Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  “What shall we do with him?” Tabbic asked her.

  Alexandria thought for a few moments. As tempting as it might be to beat the boy all the way down the street, she knew her possessions could still be snatched up by his little fingers at any time. She needed a more permanent solution.

  “I think I could persuade his mother to let him work for us,” she said thoughtfully.

  Tabbic lowered Octavian until his feet touched the floor. Immediately, the boy bit his hand and Tabbic hoisted him again with casual strength, leaving him to dangle in futile rage.

  “You have to be joking. He’s little better than an animal!” Tabbic said, wincing at the white tooth marks on his knuckles.

  “You can teach him, Tabbic. There’s no father to do it, and the way he’s going, he won’t live to grow up. You said you needed someone to work the bellows, and there’s always sweeping up and carrying.”

  “Let me go! I’m not doing nothing!” Octavian yelled.

  Tabbic looked him over. “The boy’s skinny as a rat. No strength in those arms,” he said slowly.

  “He’s nine, Tabbic. What do you expect?”

  “He’ll run as soon as the door opens, I’d say,” Tabbic continued.

  “If he does, I’ll fetch him back. He’ll have to come home sometime and I’ll wait for him there, spank him, and turn him round. Being here will keep him out of trouble, and it’ll be useful for both of us. You’re not getting any younger and he could help me at the forge.”

  Tabbic let Octavian touch the floor again. This time he did not bite, but watched the two adults warily as they discussed him as if he weren’t in the shop.

  “How much will you pay me?” he said, scrubbing angry tears out of his eyes with his dirty fingers, doing little more than smearing his face.

  Tabbic laughed. “Pay you!” he said, his voice filled with scorn. “Boy, you’ll be learning a trade. You should pay us.”

  Octavian spat a stream of oaths and tried to bite Tabbic once again. This time the metalworker cuffed him with the flat of his other hand without looking.

  “What if he steals the goods?” he said.

  Alexandria could see he was coming round to the idea. That was the problem, of course. If Octavian ran off with silver, or worse, the small store of gold that Tabbic kept locked away, it would hurt them all. She put on her sternest expression and took Octavian’s chin in her hand, turning his face to her.

  “If he does,” she said, fixing the little boy with her gaze, “we will have a perfect right to demand he is sold as a slave to pay the debt. His mother too if it comes to it.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Octavian said, shocked out of struggling by her words.

  “My business is not a charity, lad. We would,” Tabbic replied firmly. Over Octavian’s head, he winked at Alexandria.

  “Debts are paid in this city—one way or another,” she agreed.

  * * *

  Winter had arrived quickly and both Tubruk and Brutus were wearing heavy cloaks as they cut the old oak into firewood ready to be carted back to the estate stores. Renius didn’t seem to feel the cold and had left his stump bare to the wind away from the sight of strangers. He had brought a young slave boy from the estate to place the branches steady for him to swing his axe. The boy hadn’t spoken a word since his arrival at Renius’s heels, but he stood well clear when Renius swung, and his wind-reddened face fought to conceal a smile when the blade slipped and sent Renius staggering and swearing under his breath. Brutus knew the old gladiator well enough to wince in silent appreciation of what would follow if Renius saw the child’s amusement. The work was making them all sweat and breathe frosty plumes in the winter air. Brutus watched critically as Renius swung, sending two smaller pieces spinning into the air. He raised his own axe again, looking over at Tubruk.

  “What worries me most is the debt to Crassus. Just the quarters alone cost four thousand aurei.” Brutus swung smoothly as he spoke, grunting as the stroke fell cleanly.

  “What does he expect in return?” Tubruk said.

  Brutus shrugged. “He just says not to worry, which means I can’t sleep for thinking about it. The armorer he hired is turning out more sets than I have men for, even after scouring Rome. On my centurion’s wage, I’d have to work for years just to pay him back for the swords alone.”

