The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Brutus turned to her and gathered her to him. She felt small against his side and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cloth as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

  ‘You are a little mad, you know,’ he muttered. ‘But I love you anyway. And I will not lose, Portia. I have thrown down a tyrant, a king. Should I now bend my knee to some boy calling himself by the same name? I knew the real Caesar. Octavian has no right to it. No right at all.’

  Portia reached up and took his face in her hands, the touch surprisingly cool on his skin.

  ‘You cannot unbreak all that is broken, my love. You cannot fix the entire world. I think that, of all of them, you have done enough and hurt yourself enough for one lifetime. Is it such a terrible thing to enjoy the fruits of your life now? To have slaves wait on you hand and foot while you enjoy the summers? To spend those years with me in some fine villa by the sea? My father has a place in Herculaneum that is very beautiful. He writes letters every day and runs his estates. Is there shame in that? I don’t think there is.’

  He looked down at her. It could not be said that she didn’t understand what drove him. He had told her everything of his past and his failures as well as his triumphs. She had married him in the full knowledge of who he had been and who he still wanted to be, but that did not stop her arguing for peace and retirement. He was only sorry their son had died in childhood. Raising a growing boy might have turned her attentions away from her husband. Yet since then, she had not quickened again, as if her womb had died with the child. The thought upset him and he shook his head.

  ‘I am not an old man like your father, Portia, not this year anyway. I have another battle in me. If I don’t fight it, or if we lose, they will say of me only that I was a murderer, not that I freed Rome. They will talk of Marcus Brutus as just some petty traitor and they will write the histories to suit them. I have seen it done, Portia. I will not let them do it to me. I cannot let them do it to me!’ He reached up to hold her wrists and brought her hands down to his chest, over his heart.

  ‘I know you are a good man, Marcus,’ she said, softly. ‘I know you are the best of them, better than that scrawny Cassius, or Suetonius, or any of them. I know it hurt you to be part of their plots, just as it hurts you now to be fighting still. I think you care too much about how they see you, my love. What does it matter if small men live in ignorance of who you were, who you still are? Is your dignity so fragile that the meanest beggar on the street cannot laugh like a fool when you pass? Will you answer all insults, even from men who are not worthy to tie your sandals? You did free Rome, husband. You restored the Republic, or at least you gave them the chance to see a way through without dictators and kings ruling them as slaves. That’s what you’ve said a dozen times. Isn’t that enough for you? You have done more than most men would manage in a dozen lifetimes and I love you for it, but the seasons change and there has to come a time when you put down the sword.’

  ‘I will, I swear it, after this. Just after this, Portia. The gods have given me all the lions of Rome as my enemies. If they can be beaten, there is no one else who can make an empire out of the ashes. The Republic will go on and there will be peace for a thousand years. I have that in my grasp, just as I have you in my grasp.’

  He accompanied the last words with his hands slipping down and tickling her so that she shrieked and squirmed. He went on regardless, ignoring her protests and struggles until there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘You are a monster!’ she said, laughing. ‘And you do not listen to me.’

  He shook his head. ‘I do, you know. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to walk as a free man, with his freedom bought and earned for Rome. I want that, but I will not be ruled by kings, not again. Not by Mark Antony and certainly not by Octavian. I will stand against them one last time and, if the gods smile on me, I will walk with you on my arm in Rome while all the younger men stare at your beauty. And I will be content.’

  There was sadness in her eyes as she responded, though she tried to smile.

  ‘I hope so, my love. I will pray for it.’

  She rested her head against his chest, easing into him so that for a time they sat together in silence, staring out over the plain where his legions were preparing the evening meal.

  ‘I loved him too, you know,’ Brutus said. ‘He was my greatest friend.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied drowsily.

  ‘I fought once against him, Portia. Here in Greece, at Pharsalus. I wish you could have seen it. He was incredible.’ He breathed out slowly, the memories bright before his eyes. ‘He broke the forces of Gnaeus Pompey and after the battle he came to find me on the field. He held me in his arms, as I am holding you – and he forgave me my betrayal.’

