Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  “As many of you know, I am related to Caesar through my daughter’s marriage,” he began. “I came here not to speak in his defense, but to take part in what I expected to be our just and proper congratulation.” A wave of muttering from Cato’s supporters prevented him from carrying on for a moment, but he waited with icy patience until they subsided.

  “Should we not congratulate a man who broke one of the enemies of Rome? Mithridates lies dead, his army dispersed, and some of you speak of censure? It is beyond belief. Instead of counting the lives of his men lost in a battle against a larger force, think instead of those innocents who live because Mithridates was crushed. How many more of our people would have died by the time our cautious legions finally edged close enough to engage the enemy? By the reports, it seems as if they might never have reached the Greek forces at all!”

  Another storm of muttering broke out, with jeers and shouts rising over the rest. Many of the senators on both sides rose to speak and fidgeted as they waited. The Master of Debate caught Cinna’s eye and raised his eyebrows in question. Cinna gave way with ill grace and resumed his seat.

  Senator Prandus stood at Cato’s side. He was a tall, spare figure next to the bulk of his patron, and he cleared his throat slightly as he was signaled to speak.

  “My son Suetonius was one of those taken by pirates with this Caesar. I have his reports on which to base my opinions, and they point to the danger of this Roman to everything we stand for. He acts without consultation of any kind. He rushes into conflict without a thought for other methods to solve a problem. His first and last answer to everything is blind attack. I have details of executions and torture carried out in his name, unsanctioned by the Senate. He compelled old soldiers into battle for little more than personal glory. I must agree with the honorable Cato that this Caesar should be called here for a just punishment for his actions. We should not forget the allegations of piracy that have been leveled against him by Quaestor Pravitas. If he is commended, as some seem to think would be correct, we may well create another Marius and come to regret our generosity in time.”

  Cato pushed a nervous-looking man to his feet. Senator Bibilus almost stumbled as he rose under the pressure of the heavy hands. His face was pale and beads of nervous sweat stood out on his brow. Breaking custom, he began to speak before he had received permission, and his first words were lost in the hoots of derision that followed.

  “. . . should consider the withdrawal of Senate membership,” he said, and gulped saliva from his throat. “Or possibly a ban on holding army rank. Let him be a merchant with the looted gold he has brought back with him.”

  As he spoke, the Master of Debate glared stonily at him, and a brief gesture sent Bibilus back to his seat, his face burning with embarrassment. The Master of Debate looked grim and turned to face the opposing benches, clearly determined to redress the balance with his choices. Crassus was given leave to speak. He nodded thanks and stared calmly around the packed rows until there was a proper stillness once more.

  “How you do reveal your secret fears!” he snapped. “Another Marius, you say. His nephew! How we must tremble! It sickens me. Did you think our precious Republic could survive without military power? How many of you here have commanded men in successful battles?” His gaze swept the rows, knowing that Cato had served only the two-year minimum to see him up the political ladder. Other heads nodded while Cato stifled a yawn and looked away.

  “We have a young man who knows how to lead soldiers,” Crassus continued. “He gathered a small army and routed a force eight or nine times their size. True, he acted without first seeking our approval, but he could hardly have waited a year or two until we had finished discussing it!”

  The Master of Debate caught his eye, but Crassus ignored him.

  “No, what causes such poisonous spite in some of us is the shameful fact that this young man has shown our choice of legion commanders to be wrong. His success is proof that we did not act with enough energy and speed to defend our possessions in Greece. That is what rankles with these gentlemen. That is the only reason for their anger against him. Let me remind you that he won the oak wreath for his bravery at Mytilene. He is a gifted, loyal soldier of Rome, and it would shame us not to recognize that publicly. I hear Bibilus murmuring about having him stripped of legion rank, and I ask myself, what victories has Bibilus brought to us? Or Cato? And there is Prandus hinting at piracy when he knows the charges were proven idiocy when the full facts came to light. No wonder he skirts such a difficult issue when his own son was one of those accused! We should laud Caesar with honors for what he has done.”

