Conn Iggulden - Emperor 02

by The Death of Kings

  Durus shifted his weight from one foot to another, astonished. “I am months overdue. My family and creditors will think I'm dead as it is,” he said, playing for time.

  “Romans have died, did you not see the bodies? Gods, I'm asking you for a service to the city that bore and raised you. You've never fought for her or bled for her. I'm giving you a chance to pay back a little of what you owe.”

  Durus almost smiled at the words, but stopped himself as he realized the young man was completely serious. He wondered what his city friends would make of this soldier. He seemed to have a view of the city that had nothing to do with beggars and rats and disease. He realized that Julius saw the city as something greater than he did, and for a moment, he felt a touch of shame in the face of that belief.

  “How do you know I won't take the money and head straight for northern Italy and home?” he asked.

  Julius frowned slightly, turning his cold eyes on the merchant. “Because if you do, I will be your enemy and you know well enough that I will find you eventually and destroy you.” The words were casually spoken, but after watching the executions and hearing how Celsus had been thrown over the side of his own ship, Durus wrapped his robe tightly around himself against the chill wind.

  “Very well. I will do as you say, though I curse the day you first stepped onto Ventulus,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  Julius called up to the guards at the prows of Durus's ships. “My men to disembark!”

  The soldiers in sight saluted and disappeared to fetch the others. Durus felt a wave of relief leave him giddy.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Julius paused as he began to walk back to the storehouses. Behind him, where the stone docks faded into soil, five figures hung from crosses.

  “Don't forget,” he said, then turned his back on the captain and strode away.

  Durus doubted that was possible.

  * * *

  As night fell, the men gathered in the best of the storehouses. One of the walls was scorched, but the fire hadn't taken. Apart from the acrid smell in the air, it was warm and dry. Outside, it had begun to rain, a low drumming on the thin wooden roof.

  The oil lamps came from Celsus's ship, and once they were gone, the men would be reduced to finding private supplies in the abandoned houses of the port. As if to prepare the soldiers for that moment, the flames guttered low, barely lighting the empty space of the store. Corn kernels spilled by looters littered the floor, and the soldiers sat on torn sacking, making themselves comfortable as best they could.

  Gaditicus rose to speak to the huddled men. Most had been working all day either repairing the roof or shifting supplies to and from the ships that would leave on the dawn tide.

  “It is time to consider the future, gentlemen. I'd wanted to rest for a while in a solid Roman port before contacting home. Instead, a Greek king has butchered our soldiers. It must not go unpunished.”

  A mutter ran through the men, though whether in agreement or frustration it was difficult to tell. Julius looked over them as he sat by Gaditicus. They were his men. He had spent so long with the simple goal of finding and killing Celsus that he had never given much thought to what would come afterward, barring the distant dream of one day confronting the Dictator of Rome. If he brought a new century into a legion, the Senate would have to recognize his authority with an official post.

  He grimaced silently in the shadows. Or they might not, putting Gaditicus in charge and reducing Julius back to commanding only twenty of them. The Senate were not the sort to recognize the unusual authority he possessed over the motley group, though his new wealth could give him influence if he used it wisely. He wondered if he could be satisfied with such a position and smiled to himself, unnoticed by the men watching Gaditicus. There was a simple answer. He'd learned there was nothing finer than leading and nothing more of a challenge than having no one to ask for help. At the worst times, they had looked to him to know the way forward, to see the next step. The gods knew it was far easier to follow, without thought, but not half so satisfying. Part of him longed for the security, the simple pleasure in being part of a unit. But in his heart he wanted the heady mixture of fear and danger that came only with command.

  How could Sulla be dead? The thought returned again and again to nag at him. The wounded man on board Celsus's ship had known nothing of it, just that the soldiers had been told to wear black for a whole year. When the man had fallen unconscious, Julius had left him in Cabera's hands, and as the sun sank, the man died, his heart failing at last. Julius had ordered him buried with the other Roman corpses, and it shamed him when he thought he had never even asked the man's name.

  “Julius? Do you want to speak to them?” Gaditicus said, breaking into his thoughts and making him jump. Guiltily, he realized he hadn't heard anything the older officer had said. He stood slowly, marshaling his thoughts.

