caked filth.

  Brutus opened his eyes. With consciousness came pain and he groaned in agony. His cheek and mouth were swollen and deformed and blood trickled from his ear. His gaze seemed vacant as it swivelled towards Julius, then slowly a dim awareness returned. Brutus tried to lift himself, but the broken arm was useless. He fell back, crying out weakly. His lips moved over bloody teeth and Julius bent closer to hear him speak.