  His voice caught as he spoke, the memory bringing back old griefs and a half-buried anger. From that moment, Brutus had been the man forgiven for his treachery by the noble Caesar. His place had been set in tales and poems of Rome: the weak traitor blessed by a better man. Brutus shuddered slightly, feeling goosebumps rise on his arms as he held his wife. He had not admitted to Portia how he felt on that day in Greece, years before. He had told her he feared for the Republic when Caesar brought Cleopatra and his son to Rome. He had spoken of his belief that they had begun a dynasty to rule the world.

  It was all true, yet only part of the truth. Caesar’s fate had been written on that day at Pharsalus, when he had broken and tortured his friend by forgiving Brutus in front of them all.

  Portia seemed to be dozing in his arms and he raised her up, kissing her forehead.

  ‘Come on, love. Let me experience this herb chicken of yours.’

  She stirred, yawning and stretching like a cat while he looked fondly down at her.

  ‘The day is very warm,’ she said. ‘Is there much further to go now?’

  ‘Not so far, though I will send you back to Athens when I meet Cassius’ legions.’

  ‘I would prefer to stay with the camp,’ she said.

  ‘So you’ve said a hundred times, but a legion camp is no place for you, I know that much. I’ll see you safe before we march to the coast.’

  ‘I don’t know why you have to march to meet his men when the coast is in the opposite direction.’

  ‘He’s bringing more than half the army, Portia. It makes sense to let them see each other before the horns start blowing. And there aren’t too many plains where ninety thousand men can form up, not in these hills.’

  ‘What was the name of the place where we’re going?’ she said.

  ‘Philippi,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It’s just a town, like any other.’

  Octavian let the breeze fill his lungs. Standing on the cliffs at Brundisium, he could see for miles out to sea. The sun was strong on his back and yet he could not relax, especially in the company of Mark Antony. Separated by a gulf of more than thirty years, he had to struggle not to be intimidated by a man who had known a very different Rome, before Caesar had risen to command the city and the world beyond it.

  Even from the height of the rocky path, he could not see the coast of Greece, somewhere across the haze. His attention was on the stretch of dark blue sea outside the port, where two fleets of galleys battled it out. They were like toy ships, too far away for him to hear the orders roared and the crack of catapults sending grapnels and stones soaring into the air.

  Agrippa had rounded the heel of Italy the night before, taking advantage of a calm sea with little wind. Octavian had learned they were coming only that morning, when an exhausted messenger had reached him after crossing the peninsula at breakneck speed. Octavian and Mark Antony had had to climb to the highest point on the coast before they could even see Agrippa’s galleys, but it had been clear from the first moments that Sextus Pompey had also been warned. His fleet was already in formation when Agrippa’s ships came into view at first light. Well rested, Pompey’s galleys had sprung into attack immediately, knowing Agrippa’s oarsmen would be tired after a night rowing along
the coast.

  ‘Gods, did you see that?’ Mark Antony called.

  He had walked further down the path, following the motion of the fleet battle with grim fascination. He knew as well as Octavian that Agrippa held their own futures in his hands. If Octavian’s friend failed, the legions could not cross a sea of raptor galleys and survive. It still rankled with Mark Antony that he had not been told of the secret fleet at Avernus.

  ‘Where?’ Octavian replied without looking up.

  ‘Next to the closest one on fire, by the rock there, two ships to the left. The one that turned right over. Your friend is doing well, despite the numbers against him.’

