WarGod

by Steven Savile

  WARGOD

  AN OGMIOS DIRECTIVE NOVEL

  STEVEN SAVILE AND SEAN ELLIS

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  WarGod (The Ogmios Directive, #5)

  Prologue- AFTER THE IDES

  1 Brothers in Arms

  2 Uninvited

  3 Command and Control

  4 Knight’s Quest

  5 Swords and Stones

  6 Tomb

  7 The Four Beasts

  8 White Horse

  9 The Wrong Side

  10 Roads that Lead to Rom

  11 Daughter

  12 The Impossible

  13 The Path of Mars

  14 Low Country for Old Men

  15 Temple

  16 Beacon

  17 Q and A

  18 Sanction

  19 Contact

  20 What the Light Conceals

  21 Red Horse

  22 Fallout

  23 LIVE BY THE SWORD

  BOOKS BY STEVEN SAVILE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A search for the legendary sword of Julius Caesar draws the Ogmios Team into a web of intrigue, betrayal and violence that threatens the stability of the Realm, and the future of the entire planet....

  It all begins when Ronan Frost receives a plea for help from Tony Denison, his former commanding officer, who is now an outspoken opponent of globalization and intensely interested in Arthurian lore. Frost’s old comrade believes that he is the target of agents working for the New World Order, and that this shadowy conspiracy is trying to prevent him from finding the Crocea Mors, the sword of Caesar, and perhaps the very blade that King Arthur pulled from the stone to win his kingdom. Frost is skeptical, but there is no denying that someone is trying to kill Denison.

  Meanwhile, Sir Charles Wyndham has dispatched Konstantin Khavin to learn the truth behind the attempted assassination...and the truth is that the British government wants the man dead, at all costs. And because Frost is with him, Sir Charles is forced to make a choice—abandon Frost, or lose Ogmios for good.

  The race for the sword and search for the truth behind the plot will take both Frost and Khavin across Europe, into the murky place where legends meet history, and to the very brink Armageddon.

  Praise for the Ogmios Series

  "Perfect for those DaVinci Code fans looking for another electrifying read combining Biblical history with modern-day Armageddon."—Douglas Preston, NYT Bestselling author of IMPACT and BLASPHEMY

  "Fascinating, gripping, horrific, tragic and compelling." Steve Alten, NYT Bestselling author of MEG and THE SHELL GAME.

  "A wild combination of Indiana Jones, The Da Vinci Code, and The Omen."—Kevin J Anderson, international bestselling author of THE SAGA OF SEVEN SUNS and co-author of PAUL OF DUNE

  “A thrill-a minute ride that is sure to please even the most discerning action-adventure fan!” David Wood, author of the Dane Maddock adventures.

  "Silver is a cracker of a thriller. Savile's in a league of his own" Jeremy Duns, author of FREE AGENT and FREE COUNTRY.

  "Reminiscent of James Rollins and David Morrell." Joseph Nassise, bestselling author of the TEMPLAR CHRONICLES.

  WARGOD

  Copyright 2012, 2019 by Steven Savile

  All rights reserved.

  Published by BadPress

  www.stevensavile.com

  Cover by Just Venture Arts

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and situations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Prologue- AFTER THE IDES

  Then, Cingulum, Italy—44 BCE

  A great man has died.

  Titus Atius Labienus wasn’t really sure how he felt about that.

  He rose stiffly from his chair, catching the edge of the XII scripta board with his hip, and crossed to where his son stood. Quintus was still panting, out of breath because of his sprint from the stables. Excitement and dread burned in his eyes. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “They left his body on the floor of the Senate. The conspirators, led by Senator Brutus, then proceeded to the Capitol, crying out as they went: ‘People of Rome, we are once again free!’”

  “And? Tell me boy, what happened? Do not leave out a single thing. How did the people take it?”

  “Silence. The streets were empty. The citizens fled to their homes and locked themselves within.”

