The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  On the lake, his galleys still flitted and lunged at each other, each new crew building the stamina they needed while they practised boarding. He’d had archery targets set up all along the shore of the lake for them to use and one of the top-heavy corvus ships anchored on the water, which now resembled a porcupine for the number of shafts sticking out of its timbers. He scowled at the sight of it, wondering who had failed to give the order to collect the arrows. Every one was precious, though entire industries had grown up around Neapolis to supply him. He had all his carts sent north as obviously as possible for a hundred miles before cutting west and back south, but even so Agrippa suspected his secrecy was a complete farce. His men had to chase local boys away almost every day as they crept along the shore and stole tools or simply gaped at the darting galleys. A city’s worth of men had descended on Lake Avernus and Agrippa had been forced to hang two of his carpenters for murdering a local during a botched theft. He had guards on the only road east, yet there were constant attempts by Neapolis officials to come out and demand things from him, either justice or compensation for something his people had done. If it hadn’t been for the sight of new galleys growing by the day, he thought he would have despaired, but Octavian’s silver poured out and ships were made and rested. The green wood would warp and twist over the winter, needing constant care and repair, but he had teams for that work as well.

  The surveyors were waiting for him to give the signal and Agrippa only stared wearily, checking a thousand things in his mind to be sure he had not missed some crucial aspect of the canal that could not be redone once he had opened it. He looked along its length, seeing the smooth lime concrete that covered the clay beneath. It would hold water as well as any bridge pile, he had been assured, but still he worried that the entire length would drain away, leaving him with a lake that was suddenly too low to bring his galleys out.

  Agrippa took a deep breath and prayed to Minerva. The goddess of artisans would surely look kindly on such a project as a canal to the sea. That thought brought another prayer to Neptune and finally Agrippa made the horned hand to ward off ill-luck. He could not think of another god or goddess worth asking, so he raised his arm and dropped it.

  ‘Come on,’ he murmured. ‘Go well.’

  The gates had been made with immense beams of wood standing out from each side and locked in place with iron bars set into stone. As the bars were pulled out, he had a dozen men on each one, but the pressure from behind would be with them. He watched as one brave builder climbed down into the trench and used a hammer to knock out a main strut. The teams took the strain, holding the waters back while the builder rushed out again. As soon as he stepped clear, they reversed their pull and water began to roar through, the noise indescribable. The teams were forced back step by step, despite their best efforts. The line of rushing water became a cataract, spraying water high into the air.

  The gates came right back into their slots against the walls of the canal and the teams stood panting, their job done. Agrippa began to jog, then ran along the length as fast as he could go. The waters outpaced him and he saw a great wave rise above the final blocking gate, lifting twenty feet or more into the air, so that all the men there were drenched and laughing. He arrived as the water settled back into a placid surface, with mud and torn plants swirling. The sea was on his left shoulder and he only wished he could have driven the canal right out to it in one go. Barely fifty feet of sandy soil remained, but his surveyors had insisted on another gate before the final breakthrough, in case something went wrong with the levels or, worse, they were seen from the sea and attacked before they were ready. Sextus Pompey had ships somewhere out there on the dark water and he could land ten thousand men if he saw something interesting on the coast.

  A great cheer went up as the labourers saw the canal fill and hold, the level equalising with the lake. Agrippa grinned at last, wishing Maecenas and Octavian were there to see it. Pride swelled his chest and he laughed aloud, enjoying the smell of salt and seaweed that was strong in the air. When they finished the last section, they’d have the same routine to do again, but he’d have the new galleys waiting in line for a mile, backing up onto the lake. They’d come out in a rush of brown water and Octavian would have his fleet to hunt down the galleys of Sextus Pompey.

  Mark Antony was walking the cliffs with Lepidus, looking down on the port city. When he had last been to Brundisium, six mutinous legions waited for him to take command and pronounce punishment. Now that vast assemblage looked small in memory. Twelve legions had camped on every piece of spare ground for miles around the central town, a gathering large enough to ruin the economy for years as they commandeered everything useful from the region, from horses and food to iron, bronze and leather.

  ‘I’m to have dinner tonight with Buccio and Liburnius,’ Mark Antony said, smiling wryly. ‘I think the legates would like to make amends for the small matter of mutinying under my command.’

  He chuckled at the thought, amused at how fate had swung them apart and then together again. The movements of the Republic made a mockery of all his plans. A year before, he could not have imagined standing on those sea cliffs with the Senate in hand and an alliance with a young man he had barely remembered. His mood darkened as he realised Julius had been alive at that time. No one could have predicted the events after the assassination. Mark Antony only counted himself lucky that he had survived and risen, no matter who else had risen with him.

  ‘They seem to have the ear of Caesar,’ Lepidus said. ‘Perhaps you should question them about crossing the sea to Greece. How long can we stay here without ships?’

