The Emperor Series: Books 1-5

by Conn Iggulden

  Maecenas saw an opportunity as the two men stood with Agrippa, blocking the view of many of those around.

  ‘Stand just there for a moment,’ he said.

  With care, he untied the straps holding Octavian to the litter and reached under the thin sheet of linen, pulling out a wineskin that sloshed half-full. Buccio looked confused for an instant, before his face cleared.

  ‘That’s clever,’ he said.

  ‘Agrippa thought of it,’ Maecenas said. He walked away to empty the urine into a bush, then returned. ‘The tricky bit is putting it back on. Would you like to have a go?’

  ‘No … no, thank you. Some things are for close friends.’

  Maecenas sighed. ‘I never thought I’d … ah well. He is my friend. I suggest you block the view of the men as best you can. Oh, and I’d never mention this to him, if I were you.’

  He shoved the empty skin back under the blanket and rummaged about with a strained expression before bringing his empty hands out and retying the straps.

  ‘That should hold him until this evening at least. I’m half tempted to give it to Mark Antony the next time he calls for wine.’

  Buccio gave a snort of laughter, but as he looked at the other three, he saw only worry in their faces for the man lying senseless. He made a decision.

  ‘I think I’ll take a turn with the litter. Will you join me, Legate Silva?’

  His colleague nodded, spitting on his hands and taking a grip on the closest pole.

  ‘Have someone lead my horse, would you?’ Silva said to Maecenas.

  Maecenas was surprised at how the simple gesture touched him. The two legates lifted the litter together and as the legionaries around them saw what they were doing, they smiled in genuine appreciation.

  ‘Onward, then,’ Buccio said. ‘One way or another, he will reach Philippi.’

  He clicked his tongue to start the horse on its way and they set off once more, moving through the legions as they formed to march. To the pleasure of Maecenas and Agrippa, a great cheer went up at the sight of their legates carrying Caesar to battle.

  Mark Antony was in a dark mood as he assessed the maps before him. They had not been properly surveyed, but instead had been collated over the previous week from the efforts of hundreds of scouts and extraordinarii. Though the Parthian horse archers had taken a terrible toll, enough men had survived to crawl or ride back and describe the land to his clerks. The best of them had even made their own quick drawings with charcoal, scratching lines on vellum as they hid in the marshes or looked down from the hills.

  The result had cost thirty-seven lives, as well as another dozen or so men being treated for arrow wounds. Mark Antony looked at the lack of detail and wondered if the best scouts were the ones who had been killed. There was certainly no obvious weakness in the place Brutus and Cassius had chosen.

  ‘What do you think, Pontius?’ he said. ‘Cast your eye on this and tell me you can see something I can’t.’

  His second in command approached the table, where the great sheet was held with lead weights. He could see the massive ridge above the marshes, as well as a broken, jagged line to indicate the wooden palisades protecting the walled town from the south. On the ridge itself, blocks had been marked to indicate the position of the enemy forces. Numbers were hard to judge at the best of times, but Mark Antony had hoped to outnumber the enemy and had been disappointed.

  When Pontius did not reply immediately, Mark Antony went on, his voice hard.

  ‘Show me a place I can attack that isn’t from the west. Gods, where did they find this place? The sea and mountains on two sides, marshes on the other? You can be sure they’ve prepared the only approach, Pontius. If we come from the west, it will be bloody work and with no guarantee of victory, none at all.’

  He had begun to think the campaign was suffering from a surfeit of ill-luck. First Caesar had been brought low with some ailment – carried into battle on a litter, no less! Mark Antony had been to see when Octavian arrived in the camp, but it had not raised his spirits. Of all men, he had known the power of having Caesar on his side. Had he not lost two legions to him? It should have been a massive advantage, but if the young man died before battle was even joined, it would be taken as a terrible omen by the men. Mark Antony firmed his jaw. It would be easier to bear if he could see a way to break through the legions on the ridge of Philippi.

