Emperor: The Death of Kings

by Conn Iggulden

  “It is my order that a new legion be formed, to expunge the stain of Lepidus. You will join with Primigenia and make a new history. Your standards will be changed. You will have a new name, untouched by shame. I appoint Gaius Julius Caesar to command you. I speak with the authority of the Senate.”

  Crassus wheeled his horse and trotted over to where Julius stood, glaring at him.

  “Will they be Primigenia, then?” Julius asked harshly.

  Crassus shook his head. “I know what it will do to you, Julius, but this is the better way. If they take arms for you, they will always be apart as they are now. A new name will clear the field for them . . . and for you. Pompey and I have agreed. Obey your orders. Primigenia ends today.”

  Julius couldn’t speak with anger for a moment, and Crassus watched him closely, waiting for a response. The younger man understood what they were trying to do, but still the memory of Marius haunted his thoughts. Understanding this, Crassus leaned down and spoke softly so as not to be overheard.

  “Your uncle would understand, Julius. Be sure of that.”

  Julius clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, unable to trust himself to speak. He owed a great deal to this man. Crassus leaned back, relaxing.

  “You will need a new name for them. Pompey thought it should be—”

  “No,” Julius interrupted. “I have a name for them.”

  Crassus raised his eyebrows in surprise as Julius walked around his horse and faced the bloody men he was to command. He took a deep breath to send his voice out to as many as could hear him.

  “I will take your oaths, if you will give them. I remember that you did not desert the field, but rallied when I asked it of you, even with Lepidus dead.” He let his gaze fall to the broken bodies all along the ranks. “The price for the failure has been paid and will never be mentioned again after today. But it must be remembered.”

  The silence was terrible and the air smelled of blood.

  “You are marked with the lives of every tenth man. I name you the Tenth, so you will never forget the payment taken and you will never break.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Julius saw Crassus grimace at the name, but he had known from the first moment that it was the right choice. It would hold them through fear and pain when others lost their nerve.

  “Primigenia! My last command to you. Form ranks with your brothers. Look at their faces and learn their names. Know this. When men hear the Tenth stand against them, they will be afraid, for they have paid their dues in their own blood.”

  As the ranks re-formed, Julius walked back to Crassus as Pompey joined the senator. Both generals looked at Julius with guarded interest.

  “You speak . . . well to them, Julius,” Pompey said. He shook his head slightly as he watched Primigenia welcomed into the ranks. He had thought Julius would resist the order for the sake of Primigenia’s name and had been prepared to force the issue. Watching the ease with which the young commander had assimilated the news and made it work for him was a surprise. For the first time, Pompey had a glimpse of how the young man had been so successful in Greece against Mithridates and the pirates before him. He seemed to know the words to use and that they could bite with greater force than swords.

  “I would like to extend the time in camp before we move on, sir. It will give me a chance to speak with the men as well as let them finish their food and get some sleep.”

  Pompey was tempted to refuse the request. Apart from the driving need to pursue the slaves, his instincts warned him not to make things too easy for the young man who could speak directly to the hearts of the soldiers and lift them from misery in an instant. Then he relented. Caesar would need every advantage if he was to resurrect the dignity of the new legion from the ashes.

  “You may tell them I have granted two further hours at your request, Julius. Be ready to march at sunset.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will arrange for new shields and armor for the men as soon as we are finished with this rebellion.”

  Pompey nodded absently, signaling to Crassus to ride away to the command position further up at the head of the column. Julius watched them go, his face unreadable. He turned to Brutus and found Cabera with him, something of the old life and interest in the healer’s face. Julius smiled tightly.

  “Brutus, stand them down and tell them to finish eating. Then I want to speak to as many as I can before they sleep. Marius would have learned their names. So will I.”

  “It hurts to see Primigenia lost,” Brutus murmured.

  Julius shook his head. “They are not lost. The name will remain on the Senate rolls. I will make sure of it. Pompey and Crassus were right to make a new start, though it does hurt. Come on, gentlemen, let us walk amongst the Tenth. It’s time to let go of the past.”

  * * *

  Ariminum stood under a pall of smoke. The slave army had moved through it like locusts, taking everything that could be eaten and driving sheep and cattle to run before them on the march. While citizens hid behind barricaded doors, Spartacus and his army walked slowly through quiet streets with the sun casting weak shadows behind them. They set fires in the grain stores and abandoned markets, knowing their pursuers might waste time stamping them out before following. With the legion still doggedly on their heels, every hour was crucial.

  The guards had run from the city treasury, and Spartacus ordered the gold loaded onto mules for the journey south. It was a fortune from trade, and the dream of a fleet of ships to take them to freedom became reality as soon as the gladiators saw the crates of coins.

  The docks were empty of ships, the dark hulks standing clear out to sea where they could watch the horde of slaves looting their city under rising plumes of smoke and ash. The ships were packed with silent people, just watching. Spartacus walked up to the edge of the docks and returned their stares.

  “See how many they hold, Crix. We have enough gold to buy every one of us a berth.”