  “Enough, Crassus,” the Master of Debate said sternly, satisfied he had allowed enough time to repair the outburst by Bibilus. “Both sides of the debate have spoken. We can move on to a vote.”

  Those still standing sat down reluctantly, looking around the hall and trying to gauge the result before it had started. Before the vote could begin, the massive bronze doors to the chamber swung open and Pompey entered, causing a new stir of interest. Since the death of his daughter a week before, he had not been seen anywhere near the forum or the Senate, and there were many whispered questions about his tragedy and what would come of it.

  The Master of Debate motioned to Pompey, indicating a seat for him in the rows. Instead of sitting, Pompey walked to his place and stood waiting to be recognized.

  Sighing, the Master of Debate raised his hand toward him. All noise ceased as every eye fastened on the new arrival.

  Cato in particular watched him with glittering intensity, taking in every detail. The daughter’s ashes could not have been long in the ground, but no signs of that grief showed on the man’s face. He seemed calm as he looked around at the packed benches.

  “Forgive my absences and my lateness, Senators. I have buried my daughter,” he said quietly, without a trace of infirmity in his voice. “I make a vow before you that those responsible will regret using the innocent in games of power, but that is a problem for another day.” He spoke reasonably, but those close to him could see every muscle in his shoulders was rigid, as if he held a great rage barely in check.

  “Tell me, what is the vote this morning?” he asked the Master of Debate.

  “It is to decide censure or approval for the actions of Julius Caesar in Greece,” the man replied.

  “I see. How does Cato stand on the issue?” Pompey asked without looking over to the sprawling figure that straightened suddenly in his seat.

  The Master of Debate risked a glance at Cato. “He has argued for censure,” he replied, bewildered.

  Pompey joined his hands behind his back and those near him could see the whiteness of the knuckles as he spoke. “Then I shall vote against him.”

  For a long moment, he held Cato’s gaze in the stillness until everyone there was aware of the new enmity between them. Whispers began as the older ones sat up with fresh interest.

  “Furthermore, I call on my supporters to vote against him. I call on every vote owed me in debt. Discharge them here and clear your slate with me.”

  The Senate erupted into chatter as they discussed the implications of such a move. It was practically a declaration of war, and Cato set his fleshy mouth in a thin line of irritation as the Master of Debate announced the vote. By calling in all his favors at the same time, Pompey was throwing away years of careful arrangements and alliances, simply to show his contempt in public.

  Crassus paled slightly. It was a foolhardy thing for Pompey to do, though he thought he understood it. No one there could doubt that Pompey had subtly identified the man responsible for his daughter’s murder. Cato would lose a lot of his power while those around him weighed up this new threat and decided whether to distance themselves. He sighed. At least the vote would be won and Cato damaged by the decision. Though the numbers reflected many long-held obligations to Pompey, it was still difficult for the fat senator to stand almost alone with hundreds of his colleagues ranged against him.

  The
vote passed quickly and Pompey resumed his seat to engage in the discussion for the legion rank Julius would be given on his return to Senate. With most of the senators wanting to get out of the building into the cool fresh air, it was surprisingly quick and Cato hardly took part, stunned into immobility by the humiliation forced on him.

  As they filed out through the bronze doors, Cato grimaced and inclined his head in Pompey’s direction, acknowledging the victory. Pompey ignored him and left quickly for home without speaking to anyone.

  * * *

  Tubruk climbed the inner steps up the wall of the estate, thankful for the early warning brought in by the field slaves. He strained to see details of the marching column coming along the road toward them.

  “Two or three centuries, it looks like,” he called down to Cornelia, who had come out from the buildings at the summons. “I can’t see standards, but they’re in full armor. It could be part of the Roman garrison.”

  “Will you turn out the men?” Cornelia asked nervously.