  “Amounts like that don’t mean a great deal to Crassus. The gossip says he could buy half the Senate if he wanted to,” Tubruk said, pausing to lean on his axe. The wind swirled leaves around them. The air they pulled in bit at their throats with cold that was almost a pleasure.

  “I know. My mother says he already owns more of Rome than he knows what to do with. Everything he buys makes a profit, which is all the more reason to wonder where the profit is in buying Primigenia.”

  Tubruk shook his head as he raised his axe again. “He hasn’t bought it, or you. Don’t even say it. Primigenia is not a house or a brooch, and only the Senate can command it. If he thinks he is raising his own private legion, you should tell him to set a new standard on the rolls.”

  “He hasn’t said that. All he does is sign the bills I send him. My mother thinks he is hoping to secure her approval with the money. I want to ask him, but what if it’s true? I won’t prostitute my own mother to that man or anyone, but I must have Primigenia.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time for Servilia,” Tubruk remarked with a chuckle.

  Brutus placed his axe carefully on a log. He faced Tubruk and the old gladiator paused as he saw his angry expression.

  “You can say that once, Tubruk. Don’t do it again,” Brutus said. His voice was as cold as the wind that wrapped around them, and Tubruk rested again on his axe as he met the piercing eyes.

  “You mention her a lot these days. I didn’t teach you to drop your guard so easily with anyone. Neither did Renius.”

  Renius snorted softly in reply as he kicked a piece of branch from under his feet. His pile of split logs was barely half the size of the others, though it had cost him more.

  Brutus shook his head. “She is my mother, Tubruk!”

  The older man shrugged. “You don’t know her, lad. I just want you to be careful until you do.”

  “I know enough,” Brutus said, picking up his axe again.

  For almost an hour, the three men worked in silence, cutting the wood and piling it onto the small handcart that stood nearby. Finally, seeing that Brutus wasn’t going to speak, Tubruk swallowed his irritation.

  “Will you go to the legion field with the others?” he asked without looking at Brutus. He knew the answer, but at least it was a safe topic to continue their conversation. Every year in winter, all the boys who had turned sixteen went to the Campus Martius, where new legions planted their standards. Only the lame and the blind would be turned away. Freshly restored to the rolls of the Senate, Primigenia qualified to plant their eagle with the others.

  “I’ll have to,” Brutus replied, the words grudgingly wrung from him. His frowning expression eased as he talked. “With the ones from other cities, there could be as many as three thousand there. Some of them will contract with Primigenia. The gods know I need to raise the numbers, and quickly. Those barracks that Crassus bought are practically empty.”

  “How many do you have already?” Tubruk asked.

  “With the seven that came in yesterday, nearly ninety. You should see them, Tubruk.” The younger man looked into the distance as he saw their faces again in his mind. “I think every man who survived the battle against Sulla rejoined. Some had gone to other trades in the city, and they just threw down their tools and walked away when they heard Primigenia was being re-formed. Others we found guarding houses and temples, and they came without any argument. All for the memory of Marius.”

  He paused for a moment and his voice sharpened. “My mother had a guard who was an optio in Primigenia. He asked her if he could rejoin and she let him go. He’ll help Renius to train the new ones as we get them.”

  Tubruk turned to R
enius. “You’ll be going with him?” he said.

  Renius laid his axe down. “I’ve no future as a woodcutter, lad. I’ll do my part.”

  Tubruk nodded. “Try not to kill anyone. You’ll have a hard enough job getting them in as it is. The gods know Primigenia isn’t one they dream of joining anymore.”

  “We have a history,” Brutus replied. “The new legions they’re raising won’t be able to match that.”

  Tubruk looked sharply at him. “A shameful history, some think. Don’t glare at me, that’s what they’ll say. They will have marked you as the legion that lost the city. You’ll have a hard time of it.” He looked around at the piles of wood and the full cart and nodded to himself.

  “That’s enough for today. The rest will keep. There’s a hot cup of wine waiting for us back at the estate.”

  “Just one more then,” Renius said, turning to the boy at his side without waiting for a response.