  Octavian clenched his jaw at the reminder. Agrippa’s fleet was still badly outnumbered, though they had come round the coast with almost fifty galleys. He suspected some of those were almost for show, or to decoy the forces under Sextus Pompey. Certainly, some of the ships fought with full crews, while others only tried to ram, dodging and racing among the rest at full speed. As he watched, Octavian saw one ship crash its prow into another, staving in the side so that it began to sink. Yet the attacker could not free itself and the two galleys remained jammed together. Their crews were fighting on the decks, not just to win, but to decide who would stay on the ship that wasn’t sinking. Octavian saw oars sweeping backwards and knew the attacker was one of Pompey’s captains. Agrippa’s oarsmen poured up and out of his ships whenever they attacked, their oars pulled in or left to droop on chains. It was a dangerous tactic, as they were instantly vulnerable to any other ship coming in hard, but the additional numbers made a vital difference, as far as Octavian could tell.

  Even with the knowledge that Agrippa’s ships had red sails, it was almost impossible to be certain who was winning. Some of Agrippa’s ships wallowed like fat old women in the slightest breeze and Octavian could only imagine the constant terror of the men in them as they waited for the lurch that would send them right over and into the cold sea. They were safe enough while the rowers moved them, but as soon as those men left to fight, the ships became dangerously unstable. At least one had already been sunk with only a light impact from a ram.

  ‘Can you say who has the advantage?’ Mark Antony said.

  His voice sounded tight and Octavian glanced at him before shaking his head. The older man was feeling the strain, as well he might, given the stakes and with no way to influence the outcome.

  ‘Not from here,’ Octavian said loudly. His voice dropped to a mutter as he went on. ‘I can’t do anything from here.’

  He glanced at the sun and saw that he had been there all morning. The noon point had passed and the two fleets were still fighting, with more and more ships set ablaze or sunk or turned right over to become a fouling danger to the rest. Thousands of men were already dead by fire or sword or water. The mass action of the beginning had turned into a weary battering, a test of endurance and will, as each captain took their chances with one more enemy, or just held themselves clear to let rowers recover their wind. There was nothing beautiful in it, Octavian realised. He had somehow expected there would be. The reality was like two old prizefighters smashing away at each other through blinded eyes, already bloody and yet unable to fall as they hung on each other. His future lay in the balance and he sent a prayer to Julius and Mars that Agrippa would come through.

  Octavian was not naive. He knew some crimes went unpunished. Thieves and murderers sometimes went on with their lives and did well, dying happy and old in their family homes. Julius had once told him of a man who had robbed a friend, then used the money to begin a successful business. The friend had died in poverty while the thief thrived and stood as a senator. Yet a man could seek to make his own justice, even if it did not come on its own or through the will of the gods. It was not given to him; he had to take it. Octavian could not rest while the Liberatores lived, while they continued to parade their crimes as good works.

  Octavian had seen a coin with the head of Brutus and the title on the reverse that proclaimed him ‘Saviour of the Republic’. He clenched his jaw at the image in his mind. He would not let them steal the history from more deserving men. He would not let them turn what they had done into a noble thing.

  Sextus Pompey saw only despair all around him. His crew had been fighting for hours. They had survived three attacks by boarders, barely pulling the ships apart each time before they were overwhelmed. Few of his men were unwounded and many more were simply gasping for fresh water or a moment to rest. The life they led had made them fit, but they lacked the endless well of energy his youth gave him. His nineteenth birthday had come and gone over the previous months, with a celebration thrown for him by his Roman legion captains. They had toasted him in wine and those who remembered his father had made fine speeches. The brothers Casca had declaimed a new poem sweeping through the cities, written by Horace, that praised the Republic as a jewel among the works of men.

  It was a happy, distant memory as he looked at the detritus and bodies floating all around him. No one in Rome had known he had a string of horses across the narrowest point of the mainland so that he and Vedius could communicate. He had done everything right and it had still not been enough. The message had come in time for him to form up and wait for the enemy fleet and he had been confident at dawn. Yet the few lines scrawled on parchment had not prepared him for the suicidal tactics of the galleys he faced, nor the terror of clattering, whirring grapnels soaring over his head. Twice his crew had escaped by hacking at ropes as they drew tight over his ship. The cables were still there on his deck, with copper wires shining. There had not been a moment of peace to dislodge them and put them over the side.

