The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

There was a moment of silence as some of the other men cringed internally. Saturnius looked from face to face in confusion.

  ‘Is that not so?’ he said, growing red.

  ‘It does you no credit to say so,’ Mark Antony replied, ‘or to put words in my mouth that I have not said. I do not know where you have served, Saturnius, but I have seen those sons of prostitutes and merchants risk their lives to save me, when my life could be measured in heartbeats. I said they were men of Rome. The least of them is worth something.’

  Saturnius rubbed his face with both hands to make himself more alert. His voice took on a wheedling tone as he replied.

  ‘I thought, sir, after the executions in Brundisium, that you shared the same outlook. I apologise if that is not the case.’

  Mark Antony glowered.

  ‘In Brundisium, they understood that punishment must come. Do you think it gave me pleasure to order a hundred criminals to their deaths? I was within my rights to order the decimation of every legion – the deaths of three thousand men, Saturnius. What I did was a gesture of strength – a demonstration that I would not be cowed by their anger. For those with the wit to see, I saved more than I killed. More importantly, I brought the rest into the fold. I gave them back their dignity and honour.’

  He turned from Saturnius, ending the conversation as he addressed Buccio once more.

  ‘This Octavian claims a name that rings out to our men. It is not surprising, when Julius Caesar himself created many of the legions represented at this table. Of course they are saying they will not fight against his adopted son! It would be a surprise if they did not.’

  He paused, knowing he had to have these men on his side.

  ‘There are limits to our authority, limits to what we can make the men do. The legions can be pushed only so far – beyond that, they must be led. I have seen it, gentlemen. I have seen Caesar himself talk to mutinous legions, risking his own life.’ He glanced back at Saturnius, his expression scornful. ‘If you treat them as children or wild dogs, they will eventually turn on you. Discipline is the core of what we do, but they are not Greeks or painted Gauls. They are Roman men, who understand something of the Republic, even if they do not always have the words to say it. Well, you must give them the words they need, Buccio, Saturnius. You must remind them that Caesar may be gone but the Republic can still be revived. I will not allow some blond boy to pretend to the authority of my friend, no matter what an old will said about his adoption. There is no new Caesar. Tell them that.’

  Buccio had grown thoughtful as the consul spoke, his hands splayed firmly on the table before him, to hide his tension. He had, if anything, understated the position. Some of his most senior officers had dared to come to him and the consul did not seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. Yet with Mark Antony watching him, he could only nod and attack his food in bitter silence.

  Mark Antony sat through another two courses before anyone said another word beyond the most strained comments on the food. He was content to spend the time thinking about the Senate and what they would demand from him when he returned. He hoped Octavian would surrender, rather than force him to test his men further. He could not ignore the warnings of the legates, for all he was angry at Buccio for handling things so badly. If ‘Caesar’ could be captured quickly, it would end all the talk Buccio had discovered.

  The evening had grown late by the time the meal came to an end. Mark Antony was heavy with weariness, desiring nothing more than a room with a fire to sleep. As he rose from the table, his action copied instantly by the legates, they all heard the clatter of hooves on the stone yard outside. The messenger Buccio had sent entered the tavern and went straight to the consul’s table.

  ‘Report then,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Have they halted? I am beginning to think I was too quick to promote Liburnius.’

  ‘They have not halted, sir,’ the messenger said nervously. ‘I rode to the front rank and tried to approach the legate, but three of his officers drew swords as soon as they saw me. As I rode away, they shouted to tell you …’

  His voice died away as he realised the enormity of repeating an insult to a consul in the company of legates. Mark Antony had the same sense of foreboding and raised a hand.

  ‘Just give me the idea,’ he said.

  ‘They are not coming back, sir. They are going to fight for Caesar.’

  Mark Antony swore loudly, cursing the name of Liburnius. His gaze fell on Buccio, who was standing in sick awareness that he had become the target of a consul’s wrath.

  ‘Get back to your legions. If Liburnius can march through the night, so can we. I’ll run him down, I swear it. Go!’

  Mark Antony crushed a yawn as it began, furious with himself and his men. If the legions had been rebellious before, a night muttering to each other about the consul would not improve things. As he called for the horses to be resaddled, Mark Antony decided Octavian had to be killed. The young man had chosen a name that made him too dangerous to be left alive.

  The exterior of Pompey’s theatre was as impressive as its long-dead sponsor had intended. Though Gnaeus Pompey had died in Egypt years before, his name was preserved in the sheer grandeur of the building that dominated the once pristine grass of the Campus. Not even Caesar could have paid for solid marble, but the walls were sheathed in the milky stone, lightly veined and glittering slightly in the sunshine. Limestone paving had been laid all around the main building, ending at the great pillars that held up the portico, itself carved in white marble.

  The Senate had come out to Octavian as he approached. They were dressed in white and purple-trimmed togas to a man and they made an impressive sight, standing in a group and waiting for him. They had rejected all his demands and their confidence had grown.

  Octavian had chosen to wear armour, knowing he would be seen in contrast to the civil powers. He rode down the Capitoline hill with three centuries of men, one of them composed entirely of centurions. Together, they represented his claim to authority in the city and if the senators were in clean colours, at least his men shone.

