Conn Iggulden - Emperor 02

by The Death of Kings

  At first they closed slowly. Julius waited for the archers to fire and almost froze as thousands of long black splinters hummed into the air at him. The aim was good, but the veterans had faced archers all around the Roman lands. They moved without haste, crouching low and pulling in limbs, each man's shield touching his brother's beside him. It formed an impenetrable wall and the arrows thumped uselessly into the laminated wood and brass.

  For a moment, there was silence, then the veterans rose as one, shouting wildly. The shields were bristling with spent shafts, but they hadn't lost a man. They moved forward twenty quick paces and then the air hummed again and they ducked down under the shields. Somewhere, a Roman cried out in pain, but they moved on three more times, losing only a few pale bodies on the field behind them.

  They were close enough to charge. Julius gave the order and the triple note sounded along the line. The Wolves broke into a fast run and suddenly they were only a few hundred feet from the archers and the black cloud was passing over them.

  The Greek archers held their position too long, desperate to kill the ones who had hurt them so badly. Their front rank tried to turn away from the charging Romans, but there was no order to it and the Wolves roared into their confusion, turning it into terror as they fought to get away.

  Julius exulted as the Roman line went through them, cutting their way into the squares with bloody skill. The ranks of Greeks dissolved into screaming chaos after only seconds. Julius ordered Ventulus to press them and Gaditicus moved his men out slightly to the left to widen the angle of the rout.

  The panic spread like a gale through the Greek ranks. With their own men yelling in terror and sprinting away from the front line and the air filled with the screams of the dying, they began to edge away from the line of Wolves, peeling off from their units and throwing their weapons away as their officers shouted helplessly at them.

  More and more began to run and then suddenly there were enough of them fleeing for even the bravest to turn and join the rushing throng.

  The Wolves attacked in a frenzy, the veterans cutting through the enemy with all the skill and experience of a hundred battles and the younger men with raw energy and the coursing joy that made their hands shiver and their eyes wild as they cut the Greeks down, red-limbed and terrible in their killing.

  The enemy streamed away in all directions. Twice, officers tried to rally them and Julius was forced to support Accipiter to break the largest gathering of men. The knot of frightened soldiers held for less than a minute and then broke again.

  The camp became a carnage of trampled bodies and broken equipment, and the veterans began to tire, arms aching after hundreds of blows.

  Julius ordered the saw formation for Ventulus, where the middle rank moved right and left against the others to block gaps and support the weakest places. His cohort swept through the camp and they seemed to have been killing all day.

  Gaditicus had advanced farther and it was his men who came on Mithridates and his sons, surrounded by nearly a thousand men. They seemed to act as an anchor on the deserters who ran around them, slowing their headlong flight and pulling them back to join the last stand. Julius ordered the wedge to break the line, and his men shrugged off their tiredness one last time. Julius took the second row himself, behind Cornix on point. They had to break the last stand quickly. These men had not run and they stood under the eyes of their king, fresh and waiting.

  Ventulus formed the wedge as if they had fought together all their lives. The shields came up to protect the edges of the arrowhead, and they crashed into the Greek lines, sending them reeling back into each other. Only the man at the head was unprotected, and Cornix fell in the first flurry of strikes. He rose lathered in blood and holding his stomach in with one hand while the other struck and struck until he fell again, this time not to rise. Julius took the point position, the giant Ciro moving to his side.

  Julius could see Mithridates moving through his own men toward the Romans, his expression manic. As Julius felt rather than saw the forward thrust begin to falter, he could have cheered as the king shoved his own men aside to reach them. He knew the Greek king should have hung back and the Romans would not have reached him. Instead, Mithridates was roaring orders and those closest stepped back to allow him the kill.