  “I know most of you hoped to see Rome, and you will. My city is a strange place: marble and dreams, borne up with the strength of the legions. Every legionary is bound by oath to protect our people anywhere you find them. All a Roman has to do is say ‘I am a Roman citizen' and be guaranteed our shelter and authority.” He paused and every eye in the storehouse was on him.

  “But you have not taken that oath and I cannot compel you to fight for a city you have never seen. You have more wealth than most soldiers would see in ten years. You must make a free choice—to serve under oath, or to leave. If you leave us, you will go as friends. We have fought together and some have not made it this far. For others of you, it may be far enough. If you stay, I will give Celsus's treasure into the care of Captain Durus, who will meet us on the west coast when Mithridates is beaten.”

  Another low rumble of voices filled the room as he paused again.

  “Can you trust Durus?” Gaditicus asked him. Julius thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Not with so much gold. I will leave Prax to keep him honest.” He searched out his old optio and was pleased to see him signal consent. With that settled, Julius took a deep breath as he looked over the seated men. He could name them all.

  “Will you take the legion oath and be sworn to my command?”

  They roared their agreement at him. Gaditicus whispered harshly, leaning close to Julius's ear.

  “Gods, man. The Senate will have my balls if I do!”

  “You should leave, then, Gadi, join Suetonius back at the ship while I give them the oath,” Julius replied.

  Gaditicus looked at him coolly, weighing him up. “I wondered why you left him there,” he said. “Have you thought where you will lead them?”

  “I have. I'm going to raise an army and lead them straight down Mithridates' throat.”

  He held out his hand and Gaditicus hesitated, then took it in a brief grip that was almost painful.

  “Then our path is the same,” he said, and Julius nodded his understanding.

  Julius raised his arms for quiet, smiling as it came. His voice carried clearly in the sudden silence. “I never doubted you,” he said to the men. “Not for a moment. Now stand and repeat these words.”

  They rose as one and stood to attention, with heads raised and backs straight.

  Julius looked round at them and knew he was committed to his course. There was nothing in him to say turn back, but with the oath, his life would change until Mithridates was dead.

  He spoke the words his father had taught him when the world was simple.

  “Jupiter Victor, hear this oath. We pledge our strength, our blood, our lives to Rome. We will not turn. We will not break. We will not mind suffering or pain.

  “While there is light, from here until the end of the world, we stand for Rome and the command of Caesar.”

  They chanted the words after him, their voices clear and firm.

  CHAPTER 21

  Alexandria tried to watch without being obvious as Tabbic explained a technique to Octavian, his voice a constant low murmur accompanying each movement
of his powerful hands. On the workbench in front of them, Tabbic had laid a thick piece of gold wire on a square of leather. Both ends of the wire were trapped in tiny wooden clamps, and Tabbic was gesturing to show how Octavian should move a narrow wooden block over the wire.

  “Gold is the softest metal, boy. To make a pattern in the wire, all you have to do is press the marking block gently against it and run it back and forth, keeping your arm very straight, as I showed you. Try it.”

  Octavian brought the block down slowly, letting the ridged teeth of the underside rest on the fragile-looking line of precious metal.

  “That's the way, now use a little more pressure. That's it, back and forth. Good. Let's see it, then,” Tabbic continued. Octavian lifted the block clear and beamed as he saw the regular series of beads that had been formed by the pressure. Tabbic peered at it, nodding.

  “You have a light touch. Too much pressure will snap the wire and you have to go back to the beginning. Now I'll free the clamps and turn it over for you to finish the beading. Line the block up carefully and be as gentle as you can this time; the joints will be thin as the hairs of your head.”

  Tabbic caught Alexandria's eye as he stretched his back, aching after bending so long at the low bench he had made for Octavian. She winked at him and he blushed slightly, clearing his throat gruffly to hide a smile. She knew he had begun to enjoy the lessons with Octavian. It had taken a long time for him to lose a portion of his mistrust for the little thief, but she had known from his work with her how much he enjoyed teaching his skill.