  “These precious merchants won’t stir to save us,” Crixus replied. “It has to be the pirates. The gods know, they have enough ships, and spitting in Rome’s eye will give them some pleasure, as well.”

  “But how to get word to them? We must send riders out to each port. There has to be a way to reach them.” Spartacus looked over the water at the pale specks of faces clustered in the ships. It was possible, if they could speak to Rome’s enemies.

  Antonidus walked up to stand at his side, squinting out over the waves with a sneer.

  “Brave Roman citizens hiding from us like children,” he said.

  Spartacus shrugged, tired of his bitterness and spite. “Sixty or seventy ships like those and we can leave Roman lands. A fleet bought with their own gold seems like justice.”

  Antonidus looked at the two gladiators with more interest. He’d been tempted to slip away at the port, taking off his armor and joining the crowds of people who would surely gather once the slaves were gone. Then he’d seen the gold they’d taken from the treasury. Enough to buy him an estate in Spain or a vast farm in Africa. There were many places for a man to hide that would not shelter an army. He knew if he stayed, their trust in him could give him the chance he needed. Would Pompey forgive him if he brought Spartacus’s head? Antonidus frowned. No, he’d faced a Roman court once and that was enough. Better just to run for a place where he could start again.

  Spartacus turned, putting the sea at his back. “We will send local men to every port with a few coins to prove their promises. Speak to them, Crixus. Someone must know how to reach the pirates. Let them know the plan. It will raise their spirits on the march south.”

  “We’re heading south toward Rome, then?” Antonidus asked sharply.

  A terrible anger creased the features of the gladiator for a moment, and Antonidus stepped back as he answered.

  “We should never have turned our backs on the mountains, but now we must keep ahead of them. We’ll run those bastards ragged on our trail. Remember, we’re the ones who till their fields and work every hour of
light for their wealth. It’s made us strong. Let’s see what sort of state they’re in by the time we sight their beloved city.”

  As he spoke he stared west into the sun, his eyes glinting gold with it as he imagined the legions hunting them. His face was bitter and Antonidus had to look away.

  CHAPTER 40

  As the moon rose, Alexandria stood on the walls above the great city of Rome with the rain drumming against the stones. Torches had been lit all round the city, and they spat and crackled, giving only a little light to the defenders. When the warning horns had sounded, they had all come, snatching up tools and knives to hold the wall against the silent mass that tramped past in the darkness, churning the Campus Martius into clotted mud.

  Tabbic held his iron hammer in tight hands, his face drawn and pale in the flickering light. There was no give in him, or any of them, Alexandria knew. If the slaves attacked them, they would fight as ferociously as the legions themselves. She looked up and down the line at the faces staring down into the dark and wondered at their calm. Families stood together in silence, even the children awed into stillness by the army passing them by. The moon cast only a little light, but it was enough to show the white faces of the slaves as they looked up at the city that had decreed their death. There seemed no end to them, but the moon reached its zenith and began to fall before the last stragglers disappeared into the night.

  The tension eased at last, after hours of painful anticipation. The messengers from the legions had passed the news that they were close behind, and the Senate had ordered the people to the walls until it was safe, setting the example by taking places on the great gatehouses with the swords of their fathers and grandfathers.

  Alexandria gulped in the cold air, feeling alive. The rain had begun to lighten and Rome had survived. Sudden smiles and laughter showed her that they all felt it, and for a moment she knew they had shared a bond in the dark that was as strong as any other tie in her life. Yet still she was torn. She had been a slave, as they were slaves, and had dreamed of rising up in a multitude to cast down their owners’ precious houses and walls.

  “Will they all be killed?” she murmured, almost to herself.

  Tabbic turned sharply toward her, his eyes shadowed.

  “They will. The Senate has known fear and they won’t forgive a single one of them. The legions will make a bloody example of them before it ends.”

  * * *

  Pompey allowed the lamps to burn low in his tent as he read the dispatches from Rome, less than thirty miles south of them. Rain drummed against the canvas of the command tent and dripped through in places to make the ground sodden. Food sat on his table untouched as he read and reread each message. Crassus would have to be told.

  After a while, he stood to pace and barely noticed as one of the torches guttered and failed. He took another from its stand and held it to illuminate a map that covered the entire wall of the tent. Spots of dark moisture showed on the parchment, and he realized he’d have to take it down if the rain continued. Rome was a tiny circle on the thick skin, and somewhere to the south the slaves were moving ever onward to the sea. He stared at the symbol for the city, knowing he had to make a decision before Crassus arrived.

  Around him, only the sentries moved around the silent camp in damp misery. The Senate had sent supplies out to them as soon as the army of Spartacus had marched south. Pompey could only imagine the fear in the streets as the sea of slaves passed them by, but the gates had been barred against them.

  He was proud of his people when he’d heard: the old and the young, women and loyal slaves ready to fight. Even the Senate had armed themselves, as they had centuries before to defend their city with their lives. It gave him hope for them.

  A murmur of passwords outside revealed the approach of Crassus, who looked around in surprise at the dark tent as he entered. He wore a heavy leather cloak over his armor and pulled back the hood, scattering droplets.