  Tubruk didn’t reply at first, intent on his scrutiny of the approaching force. They were well disciplined and armored, but the absence of standards worried him immensely. The death of Pompey’s daughter had brought a tension back to the old families of Rome that had been missing since the death of Sulla. If such a powerful senator could suffer an attack in his own home, then no one was safe. Tubruk hesitated. If he summoned Brutus and his soldiers to guard the gate, it could be seen as provocation, or an insult to a legitimate force. He gripped the hard stone of the wall as he came to a decision. He would rather offend someone than be found vulnerable, and the approaching centuries could be assassins with all legion marks removed.

  “Call Brutus. Tell him I need his men out here now!” Tubruk shouted down to Cornelia. She abandoned dignity to run back into the estate buildings.

  By the time the approaching column was less than a thousand paces away, Brutus had his men in formation by the gate, ready to rush out into the attack. There were only twenty with him and Tubruk wished they’d had room for more, though he’d laughed at the young commander traveling with even that many at first.

  Brutus felt the old anticipation tighten his stomach. For a moment, the child in him wished he hadn’t left Renius in the city barracks, but it was a momentary weakness. As he bared his gladius, his confidence swelled and his men responded, their tension giving way to tight smiles. They could all hear the tramp of soldiers moving closer to the estate, but there was not a trace of fear in them.

  A small figure ran out of the stables and skidded to a stop almost at Brutus’s feet.

  “You’re not coming with us,” Brutus snapped to forestall the request. He knew very little about the urchin Tubruk had rescued, and at that moment he lacked the patience for an argument. Octavian opened his mouth and Brutus barked an order at him, made angry by the sight of a glinting dagger in the boy’s hand.

  “Get away from here!”

  Octavian froze, his eyes wide, then turned on his heel and stalked away without a word. Brutus ignored him, instead watching Tubruk for news of what was happening outside. It was frustrating to be waiting blind, but Brutus understood that soldiers sent by the Senate should not be met with drawn swords. Bloodshed would certainly follow, even if the original errand was an innocent one.

  On the top of the wall, Tubruk squinted as the approaching army came closer, marching steadily along the road to the estate. With a deep expulsion of breath, all the tension went out of him in an instant, unseen by those below.

  “Marcus Brutus,” he called down, “I request that you have your men open the gate and go out to meet them.”

  Brutus looked up at him quizzically. “Are you sure? If they’re hostile, we can defend better from within the walls.”

  “Open the gates,” Tubruk replied quietly, with a peculiar expression on his face.

  Brutus shrugged and gave the order to the men of Primigenia, who drew their swords as they moved forward. His heart pounded and he felt the wild joy that came from his certainty. There was no one alive who could beat him with a blade, not since a day with Renius in the same yard, many years before.

  “All right, you old devil, but if I get killed, I’ll be waiting for you when it’s your time!”

  * * *

  Julius saw the armed men come out of the gates and stiffened. What had happened?

  “Ready weapons!” he snapped suddenly and his men lost their cheerful expressions on the instant. What had seemed a victorious return had suddenly become edged with danger. Cabera jumped at the order, scanning the unknown force with a squint. He reached out a hand to catch Julius’s attention, but thought better of it and grinned to himself, raising his dagger and gesticulating furiously with it. He was enjoying himself tremendously, but his mood wasn’t shared by the soldiers around him. They had been expecting a hero’s welcome after too many hard months of travel and killing. Their expressions were savage as their swords came out one more time.

  “Line formation!” Julius ordered, seething. If his house had been taken, he would destroy them, leaving nothing alive. His heart twinged for his mother and Tubruk.

  He ran a professional eye over the soldiers deploying before the walls. No more than twenty, though they could have others hidden inside. Legionaries. They moved well, but he would trust his Wolves against any other soldiers anywhere, and they had the numbers. He put all thoughts of his family aside and prepared to give the order to charge.

