The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘The word is that the last ships are in, Triumvir,’ Pontius said. ‘We are expecting to move today.’ He smiled as he spoke, knowing the news had been a long time coming.

  Mark Antony raised his eyes briefly to the heavens.

  ‘I might wonder why that news wasn’t brought over last night, so I could be already on the way. Still, that is good to know.’

  With a noble effort, he held back from criticising Octavian, unaware that he actually did so regularly. As a result, almost every man there considered themselves to belong to the main army, with a subsidiary force lagging behind.

  ‘Are the legions ready to march?’ he asked the assembled group.

  They responded with stiff courtesy, nodding. The triumvir was a head taller than all of them and he seemed to have twice the life in his frame, a figure of endless energy. He clapped Pontius on the shoulder as he passed, calling for breakfast and making his servants scurry to provide it.

  ‘Today is the day then, gentlemen. Come and break your fasts with me. I have a little fresh bread, though don’t ask me where I found it. My factor is a genius or a thief; I have not decided which.’

  They smiled at that, taking their places in the command post and accepting cups of water brought fresh from a stream nearby. As the other legates were already seating themselves, Pontius stayed out long enough to pass on the orders. Around that single point, twelve legions began to pack up to leave the coast behind.

  ‘Send a runner to Caesar when we have finished here,’ Mark Antony called out to his subordinate. ‘I’m heading east this morning. I’ll see him at the first camp.’ He took a cup of water to wash the bread down and idly picked through a plate of boiled vegetables, looking for something worth eating. ‘If he can catch up, of course.’

  The men around the table chuckled dutifully, though they were already thinking of the campaign ahead. The problem did not lie in finding the enemy forces. All the reports carried the same information, that the army of Brutus and Cassius had found a good position and had been fortifying it for months. It was every legion commander’s worst scenario – facing quality soldiers on land they had prepared and chosen well in advance. None of them saw any special significance in the name the scouts reported. The town of Philippi may have been named for Philip of Macedon, father to Alexander, but to the stolid Romans sitting and munching that morning, it was just another Greek town. It lay some two hundred and fifty miles to the east and they would reach it in twelve days or less. Like hunting dogs, the march would harden their legs and improve their fitness as they went. They would arrive ready to break the back of anyone who dared to oppose the will of Rome.

  Mark Antony’s words were reported back to the legions of Caesar gathered on the coast. Even if Pontius Fabius had not been a cousin of Maecenas, there would have been half a dozen other reports before the day was out, keeping Octavian informed of every detail of his colleague’s movements and intentions. Octavian had found it useful to have a few trusted men around the other two members of the triumvirate, on the advice of Pedius months before. It was not a matter of trust, or its lack. He had accepted Agrippa’s dictum long before, that a commander needed information above all else. A man could never be blind with a thousand eyes reporting to him each day.

  When Mark Antony’s legions moved at noon, horns blared and the men roared as they felt the excitement of moving at last, after months of preparations. Mark Antony jerked in surprise when that blare and roar was answered behind him and the legions of Caesar set off at the same time, in perfect step.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The city of Philippi had been built as a simple fortress in the mountains, but three hundred years is a long time to stare north for marauding tribes. As well as stone walls and the open space of an agora, the original stronghold was still there, swallowed in a hundred other buildings that had crept out to make narrow streets along the ridge. Cassius had enjoyed seeing a small temple to Philip of Macedon, hidden away in a street of merchants. He had known another man who claimed divinity and it made him smile. If it had not been for a good road leading to the coast, the small town would have withered long before with the glories of its founder, or perhaps his son.

  Cassius had not intended it to be anything but a gathering point for his legions and those of Brutus while they waited for Sextus Pompey to smash the forces trying to land in Greece. When news filtered back of the disastrous battles at sea, they had changed their plans and begun to look around them for the best place to stand and fight. Viewed in that light, Brutus was the first to spot the possibilities of making Philippi the centre of their formation. They had access to the sea along the Via Egnatia, a Roman road built on one much older and capable of bearing any amount of men and equipment. Philippi itself sat on a high ridge which was almost unassailable from the west, as the father of Alexander the Great had intended. Even better from Cassius’ point of view, the southern approach was guarded by a steep hill and a vast, sucking marsh of reeds and standing water at its foot. The rains had been heavy the previous winter and it was surely an obstacle no legion could slog through.

  When Cassius and Brutus agreed to make the town their command, their soldiers had set to work building a massive wooden palisade all along the edge of the marsh. Natural geography and Roman skill meant the town could not be attacked from that direction, while mountains protected the north and the sea lay to the east. The enemy could approach only from the west and be funnelled into the war machines of twenty Roman legions. Everything from sharpened wooden stakes to scorpion bows and even heavy catapults awaited them.

  More than a month had gone by since the first reports of landings at Dyrrhachium. The two commanders had been kept busy hunting down increasing numbers of extraordinarii scouting the area. Cassius had brought Parthian mounted archers from Syria and they were brutally effective, accurate even at a gallop across rough ground. Even so, the constant small clashes were proof the legions were coming, their commanders seeking to know everything they could about the forces and terrain they would face.