  Cassius was a cunning old man, he acknowledged. He knew Brutus was capable enough in a field battle, especially with extraordinarii, but this! This had the marks of Cassius all over it. With good Roman legions, there wouldn’t be a mistake in the preparations. Cassius and Brutus would be happy to defend a strong position while Mark Antony bloodied his head against their walls.

  ‘You have scouted the marshes, I take it?’ Pontius said suddenly.

  Mark Antony came back with a start from his trance of dark thoughts.

  ‘Of course. The water is neck-deep in places and the mud is thick, black muck that could swallow a horse. There’s no way through there. I’m surprised they wasted time building that wooden barrier against the hill, in all honesty. The marsh is enough of an obstacle …’ He broke off. Julius Caesar had crossed wide rivers in Gaul. Mark Antony had seen it. What was a marsh compared to that? It was no deeper than a river and he just needed a path through it.

  ‘I think …’ Pontius said.

  Mark Antony held up a hand to silence him.

  ‘Wait. Just … wait. If I could lay a path across that marsh, perhaps something narrow, the reeds would prevent anyone seeing my men, yes?’ He barely hesitated long enough for Pontius to nod before going on with a growing excitement. ‘They know we have to come up that cursed ridge, so I must come from the south. My men can break their palisade – whatever one man has built, another can take down. All I need to do is work out how to cross that marsh. They’ll never see me coming.’

  He clapped Pontius on the back and strode out of the tent, leaving the other man staring after him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Brutus watched grimly, shading his eyes to stare into the distance as Antony’s extraordinarii rode up the ridge as close as they dared and launched spears and lead balls high into the air. The balls flew further and could do terrible damage, though the spears caused more fear in the packed ranks. They plunged into the men standing or crouching on the ridge and Brutus could not see if anyone had been injured or killed. He knew the intention was to irritate a defending force to the point where they might boil out of their safe position. His men had enough discipline to resist, but it rankled with them not to be able to respond. One or two spears and scorpion bolts had been sent flying back on the first day, but against wide-spaced horsemen they were wasted. The weapons worked best against a massed charge. Until that time, Brutus knew his men had to endure the hail and remember they would get their chance to pay it all back.

  Mark Antony’s riders had kept up the stinging attacks for the best part of two days, delighting in every yell of pain they caused. Brutus glowered at the thought of that man taking pride in the tactic. Eventually the legions from Rome would have to attack or go home with their tails between their legs. Brutus knew very well how much they were eating each day, as the same amount was consumed from the stores in Philippi.

  As the sun set, Brutus had climbed to the town’s walls and looked out on his legions in battle array, reaching halfway down the western slope. If Mark Antony and Octavian attacked, they would have to come uphill in the face of spears, lead shot, iron bolts and a few other treats he had prepared for them. It should have brought him a feeling of contentment, but the disadvantage of such a strong position was that they were free to manoeuvre and he was not. They could roam the land all around, looking for weaknesses, while he could only sit and wait for the real killing to begin.

  From the height of the town wall and with the ground dropping away, he could see for miles to the west, easily as far as the massive camp Octavian and Mark Antony had created. It was an odd thing t
o see for a man of his experience: the high earth ramps studded with stakes, the gates and sentries that were the signs of Rome in the field – yet on a side he faced as an enemy. It was strange to be in the position so many other nations had known since his people had first come out of the seven hills armed with iron.

  When he’d seen Mark Antony had placed himself on the opposite right wing, Brutus was obscurely disappointed. Each side had two commanders and two armies, but Cassius would face Mark Antony, while Brutus would see the boy again. He cleared his throat and spat on the dry stone at his feet. He remembered Octavian very well. He had taught him to ride, or at least to ride with cavalry. His mouth quirked as he realised he felt some sense of betrayal at facing that young man in battle. Perhaps Octavian would be feeling the same way when the time came.