  * * *

  “Sweet Mars! They’re going to attack!” Brutus exclaimed as he saw the column swing out into an offensive formation. As he saw the numbers against him, he was tempted to order his men back into safety, but there wouldn’t be time to close the gates and the enemy would cut them to pieces as they retreated.

  “Secure the gates, Tubruk!” he bellowed. The old fool had completely misjudged the threat and now there was a price to be paid.

  To Brutus’s pride, the men of Primigenia didn’t falter as they understood the fact of their inevitable destruction. They took their positions close to the estate wall and readied weapons, unstrapping javelins to throw as the charge came. Each man carried four of the long spears, and many of the enemy would fall to them before they were close enough for swords.

  “Steady . . .” Brutus called over the heads of his men. Just a few more paces and the advancing lines would be in range.

  Without warning, the order to halt rang out and the opposing ranks shuddered to a disciplined stop. Brutus raised his eyebrows in surprise, scanning the faces of the enemy. He caught sight of Julius and suddenly laughed out loud, to the bemusement of those around him.

  “Stand down!” he ordered his twenty and watched as they restrapped their javelins and sheathed their swords. When everything was back in place, he marched them toward the halted soldiers, chuckling.

  Julius spoke first.

  “Have you any idea how close I just came to carving you up?” he asked, grinning.

  “I was thinking much the same thing. My men would have dropped a couple of spears through you before you came ten paces closer. Still lucky, I see.”

  “I recognized you,” Cabera interjected smugly.

  Brutus whooped to see the old man still alive. All three embraced, to the complete confusion of the battle lines surrounding them. Julius broke away first and noticed the three linked arrows on Brutus’s breastplate.

  “Gods! That’s Primigenia, isn’t it?”

  Brutus nodded, his eyes bright. “I have command, though we’re a little understrength at present.”

  “How much understrength?”

  “By about four thousand men, as it happens, but I am working on it.”

  Julius whistled softly. “We have a lot to talk about. Does Tubruk know I’m back?”

  Brutus looked over his shoulder at the white walls of the estate. The figure of the estate manager raised an arm in greeting from the top. Cabera waved back enthusiastically.

  “Yes, he knows,” Brutus replied, smiling
wryly.

  “I’m going to have to find barracks in the city for my men,” Julius said. “They can set up tents on the estate while I see to a few matters, but I need somewhere permanent for them as well as training facilities.”

  “I know just the place and the man to train them,” Brutus responded. “Renius came back with me.”

  “I’ll need him, and you,” Julius replied, already planning.

  Brutus smiled. His heart felt light as he looked on his old friend. There were new scars on his face that gave him a harsher look than he remembered, but it was still the same man. On impulse, he put out his arm and Julius gripped it firmly, caught up in the same emotion.

  “Is my wife safe?” Julius asked, searching Brutus’s face for news.

  “She’s here, with your daughter.”

  “I have a daughter?” Julius’s smile stretched right across his face in a foolish beam. “Why are we standing here? A daughter! Come on!”

  He called a quick order to set up camp around the walls and rushed off, with Brutus marching his twenty behind, his mind whirling. There was so much to tell Julius. About Sulla’s murder, and Pompey’s daughter, the Senate gossip his mother told him. Julius would have to meet Servilia! With Julius back, it seemed as if the world was steady again, and Brutus felt his worries lift away. With his old friend there to help him, he would remake Primigenia back to its old strength, beginning with the men Julius had brought with him. Julius made problems seem easy and he of all people would understand why the “Traitor’s Legion” had to be reborn.

  Brutus laughed as he came face-to-face with Tubruk, who had waited for him inside the gate with a wry expression of amusement.

  “Good eyes for a man of your age,” he said to the old gladiator.

  Tubruk chuckled. “A soldier pays attention to details, like who the commander is,” he said cheerfully.

  Brutus shrugged off his embarrassment. “Where’s Julius rushed off to?”

  “He’s with his wife and daughter, lad. Give him a little time alone with them.”