Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  The butcher’s boy threw Octavian into the sluggish filth that was ankle deep in the alleyway, a combination of years of refuse and human waste thrown from the narrow windows above. Octavian scrambled to one side to escape, but one of them kicked him hard enough to shove him back into place, lifting the small body and grunting with the impact. Octavian screamed with pain and fear as the other two joined the first, kicking with hard feet at whatever part of him they could reach.

  After a minute, the three boys rested with their hands on their knees, panting from effort. Octavian was barely conscious, his body curled into a tight ball of misery, barely distinguishable from the dirt he lay in.

  The butcher’s boy pulled back his lips into a sneer, raising his fist and laughing coarsely as Octavian flinched from him.

  “Serves you right, you little Thurin bastard. You’ll think twice before stealing from my master next time, won’t you?” He took careful aim and kicked Octavian in the face, whooping as the small head was rocked back. Octavian lay senseless with his eyes open and his face half submerged. Some dirty water flowed between his lips and, even unconscious, he began to cough and choke weakly. He didn’t feel the fingers that searched him or hear the pleased shout when the older boys found the silver ring in its protective pouch.

  The butcher’s boy whistled softly as he tried on the metal band. The stone was a simple dome of heavy jade, held to the metal with tiny silver claws.

  “I wonder who you stole this from?” he said, glancing at the prone figure. Each of them kicked the boy once more on behalf of the owner of the ring, then they walked back to the market, thoroughly pleased with the upturn in their fortunes.

  Octavian woke hours later, sitting up slowly and retching for minutes as he tested his legs to see if they could hold him. He felt weak and too sore to move for a long time, crouched over and spitting elastic strands of dark blood onto the ground. When his head cleared enough, he searched his pocket for the ring, then the ground all around him. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had lost it, and fresh tears cut through the dirt and crusted blood on his face. He staggered back to the main road and sheltered his eyes against the painful sunlight. Still crying, on unsteady feet, he made his way back to Tabbic’s shop, his mind blank with despair.

  * * *

  Tabbic tapped his foot on the wood of the shop floor, anger in every line of his frowning face.

  “By hell, I’m going to kill the brat for this. He should have been back ages ago.”

  “So you’ve been saying for the last hour, Tabbic. Perhaps he was delayed or couldn’t find Master Gethus,” Alexandria replied, keeping her voice neutral.

  Tabbic thumped a fist on the worktop. “Or perhaps he’s sold the ring and run away, more likely!” he growled. “I’ll have to make it good, you know. Jade stone, as well. It’ll cost me a day of work and most of an aureus in materials to make Gethus a new one. No doubt he’ll claim his dying mother gave it to him and want compensation on top of that. Where is that boy?”

  The thick wooden door to the shop creaked open, letting in a swirl of dust from the street. Octavian stood there. Tabbic took one look at his bruises and torn tunic and crossed over to him, his anger vanishing.

  “I’m sorry,” the little boy cried as Tabbic guided him deeper into the shop. “I tried to fight them, but there was three and no one came to help me.” He yelped as Tabbic probed his heaving chest, looking for broken bones. The metalsmith grunted, whistling air through his closed teeth.

  “They did a fair job on you, right enough. How’s your breathing?”

  Octavian wiped his running nose gingerly with the back of a hand.

  “It’s all right. I came back as quick as I could. I didn’t see them in the crowd. Usually I keep a lookout for them, but I was hurrying and . . .” he broke off into sobs and Alexandria put her arm around him, waving Tabbic away.

  “Go on with you, Tabbic. He doesn’t want an examination. He’s had a bad time and he needs care and rest.”

  Tabbic stood clear as she took the boy into the back room and up the stairs to his home above the shop. Alone, he sighed and rubbed his grizzled face with a hand, scratching at the gray stubble that had come through since his morning shave. Shaking his head, he turned to his bench and began selecting the tools he would need to remake the ring for Gethus.

  He worked in silence for a few minutes, then paused and looked back at the narrow stairs as a thought struck him.

  “I’ll have to make you a decent knife, my lad,” he muttered to himself, before taking up the tools once more. After a while, as he was sketching the setting with chalk, he murmured, “And teach you to use the thing, as well.”

  * * *

  Brutus stood on the Campus Martius, with the eagle standard of Primigenia in the ground at his side. He had been pleased to see that some of the other recruiting legions had to use banners of woven cloth, whereas the old standard Marius had made had been found for him. Hammered gold over copper, it caught the morning sun and he hoped it would catch the eye of more than a few of the crowd of boys who had been gathering since before dawn. Not all of them would be signing on with a legion. Some had come just to watch, and for those the food-sellers had set up stalls before first light. The smells of grilled meat and vegetables made him hungry, and he thought of getting an early lunch, jingling the coins in his pouch as he eyed the crowd around the line of standards.

  He’d expected it to be easier. Renius looked every inch a lion of the old Rome, and the ten men they’d brought with them were impressive in new armor, polished to a high sheen for the admiration of the crowd. Yet Brutus had been forced to watch as all along the line, hundreds of young Romans signed up to be legionaries without one of them coming near his post. A few times, smaller groups had gathered, pointing and whispering, then moved on. He’d been tempted to grab a couple of the lads and find out what they’d said, but he held his temper. With noon close, the crowd had halved and, as far as he could see, Primigenia was the only standard not to be surrounded by windfalls from the new generation.