  Labienus chewed on the inside of his lip, mind racing. He released his grip on the boy’s shoulders and turned away. A great man has died and those who would take his place lack even a measure of his greatness. “Caesar was beloved of the mob. Did the fools imagine they would be glorified for such treachery?”

  Quintus cast a glance at the other man seated at the game table. Marcus Atrius, a centurion from one of Caesar’s loyal legions, a cavalry commander, and Labienus’ gaoler. He remained motionless. The soldier didn’t even meet Quintus’ gaze. With as much neutrality as he could muster, the young man said. “The aristocracy celebrates behind their closed doors.”

  Labienus waved a hand dismissively. “You think? Then you are a bigger fool than they are.”

  Quintus continued to eye the centurion, not sure what to expect from the man of violence. He weighed every word carefully. “Labienus, was not Gaius Julius Caesar your enemy? Now that he is dead, you can appeal to the Senate to end your house arrest.”

  “Friend, enemy. Sometimes these are one and the same. I was loyal to a great man. I was friends with a great man. And when the time came, I stood against a great man. Does that make us enemies? I was Caesar’s foremost lieutenant in Gaul and Britannia. We were as brothers then.” Labienus’ voice grew almost wistful with the reminiscence, but then his tone shifted and became hard as diamond. “You misapprehend my meaning, boy. They are not fools for having killed him. They are fools because they believe themselves ready for such treason. They are not ready for what must happen next.”

  Quintus gazed back intently, as if this was something he had not considered. “What will happen next?”

  “Brutus is not strong enough to control the Senate, much less rule Rome in their name. The mob worshipped Caesar, and they will be looking for someone to take his place...”

  Quintus did not notice the change in the father’s demeanour. “Caesar named Octavian his heir, but he is young and many think him too weak to rule. Antony has the army—”

  “Antony, Brutus... and a dozen more pretenders will rise. There will be a bloody struggle for power, and the people will be the ones to suffer as Rome bathes in yet another civil war. A great man has died, a god among men, and none of those who would assume his place will ever possess anything approaching his greatness.” Labienus offered a tight smile and clapped his son’s shoulder. “Leave me now, boy. I would think on your news. We can talk more of this on the morrow.”

  Quintus nodded and, after clasping his father’s hand, exited the terrace.

  Labienus turned to the centurion. To his credit, the legionary had not reacted to Quintus’ news, but he could not completely hide his shock. The old man turned to him. “What will you do now, Marcus?” Labienus asked.

  “I do not believe it.” The centurion shook his head. Suspicion began to ferment in his eyes. “This is a trick. Some game of yours. Your son seeks to deceive me.”

  “To what purpose? Have I chafed under the terms of Caesar’s judgment? Have I tried to slip these bonds of captivity?” Labienus softened his tone. “You are my gaoler, true, but more than that, you are my friend, Marcus. My brother-in-arms. You know me. You know that I would never attempt so vulgar a deception.”

  “So then it is a false report. Your own death has been widely reported.”

  Labienus shrugged slightly. “True, my friend, and the truth is
ever a slippery beast when it comes to Rome. It will soon be known, though. If Caesar is murdered my boy won’t be the only one bringing such ill news to our door. But by then, it may already be too late.”

  Marcus nodded absently then jerked his head up suddenly suspicious. “Too late? For what?”

  “To choose a side, brother.” Labienus sagged into a chair across from Marcus. “Where are your loyalties?”

  “I—I serve Rome.”

  “As did I when Caesar crossed the Rubicon. That is why I stood with Pompey.” He shook his head. “What is best for Rome and the future that awaits her, may not be the same thing. You will have to decide, and then stand by your decision.”

  Marcus thought about this. “Octavian is the rightful heir,” he said. “If Caesar has indeed been assassinated, then my loyalty must lie with Octavian.”

  “And if Octavian is not strong enough? What then? Would you serve a weak and venal Emperor?”

  “His strength will depend upon the loyalty of his commanders. He has my loyalty. I do not know what more I can do.”