  Cassius belched softly into his fist as he stared across the marshes. He was on the same rations as the men and not enjoying them particularly. At least the weeks of waiting had allowed them to stockpile supplies. He knew there was every chance the galleys taken from Sextus would be blockading the Greek coast before too long. There had been no news of the brothers Casca. Cassius assumed they had been drowned or slaughtered with the broken fleet.

  Cassius suspected he spent too much time thinking about his co-commander rather than the men he faced. Yet Brutus had such an odd mixture of qualities that he never quite knew how he would be received when they met. The man came alive like a memory of his youth when he was training the extraordinarii cavalry. The officer in charge of the Parthian archers followed Brutus around like a lost pup, delighting in the Roman’s praise. Cassius felt his mood darken further at the thought. Brutus somehow inspired respect from those around them without seeming to try. It had never been his own gift and it irritated Cassius to have conversations with senior men while their eyes followed Brutus. They looked for just a word or a nod of approval from him, while Cassius stood forgotten. As he belched again, Cassius thought sourly of the way the legions had cheered Brutus’ wife as she left for the coast.

  He wondered if he should have made more of an issue about commanding the right wing. The legions tended to accept the commander of that position as the man in charge and Brutus had drawn up his legions on the wide ridge without bothering to consult his colleague. They would face the worst of the fighting there, Cassius had no doubt, yet the men seemed pleased and honoured even so.

  He kept all sign of unease from his expression as he mounted and rode along the ridge of Philippi, projecting, at least to his own mind, a mood of goodwill and confidence to anyone who saw him. To his left, birds wheeled and dived for insects above the marshes, while ahead the huge ripple in the land tapered down to the western plain. It was there that he and Brutus had positioned their l
egions to await the enemy. Cassius could only nod to himself as he trotted his horse through the Syrian legions he commanded. They were in the process of eating and he saw men stiffen and salute when they saw him. Hundreds more upset their wooden plates as they scrambled up. He waved them back to their food with only half his attention, trying to think of anything that could still be improved.

  ‘This is a good place to stand,’ he murmured to himself. He knew Philip of Macedon had chosen the spot to hold off hordes of Thracian tribesmen, but as far as Cassius knew, the walled town had never been attacked. No blood had ever been shed into the marshes of Philippi or the dry ground above it. That would change, he thought, with mingled satisfaction and dread. The very best of Rome would bleed and die on the land he could see all around him. There was no help for it, not any longer.

  As he rode, he reached a group of legionaries sitting in the shade of an olive tree ancient enough to have been planted by Philip himself. They saw him approach and rose to their feet before he could wave them down.

  ‘We’re ready, sir,’ one of them called as he passed.

  Cassius inclined his head in response. He knew they were ready. They all were. They had done everything they could and all he needed now was for men like Mark Antony and Caesar to overreach themselves, to believe just a little too much in their own abilities, then break their backs against the best fortified position he had ever known.

  Octavian squinted up at the sun, his head aching in a steady thump that seemed to mimic his heartbeat. He had grown used to thirst during the previous eight days, accepting that he had it easier on horseback than the legions marching east. They had to wait for a formal stop before they could line up to refill the lead flasks with water. The most experienced of them drank sparingly, judging the time between stops so that they would have just a little left at each one.

  They had marched a solid twenty miles from the coast on the first day and almost twenty-four on the second. That had remained their average pace, as the legions found their stride and muscles strengthened. It was a favourite activity amongst the men to while away the days, taking the length of their pace as three feet, then multiplying the number of paces and counting off the miles as they went. Even without maps, legions had a pretty good idea of how far they’d come at any time.

  As they stopped at noon, Octavian found a spot in the shade of a tree by the road and wiped sweat from his face. He considered his own polished iron bottle, soldered with tin and bound in a strap of brass. He knew he should get it refilled, but he could still taste the metal in his mouth and the thought of more of that blood-warm water made him nauseous. It would be hours until the next stop and he either had to get up and fill the thing from the barrels trundling along behind the legions or call someone else to do it for him. Neither appealed. The water-carriers would be along in a moment, he told himself. Yet the sun seemed to have intensified, so that it beat against his skin like a metalworker’s hammer.

  He shook his head groggily, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. None of the men around him seemed to be suffering particularly. Maecenas and Agrippa still looked fresh and relaxed as they stood talking nearby, as fit as the horses they rode.

  Octavian opened his mouth as wide as it would go, feeling his jaw crack and trying to clear his senses. He hadn’t done much sparring or running with Maecenas and Agrippa recently. Perhaps that was it. He was out of condition and feeling it. It was nothing hard work and cool water couldn’t cure. The taste of metal in his mouth intensified, making him dry-heave.

  ‘Caesar?’ he heard a voice call.

  Maecenas, he thought. He opened his mouth again to reply and the headache jabbed, making him groan. Octavian slumped, slipping away from the trunk of the tree and falling sideways onto the dry ground. His sweat sank into it, vanishing instantly as it fell in fat drops from his skin.

  ‘Shit! Caesar?’

  He heard more words but he could feel a flood of vomit building in his throat. He could not stop it. Octavian had a sense of strong hands holding him down as he slipped off a ledge into a roaring blackness.

