The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘All right, but if your arm snaps, you stay on the first roof until it is over.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Brutus replied, his face strained with tension. He clapped his hand on Domitius’ shoulder as Julius turned away and Domitius accepted it with a nod.

  Below their feet, the hammering went on.

  Though the sun had set, the grounds of the palace were lit with bonfires at all points and arrows soared sporadically up to the roof and against the windows. The army had either settled in to starve them out, or were waiting for catapults to arrive. Julius watched from a high window, well hidden from the sight of their archers. He hated to be trapped and hardly dared reveal how much his hopes were pinned on the men clambering across to lower roofs at the back.

  The time would come when he was forced to send the legions out against the army that faced them, he knew. When the moment was perfect, he would try for a shattering blow, but against such numbers he feared he would be leading them straight to destruction. Cleopatra had been invaluable with her knowledge of their tactics and strengths, but the Tenth and Fourth were vastly outnumbered even so. In his most private of thoughts, there were times when he wished he had simply left the city when his time was up. Then he would grow angry in reaction. He would not run from a rabble of foreign soldiers. If he had to, he would find supplies and send for reinforcements from Greece and Spain. The Egyptians would learn what it meant to threaten the life of the man who ruled Rome.

  Behind the palace, Domitius was at the window with Brutus, tying his wrists securely to the piece of waxed cloth that would send him sliding into the arms of the waiting legionaries. Moving five hundred soldiers in strained silence was difficult, but there had been no cries of alarm and the plan was moving without a fault.

  As Domitius tugged the knot, he felt Brutus looking at him in the dark.

  ‘We were friends once,’ Brutus said.

  Domitius snorted to himself. ‘We could be again, old son. The men will accept you in time, though Octavian … well, he might not.’

  ‘I am glad you spoke up for me,’ Brutus replied.

  Domitius gripped him by the shoulder. ‘You risked all our lives for your pride and temper. There have been times when I would rather have put a knife in you.’

  ‘If I could change it, I would,’ Brutus said truthfully.

  Domitius nodded, helping his legs over the edge. ‘I stood on the white cliffs of Britain with you,’ he said. ‘You killed that big blue bastard with the hatchet when I was flat on my back. That counts for something.’ He spoke slowly, his voice low and serious. ‘I can’t call you a brother, after what you did. Perhaps we can get by without spitting in each other’s bread.’

  Brutus nodded slowly, without looking round.

  ‘I’m glad of it,’ Domitius said, heaving him off the ledge.

  Brutus gasped as the rope sagged and his initial rush was jerked into a slow descent. Halfway down, when there was nothing but yawning darkness beneath him, he spun and the cloth twisted, halting him. His weakened muscles protested as he swung his legs frantically. With an effort, he managed to turn himself back round and the slide began once more. His arm ached worse than he cared to admit, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and then found himself being held by the men on the roof below. They untied his wrists in silence and handed him his sword, which he strapped to his waist. Like him, they wore no armour, and carried no shields. Their faces were black with soot and only the whiteness of their teeth and eyes in the moonlight showed their positions, spread over the roofs like mould. The hulking figure of Cleopatra’s slave, Ahmose, was there with them, unsmiling and silent as he crouched on the tiles.

  Before Brutus could step clear, Domitius thumped into his back and sent him sprawling.

  ‘No more to come,’ he heard Domitius whisper as he guided Brutus through the men to the front.

  The tiles creaked under their feet and they could only hope their progress wasn’t being followed from below, with archers ready to catch them as they came down. The first roof blended into the next without a gap, but the third was too far away to step across.

  ‘I need a man to jump this,’ Domitius said.

  In the moonlight, the alleyway seemed larger than it had any right to. A young soldier of the Fourth stepped forward and removed his sword. With barely a nod to his officers, he took two quick steps and launched himself over. The clatter as he landed made them all freeze, but already the palace seemed far behind and no one came. The rope was thrown to him, and one by one they used it to cross. Brutus went first this time, trusting his arm to hold his weight. The muscles were sending shooting pains, but the bones held and he reached the other side, sweating but exhilarated.