  As the sound of his mount’s hooves changed to a clatter on stone, Octavian swept his gaze across the crowd of senators. He could see Bibilus, with Suetonius at his side as always. They had both known Caesar, Suetonius in particular. The passing years had been kind to neither of them, almost as if their cruelty was written in sagging flesh. Octavian could not help compare himself with those old men and he straightened his back at the thought. He brought his centuries right up to them, not needing to give new orders. They spread out in perfect ranks against the hundreds in togas, standing still so that there was no sound at all beyond the calls of birds floating high above their heads. Not one of the senators would speak first, he was certain. Octavian and Maecenas had discussed the protocol and he smiled at them all.

  ‘I have summoned you here to announce that I will pay the legacies of Caesar myself, beginning with the three hundred sesterces to each citizen of Rome.’ He was pleased at the angry mutter that went through them at his choice of words. ‘I assume you will waive the right to your part of it. Are senators not citizens? Yet if you wish, I will have your share sent to your homes in the city.’

  He hoped they would register the subtle threat before he went on with his main demand. He knew where they lived. The implications would surely not be lost on most of them.

  Bibilus stepped forward through the crowd facing Octavian. The man’s bulk was well-disguised in the folds of his toga. He stood with his right hand gathering up the folds of cloth, his fleshy features already bright with perspiration.

  ‘Once more, then. We will not bargain or negotiate while legions camp in the sacred forum, Octavian. If you have nothing new to add, I suggest you return to the city and wait for justice to descend on you.’

  Octavian controlled a spasm of anger. To have such a man speak to him of justice was calculated to enrage, so he showed them nothing.

  ‘You have refused every demand, senators,’ he said,
making his voice ring across them all, ‘certain that I would not draw swords on the representatives of the city of my birth. What I asked was just, but you continued to protect murderers. That is at an end. I see Senator Suetonius there among you. I will take him today, for trial in the forum. Step aside and let him walk out to me. I have shown my respect for the law by my patience, though I have legions at my back. You need not fear that he will receive anything but justice at my hand. But he will receive justice at my hand.’

  As he had ordered the night before, ten of his most senior centurions stepped forward from the ranks, moving towards Suetonius before the senators had time to react. At the first steps, Bibilus shouted out.

  ‘We are immune! You may not lay hands on a member of this august Senate. The gods themselves will curse whichever of you defies their will.’

  With those few words, a ripple of anger spread through the gathered senators and they stepped out, holding up their hands against the armoured soldiers. With sheer numbers, they blocked a path to Suetonius as he cowered at the centre of four hundred men.

  One of the centurions looked back at Octavian, unsure what to do, while the others pressed on. The senators had not dared to draw the daggers they all carried. Yet they clustered and shifted, standing in a clot of men that could not be breached without violence. Octavian seethed, knowing that he could give a single order and they would fall back in bloody rags. Maecenas had predicted they would refuse, but Octavian had not expected to see any kind of courage from those men, certainly not to withstand the terror of hardened legionaries coming at them.

  ‘Stand down, centurions,’ he ordered, furious with them all as well as himself.

  The line of legionaries disengaged, leaving red-faced senators in their wake, their togas in crumpled disarray. Octavian could only glare at them, his hand twitching to draw the sword that lay at his hip. He held his honour like iron bands around him, but he could hardly bear the poisonous triumph he saw on the faces of Bibilus and Suetonius.

  Silence spread again, broken only by panting men. One of the centurions turned to Octavian and, in doing so, saw movement on the Capitoline hill. A rider was coming down to the Campus at a gallop. Octavian turned to see what had arrested the man’s attention and his heart sank. They had been dreading the news for days and there was only one thing that would send a rider charging out to him that morning. The senators still waited for him to speak and when he did, his voice was low and cold.

  ‘As I bear the name of Caesar, I will not shed more blood onto these stones. Yet my patience has its limits, gentlemen. I tell you solemnly – do not depend on it again.’

  It was not enough to wipe the smirk from Bibilus’ face, but Octavian knew he was out of time. Sick with rage, he turned his horse and trotted out to meet the rider. His centurions formed up and marched with him, leaving the senators behind.

  Octavian reined in as he reached the young extraordinarii soldier, breathing hard from his ride through the city. The man saluted and Octavian stared back at Rome. He did not know when he would see it again.

  ‘Legions sighted, sir. On the Via Appia.’

  Octavian nodded and thanked him.

  ‘Go back and tell Legate Silva to bring the men out at their best pace. I am finished here. I will await them on the Campus.’

  It was not long before the first marching ranks appeared over the brow of the Capitoline. They came out of the city without any of the cheering or fanfare that had announced their arrival. They marched in sombre mood, knowing that Mark Antony was approaching Rome with three times as many men.

  Maecenas and Agrippa reached him first. Maecenas nodded to him, glancing over to where the Senate still stood watching.

  ‘They refused?’ he asked, though he had already guessed.

  Octavian nodded. ‘I should have killed them,’ he said.

  Maecenas looked at his friend and shook his head.

  ‘You are a better man than I am. It will be remembered that you did not, with legions at your back. They will not be able to accuse you of running wild, at least. That counts for something.’

