Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  “My men and I passed two villages to the south before we came here, collecting recruits. The news we heard is that Mithridates is camped about a hundred miles to the west. You can be sure that fresh Roman legions will be on the march as I speak, coming east from the coast ports at Dyrrhachium and Apollonia. I intend to force him toward them; to be the hammer for the Roman anvil.”

  He had their interest, all right. Every eye was on him, from his own men and the grizzled veterans. He thanked his gods for the decision to march ten miles north to recruit at the city.

  “With you, I have a thousand at my command to attack Mithridates. Some from this city and the villages are untrained. Others I have brought with me are used only to fighting at sea in Roman galleys. You were the land legions and you must be the backbone as we march. I will give each of you a sword brother from my men to train.”

  He paused, but there was silence and he knew then that the veterans still remembered the old discipline. He wondered how many would last the miles before they even saw action. With young, fresh soldiers, he could cover the distance in less than three or four days, but with these? There was no way of knowing.

  “I need one of you to be quartermaster, preparing packs, equipment, and food from what you can find within the city walls.”

  Quertorus stepped forward, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

  “Quertorus?” Julius said to him.

  “Quartermaster, sir, with your permission. I’ve been wanting a chance to poke the eye of the council for a long time.”

  “Very well, but their complaints will come to me and I will treat them seriously. Take three of my men and start readying the supplies. We need a shield for every man and any spears or bows you can find. I want a field kitchen outside the walls with a meal ready for all of them before dark. There’s still light enough for drill and I want to see how well these men can move. They will be hungry when we’re done.”

  Quertorus saluted and marched smartly over to Gaditicus, who remained at attention where Julius had left him with the others. Julius watched as three were selected to go with him, and tried to ignore forebodings that he had just let the wolf loose amongst the geese. As they hurried away, Julius saw the city elder come rushing out of the council hall, making his way directly to the assembled veterans. Julius turned away from him without interest. Whatever the council had decided was no longer of importance.

  “I’ve seen you can stand and I know from your scars that you can fight,” he shouted along the ranks. “Now I need to see if you can remember your formations.”

  At his order, they turned and marched along the main street to the gate that led out of the small city. Those who had waited in the side roads filed in behind the others with precision, and Julius signaled Gaditicus to bring up the rear. The two men exchanged glances as they joined the column marching out, leaving the council elder calling behind them, his voice fading as he finally realized they would not listen to him any longer.

  * * *

  It took a while for the legionaries to form four equal lines, the veterans mixed with the younger men. Julius walked stiffly up and down the rows, judging the quality of the men who had gathered in his name. As he frowned at them, he fought to remember the lessons on field tactics and routines that Renius had drummed into him so many years ago. None of them had dealt with starting a legion from scratch, but some of it came easily to him as soon as he thought about the practical problems of having the large group move and respond to orders. The worry that would not leave him was that one of the veterans would realize he had never commanded infantry before. He deepened his frown. He would just have to bluff it through.

  Beginning with the corner men, he set up a simple square, working through the figures in his head while they waited. He separated the others into thirty numbered rows, then directed the corner men to take their positions. When they were ready, Julius shouted the order, “Slow march to square formation!”

  It was ragged, but the men moved with solemn concentration until they stood again in silence.

  “Now look around you, gentlemen. I want a veteran next to a younger man wherever possible. We will mix speed with experience. Move!”

  Once more, they changed position, the shuffle of feet eerie without accompanying chatter. Julius saw that his men were taking the lead from the veterans in manner and smiled slightly, even as he remembered Renius telling him that the man who led should be respected but cold. He must not smile. He could not be liked. They had loved Marius, but they had fought for him for years and Julius didn’t have that kind of time.

  “We have two cohorts of four hundred and eighty. Split at the fifteenth line and leave a row between you.” Once again they moved and a long avenue opened up in the dusty earth.

  “The first cohort will be named Accipiter, the hawk. The other will be Ventulus, the breeze. Accipiter will be commanded by my second, Gaditicus; Ventulus, by myself. Say the names to yourselves. When you hear them in battle, I want you to react without thought.” He decided not to mention that one was a merchant ship and the other lay at the bottom of the sea. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Before we begin the formation drills, we must have a name.”

  He paused, thinking desperately as his mind went blank. The veterans watched him impassively, perhaps guessing at his sudden lack of confidence. The right name would lift them as they charged, and Julius began to panic as nothing came to him, overwhelmed by the importance of getting it absolutely right the first time.

  Come on! he urged himself. Speak the name and give them an identity. His eyes raked them, angry with his sudden indecision. They were Romans, young and old. He had it.

  “You are the Wolves of Rome,” he said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried to the farthest of them. One or two of the veterans stood straighter as he spoke, and he knew he had chosen well.

  “Now. Ventulus cohort form up in four maniples to my right. Accipiter break to the left. We have three hours before dark. Position drill until you drop.”

  He could not resist clenching a fist in fierce satisfaction as they moved smoothly apart. He called Gaditicus from the ranks of Accipiter and returned his salute.