  He gritted his teeth. The ones who had already joined would attract more to those eagles. By now, he imagined people asking what was wrong with Primigenia that no one wanted to join it. Hands would cover mouths and they would whisper with puerile excitement of the traitor legion. He cleared his throat and spat on the sandy soil. The testing finished at sundown and there was nothing to do but stand and wait for it to end, hoping perhaps to pick up a few stragglers as the light faded. The thought made him burn with embarrassment. He knew if Marius were there, he would have been walking amongst the young men, cajoling, joking, and persuading them to join his legion. Of course, back then there had been a legion to join.

  Brutus resumed his sullen appraisal of the crowd, wishing he could make them understand. Three young men wandered toward his standard and he smiled at them as welcomingly as he could.

  “Primigenia, is it?” one of them said.

  Brutus watched as one of them hid a smile. They were here for sport, he guessed. For a fleeting instant, he considered knocking their heads together, but he controlled himself, sensing the eyes of his ten men on him. He could feel Renius bristle at his side, but the older man kept his peace.

  “We were the legion of Marius, consul of Rome,” he said, “victors in Africa and all over Roman lands. There is a glorious history here, for the right men who join us.”

  “What’s the pay like then?” the tallest said, with a mock-serious tone.

  Brutus took a slow breath. They knew the Senate set the pay for all legions. With Crassus to back him, he would have loved to offer more, but the limit was there to prevent wealthy sponsors undermining the whole system.

  “Seventy-five denarii, same as the others,” he replied quickly.

  “Hold on, Primigenia? Weren’t they the ones who smashed the city up?” the tall boy asked as if he had been given a sudden revelation. He turned to his grinning friends, who were happy to let him give the show.

  “
It is!” he said, delighted. “Sulla broke them, didn’t he? They were led by some traitor or other.”

  The tall one paused as he caught the change in his friends’ expressions, realizing he had gone too far. As he turned back, Brutus swung his fist, but Renius blocked the blow with an outstretched arm. The three young men all flinched at the threat, but their leader quickly recovered his confidence, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

  Before he could speak, Renius stepped in close to him. “What’s your name?”

  “Germinius Cato,” he replied haughtily. “You will have heard of my father.”

  Renius turned to the soldiers behind him. “Put his name down. He’s in.”

  The arrogance faded into amazement as Germinius watched his name inked onto the bare scroll.

  “You can’t do that! My father will have your—”

  “You’re in, boy. In front of witnesses,” Renius replied. “These men will swear it was voluntary. When we dismiss you, you’ll be free to run and tell your father how proud you are.”

  Cato’s son glared at the older men, his confidence surging back. “My name will be off that scroll before sundown,” he said.

  Renius stepped close to him again. “Tell him Renius took the name. He’ll know me. Tell him you’ll always be known as the boy who tried to back out of serving the city in the legions. He’ll be destroyed if something like that gets out, wouldn’t you say? You think you’ll follow in his footsteps after shame like that? The Senate doesn’t like cowards, boy.”

  The young man paled with anger and frustration. “I will . . .” He paused and a terrible doubt crept into his face.

  “What you’ll do is stand by this eagle until we’re ready to give you the oath. Until I’m told different, you’re the first recruit of the day.”

  “You can’t stop me leaving!” Germinius replied, his voice cracking.

  “Disobeying a lawful order? I’ll have you whipped if you take another step away from me. Stand to attention before I lose my patience!”

  The bark of an order held Germinius in impotent rage. Under Renius’s eye, he drew himself straight. At his side, his friends began to edge away.

  “Your names!” Renius snapped, freezing them. They looked mutely at him and he shrugged.

  “Mark them down as legionaries two and three of the day. That will serve, now I know your faces. Stand straight for the crowd, boys.” He turned to the soldiers of Primigenia behind him for a moment, ignoring their amazement.

  “If they run,” he said clearly, “I want them dragged back and flogged on the field. It’ll cost us a few recruits, but the others might as well see there’s a hard side to all that glory.”

  The three young Romans faced the crowd stiffly, and Renius looked surprised as Brutus drew him a few steps out of their hearing.

  “Cato will go berserk,” Brutus muttered. “Of all legions, he won’t want his son in this one.”

  Renius cleared his throat and spat on the dusty grass of the field. “He won’t want him branded a coward, either. It’s your choice, but you’ll gain nothing by letting them go now. He may try to buy you off or he may endure it. We’ll know in a day or two.”

  Brutus looked closely at the old gladiator and shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve forced this on me now, so I’ll see it through.”

  Renius glanced at him. “If you’d hit him, his father would have killed you.”

  “You didn’t know who he was when you stopped me!” Brutus retorted.

  Renius sighed. “I taught you better, lad, I really did. What else should I think when a boy wears his father’s crest on a gold ring big enough to buy a house with?”