  All his memories were of a boy, but Brutus knew he would meet a man when the killing started. He told himself not to underestimate the new Caesar. Brutus could still remember being that young, without the painful joints or the terrible slowness that seemed to have drifted over him in recent years. He remembered when his body worked as it was meant to, and if it hurt, it healed as fast as a young dog. He stretched his back at the thought, wincing as it clicked and ached.

  ‘If you remember me at all, boy, you’ll be afraid of facing me.’

  He muttered the words staring into the distance, as if Octavian could hear him. One of his guards looked up, but Brutus ignored the unspoken question. He had yet to see Octavian’s men in any kind of action. The extraordinarii who galloped across his lines carried the legion standards of Gaul, making sure the defenders knew who were harassing them. Brutus felt the simmering anger on behalf of his own men, forced to sit and wait while their enemies hooted and jeered and tried to leave a few dead with every attack.

  The biggest armies ever fielded by Rome stood less than a mile apart. The sun was dipping towards the horizon and even the long summer day would end in a few hours. He cleared his throat and spat again, tired of waiting for the dark.

  Cassius looked up as the runner came racing down the hill to his position. He saw the man’s flushed face and braced himself against a spike of worry.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, too impatient to wait through formalities.

  ‘You need to come, sir. The men in the town think they’ve seen movement in the marshes.’

  Cassius cursed as he mounted his horse and dug in his heels to ride up the hill. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, seeing Mark Antony’s extraordinarii gallop back across the front line for yet another sweep through their own dust. He could see specks of black lead rising from whirring slings and he ducked in unconscious reaction. The men under their path raised shields over their heads once more.

  Cassius trotted his mount after the runner. They passed through waiting legionaries the whole way, the ground completely hidden by soldiers sitting or standing idle, as they had been all that day and the one before.

  As he reached the town itself, Cassius saw one of his tribunes gesturing to him from a set of steps that led up to the wall. Grim-faced, Cassius jogged up and followed him to the top. He saw Brutus further along, already moving in his direction. Cassius raised a hand to greet him.

  The tribune found the spot he wanted and pointed into the marshes that stretched into the distance. At his shoulder, Cassius and Brutus stared out across the broken land of water and reeds higher than a man.

  ‘There, sir. Can you see? Beyond that twisted tree.’

  Cassius leaned forward to squint, but his eyes were not as sharp as they had once been and the marsh was just a blur of brown and green to him.

  ‘I can’t see anything at that distance,’ he snapped in frustration. ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘I see it,’ Brutus said. ‘There’s movement, wait … yes. There.’

  ‘I was told those marshes cannot be crossed,’ Cassius said.

  Brutus shrugged. ‘I sent men to try it and they almost drowned before they made it halfway and had to come back. But anything can be crossed with enough wood and time. It occurs to me that Mark Antony has been keeping us busy watching his extraordinarii while he sneaks up to flank us.’

  ‘Flank us, or come up behind,’ Cassius said bitterly. ‘I’ll have to bring men back to guard the walls here and the Via Egnatia. This town is like an island. I can hold it for ever with the legions we have.’

  ‘Give the orders then,’ Brutus said. ‘I can hold the ridge.’

  Both men looked up suddenly at a great roar, turning their heads.

  ‘What was that?’ Cassius demanded.

  He spoke to empty air. Brutus was already running back along the wall and vanishing down the steps to the town. Cassius turned to the tribune, picturing the ridge forces in his mind.

  ‘Legions Thirty-Six and Twenty-Seven to this spot to defend the palisades. I want …’

  He hesitated, unable to recall which of his legions were closest, before losing patience.

  ‘Pick three more to march through the town and guard the eastern road. We cannot allow them to land soldiers from the sea.’

  It would be enough, he told himself. No matter what Mark Antony was planning, he would find Roman legions waiting for him. Cassius cracked his knuckles, showing his worry as the tribune ran to deliver the orders. A man of his position should not have to pelt about the walls like a boy, but he was desperate to know what had caused the great roar from the front.