  “I think my swing’s a little smoother than when I started, don’t you, boy?”

  The slave rubbed his hand quickly under his nose, leaving a silvery smear along his cheek. He nodded, suddenly nervous. Renius smiled at him.

  “One arm isn’t as steady as two with an axe, mind. Bring up that branch and hold her still while I cut her.”

  The boy dragged a piece of oak to Renius’s feet and began to stand away.

  “No. Hold her steady. One hand on either side,” Renius said, his voice hardening.

  For a second, the boy hesitated, glancing at the other two, who were watching with silent interest. There was no help there. Wincing, the boy placed his hands against the rounded sides of the log and leaned back out of range, his face terrible in anticipation.

  Renius took his time finding a grip he liked. “Hold her tight, now,” he warned, beginning the swing as he spoke. The axe head came round in a blur and split the wood with a crack. The boy yanked his hands under his armpits, clenching his jaw against the sudden pain.

  Renius sank into a crouch at the boy’s side, resting the axe on the ground. He reached out and gently pulled one of the hands out to be inspected. The boy’s cheeks were flushed with relief, and as Renius saw there was no wound, he grinned and ruffled his hair cheerfully.

  “It didn’t slip,” the boy said.

  “Not when it mattered,” Renius agreed with him, laughing. “That was courage in you. It’s worth a cup of hot wine, I’d say.” The boy beamed at this, his stinging hands forgotten.

  The three men met each other’s eyes in memories and pleasure at the boy’s pride as they took the handles of the cart and began walking back down the hill to the estate.

  “By the time Julius gets back, I want Primigenia strong,” Brutus said as they reached the gate.

  * * *

  Julius and Gaditicus peered through the bushes on the steep mountainside down at the distant, tiny ship moored below in the calm island bay. Both men were hungry and almost unbearably thirsty, but their waterskin was empty and they had agreed not to begin the trip back until it was dark.

  It had taken longer than they expected to climb the gentler slope to the peak, where the ground fell away sharply. Each time the pair thought they had reached the summit, another was revealed, and in the end dawn had stopped them moving just after beginning the descent. By the time they caught their first view of the ship, Julius had been wondering if his pirate informer had been lying to save himself from the sharks. For the whole of the long journey to the island, the man had been chained at the oars of his own ship, and it looked as if he had earned his life with the details of Celsus’s winter mooring.

  Julius sketched what they could see in charcoal on parchment to have something to show the others when they were picked up. Gaditicus watched him in silence, his face sour.

  “It can’t be done, not with any certainty,” Gaditicus muttered as he took another look through the low foliage. Julius stopped drawing from memory and rose up onto his knees to view the scene once more. Neither man wore armor, both for speed and to prevent the sun flashing off it and giving away their position. Julius settled back down again to finish his sketch, looking at it critically.

  “Not by ship,” he said after a while, disappointment etching his features. For two months of fast travel, the crews had drilled day and night, ready for the battle with Celsus. Julius would have bet his last coin on their ability to board and take him quickly with only a few casualties. Now, looking at the little bay that nestled between three mountains, all their planning seemed wasted.

  The island had no central land, just three cold and ancient volcanic peaks that sheltered a tiny bay. From their high vantage point, they were able to see that deep-water channels ran between the mountains, so that whichever way Celsus was attacked, he could choose one of the others and disappear out to sea without hurry or danger. With three ships, they could have bottled him up neatly, but with only two it was a straight gamble.

  Far below, Julius saw the dark shapes of dolphins swimming around the ship in the bay. It was a beautiful place and Julius thought he would like to return if he ever had the chance. From far away, the mountains looked grim and sharp, gray-green in the rays of the sun, but perched as high as they were, it was a glorious place. The air was so clear he could see details on the other two jagged peaks, which was why he and Gaditicus dared not move. If they could make out the movement of men on the deck of Celsus’s ship, they could be seen in turn and their only chance for revenge would vanish.