  ‘As long as we must, to keep Rome safe from invasion,’ Mark Antony replied uncomfortably. He did not enjoy hearing the name of Caesar used for Octavian, but it was becoming a hard reality and he assumed it would jar less and less in time. ‘But I agree, it is not enough to stay here and wait. I can wish for a new fleet, but then I might as well wish for the men to be given wings. I do not know all his plans, Lepidus. As it is, we are the block that prevents Brutus or Cassius landing on this coast. While we remain in such strength, they too cannot cross by sea. Who would have thought that galleys would ever be so important? The future of Rome rests on fleets, while legions remain idle.’

  ‘Then we should build new ships,’ Lepidus said irritably. ‘Yet whenever I ask, that friend of his, Maecenas, tells me I shouldn’t concern myself. Have you broached the subject with Caesar? I would be happier if I knew we were at least beginning the task. I don’t want to spend years on this coast waiting to be attacked.’

  Mark Antony grinned to himself, turning away to hide his amusement. He had only arrived from Rome the day before, while Lepidus had been stationed at Brundisium for almost three months. Mark Antony was satisfied with the way the triumvirate was working, though he could appreciate Lepidus might not feel the same. It would not be useful to remind the man he had only been included to give Mark Antony a casting vote in any disagreement. Apart from that, he was not concerned with what Lepidus thought.

  The wind gusted around them as they walked the cliffs, looking down to the dark blue sea. Both men felt the energy of it raising their spirits as their togas whipped and fluttered. Even from such a height, Mark Antony could not see Greece in the distance, though he imagined Brutus and Cassius there. The vagaries of fate had thrown him onto this shore and Rome would remember only the victors when it was done.

  As he stared out over the vastness of the white-capped ocean, Mark Antony felt his attention dragged towards movement on his right side. He turned his head and froze, his good mood curdling like old milk in his stomach.

  ‘By the gods, do you see that?’ Lepidus said a moment later.

  Mark Antony nodded. Around the bay, a host of galleys rowed into view, sleek and fast and dangerous. Many of them had broken stubs where fine oars had been before and, to his experienced eye, the ships looked battered. Yet they kept coming and his heart sank further.

  ‘Sixty … no, eighty
…’ Lepidus was muttering.

  There were at least a hundred galleys, fully half the fleet Sextus Pompey led. Mark Antony found himself making the horned hand instinctively. It was more than enough to blockade the east coast of Italy, preventing even the small boats that carried messages and kept trade alive.

  ‘It seems Sextus Pompey has heard about our legions gathering here,’ Mark Antony said. ‘By Jupiter, what I wouldn’t give for a fleet! I’ll send a rider to Rome, but we cannot cross now, even if Octavian found me a dozen ships tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There was no moon as Agrippa’s galleys eased out into the black sea. For three nights after finishing the canal, he had waited for perfect conditions to open the final gates, unable to move while a storm whipped the waves too high for his redesigned galleys. Stability had proved the biggest danger, with every one of his innovations adding to the top weight. Time and again, he’d had to abandon some scheme when he found it either slowed the ships or made them a death trap for those inside. The months of building around Lake Avernus had been the most frustrating and fascinating of his life, but he was ready, and even if he had not been, Octavian had sent Maecenas down again to order him out.

  For once, his friend was silent as the ships slipped away from the coast. Agrippa sensed Maecenas wanted to be anywhere but there, but his pride had not allowed him to refuse. They would face the enemy fleet together, with just forty-eight galleys. Everything depended on timing and surprise – and luck, which grated on Agrippa when the stakes were so high.

  In the darkness, the small fleet communicated with shuttered lamps, sending dim beams across the darkness to mark their positions as they formed up. It had taken most of the afternoon and evening for them to creep down the canal, oars in and silent as men on the ground heaved them forward on ropes. The moment when they were all out on deep water brought a surge of excitement.

  Agrippa could not help feeling pride at Roman achievement. His men had built a path to the ocean where none had existed before. They’d crafted immense ships and when ideas had failed or proved too unwieldy, they’d dismantled and begun again without complaint. Agrippa told himself he’d make sure the crews and officers were rewarded, if any of them survived.

  The dark swell stretched in all directions, easily capable of hiding a vast host of raptor galleys waiting for them. Agrippa swallowed nervously, clenching and unclenching his big fists as he paced the deck. To the south, the island of Sicily lay across his course, a mass of land and tiny coves that was said to shelter the enemy fleet. His hope was only to come as close as possible before dawn. After that, his new weapons and tactics would succeed or fail. His men had trained continuously, but Agrippa knew they could not yet manoeuvre as easily as veteran crews. He wiped sweat from his forehead as the new ships raised sails into the breeze. His galley eased forward with the rest, the only noise the hiss of water passing under the prow. Sicily cupped the toe of Italy at the far south and they had almost two hundred miles to go. Agrippa continued to pace, picturing his maps in his mind. For all his hopes, he’d been tempted to refuse battle and take his fleet to the east coast where Octavian was crying out for ships. With just a little luck, Agrippa knew he could have beached the fleet further south for a day, then passed the heel of Italy the following night, perhaps before Sextus Pompey even knew he was in those waters. It would have been the right decision if Pompey hadn’t split his fleet and taken a hundred galleys of his own around the heel. The news Maecenas had brought had changed everything.