  Octavian cursed as the narrow wire gave under his hand. Ruefully, he lifted the block to reveal three cut pieces. Tabbic brought his heavy eyebrows together and shook his head, gathering the broken pieces up carefully to be melted and rolled once more.

  “We'll try again later, or tomorrow. You nearly had it that time. When you can mark the full wire neatly, I'll show you how to fix it as a rim for one of the ladies brooches.”

  Octavian looked downcast, and Alexandria held her breath as she waited to see if he would throw one of the violent tantrums with which he'd plagued them for the first few weeks. When it didn't come, she let the air out of her lungs with a slow rush of relief.

  “All right. I'd like that,” he said slowly.

  Tabbic turned away from him, searching through the packages of finished work that had to be taken back to their owners.

  “I have another job for you,” he said, handing over a tiny pouch of leather, folded and tied. “This is a silver ring I repaired. I want you to run over to the cattle market and ask for Master Gethus. He runs the sales, so he won't be hard to find. He should give you a sestertius for the work. You take the coin and run straight back here, stopping for nothing. Understand? I'm trusting you. If you lose the ring or the coin, you and I are finished.”

  Alexandria could have laughed out loud at the little boy's earnest expression. Such a threat would have been worthless for the first weeks of the apprenticeship. Octavian wouldn't have minded being left alone. He had struggled mightily against the combined efforts of his mother, Tabbic, and Alexandria. Twice she'd had to search the local markets for him, and the second time she'd dragged him to the slave blocks to have him valued. He hadn't run again after that, instead adopting a sullenness Alexandria thought might be permanent.

  The change had come midway through the fourth week of work, when Tabbic showed him how to make a pattern on a sheet of silver with tiny droplets of the molten metal. Though the little boy had burned his thumb when he tried to touch it, the process had fascinated him and he'd missed his dinner that night, staying to watch the final piece being polished. His mother, Atia, had arrived at the shop with her tired face full of apology. Seeing the tiny figure still working with the graded polishing cloths had left her speechless, but Alexandria woke the next morning to find her clothes had been cleaned and mended neatly in the night. No other thanks were necessary between them. Though the two women saw each other only an hour or two each day before sleep, they had both found friendship of the kind that can surprise two reserved and private people, working so hard that they never realized they were lonely.

  * * *

  Octavian whistled as he trotted through the crowds at the cattle market. When the farmers brought their animals into the city for bidding and slaughter, it was a busy place, rich with the warm scents of manure and blood. Everyone seemed to be shouting to each other, making complicated gestures with their hands to bid when they couldn't be heard.

  Octavian looked for one of the sellers, to ask for Gethus. He wanted to pass over the mended ring and get back to Tabbic's shop faster than the adults would believe.

  As he wove around the shifting mass of people, he entertained himself by imagining Tabbic's surprise at his speedy return.

  A hand grabbed suddenly at his neck and the little boy was lifted off his feet with a lurch, his feet slipping. He let out a blast of shocked wind at the interruption to his thoughts, struggling wildly in instinct against his attacker.

  “Trying to steal someone's cow, are you?” a hard, nasal voice sounded by his ear.

  He jerked his head around, groaning as he saw the heavy features of the butcher's boy he'd crossed before. What had he been thinking? Like a fool, he'd dropped his usual guard for predators and they'd caught him without the slightest effort.

  “Let me go! Help!” he yelled.

  The older boy smacked him hard across the nose, making it bleed.

  “Shut up, you. I owe you a beating anyway, in return for the one I got for not stopping you last time.” The burly arm was wrapped around Octavian's neck, squeezing his throat as he was dragged backward into an alleyway. He strained to get away, but it was hopeless and the rushing crowd didn't even look in his direction.

  There were three other boys with the butcher's apprentice. All of them had the long-armed rangy growth of children used to hard physical work. They wore aprons stained with fresh blood from their labors at the market, and Octavian panicked, almost fainting with terror at their cruel expressions. The boys jeered and punched at him as they turned a corner in the alley. There, the din of the market was cut off by the high walls of tenements that leaned out above, almost meeting the ones opposite and creating an unnatural darkness.

  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 hi
s 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.