The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  They hit the Egyptian soldiers at almost full speed against raised shields. Ciro’s bulk knocked his man flat, but the edges held and the charge faltered. It was Ciro who broke the hole for them to follow, swinging his gladius like an iron bar and using his free fist to club men down. Whether he hit with the flat or the edge, the man’s strength was enormous and he towered over the enemy. Brutus followed him into the press, stabbing his dagger and using his gladius only to block. Even then, the shock of blows seemed to bite at him and he wondered if his bones would stand it for long.

  Brutus stumbled over a fallen shield and, with a pang of regret, threw down the sword he had won in Rome to pick it up. He moved to Ciro’s right side, protecting him. Domitius appeared on his own right with another shield and the Roman line moved further into the claustrophobic heart of the battle.

  It was a far cry from the open plain of Pharsalus. Brutus could see men climb gates and statues, still hacking with their swords at those who pressed them. Arrows flew without being aimed and against the screaming the Egyptians chanted in their alien language, their voices low and frightening.

  It did not help them. Without armour, they were being hammered and the return of the port cohort sent a shudder through their ranks. The chanting changed into a low moan of fear that wailed and echoed through the swelling crowds at their backs. Brutus saw two of the extraordinarii defending well, before both were downed by clubs and daggers from the people of Alexandria. He ducked under a thrown spear, knocking it aside with his shield.

  Somewhere nearby, Brutus could hear the tramp of feet and he groaned. He had seen enough of the Roman lines to know that Julius had committed them all.

  ‘Enemy reinforcements coming,’ he shouted to Domitius.

  Strange horns blared to confirm his suspicions and Brutus took a numbing impact against the shield that made him cry out. His mind flashed back to the final moments of Pharsalus and he stabbed his dagger in a wild frenzy, cleansing his rage with every death.

  ‘There’s the boy,’ Domitius roared, pointing.

  They all saw the slight figure of Ptolemy, shining in the risen sun as he sat a horse, surrounded by his courtiers. The royal party watched the battle with an aloofness that enraged the Romans. The men with Brutus forgot their weariness to push forward once more, struggling to reach the one they had seen betray them. There was hardly a man who had not exchanged a few words with the boy king in his month of imprisonment. To have him turn on them, on Caesar, after the first bonds of friendship was enough to draw the Roman killers like moths.

  Ptolemy’s gold mask turned jerkily as he watched the deaths of his followers. Panek stood by him, giving orders without a sign of fear. Brutus saw messengers bow to the courtier and run to where the horns had sounded. If the reinforcements were large, he knew there was a chance none of them would survive the morning.

  Ciro searched the ground as they struggled forward, then dipped to come up with a Roman spear, its length crusted in blood and dust. He took a sight on Ptolemy and cast it with a growl, sending it high. Brutus did not see it land, though when the ranks parted again, the king remained. Panek was gone from his side and Brutus did not know if he still lived. Another blow crashed against his shield arm and he yelled in pain. It felt too heavy to raise in his defence and three times Domitius saved him from a bronze blade.

  Ciro cast again and again as he found spears to throw, and then Brutus saw Ptolemy’s courtiers scuttling out of range. He heard a howl of frustration from the legion lines ahead of them and, without warning, his weary cohort reached the armoured Roman flank. They had cut their way through and now both forces seemed to gain fresh strength from the contact. The Fourth were off on the wing, holding the new arrivals, but the Tenth were free to push for the king.

  Missiles began to come from the crowd in greater and greater numbers. Curds of cattle dung were harmless enough, but the stones and tiles were a constant danger and distracted more than one legionary long enough to be killed.

  Brutus strode through the fighting square of the Tenth to Julius, panting in reaction. They let him pass with little more than a glance.

  Julius saw him and smiled at his battered appearance. ‘They can’t hold us,’ he shouted above the crash of battle. ‘I think the king’s down.’

  ‘What about the reinforcements?’ Brutus answered, yelling into Julius’ ear.