  Under twin blockades, both the major coasts of Italy were closed to trade. Rome was already close to starving and the siege could no longer be endured. It had to be broken. Agrippa felt the responsibility weighing heavily on him. If he failed, Octavian would be bottled up in Rome for years, forced to negotiate or even surrender to the forces of the Liberatores. There was no second chance, Agrippa knew. It all came down to Octavian’s faith in him.

  Forty-eight galleys raised sails into the night wind, but Agrippa could hardly see them. The danger of white sails being spotted had led to his men colouring the sheets with the madder herb, dipping them again and again in huge vats until they were a rusty brown that would not reveal their position to anyone with half an eye out to sea. The sails were the colour of dried blood, but they served their purpose.

  ‘I have a good jug here,’ Maecenas said, clinking it against a clay cup to make his point.

  Agrippa shook his head, then realised Maecenas could not see the gesture.

  ‘Not for me. I need to be sharp now we’re out.’

  ‘You should have been a Spartan, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘I find good red wine merely relaxes me.’ He poured a cup, cursing softly as some of it spilled onto the deck. ‘That’s for good luck, I suppose,’ he said, drinking. ‘You should get some sleep, if sharpness is important. At least the sea is calm tonight. I’d rather not face a watery grave while heaving my guts out over the railing.’

  Agrippa did not reply, his thoughts on the galleys all around him. Maecenas did not seem to understand how much of the venture rested on him. Every modification he had made, every new tactic, was his. If it failed, he would have wasted half a year of hard work and a fortune that beggared belief – as well as his own life. His ships were well enough hidden in the night, but the dawn would reveal them to hostile eyes. He did not know whether to dread or welcome the moment they caught sight of the first hostile galley surging towards them.

  Vedius was shaken from sleep by Menas, his second in command. He came awake with a grunt, trying to roll over on his bunk and flailing at the man’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ he said blearily.

  He’d spent so long sleeping on deck that the tiny cabin reserved for a captain seemed an incredible luxury. The mattress may have been lumpy and thin, but it was much better than stretching out under a tarpaulin in the wind and rain.

  ‘Signal light, sir,’ Menas said, still shaking him.

  The man was a legion officer and Vedius sensed scorn behind his carefully neutral manner. Yet he was at Vedius’ command, for all his pretensions and legion honour. Vedius slapped the hand away. He sat up fast and struck his head on a beam, cursing.

  ‘Right, I’m up,’ he said, rubbing his crown as he clambered out of the tiny alcove.

  In the darkness he followed Menas, climbing a short ladder to the deck and the light of a dim lamp. Vedius stared into the distance to where his subordinate was pointing. Far off, on the peak of a mountain, Vedius saw a gleam. The system was that their watchers lit a bonfire at night when they saw anything moving at sea.

  ‘Someone’s making a night run,’ Vedius said with grim pleasure.

  It had to be a valuable cargo if the captains and owners were willing to risk losing their ships on some unseen rock. He rubbed his callused hands together at the thought, making a whispering sound. Visions of gold or chests of legion silver filled his imagination, or better still, the young daughters of some fat senator. With Lavinia on board, Sextus held women only briefly for ransom, but he was not there. Vedius had been without female companionship for a long time and he grinned into the breeze. Willing or not, the whores of Sicily were nowhere near as exciting as the thought of a Roman virgin in his cabin for a few days.

  ‘Take us out, Menas. Let’s pluck a few fat Roman birds for the pot.’

  Menas smiled uncomfortably. The coarse tavern fighter repelled him, but the Senate had given men like Vedius the fleet, the true eagle of Rome, and he could only obey and hide his disgust.

  There was no need to be cautious, with the western coast sewn tight. Menas took hold of a horn on his belt and blew a long note across the waters. Eight galleys formed their small group and they were moving almost as soon as they heard the note, their captains ready as soon as the bonfire light had appeared on the peak. In turn, they blew their own horns, a droning chorus that would carry to the next cove and alert the crews there to follow them out.

  Vedius felt the wind freshe
n against his face as the rowers below dipped their oars and the galley began to accelerate. There was nothing like the feeling of speed and power and he could only bless Sextus Pompey for introducing him to it. He rubbed his jaw, feeling an old ache. He owed Sextus everything since the young man had rescued him and given him a purpose when Vedius had been little better than a fighting drunk. He told himself Sextus would never have beaten him if he’d been sober, but the broken jaw had never healed right and Vedius had lived with pain ever since, every meal a misery as it crunched and clicked. The Roman noble had been at his back for years, but for this night, Vedius was alone in command. It was a heady feeling and he loved it.

  ‘Half-speed!’ he shouted, then he called for a drink to help him shrug off the last of his sleep. One of the Roman legionaries offered water and Vedius laughed at him.

  ‘I never touch it. Wine feeds the blood, lad. Fetch me a skin!’

  Below his feet, the rowing master heard and the drumbeat grew faster. The rowers who had been asleep on their benches shortly before put their backs into it with expert ease. The galleys headed out to sea in tight formation, lunging faster and faster to be first at the prizes ranging on the deep water. They left the island of Capri behind them, a hundred miles north of Sicily.