  Four more roofs were passed in the same way before they came to a space too great to bridge. The street below seemed empty as the front rank lay on their stomachs and looked down. At the crouch, they came back and reported that the way was clear, then sent ropes skipping down to the stones below.

  Brutus lost skin on his palms as he opted to slide, not trusting his arm to take his full weight yet again. With some misgiving, he realised there would be no retreat that way, not for him. Ahmose landed behind him without a sound. With a smile, he raised a hand to the Romans and strode away into the darkness. Brutus wished him luck in bringing Cleopatra’s army. Even if they managed to block the harbour entrance, Julius needed an edge.

  The cohort jogged through the streets in almost complete silence. For better grip on the roofs, they had tied cloths around their sandals and no challenges were shouted as they made their way to the docks.

  The harbour of Alexandria was well lit and busy. Domitius halted the men in the last shadows of the road, passing the word for them to be ready. They would be seen at any moment, and after that it would be a rush to block the port before the army could respond.

  A voice began to yell and Domitius saw two men pointing in their direction. ‘That’s it, then. We go,’ he said, running out into the light.

  There were never fewer than a dozen merchant vessels working their cargoes on or off the quayside. The cohort of five hundred Roman legionaries raced towards them, ignoring the shouts of panic as word spread. As they reached the docks, they split into four groups and ran up the loading planks of the nearest ships to them.

  The crews were terrified at the sudden attack and three of them surrendered without hesitation. In the fourth, two sailors reacted more from instinct than sense, trying to stab the first men to board them. They were cut down and their bodies heaved over the side into the dirty water. The rest did not resist and moved down the loading planks as they were told until the Romans had the ships to themselves.

  The sails went up with only a little confusion and the mooring ropes were cast free or cut. All four of the vessels began to ease away from the docks, leaving their shouting crews behind them.

  Brutus could see men racing off into the dark streets to alert Ptolemy’s army. By the time their night’s work was over, the docks would be crowded with soldiers. At least it would give Julius a respite, he hoped. He could not regret having come, and for the first time in months he felt alive enough to cheer as the sails fluttered and the ships began their crisscrossing courses to the mouth of the port.

  ‘Get two men up top, as lookouts,’ he ordered, smiling as he remembered a time in his youth when he had climbed to that position himself. He did not imagine he could reach it now, but it gave him pleasure to recall the journey across Greece with Renius, when the world lay before them. The legionary who had been first over the roofs was climbing even before Brutus had finished giving the order. Brutus thought he should learn the man’s name and was embarrassed that he did not know it. He had been apart from the workings of the legions for too long. Even if he did not survive the night, it felt right to be back in command. He had missed it more than he knew.

  Away from the lights of the port, the moon followed their movement on the still, black water. The same barriers that prevented storms from wrecking A
lexandria allowed only the smallest of breezes and progress was painfully slow. It did not suit the mood of the men on board. They all turned to see the great fire on the lighthouse of Pharos, its gleam warning ships for miles. The glow of its flames lit their faces as they passed and they cast long shadows on the decks.

  ‘Port watch coming!’ a voice called from above.

  Brutus could see them clearly, silhouetted against the glow of the lighthouse. Three galleys had altered course to intercept them, with oars working easily against the wind. Brutus wondered how well they were manned. He welcomed their presence, fully aware that he would have to try and swim home otherwise.

  The spits of rock that formed the outermost gates of the port came slowly into view, marked for shipping with smaller lights that were never allowed to go out. Brutus had his men steer steadily for them, seeing that two of the other ships would reach the point first. Movement was still gentle over the waters and he could see their pursuers were gaining. It would be close, he realised. Brutus shook his head as he watched the galleys sweep closer. Julius had said axes or fire, but cutting through the lower holds would take too long. It would have to be fire.