  As he spoke, they both felt a shift in the movement of men and Julius turned to see the Fourth legion being pushed back. They did not run. Every man there had been saved by the honour of the Tenth against Pompey and they would not give way. For the lines to buckle, Julius knew the reinforcements must be large.

  ‘Tenth! Cohorts one to four! Saw into the Fourth! Move to support! One to Four!’

  Julius kept roaring the orders until the cohorts heard him and began to move. The whole left wing was being compressed and Julius shook his head.

  ‘I could use a horse, if the bastards hadn’t slaughtered them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I can’t see what’s happening.’

  As he turned to face Brutus, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and froze. ‘What are you doing?’ Julius whispered.

  Brutus jerked around to see. Cleopatra had walked out behind the legions and both men watched in amazement as she climbed onto the base of a statue to Isis, swinging herself up with neat agility until she stood at the feet of the goddess, looking down on the armies.

  ‘Get her off there before the archers see her!’ Julius shouted, pointing.

  She had a horn in her hand, and before he could wonder what she intended she raised it to her lips and blew.

  The note was deep and low, going on and on until she had no more breath. By the end of it, heads were turning in her direction and Julius was terrified she would be torn from her perch by a cloud of shafts.

  ‘You will stop!’ she cried. ‘In the name of Cleopatra, your queen. I am returned to you and you will stand back!’

  Julius saw Roman hands reaching up, imploring her to come down. She ignored them, calling again. Her voice reached the lines of Egyptian soldiers and the reaction was like a shock of cold water. They pointed to her and their eyes went wide with awe. They had not known of her return to the city. Julius saw their swords begin to lower and the Tenth immediately launched themselves forward, killing indiscriminately.

  ‘Sound the halt,’ Julius snapped to his cornicens. ‘Quickly!’

  Roman horns wailed their echo to Cleopatra and an eerie silence fell over the bloody streets.

  ‘I am returned to you, my people. These men are my allies. You will stop the killing now.’

  Her voice seemed louder than it had before, without the clash of arms to drown it. Ptolemy’s army seemed dazed by her appearance and Julius wondered if she had chosen the statue of Isis deliberately, or whether it was simply the closest. He was surrounded by gasping, bloody men and his mind was blank.

  ‘I wonder what she …’ Julius began, then the people of Alexandria lost their stunned expressions and dropped to their knees.

  Julius looked around in astonishment as Ptolemy’s soldiers knelt with them, pressing their heads to the ground. The Roman legionaries stood stunned, looking to Julius for orders.

  ‘Tenth and Fourth, kneel!’ Julius bellowed instinctively.

  His men glanced at each other, but they did as they were ordered, though their swords were ready. Ciro, Regulus and Domitius went down onto one knee. Brutus followed as Julius’ eyes fell on him and then only Julius and Octavian were still on their feet.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Octavian said softly.

  Julius looked him in the eye and waited. Octavian grimaced and knelt.

  Against the foreground of thousands of bowed heads, one other group still stood on the far side of the battleground. The courtiers of the king held their heads high, watching the development in sick horror. Julius saw one of them kick out at a soldier, clearly demanding the fight go on. The man flinched, but did not rise. To Julius’ eye, they loo
ked like a pack of painted vultures. He relished the fear he saw in their gleaming faces.

  ‘Where is my brother, Ptolemy? Where is my king?’ Cleopatra called to them.

  Julius saw her leap lightly down and stride long-legged through the gashed flesh and kneeling men. She walked proudly and as she passed Julius she beckoned to him.

  ‘Where is my brother?’ she demanded again.

  Her voice struck at the courtiers like a blow and they seemed to wilt as she approached, as if her presence was more than they could bear. They parted as Cleopatra walked into their midst. Julius followed closely, his glare daring them to raise a hand against her.

  Ptolemy lay pale and bloodless on a cloak of dusty gold cloth. His limbs had been placed with dignity, his right hand high on his chest where it almost covered a gaping wound. His mask had been smashed and lay in the dirt at his feet. Julius looked at the childish features as Cleopatra reached down to touch her brother and felt a pang of regret at the sight of the small gladius at his waist. As he watched, Cleopatra leaned forward to kiss her brother’s lips, before sitting back. Her eyes were wide with pain, but there were no tears.