  Labienus regarded the centurion thoughtfully. Loyalty. Julius Caesar inspired such loyalty. But for Octavian, young and unproven, the loyalty of men like Marcus Atrius would not be guaranteed. At the first sign of weakness, they would desert him or more likely, assassinate him.

  He leaned forward and idly picked up the dice from the scriptus board. “Remind me. Were you with us for the campaign in Britain, Marcus?”

  “Your memory has deserted you, Titus. We were unable to make the crossing. My cohort was on one of the ships that returned to Gaul.”

  Labienus nodded absently. The question had been rhetorical, and even if the centurion had answered in the affirmative, Labienus was quite sure that the cavalryman had no knowledge of the tale he was about to tell.

  FROM ONE MOMENT to the next, everything changed.

  The sun, glinting off the river, the shallow water frothing against the ankles of the infantry as they began fording, the rhythmic crunch of hundreds of pairs of feet, all marching in unison....

  And then, chaos.

  As the legionaries began the crossing, the Britons commenced their assault. Arrows and stones lashed through the air, clashed against shields, and too often crunched into flesh and bone.

  The formation held.

  For a few minutes.

  The shields repelled the incoming missiles and the advance continued. But then, as the infantrymen neared the eastern shore, a war cry rose up from behind the fortification of pointed stakes and the barbarians streamed out to meet them while they were still knee deep in the water. Roman steel struck iron in a clangour of noise and spray. The unified voice of the war cry became a discordant wail of pain as blades and lances tore through armour to cleave limbs and spill entrails. A stench filled the air, the smell of blood and death.

  Labienus knew that every battle started this way. No amount of training could completely prepare a soldier for those first few moments of violence. Nevertheless, those who survived the initial clash knew the critical importance of discipline in the face of death. Today would be no exception. He urged his mount forward, into the river, exhorting the centurions to close ranks and stay in formation.

  Discipline would keep them alive.

  The legionaries came together, shields forming a mobile wall bristling with spears. They continued their relentless advance.

  Labienus glanced back and found Caesar, riding forward at a slow trot, only a few steps away from the aquilifer who held the gleaming eagle standard of the legion high for all to see. The consul of Gaul sat tall astride his mount, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed gladius. He looked confident and charismatic. He was meant to. The men looked to him as the blood spilled. They wanted to see a hero. He was the nearest thing to a living god—Hercules reborn—and his legions would willingly follow him into the Underworld itself.

  And without me, Labienus thought, that’s exactly where they would all end up.

  Caesar was indeed an inspirational figure, to say nothing of a brilliant statesman, an expert swordsman, a scholar, a philosopher, man of the people...but he was no tactician. That was Labienus’ job. Labienus won the wars, and Caesar basked in the glory.

  Labienus harboured no resentment or jealousy. He well understood the importance of symbols. The legionaries were formidable, not because the troops were brutalized with threats or bribed with promised rewards, but because they each recognised that by winning the battle, they would share in Caesar’s glory. That, Labienus knew, was even more essential to victory than rigorous training, the superior weapons and his tactics. The moment any battle was joined strategy became a thing of the past, for the command tent. War was like a river, relentless, fluid, always moving, surging around the combatants, constantly changing itself to sweep away any obstacle. And someone like Caesar was a rock. Immovable.

  Mandubracias rode next to him, watching the battle with an expression that was both eager and rueful. Labienus didn’t like the man, but the battlefield was no place for niceties. You could not choose your allies in battle any more than you chose your enemies. The sky was grey and overcast, a thick mist rising up from the long grass. Briton was a godforsaken land. He missed the gods’ own country. Mandubracias, the prince of the Trinovantes—the largest and most powerful tribe in Britain—had been driven from the island by a fierce war leader from the neighbouring Catuvellauni tribe—a man named Cassivelaunus—who had hounded his every step, mercilessly meeting him on every field of battle and leaving him with only food for the island’s ravens and crows, before Mandubracias had given up and sought refuge in Gaul. The man was a coward. He’d come running with his tail between his legs begging for help from their new Roman allies.