  He had only been able to watch as the enemy galleys smashed and sank half his fleet. His ships had started well, ramming and shearing oars with discipline, but they lost three or more for every ship they sank. The enemy galleys moved like hornets, stinging with fire arrows at close range, then boarding as the crews were forced to douse the flames before they could catch hold. It had taken Sextus too long to discover that half the ships he faced were manned only by rowers and were no real threat. They all wore red sails, whether furled or filled with the wind. The dangerous ones hid amongst the greater number, pouring men over twin corvus bridges and slaughtering his crews before setting fires and moving on.

  The sea was covered in thick smoke and he could hear the creak and splash of oars all around him. He did not know if he was surrounded by the enemy or whether he could risk a signal to his own ships. He gave a sharp order for his oarsmen to stroke at half-speed, though they too were failing and more than one body had been cleared in the hours since dawn. The darts and strikes of a war galley had been reduced to a slow creeping progress.

  The wind strengthened in a gust, blowing part of the smoke away so that he could see further across the waves. It did not bring him comfort as the expanding horizon revealed dozens of sunken hulls, drifting like pale fish at the surface, with bodies all around. Many more ships still burned and as the air cleared he saw three galleys cruising in close formation, hunting through the wreckage. One of them had grapnels ready on the deck and Sextus knew he was taken as soon as they spotted him and began to turn. He thought of his sister Lavinia, safe in the hold. He could not let them capture her.

  ‘Turn for the coast and beach her hard!’ he yelled to his oar-master. ‘Give me ram speed for the last quarter-mile. One last time and we will be on land to scatter.’

  The exhausted rowers heard his voice and they increased the stroke once again, lost in a world of misery and torn muscles. His galley surged away and he heard cries behind him as the enemy captains poured on speed in response.

  The battle had taken him miles along the coast from Brundisium. He could see a sandy cove not too far away and he pointed to it, his helmsmen keeping the ship on its final course with dogged determination.

  Lavinia came up from the hold, looking green from the hours she had spent in the foetid gloom. She saw the galleys chasing them and the shore ahead and h
er heart broke for her brother. He was a beautiful figure as he stood on the prow and watched the shallows with desperate concentration. Even then, he smiled at her when she touched his arm.

  ‘Hold on to me,’ he said. ‘If we hit a rock, it will be a hard blow at this speed. I do not know the coast here.’

  She gripped his arm as the ship shuddered suddenly, the long shallow keel rubbing along a shelving shore. Sextus swore under his breath, terrified his galley would grind to a halt on a sandbank, leaving him stranded with land so close. His oar-master bellowed orders and the rowers cried out in agony, but the shuddering ceased and the galley lurched and dropped into deeper water.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Sextus yelled back.

  In the same moment, one of the rowers fell dead and the man’s oar fouled those around it, so that the galley began to turn in the surf.

  ‘Close enough,’ Sextus said to Lavinia.

  He had hoped for a landing that would put the galley right up onto the beach, but instead it bobbed and lurched in the surf, splintering oars on one side. He extended a hand to his sister.

  ‘Come on, you’ll have to get your skirts wet.’

  Together, they climbed down, jumping the last part into white-frothed waves. There was sand under his feet and he felt some of his fear lift as he saw the enemy galleys sweeping back and forth out at sea. They had seen him almost ground on the sandbank and they could only stare and send arrows that fell short.

  The galley rocked in a swell that would eventually batter her into pieces. Yet he had brought his crew safely to land and they clambered down, jumping into deeper water as the ship bobbed back and forth. In the lower deck, the rowers sat like dead men, panting and limp. Slowly, they left their oars and came out, red-eyed and exhausted. More than one stepped into the sea and simply vanished, too tired even to make the few paces to shore. Others helped their oar-mates, dragging each other until they collapsed on the burning sand.