  As Cleopatra sat in silence, Julius looked around for Panek, knowing he would not be far away. He narrowed his eyes as he saw dark robes he knew. Panek was sitting in the dust, his breathing slow and loud. Julius took two quick steps as his anger rekindled, but the eyes that turned at the sound were dull and the chest was ragged. Panek was dying and Julius had no more words for him.

  At his back, Cleopatra rose to her feet. Not a sound came from the crowd and the breeze could be heard.

  ‘The king is dead,’ she said, her voice echoing across them. ‘Carry my brother to his palace, my people. Know that you lay hands on a god when you do.’

  Her voice cracked then and she hesitated. Julius touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she did not seem to feel it.

  ‘I who am Isis, am returned to you. My own blood has been shed this day, a death caused not by the men of Rome, but by the betrayal of my court. Rise and mourn, my people. Tear your clothes and rub ash into your skin. Honour your god with grief and tears.’

  The small body of Ptolemy was lifted into the air, his cloak hanging beneath him.

  For a long time, Cleopatra could not drag her eyes from the body of her brother. Then she turned to face the courtiers.

  ‘Was it not your task to keep my brother alive?’ she murmured, reaching up to the throat of the nearest. He struggled not to flinch from the touch of her painted nails and it was somehow obscene as she caressed the length of his jaw.

  ‘Caesar, I would have you bind these men for punishment. They will serve my brother in his tomb.’

  The courtiers prostrated themselves at last, stunned with fear and misery. Julius signalled to Domitius to bring ropes. A tenuous drift of smoke reached them as the courtiers were trussed. Cleopatra’s head snapped up as she smelled the hot and heavy air. She rounded on Julius in sudden fury.

  ‘What have you done to my city?’ she asked.

  It was Brutus who answered. ‘You know we fired ships in the port. The flames may have reached the dock buildings.’

  ‘And you let them burn?’ she snapped, facing him.

  Brutus looked back calmly. ‘We were under attack,’ he said, with a shrug.

  Cleopatra was speechless for a moment. She turned cold eyes on Julius. ‘Your men must stop it before it spreads.’

  Julius frowned at her tone and she seemed to sense the irritation that was building in him.

  ‘Please, Julius,’ she said, more gently.

  He nodded and signalled to his generals to attend him. ‘I will do what I can,’ he said, troubled by her flashing changes of mood. She had lost a brother and regained her throne, he thought. Much could be forgiven on such a day.

  Cleopatra did not leave until royal guards had brought a shaded platform for her, lifting it onto their shoulders as she lay back. Their faces were proud, Julius saw, as they bore their queen to her palace.

  ‘Have trenches dug for the dead, Octavian,’ Julius ordered, watching her departure. ‘Before they spoil in the heat. The Fourth had better make their way to the docks to see to this fire.’

  As he spoke, a cold cinder floated above his head, riding the breeze. He watched as it settled, still dazed by events. The boy king who had clung to his arm was dead. The battle was won.

  He did not know if they would have achieved victory without the queen’s intervention. The veteran legions were growing old and could not have fought on for long against the rising sun. Perhaps Cleopatra’s slave would have brought reinforcements, or perhaps Julius would have bled his life out on Egyptian sand.

  In her absence, he felt an ache start in him. He could smell her scent over the bitter taste of burnt air. He had known her as a woman. To see her as a queen had disturbed and enthralled him, from the moment the crowd and soldiers had knelt in the dirt at her word. He looked after the procession heading for the palace and wondered how the citizens of Rome would react if he brought her home.

  ‘We are free to leave,’ Octavian said. ‘To Rome, Julius.’

  Julius looked at him and he smiled. He could not imagine leaving Cleopatra behind. ‘I have fought for more years than I can remember,’ he said. ‘Rome will wait a little longer, for me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The great library of Alexandria burned as the sun rose, thousands of scrolls making a furnace so hot that the soldiers of Rome could not come close to it. Marble columns raised by Alexander split and shattered in the furnace of a million thoughts and words. The men of the Fourth legion formed bucket chains to the docks, struggling against the sun and exhaustion until they were numb and their blistered skin was red and black with cinders. The closest buildings had been stripped and their walls and roofs saturated, but the library could not be saved.