  Determined to show the Britons that Rome took care of her friends, Caesar spent the winter building ships to ferry his legions across the channel, and with the coming of spring, launched an invasion the like of which the Island of the Mighty hadn’t seen.

  The immortals are capricious. The Venti and Neptune himself conspired against the ships, the seas rising as the winds whipped them up, damaging the ships, shearing timbers and splitting bows, forcing them back to Gaul.

  Nevertheless, Caesar was supremely confident of victory. He had made offerings to Bellona, Nerio, Mars and Minerva. He had read the omens. He did not lose. And he would not lose now. Labienus was confident, too, though his enthusiasm for the battle was tempered by the lessons of experience. Once the battle was joined, anything could happen. He did not trust the Britons. Cassivelaunus’ warriors were relatively inexperienced, but they were fighting on familiar terrain. Mandubracias had proved to be an invaluable source of information about both the landscape and the tactics the Catuvellauni would likely employ, but Labienus remained wary of the prince; where would his sympathies lie when Roman soldiers started slaughtering Britons?

  A cry arose from behind Labienus.

  A skirmish broke out on the west side of the river, where a contingent of Welsh warriors rushed from concealment and charged headlong into the centre of the marching column. Swords clashed against shields and blades as the war cries became shrieks. The ground beneath their feet was treacherous, thick with mud from heavy rains.

  “Nennius,” Mandubracias growled, seeing the brother of his hated foe, Cassivelaunus. “ So, that dog leads them? Then let us teach the whelp some lessons, shall we?”

  Forty men clothed in the forest itself surged forward, yelling as though trying to raise the demons of Britain to fight at their side.

  The surprise attack was bold, but Nennius’ force was too small to inflict any meaningful damage on the Roman infantry, no matter how courageous the Britons at his command were, or how desperate. The infantry simply closed ranks.

  Labienus watched the slaughter.

  He was a tactician to the bone. There was nothing random in a first strike. The ambush would have been devastating if Nennius had waited a while longer and struck at the rear of the column, but something had
the Briton attack when and where he did. And there was only one thing Labienus could think of: Nennius was trying to reach Caesar.

  Fall back, Labienus willed, as though the War God might somehow hear the words spoken in his own mind.

  There were too many ways to die on the battlefield, and while the death of scores or even hundreds of legionaries was an acceptable price for victory, the death of one man could mean total defeat if that man was Gaius Julius Caesar.

  But he knew Caesar. He would not retreat in the face of a threat. As important as it was for the leader of the Roman armies to stay alive, it was imperative that he never give the appearance of fear. His power as an icon would quickly rot if rumours of cowardice ever began to circulate. The tactician watched with a mixture of dread and certainty as Caesar turned his horse toward the fray and drew his gladius from its scabbard. It wasn’t about appearance now. The heat of the battle was rising and the simple truth was that the man enjoyed this; he craved battle. He savoured the fight, relished testing himself, and the stronger the foe the better. But most of all, he lived for the glory of victory.

  Caesar thrust the gladius skyward like a threat to the heavens themselves, and spun it above his head, the gleaming metal catching a glint of sunlight. For just a moment, a single solitary heartbeat, it looked like a pillar of golden fire above his head. The effect was spectacular. Caesar was more than just an ordinary man.

  Then, to Labienus’ dismay, Caesar swung down from his mount and charged into the fray on foot.

  It was madness!

  Breathing a curse, Labienus turned his horse and charged toward the melee. He wasn’t about to let the War God prove his mortality.

  Caesar’s sword arced back and forth, hewing a path through the Britons. The sword cleaved iron armour, wooden shields, and human limbs alike, slick with blood and glittering in the rising sun. Caesar barely seemed to break his stride. He met each foe head on and dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. He really was more than human.