  Maecenas shaded his eyes as he watched the legions with Mark Antony trudge over the hills into the distance. He’d sent messengers forward with the news that Caesar had been taken ill. There was no way to keep it secret. Whatever public declarations of brotherhood the triumvirs made to each other, a man like Mark Antony would be suspicious at his ally calling a halt while he marched towards hostile forces.

  The legions gave no sign of stopping and Maecenas breathed in relief. The last thing he wanted was the triumvir’s booming voice offering to help. The best legion healers were already working on Octavian, though Maecenas didn’t allow himself to hope. They could cut a mangled limb free well enough, sealing the blood flow with hot irons. Injured soldiers sometimes lived through such operations and a few even survived the fevers that followed. Yet there was no wound on Octavian’s body to be treated, not beyond the numerous red bites they had all picked up in the sand dunes. Maecenas scratched idly at his own, wondering how long it would be before they were ordered forward, with or without their commander.

  Each of the eight legates had come to the healers’ tent as the day wore on, while the men camped anywhere they could find a scrap of shade. It was a relief when the sun began to sink into the west behind them, though it only reminded them all of wasted time.

  Agrippa came out of the tent, looking subdued.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Maecenas asked.

  ‘Still burning up. He started speaking a while ago, but it was just gibberish. He’s not awake yet.’

  Maecenas looked around to see if they could be overheard. The legates Buccio, Silva and Liburnius were standing in a small group nearby, so he bent his head closer to his friend.

  ‘Do you think it’s the falling sickness? The same thing we saw before?’

  Agrippa shrugged. ‘What do I know about medicine? His bladder didn’t go, thank the gods. Good idea putting that horse blanket on him by the way. I … told the healers about the first time.’

  Maecenas looked sharply at him.

  ‘Did you have to? He never said he wanted anyone else to know.’

  ‘I thought they might have more chance of healing him if they knew. We have to explain it, Maecenas, unless you think we can stay here for a few days with no one asking questions. It’s done, anyway. I think it won’t hurt him with the men. They know Caesar had it – and Alexander.’

  Maecenas considered for a moment.

  ‘That works,’ he said. ‘I’ll spread the word tonight, maybe get a little drunk with a few of the officers. I’ll say being in the land of Alexander has brought it on.’

  ‘That is ridiculous,’ Agrippa said, snorting.

  ‘But believable. The noble ailment of Caesar’s. It means he’s a Caesar in blood as well as name. Telling them that won’t do him any harm.’

  Silence fell between them as they stood there, waiting helplessly for some news or change in Octavian’s condition.

  ‘We need him, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘He’s the only one holding all this together.’

  ‘The name of Caesar …’ Agrippa began.

  ‘Not the name! Or the bloodline. It’s him. The men look to him. Gods, he took to this as if he was born to it. There’s never been an army this size, except the one we face. If it had been left to Mark Antony, we’d still be in Rome and you know it.’

  Maecenas kicked idly at a loose stone by his foot.

  ‘He took command of legions in the Campus – and they accepted it. If he’d been willing to slaughter the Senate, he could have had it all, right then and there. His sense of honour is all that stopped him becoming an emperor in one night. By the gods, Agrippa, think of that! He faced down legates from Rome when the consuls were killed and they joined him. Octavian chose you to make a fleet. Who else would have done that? Perhaps there is something in the blood! But we need him now, or this army becomes Mark Antony’s and everything Octavian has done will end up
in his hands.’

  ‘He came out of it quickly last time,’ Agrippa said at last.

  Maecenas only looked tired.

  ‘He wasn’t running a fever then. This looks worse. I’ll pray he rises fresh tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, we’re going to have to move anyway. Mark Antony will insist on it.’

  ‘I can make a litter easily enough,’ Agrippa replied. ‘Maybe string it between two horses …’ He trailed off as he considered the problem. ‘It’s possible.’

  By dawn the following morning, Mark Antony had already sent riders back to find out where his rearguard had gone. As if he already knew Octavian was still senseless, he sent accompanying orders to catch him up at their best speed.

  Agrippa worked quickly with the planks of a water cart and his own tools. The sun was barely over the horizon by the time he was satisfied. It was rough work, but he’d rigged an awning stretched tight over the litter and Octavian’s limp form was strapped down with instructions to dribble water between his lips as they went.

  There was no sign of life from his friend as the litter poles were tied to a saddle. Agrippa brought his own horse to take the other end, but the litter swayed so dangerously between the horses that he gave up and arranged for legionaries to take shifts carrying the litter in pairs. He and Maecenas took the poles for the first few hours, able to watch over their friend as they marched east with the others.

  It was a long, hard day, under a sun that burned. Agrippa and Maecenas were ready to hand over to another pair at the noon rest. They were not surprised to see two of the legates ride across the face of the legions to their position. Buccio had been one of those who mutinied rather than attack a Caesar in the forum. He had gambled his entire future on Octavian and the worry showed in every line of his face. Flavius Silva had given his honour into the hands of the younger man when he swore an oath to him in the Campus. Neither man wanted to see him fail, having come so far.