  Julius stood with Brutus, watching as the vast skeleton of roof timbers sagged and then collapsed over the work of generations. Both men were exhausted, their faces smeared with soot. They could hear the shouted orders as fire teams ran to stamp out new flames again and again, accompanied by chanting lines of bucket carriers.

  ‘This is an evil thing to see,’ Julius murmured.

  He seemed stunned by the destruction and Brutus glanced at him, wondering if blame would fall on his shoulders. The ships carrying catapults from Canopus had been denied entry to the port, but it was galling to know the battle had been won before they could have added their strength to the siege.

  ‘Some of the scrolls were brought here by Alexander himself,’ Julius said, wiping a hand across his forehead. ‘Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, hundreds of others. Scholars came thousands of miles to read the works. It was said to be the greatest collection in the world.’

  ‘And we burned it,’ Brutus thought wryly to himself, not quite daring to say the words aloud. ‘Their work must survive in other places,’ he managed.

  Julius shook his head. ‘Nothing like this. Nothing complete.’

  Brutus looked at him, unable to understand his mood. For his own part, he was quietly in awe of the sheer scale of the destruction. He was fascinated by it and had spent part of the morning simply watching as the fire raged. He cared nothing for the stunned faces of the crowds.

  ‘There’s nothing more you can do here,’ he said.

  With a grimace, Julius nodded and walked away through the silent throng that had come to see the devastation. They were eerily silent and it was strange for the men responsible to pass through them, unrecognised.

  The tomb of Alexander was a temple of white stone pillars in the centre of the city, dedicated to the founding god. The sight of stern Roman legionaries kept the curious public away as Julius stood on the threshold. He found his heart racing as he looked up at the coffin of glass and gold. It was raised above head height, with white steps on all sides for worshippers to ascend. Even from the edges, Julius could see the figure resting within it. Julius swallowed spit, uncomfortably. As a boy he had
drawn the tomb from a Greek tutor’s description. He had kissed Servilia at the foot of Alexander’s statue in Spain. He had read accounts of every battle and idolised the man.

  He climbed the steps to the stone plinth, breathing shallowly of the incense that hung in the air. It seemed appropriate there, in surroundings of cool death without decay. Julius placed his hands on the glass, marvelling at the artisan’s skill that had produced the panes and the bronze web to hold them. When he was ready, he looked down and held his breath.

  Alexander’s skin and armour had been layered in gold leaf. As Julius watched, clouds moved above and sunlight poured in from an opening. Only Julius’ shadow remained dark and he wondered in awe at the glory of it.

  ‘My image is on you, Alexander,’ he whispered, committing every aspect of the moment to memory. The eyes were sunken and the nose little more than a hole, but Julius could see the bones and gold flesh like stone, and guess at how the Greek must have looked in life. It was not an old face.

  At first he had thought it wrong to have Alexander treated as one of the gods of Egypt. There, in that temple, it seemed an appropriate honour. Julius glanced around him, but the entrances were blocked by the solid backs of his soldiers. He was alone.

  ‘I wonder what you would say to me,’ he murmured in Greek. ‘I wonder whether you would approve of a brash Roman standing in your city.’

  He thought of Alexander’s children and the fact that none of them had survived to adulthood. The Greek king’s first-born son had been strangled at fourteen. Julius shook his head, looking into the distances of mortality. It was impossible not to contemplate his own death in such a place. Would another man stand over him a hundred years after he was dead? Better to be ashes. Without sons, everything he had achieved would slip away. His daughter could not command the respect of the Senate and, like Alexander’s, her son might never be allowed to survive. Julius frowned in irritation. He had named Octavian as his heir, but he could not be certain the younger man had the skill to navigate the treacheries of Rome. In truth, he could not believe anyone else had the gift to build on his achievement. He had come so far, but unless he lived to begin a male line, it would not be enough.