  The noise went on, growing louder and louder. Cassius blanched. He summoned calm with an effort and walked back down the steps to the street below, mounting his horse and trotting towards the ridge.

  The summer had been hot and there had been no rain for weeks around Philippi. As Mark Antony’s extraordinarii raced along the front, a great cloud of dust had lifted and followed them, hanging in the windless air and thickening as they wove back and forth, launching their spears and shot. To get in range, they galloped in hard to barely thirty paces off the front ranks, close enough to see the faces of those glowering at them. The legions of Cassius and Brutus stood straight, with their shields resting on the dry ground and their swords and spears ready. They hated those horsemen and there were more than a few men fingering sword hilts in anticipation, longing for the order to rush forward and gut the vainglorious cavalry who jeered and mocked them.

  Almost two hundred riders cantered up and down the front ranks, masking the great care they took over range and demonstrating their courage to the standing men. Even when their spears and balls of lead were gone, they remained, making sudden darts and lunges at the impassive ranks to see if anyone would flinch or try a spear-shot they could mock. The dust continued to rise until they were dashing through an orange-yellow haze and the dry particles covered every inch of exposed skin.

  A new century of horsemen rode up from the main camp, each man carrying a spear in his right hand and a sling with a bag of shot dangling by his knee. The officers yelled parade-ground orders at the riders, making their mounts prance back and forth in complicated patterns that could only contrast with the sullen soldiers watching them. The entire century came back together when they had launched spears, following the flights with their eyes as they went. At full gallop, they wheeled together to head along the line. At the same time, the riders already there turned to race back through the dust.

  When it came, the crash was thunderous. In the haze of dust the two groups had lost sight of each other for vital moments and crossed each other’s paths. Horses tumbled over as they tangled at terrific speed, their riders thrown. Some of them struck and rolled, getting dazedly to their feet, while others lay stunned.

  The legionaries saw thirty or forty horsemen lying helpless, victims of their own overconfidence. It was too much after another day of stinging blows and insults. The centurions and optios saw the danger and roared orders, but the front ranks were already moving, drawing swords as they bore down on the wounded men with savage expressions. Nothing could hold them back and they broke into a run. Thousands poured
over the invisible line where they had stood for two days, a horde of delighted soldiers bellowing a challenge as they came.

  The men behind responded, jumping up and racing forward even as their officers hesitated. Had an attack been ordered? They had heard no horns, nor the command word: liberty. The more cautious yelled at their units to stand down, while others thought they had missed the signal and helped to sweep the line forward. They were moving at last. They had waited weeks to fight and it was happening.

  Like a roaring avalanche of men, the entire right wing of Brutus’ legions surged down the ridge, overwhelming the fallen cavalry in the first hundred paces as men stabbed anything on the ground and went on. They could see the legions of Caesar ahead of them, milling in panic.

  The officers higher up the ridge wasted precious moments trying to call a general halt, orders flowing down the lines of command. By then, the first two legions had seen that the enemy were not ready and had not expected an attack of any kind. The legates at the front countermanded the order to halt as the opportunity to do real damage presented itself. They could see a chance and they took it on their own authority, knowing those behind did not have all the facts. They ordered a charge while the legions of Caesar were still running to form lines and yelling orders in complete chaos.

  The moment hung in the air. The legions streaming off the ridge broke into a fast jog as they readied spears. The forces behind saw they were committed and were left with no more choices.

  Brutus was still high above his moving ranks when he worked out what was happening. He could see his legions spilling out onto the flatter ground, driven faster by the slope. At first he was black-faced with fury. He had seventeen thousand horses on the wings of the ridge and the sudden surge of men had left them next to useless, unable to reach clear ground and accelerate. He stared in frustration as his first two legions crossed the empty mile over the bodies of dead men and horses, swallowing them up in a tide of red and grey.