  ‘Find me a lamp, or a flint and iron,’ he said.

  A shuttered lamp was found and lit without delay and Brutus nursed the flame, extending the wick. The merchant vessels were built of old timber and would burn to rival the lighthouse.

  Two of the stolen ships were in position and Brutus could see men lashing them together. He was thankful for the limp sails and weak breeze then. Such delicate manoeuvring would have been difficult in anything stronger.

  As he came alongside, ropes were thrown and his own ship creaked and groaned as the lines tautened, finally resting to rock in the waves from the deeper waters. As the anchors were sent splashing over the side, Brutus could see the galleys of the port watch were almost on them.

  He wished he had a corvus bridge to be lowered onto the enemy ships as they came alongside and acted on the idea, calling his men to lash planking together into a rough substitute.

  ‘Light them up!’ Brutus bellowed, hoping his voice could be heard on the other ships. He spilled the oil of his lamp across a pile of broken wood and watched flames rush along tar-covered ropes. The speed of it was appalling and Brutus hoped he had not acted too soon.

  As the fire spread, he could hear angry shouts on the galleys and then his ship shuddered as they were rammed. Brutus laughed aloud at the thought of the hull being broken down below. The port watch were doing their work for them.

  As the ship began to list, Brutus had his men heave the great section of planking over their heads, letting it fall onto the railing of the ramming galley. It was not solid and it shifted with the rocking motion, threatening to fall. The galley oars were already backing to pull them free. Despite the danger, the legionaries leapt onto their bridge and charged the other deck, facing the terrified crew.

  It was carnage. As Brutus had hoped, the galleys were manned with only a few dozen above deck and the chained slaves below were unable to join the fight. In a few heartbeats, a slick of blood stained the dark wood and the legionaries had transferred across, letting their makeshift bridge fall back into the sea.

  Behind them, the flames were roaring, making an inferno of the tilting ship. It went down fast and for a moment Brutus feared the vessel would sink so deep that the harbour would still be passable. As he watched with a pounding heart, the vessel stuck with a full third out of water. Cleopatra had been right. The harbour had not been dredged in generations and even shallow-hulled ships were sometimes caught there on a low tide.

  Brutus turned back to his work, his face alive with pleasure. The other galleys were holding off after the fate of the first. He did not hesitate, seeing flames spring up on all four of the blocking ships. He sent his men down below to order the slaves to take oars once more and grinned as the galley turned into the wind. They would not have to swim.

  As the ships burned, the breeze freshened, carrying hot sparks upwards. By the time Brutus had filled his galley with the last of the cohort, the heat was like a furnace and many of the men had suffered burns as they waited to be picked up. Fat cinders sizzled in the sea, while more caught in the rigging of anchored ships. Brutus laughed as he saw them burn. His own men were busy with buckets of seawater for their own safety.

  In the far distance, some of the glowing ashes reached the dry roofs of buildings around the docks. They licked and flickered there, spreading.

  Julius watched as the voices and order in Ptolemy’s army changed subtly. He saw runners come in from the direction of the port and guessed his men were causing chaos. Angry faces were turned towards the palace and, unseen, he smiled down at them.

  In the light of their own torches, Julius saw Panek arrive from wherever he had been sleeping, pointing towards the harbour and giving orders in a frenzy. Hundreds of men began to form up and march to the east and Julius knew he would never have a better chance. Dawn was almost on them.

  ‘Get the men ready to move,’ he shouted down to Regulus and Octavian. ‘We’re going out.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The warriors of Alexandria wore no armour or helmets. Against the fury of the Egyptian sun, metal became too hot to bear against the skin and marching any distance would be impossible.

  Julius had chosen the coolest moment of the day to attack. The sun was barely a glimmer on the horizon and the Roman legions could use their advantage. The doors to the palace were pulled open and the Tenth and Fourth came out at full speed, shields held high.