  Octavian looked past him at the gleaming ranks of men marching away from Rome. If all else failed, he had agreed with the legates to head north along the Via Cassia.

  ‘Does it?’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Probably not,’ Maecenas replied with a grin. Agrippa snorted, though both men were pleased to see Octavian smile in response. ‘But it might. You still have two legions and we’ll be far enough away in Arretium. I have a small house there and it’s pleasant enough.’

  ‘Did you recommend a winter at Arretium because you have a home there?’ Agrippa asked in disbelief.

  Maecenas cleared his throat and looked away.

  ‘Not … entirely. It is not as grand as my estate in Mantua, you know. But Arretium is a quiet town and off the main routes.’

  Octavian shook his head, his friend’s irrepressible nature cheering him. He had gambled and lost, but Maecenas seemed untroubled. Octavian grinned suddenly, letting his mood lighten.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘The Senate are watching. Let’s ride with a little dignity.’

  He dug in his heels, despair and anger tearing into wisps on the breeze.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Exhausted, the Fourth Ferrata called a halt in sight of the walls of Rome, with Legate Liburnius sending riders ahead to take his urgent messages. Before the murder of Caesar, the idea of mutiny of any kind would have been unthinkable. Liburnius rubbed his horse’s ears as he reflected on the previous months. He had been a leading voice when they decided to ignore the original Senate summons. It was difficult to express the sense of chaos that had ripped through the legions at Brundisium. Many of them had fought at Caesar’s side in Greece and Egypt and Gaul, and there were few who could not remember seeing the Father of Rome or hearing him speak over the years. Some even recalled words he had said to them individually with great pride. They were bound by oaths that were as much a part of them as their armour and traditions, but an unspoken loyalty ran even deeper. They were Caesar’s men. To be called to the command of the senators who had murdered him had not been an order they could obey.

  Liburnius bit the inside of his lip as he looked at the city ahead, surprised at the strength of his pleasure in simply coming home. He had not seen Rome for years and yet somehow he found himself returning at the head of a freshly mutinous legion, no doubt with an enraged consul coming up fast behind. After his promotion to legate, it was not exactly how he had seen his career going and he smiled wryly at the thought. Yet when he looked for doubts, there were none. His men did not know about the favour he carried in his packs, or even the fact that he had met the new Caesar. They knew only the name and the adoption, the mark of family that linked Octavian to the very man who had formed them. It was enough.

  When Liburnius had told them his decision to head north and join Caesar’s rebellion, they had been too cautious to cheer, but their delight had been obvious. He shook his head, amused at himself. In all his years as tribune, he had not known one hundredth part of the popularity he had gained then. It was frankly surprising how much he appreciated it, a man who had always assumed he was above seeking the adoration of those under his command. Liburnius knew he was no lion of Rome, like Marius, Sulla or Caesar himself. He had been content with his rank and that the men obeyed out of simple discipline. The murder of Caesar had rocked his foundations as much as any of them, altering the way he saw the world.

  He breathed in relief as he saw the first of his messengers come galloping back to his position. Mark Antony could not be too far behind. The last thing Liburnius wanted was to be caught against the walls of the city before he could even join Octavian. His men were footsore and weary, but they had pushed on all night, making the best pace possible and not daring to leave any man behind. Whether the decision to mutiny was right or wrong, there was no going back from that point and they all knew it.

  The extraordinarii rider was flushed and
sweating. His horse skidded on damp stones as he pulled up, making the animal’s haunches bunch with a heave on the reins.

  ‘Caesar’s legions have left the city, sir, heading north.’

  ‘Shit!’ Liburnius said in disbelief. ‘How long ago? What forces remain in the city?’ He fired more questions at the hapless rider, who could only hold his hands up.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I asked a temple priest. As soon as I heard the news, I swung round and came back.’

  Liburnius felt his mood crumble into bitterness. He would not be entering Rome that day, not alone. The consul and five other legions would be hammering up the road at him while he sat there.

  ‘Well, which road did they take?’ he snapped.

  The young rider only shook his head, but he turned the mount on the spot.

  ‘I’ll find out, sir.’

  He galloped back the way he came and Liburnius could see worry and fear on the faces of all those who had heard, the news spreading fast through the ranks of waiting men.

  ‘Why would Caesar have waited for us?’ he asked them. ‘He didn’t know we were coming to join him. Centurions! Take the Fourth Ferrata around the city walls to the Campus Martius. We have a chase on our hands.’

  To his satisfaction, the closest men grinned, setting off in matched step despite their exhaustion.

  Mark Antony drew up angrily, his personal guard holding a tight formation around him. He could smell his own sweat and his face was rough with stubble. He was in no mood to be challenged by Legate Buccio that morning.

  ‘Why have you countermanded my orders and called a halt?’ he demanded. ‘You can rest when we reach the city.’

  Four legions continued to march doggedly down the last miles of the Via Appia, while Buccio’s legion stood with their heads down in ranks, looking shattered. They had marched all night, passing another twenty-two of the milestones after the thirty they had managed the day before.

  The legate saluted properly, though his eyes were red with exhaustion.