  “Evil night,” he muttered. “What news?”

  Pompey stopped and turned toward him. “Some of it is . . . awful,” he replied, “but it must wait. There are four legions at the coast, just landed from Greece. I’m going to meet them and bring them after us.”

  Crassus nodded warily. “What else, Pompey? You could send the extraordinarii to them, with our seals on the orders. Why go yourself?”

  Pompey grimaced in the shadows. “The man who killed my daughter has been found. The men I left to hunt him are watching him now. I will stop at the city before I meet the legions coming west. You’ll have to go on without me until this is done.”

  Crassus took a taper and oil jug from the table and relit the lamps, his hand shaking slightly as he concentrated. At last, he sat down and met Pompey’s eyes.

  “If they turn to fight, I will not be able to wait for you,” he said.

  Pompey shook his head. “Then do not force them to turn. Give them room to run and in a few days, a week, I will be back with fresh men to end this chase at last. Don’t risk losing everything, my friend. For all your skill in Senate, you are no general. You know it as well as I do.”

  Crassus hid his anger. Always they saw him as the merchant, the lender, as if there were some great secret to the legions that only the chosen few could understand. As if there were some shame to his wealth. He could see Pompey was desperate not to lose this victory. How awful it would be if lowly Crassus stole it from under him! Whoever broke the rebellion would be the next consul, he was sure. How could the Senate resist the will of the people after so many months of fear? Not for the first time, Crassus felt regret at his generosity in choosing Pompey in the Senate debate. If he had known then how the campaign would go, he would have risked it alone.

  “I will herd them south,” he said, and Pompey nodded, satisfied. He lifted another of the dispatches from the table and showed it to Crassus, angling it into the light. As Crassus read, Pompey stood and pointed to the map.

  “Those reports of a fleet can only be for the slaves. I’d stay if I wasn’t sure they will keep moving, but as long as you don’t provoke them, they should head south to meet the ships. I’ll call in the galleys against them. There will be no escape by sea, I swear it.”

  “If that’s what they intend,” Crassus muttered, still reading.

  “They cannot run forever. They must be starving, no matter what they’ve found to scavenge. Every day weakens them if they’re hoping to bring us to another battle. No, they’re trying to escape and those reports are the key to it.”

  “And when they see our galleys gathering to prevent it, you’ll ride up with the Greek legions to finish them?” Crassus asked, some of the bile he felt creeping into his tone.

  “I will,” Pompey replied sharply. “Do not take the threat lightly, Crassus. If we lose now, we lose everything. We need the extra legions I will bring. Do not join in battle until you see my flags. I’d rather see you retreat than be routed before I arrive.”

  “Very well,” Crassus replied, stung by the casual dismissal of his abilities. If Spartacus attacked while Pompey was away, the moment would be his to seize, and the glory with it. “I know you will come as quickly as you can,” he said.

  Pompey sagged slightly, resting his knuckles on the table. “There is another matter. I’m leaving immediately for the city and I don’t know if I should keep it to myself until we’re finished here or not.”

  “Tell me,” Crassus said, softly.

  * * *

  The leather tents were heavy with rain that roared in a broken rhythm as the men slept fitfully. Julius dreamed of the estate. The day had been tiring as the legions forced the pace toward Rome, and when the order had come to set the tents, the legionaries had barely bothered to remove their armor before falling asleep. Those who had lived through the forced marches were harder than they had ever been, tight-skinned over taut muscle. They had seen friends die on the march or just fall off the road, their legs twitching. Some of them had lived to join the end of the column, but many of their wounded
had died, losing blood with each step until their ailing hearts finally stopped and they lay where they fell.

  Feet that had bled and been caked with a brown rime had become layered in callus, white against their sandals. Torn muscles had healed and the legions became stronger on the march, their heads rising. In the third week, Pompey called for a faster pace on the Via Flaminia and they met it without protest, feeling again the thrill of the chase.

  Julius murmured irritably as someone shook his shoulder.

  “There’s a messenger from Pompey, Julius. Wake up, quickly.”

  Julius snapped awake, shaking his head to clear it of the dream. He looked out of the tent at the messenger carrying Pompey’s bronze seal and dressed quickly, leaving his armor behind. As soon as he stepped out, the rain drenched him to the skin.

  * * *

  The sentry at the command tent stood aside as Julius gave the password of the day. Both Crassus and Pompey were there and he saluted them, instantly wary. There was something strange in their expressions that he had not seen before.

  “Sit down, Julius,” Crassus said.

  The older man did not meet his eyes as he spoke, and Julius frowned slightly as he took a seat on a bench by the table. Julius waited patiently and when the generals did not speak immediately, a spike of worry twisted in his stomach. He wiped water from his face with a nervous scrubbing motion. Pompey poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward the young tribune.

  “We . . . I have bad news, Julius. Messages have come from the city,” he began. His expression was uncomfortable as he took a slow breath to continue.

  “There has been an attack on your estate. Your wife has been killed. I understand—”