  “I would have expected him to winter in one of the big cities, far from Rome,” Julius said thoughtfully. The island seemed uninhabited except for the moored ship, and he was surprised the hard-bitten crew of pirates didn’t find it dull after months of preying on merchants.

  “No doubt he visits the mainland, but you can see this place would be safer than anywhere for him. That lake in the foothills is probably freshwater, and I’d guess they could find enough birds and fish to have a feast or two. Who could he trust to look after his ship while he’s away, though? All his men would have to do is pull up their anchors and he’d have lost it all.”

  Julius looked at Gaditicus with raised eyebrows. “The poor man,” he said, rolling up his map.

  Gaditicus grinned and looked up at the sun. “Gods. It’ll be hours before we can get back over the crest, and my throat is full of dust.”

  Julius stretched himself out with his arms behind his head.

  “Rafts could get us close, with our ships following us in to block his escape. The next moonless night will give us enough time to lash a few together and plan. Now I’m going to get some sleep until it’s dark enough to go back,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, he was snoring softly, and Gaditicus looked at him in amusement.

  The older man was too tense to sleep, so he carried on watching the movements of the men on board the ship in the bay far below. He wondered how many would die if Celsus had the sense to post good lookouts each night, and wished he had the young man’s confidence in the future.

  CHAPTER 19

  The black water was bitterly cold, soaking into the Romans as they lay completely flat on the rafts and paddled slowly toward the dark hulk of Celsus’s ship. Though they ached for speed, each man held himself steady, moving numb hands through the still water with gentle ripples. Julius’s crew had worked feverishly to lash rafts together, stripping away boards and ropes from the two ships that sheltered on the seacoast outside the bay. When they were done, five platforms moved slowly through the deep channels toward the beach where Celsus was moored, swords bundled together in cloth to balance the weight. They had no armor with them. For all the advantage it would give them, Julius guessed there would be no time to tie it all in place, and instead his men shivered in wet tunics and leggings, hardly protected from the night breeze.

  * * *

  Celsus awoke suddenly in his cabin and listened for whatever sound had wakened him. Had the wind turned? The bay was a perfect shelter, but a storm could send a surge down the channe
ls that might weaken his anchors’ grip on the clay bottom. For a moment, he thought of turning over in his narrow bunk and letting sleep come again. He had drunk too much with the others that evening, and the slippery grease of roasted meat had hardened into wax spatters on his skin. He rubbed idly at a spot, scratching off the residue of the feast with a fingernail. No doubt his officers were sleeping off the drunk, and someone had to patrol the ship each hour. He sighed and reached around him in the dark for his clothes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale wine and food that wafted from them.

  “Should know better,” he muttered to himself, wincing as a flare of bitter acid made its presence felt up his throat. He wondered if it was worth waking Cabera to make him mix some of the chalky gruel that seemed to help.

  There was a sudden scuffling outside his door and the sound of a body striking the deck. Celsus frowned, taking his dagger from the hook out of habit rather than alarm as he opened the door and looked out.

  There was a shadow there, featureless and dark against the starlight above.

  “Where’s my money?” Julius whispered.

  Celsus shouted in shock, barging forward and hammering his arm against the figure as he went. He felt hard fingers grab his hair as he came out onto the deck, and his head was jerked back for a moment before they slipped. He scrambled away, bellowing, wary of the blade he imagined coming for his unprotected back.

  The main deck was a confused mass of struggling figures, but no one answered him. Celsus saw that his men were down, too sodden with drink and sleep to put up much of a fight. He skirted the knots of men and raced aft to his armory. They would make a stand there. It wasn’t lost yet.

  Something heavy thumped into his neck and he staggered. His feet tangled in a roped figure and he fell with a crash. The silence was eerie. There were no shouts or orders in the dark, just the grunts and breathing of men who fought for their lives without mercy, using anything that came to their hands. Celsus had a glimpse of one of his men struggling with a thick rope around his neck, clawing at it, then he was up and moving again in the blackness, shaking his head to clear it of panic, his heart racing with wasted strength.