  “I want you to run through every formation you know until dark. Don’t give them a moment to think. I will do the same with mine. Change your unit commanders if they are obviously unfit or to reinforce your discipline, but with care. I want them working well by the time we eat.”

  “Are you thinking of marching tomorrow?” Gaditicus asked, keeping his voice too low to carry to the men nearby.

  Julius shook his head. “Tomorrow we will run battle games, yours against mine. I want the old ones to remember and the young ones to get used to following orders in the field, under pressure. See me tonight and we’ll work out the details. Oh, and Gaditicus . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Work yours hard, because tomorrow Ventulus will take them to pieces and make you start again.”

  “I look forward to seeing you try, sir,” Gaditicus retorted with a small smile, saluting once more before returning to his new command.

  * * *

  As Julius gave the order to march two days later, he felt a surge of pride, making his feet light on the foreign earth. His right eye was almost closed where one of Gaditicus’s men had caught him with an axe handle, but he knew the pain would pass.

  More than a few of both cohorts limped with the battering they had taken at each other’s hands in the mock battles, but they had changed from strangers into Wolves, and Julius knew they would be hard to kill, harder still to break. They would cross the eighty miles of wood and plain and Mithridates would need a lot of his rebellious farmers to withstand what would be thrown at him, Julius was certain. He felt as if there was good wine in his stomach, making him want to laugh with excitement.

  Alongside him, Gaditicus sensed his mood and chuckled, wincing as he cracked his swollen mouth once again.

  “One thing about the galleys. You didn’t have to carr
y this much metal and kit on your back,” he complained in an undertone.

  Julius clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. “Think yourself lucky. They used to call my uncle’s men ‘Marius’s mules’ for the weight they could bear.”

  Gaditicus grunted in reply, shifting his heavy pack to ease his muscles. The legs had the worst of it. Many of the veterans had huge calves, showing a strength built over years of marching. Gaditicus made a silent oath that he would not call his cohort to rest until Julius did or one of his veterans dropped. He wasn’t sure which was more likely.

  Julius began lengthening his stride through the ranks up to the front. He felt as if he could march all day and night and the Romans at his back would follow him. Behind, the city dwindled into the distance.

  CHAPTER 23

  A lifetime of fighting in foreign lands did not make for soft men, Julius reflected as he marched on toward the end of the second day, half blinded with dust and sweat. If the veterans had let themselves go in their retirement, he doubted they could have matched the eager pace of the younger men. It looked as if the hard labor of clearing land for farming had kept them strong, though some of them seemed made of sinew and skin under their old armor. Their leather tunics were cracked and brittle after so long lying in chests, but the iron straps and plates of their armor gleamed with oil and polish. They could call themselves farmers, but the speed with which they had responded to his summons showed their true natures. They had once been the most disciplined killers in the world, and every stride of the long march brought back something of their old fire. It showed in their posture and their eyes as the enthusiasm for war was rekindled. They were men for whom retirement was the death, who felt most alive in the camaraderie of soldiers, when they could spend their fading energies in sudden blows and the dry-mouthed terror of meeting the enemy charge.

  Julius carried an old shield on his back, torn from its hangings over someone’s door by Quertorus. It was prevented from chafing against his shoulder blades by a heavy waterskin that gurgled musically with every step. Like the others from the galleys, he felt the lack of fitness that comes from having your movements restricted to a deck, but his lungs were clear and there was no trace of the shuddering fits that had plagued him since the head wound. He didn’t dare to dwell on them, but he still worried at what would become of his authority if they started again. There was nowhere private on a forced march.

  For most of the first day, Julius had set a comfortable pace. They had too few men to risk losing more of the veterans than was inevitable, and they had all made it to the first camp. Julius had used the younger men for sentry duty, and none of them had complained, though Suetonius had clearly bitten back a comment before taking his post with surly obedience. There were times when Julius would have been happy to have him flogged and left on the trail, but he held his temper. He knew he had to form bonds with the men. Bonds that would be strong enough to withstand the first hectic moments of battle. They had to see him as he had once seen Marius—a man to follow into hell.

  On the second day, Julius had matched pace with Gaditicus at the front of the two cohorts for most of the morning. They had little breath for discussion, but they agreed to take turns at the head, allowing the other to drift back among the units, assessing weaknesses and strengths. For Julius, the trips back were valuable, and it was during them that he had begun to see the light of excitement even in the expressions of the weakest of his men. They had shrugged off the petty laws and restrictions of city life, returning to the simplest world they had ever known.

  Julius had marched abreast of a line about halfway back in Ventulus cohort for the best part of an hour. One of the veterans had caught his attention, the only one he passed not to meet his eye. The man had to have been one of the oldest there, hidden from easy sight by the bulk of the soldiers around him, which Julius guessed could be deliberate. Instead of a helmet, he wore the ragged skin of an old lion that covered his entire head and ended in a neatly sliced line at his shoulders. The dead cat’s eyes were dark, sunken holes, and like its owner, the headgear looked too far gone to be useful. The old man marched while staring straight ahead, his eyes screwed up to wrinkled slits against the dust. Julius examined him with interest, taking in the hard lines of sinew that stood out in his neck and the swollen knuckles of his hands that looked more like clubs of bone than fingers. Though the veteran kept his mouth pursed shut, it was obvious from his sunken cheeks that there were few teeth left in the old jaw. Julius wondered what spirit could keep such an ancient marching through the miles, always staring toward a destination neither of them could see.