  Brutus blinked at him, then walked over to the three new recruits and examined Germinius’s hand for a moment without speaking. He was about to return to Renius when three more boys detached from the crowd and approached the Primigenia eagle.

  “Sign your names on the scroll there and stand with the others, lads,” Renius told them. “We’ll give you the oath when there’s enough of a crowd.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he waved them over.

  CHAPTER 22

  Between the heat of Greece and the excuses, Julius was finding it hard to keep his temper. He was desperate for recruits, but the walled Roman city had forgotten its founding duty and every demand was met with delay and discussion.

  “I have the young men. Now bring out the veterans,” Julius said to the city elder.

  “What? Would you leave us defenseless?” the man spluttered in indignation.

  Julius remained silent, waiting a few moments before replying, as Renius used to. He’d found the small pauses gave weight to his words like nothing else.

  “My men are going directly from here to attack Mithridates. There is no one else for you to defend against. I do not have time to train more farmers to be legionaries, and from what you say, there is no other Roman force within a hundred miles of here.

  “Every man within these walls who has ever held a sword in service of Rome, I want out here, armed and armored as best you can.”

  The besieged elder began to speak again and Julius interrupted him, raising his voice slightly. “I do not expect to have to mention the conditions of their retirement. It would be an attack on their honor for me to remind them that they were given land on the understanding that if Rome called them, they would answer. She calls. Fetch them out.”

  The elder turned away, almost running back to the council hall. Julius waited with his men standing to attention at his back. He had suffered enough of the council’s delays, and part of him had no sympathy at all. They were in a conquered land and the constant worry of rebellion had occurred. Did they expect to sit it out behind their fine walls? He wondered what might have happened if Mithridates had reached them first. Hardly worth betting that they would have declared loyalty to him out of fear for their families, throwing open the gates and kneeling in the dust.

  “Someone’s coming up the main street,” Gaditicus said behind him.

  Julius turned to his left and listened to the measured step of at least a century of legionaries. He swore under his breath. The last thing he needed at that moment was to come face-to-face with another officer from the regular legions.

  As they came into sight, Julius’s spirits leaped.

  “Legionaries . . . halt!” came a graveled voice, its bark echoing back from the walls of the small square.

  One of Julius’s men whistled softly in surprise at what they saw. The men were old. They wore armor that dated back almost fifty years in some cases, with simpler designs of plate and mail. Their bodies showed the results of decades of war. Some lacked an eye or a hand. Others showed ancient puckered scars on their faces and limbs, poorly stitched, seaming their skins in long crescents.

  The commander was a burly man with a shaven head and a powerful set of shoulders. His face was deeply wrinkled, but he still gave an impression of strength that reminded Julius vaguely of Renius as he saluted, judging Julius’s command instinctively by the distance he kept from the others.

  “Quertorus Far reporting, sir. We thought the council would talk all day, so we sent out the call without them. The veterans are ready to be inspected, sir.”

  Julius nodded and followed the man, watching as more and more of them entered the square and lined up in neat formation.

  “How many are there?” he asked, trying to judge the worth of the whitebeards he saw standing straight in the winter sun.

  “Altogether, nearly four hundred, sir, though some are still making their way in from outlying farms. We should be all in by dark tonight.”

  “And the average age?” Julius continued.

  Quertorus stopped and turned to face the young officer before him. “They’re veterans, sir. That means old. But they’re all volunteers and they’re as hard and tough as you’re going to need to smoke out Mithridates. They need a few days to drill together, but remember, they’ve all been tested and they’ve all come through. A lot of men have d
ied for Rome over the years. These are the ones that won.”

  The man had an insolent expression, but Julius could hear the belief in his words as he tried to reassure the stern young officer who had come to their city for an army.

  “And you, Quertorus? Do you command them?”

  The bald man laughed, a short chop of sound, quickly cut off. “Not me, sir. The council thinks it does, I suppose, but these men go their own way and have done for a long time, most of them. Mind you, when Mithridates took the port, they began polishing their swords again, if you understand me.”

  “You don’t talk as if you were one of them,” Julius said, turning it into a question.

  Quertorus raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t mean to, sir. I did my twenty years with the First Cyrenaica, ten of them as optio.”

  Some instinct prompted Julius to ask, “The last ten?”

  Quertorus cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “More like ten in the middle, sir. Lost my rank toward the end for excessive gambling.”

  “I see. Well, Quertorus. It seems we’re gambling again, you and I,” Julius said quietly.

  Quertorus beamed at him, revealing missing teeth in his lower jaw. “I wouldn’t bet against them, sir, not if you knew them.”

  Julius eyed the massed ranks with less confidence than he showed. “I hope you’re right. Now step into rank yourself and I’ll address them.”

  For a second, he thought Quertorus might refuse and he wondered if the man had lost his rank for more than just gambling, a fairly common occupation of legionaries not on duty. Then the bald man stepped into the ranks and came to attention, his eyes on Julius with interest. Julius filled his lungs with air.

  “Veterans of Rome!” he bellowed, making those closest to him jump. He’d always had a powerful voice, but part of him wondered if it would be enough if some of them were deaf.