  They surged through the gardens and those who had been in the extraordinarii roared in anger at the piled corpses of their mounts, already dark with flies. To see the best bloodlines of the legion lying sprawled with blackened tongues was enough to make them wild with hatred and disgust.

  The centurions and optios were hard-pressed to hold their men from racing forward. The front ranks threw spears with grunts of effort, smashing the Egyptians as they tried to meet the sudden threat. Then the shield wall reached the enemy and the killing ranks slammed into them, fighting on all sides.

  The Roman armour was crucial to the impetus. Where Ptolemy’s army struck, they were met with a ring of metal. The veteran legionaries used their helmets to butt, their greaves to break shins, their swords to cut limbs from the enemy. They had been confined while Ptolemy’s men jeered and sent their missiles. Now the chance had come to repay every insult.

  ‘Regulus! Open the line!’ Julius shouted to his general.

  He saw the Fourth legion slow their headlong advance into the midst of the Egyptians and the attack widened, bringing more and more swords to bear. Julius looked back at the palace and saw they were still coming out. He marched forward as his men cleared the way and when Ptolemy’s forces tried to counterattack, Julius brought his shield up against arrows and stalked on, intent on the progress of his legions.

  Near Regulus, a man went down with an arrow in the thigh and staggered back to his feet. He tried to go on, but the wound was gushing and Julius saw the man’s optio grab him and send him back through the lines.

  As the sun rose, its heat seemed to seek out the Roman armour and they sweated and began to gasp. The palace grounds were behind and the Roman line was hampered by the narrow streets. Still they cut and killed and walked over the dead.

  To Julius’ astonishment, he saw the citizens too had come out with daylight. Thousands of Egyptians shouted and wailed, filling the roads around the struggling armies. Many of them carried weapons and Julius began to consider a retreat back to the palace. His Tenth and Fourth were smashing Ptolemy’s warriors, but the odds were still overwhelming.

  On the right, towards the docks, Julius heard warning horns sounding. One of his extraordinarii scouts ran over, so spattered with blood that his eyes and teeth seemed unnaturally white.

  ‘The harbour cohort is back, sir.’

  Julius wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. ‘Any sign of those sent after
them?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Julius wondered what had become of the men Ptolemy had sent to kill the Roman cohort at the docks. If the king had understood who led them, perhaps he would have ordered many more to the harbour.

  ‘If you can reach them, tell Brutus to hit the flank,’ Julius ordered. ‘If they see Ptolemy, they are to kill him.’

  The scout saluted and vanished back into the press.

  Julius found himself panting. How long had it been since they had come out and hammered into the waiting army? The sun had cleared the horizon, but he could not tell for certain. Step by step, his legions moved forward and among the bronze bodies of the Egyptians were men he knew and had fought with for years. He gritted his teeth and moved on.

  Brutus cursed his weak right arm as his smoke-blackened cohort came racing along the street. He could hear the sound of battle and for the first time in his life he did not welcome it or feel the excitement that usually drew him in. The ambush they had set for the Egyptians at the harbour had shown him his weakness. Still, the Roman veterans had crushed the enemy force as if it was an exercise. In a dark, narrow street off the docks, they had fallen on the Egyptians like wolves on lambs, cutting them to pieces.

  Brutus held his sword awkwardly, feeling the weight of the heavy gladius pull at his weak shoulder. Domitius glanced at him as the tumult of heaving lines came into view. He saw the frustration in Brutus’ face and understood.

  ‘Take this,’ Domitius shouted, tossing a dagger.

  Brutus caught it in his left hand. He would rather have had a shield, or his silver armour, but at least he would be able to strike. His first blow in the ambush had turned in his hand, achieving nothing more than a scratch down a bare chest. He should have been killed then, but Ciro had hacked the man’s wrist and Brutus had been saved.

  As they neared the king’s army, they formed into a rank six across, with Ciro in the centre. Ptolemy’s flank men turned to face them and all six picked their targets, calling their choices to each other.