  As noon approached and Julius was ready to call a halt for food and an hour of blessed rest, he saw the man develop a limp in his left leg and noted the knee had swollen in the short time he had been with him. He bellowed the halt and the Wolves crashed to a stop in two paces, together.

  As Quertorus collected the cooking equipment, Julius found the old man sitting with his back to a stunted tree. His seamed face tightened as he bound the weak knee in a strip of cloth, winding on so many layers that it could hardly bend at all. He had removed the lion-head skin, placing it carefully to one side. His hair was wispy and gray, sticking to him in sweaty strands.

  “What’s your name?” Julius asked him.

  The old man spoke as he wound the cloth, testing the movement and grunting in discomfort with each try. “Most of them call me Cornix, the old crow. I’m a hunter, a trapper in the forests.”

  “I have a friend who could ease that knee for you. A healer. He’s probably older than you are,” Julius said quietly.

  Cornix shook his head. “Don’t need him. This knee’s taken me on a lot of campaigns. It will last one more.”

  Julius didn’t insist, impressed by the stubbornness of the man. Without another word, he fetched some of the warm bread and bean stew that Quertorus had heated through. It would be their last hot meal as they drew within scouting range of Mithridates and couldn’t risk smoke being seen. Cornix took it, nodding his thanks.

  “Strange sort of commander, you are,” he said through mouthfuls, “bringing me food.”

  Julius watched him eat without replying for a moment.

  “I’d have thought you would have left soldiering behind you. It must be, what, twenty years since you were with a legion?”

  “More like thirty, and you know it,” the man replied, smiling to reveal a mash of unchewed bread. “Still miss it sometimes.”

  “Do you have a family?” Julius asked, still wondering why the man wasn’t safe in the hills instead of breaking the last of his strength with the others.

  “They moved north and my wife died. Just me now.”

  Julius stood and looked down at the placidly chewing figure, watching him wince as he flexed the bound knee. Julius’s gaze strayed to where Cornix had rested his shield and sword against the tree, and the old man followed his eyes, choosing to answer the unspoken question.

  “I can still use it, don’t you worry.”

  “You’ll need to. They say Mithridates has a great host of an army.”

  Cornix sniffed disdainfully. “Yes, they always say that.” He finished a mouthful of the stew and took a long pull from his waterskin. “Are you going to ask me, then?”

  “Ask you what?” Julius replied.

  “I could see it was eating you up all the time you was marching near me. What’s a man of my age doing going to war? That was it, wasn’t it? You were wondering if I could even lift that old sword of mine, I’d guess.”

  “It crossed my mind.” Julius chuckled, responding to the gleam of humor in the dark eyes.

  Cornix laughed with him, a long wheezing series of hard sounds. Then he fell silent and looked straight at the tall young commander with all the confidence of youth and all his life in front of him.

  “Just to pay my debts, lad. That old city gave me a lot more than I gave back. I should think this last one’ll make us even at the end.”

  He winked as he
finished speaking and Julius smiled faintly, realizing suddenly that Cornix had come with him to die, perhaps preferring a quick end to a lonely, drawn-out agony in some desolate hunter’s cabin. He wondered how many of the others wanted to throw their lives away with the last of their courage, rather than wait for a death that crept up on them in the night. Julius shivered slightly as he walked back to the campfires, though the day was not cold.

  * * *

  There was no way to be sure where Mithridates camped with his irregulars. The reports Julius had from Roman survivors behind them could be mistaken, or the Greek king could have moved many miles while the Wolves were marching into the area. The biggest worry was that the two forces would stumble on each other’s scouts and be forced into action before Julius was ready. His own scouts understood that all their lives depended on not being spotted, and Julius had the fastest and fittest of them traveling out for miles looking for fresh signs of the enemy while the bulk of the Wolves concealed themselves in the scrub woodland. It was a frustrating time. Forbidden fire and unable to hunt widely, they were cold and damp each night and barely warmed by the weak sun that came to them through the trees during the day.

  After four days of inaction, Julius was practically ready to order the men into the open and take the consequences. All but three of his scouts had come in past the outer line of guards and were eating cold food with the others in miserable silence.

  Julius chafed as he waited for the last three. He knew they were in the right area, having found a slaughtered Roman century stripped of armor and weapons only five miles to the east, caught unawares as they guarded a lonely fort. The bodies looked pitiful in death and no words Julius might have said could have fired his men’s determination so thoroughly.

  The scouts came in together, thudding through the wet leaves with the slow trot they used to cover miles without a rest. Ignoring the cold stew that waited for them, they came straight to Julius, their faces tired but animated with excitement. All three had been out for the whole four days, and Julius knew immediately that they had found the enemy at last.