  He was a huge man, wrapped in a heavy purple cloak. He made no attempt at defense, but brought his sword down from above his head with terrible force. Julius ducked away and his answering blow was blocked with a clang that numbed his arm. The man was strong and fast. More Greeks fell all around them as the veterans roared once more and moved on, pushing the guards back and cutting them down with scores of blows. Mithridates seemed unaware as the line pressed past him, and he bellowed as he brought his sword round again in a vicious sweep at Julius's chest, sending the young man staggering back, his armor dented in a line. Both men were blowing air raggedly with exertion and anger. Julius thought one of his ribs had cracked, but now Mithridates was deep behind the front rank and Julius knew he had only to call and the king would be cut down from all sides.

  With their king alone and embattled, the guards were struggling desperately to reach him. The veterans tired and fell against them, their strength faltering. Mithridates seemed to sense it.

  “To me, my sons!” he shouted. “Come to me!” And their efforts doubled into a frenzy.

  Julius leaned back around the outside of a blow and then cut in fast, tearing his jagged blade through the shoulder. Mithridates stumbled as Ciro stabbed him in his powerful chest, shouldering into him with an explosion of strength. The king's blood poured out and he dropped his sword from limp fingers. His eyes met Julius's for a moment, then he slipped down into the press of mud and bodies. Julius raised a red sword in triumph and Accipiter hit the Greek flank, breaking them utterly and sending them running with the last of their brothers.

  * * *

  They had no oil to burn the bodies, so Julius ordered great pits to be dug at the rear of the camp. It took a week to make them deep enough to hold Mithridates' dead. Julius had forbidden celebration with so many of the broken army still alive. The irony of having to set up an armed perimeter of the very camp he had attacked for so long did not escape him, but he knew that with the charismatic king dead, there was little chance of the survivors gathering for another attack. He hoped the nerve had been cut out of them, but though Mithridates' sons had been killed at the end, Gaditicus thought more than four thousand others had escaped, and Julius wanted to get away from the valley as soon as the last of his wounded had recovered or died.

  Less than five hundred of the Wolves had survived the attack on the camp, most of their number lost in the last battle around the Greek king. Julius had them buried separately and no one complained about the work. They gave them a full funeral that lasted most of a day, and the funeral torches gave off a stinking black smoke that seemed fitting for their sacrifice.

  When all the dead were in the ground and the camp was clear of wreckage, Julius gathered his officers to him. From the veterans, he chose the ten most senior centurions to represent their voice and was sad that Cornix had not survived the fight to join them, though he knew the ancient warrior had chosen the manner of his death without regret. Quertorus came with the others and it was only as they sat down together that Julius noticed Suetonius too had joined them, though he held no command. The young man's arm was heavily bound where it had been cut, and the sight of it prevented Julius from sending him away. He had earned his place, perhaps, though Julius wondered if he had enjoyed it half so much as the night attacks he seemed to relish.

  “I want to move on to the coast and rejoin Durus and Prax. Somewhere between here and the sea must be a legion, unless the Senate has lost its mind completely. We will deliver Mithridates' body to them and set sail for home. There's nothing more to hold us here.”

  “Will you disband the men?” Quertorus asked.

  Julius looked at him and smiled. “I will, but at the coast. There are too many sur
vivors from the Greek army for me to be sending ours away now. As well as that, a number of the men I brought to your city died in the fighting, and I have gold to share out amongst the survivors. I think it would be fair to give shares to all those who survived.”

  “Will you take the shares from your half, then?” Suetonius said quickly.

  “No, I will not. The ransoms will all be given back to their rightful owners as I promised. Whatever remains from the half will be shared out amongst the Wolves. If you don't like that, I suggest you put it to them. Tell them how they don't deserve a little gold to take back to their city and villages for what they have done here.”

  Suetonius subsided with a frown and the veterans watched him with interest. He didn't meet their eyes.

  “How much gold are we talking about?” Quertorus asked interestedly.

  Julius shrugged. “Twenty, maybe thirty aurei per man. I will have to work it out when we meet Durus.”

  “This man has all that gold in his ship,” one of the others broke in, “and you expect him to be there?”

  “He gave his word. And I gave mine to find and kill him if he broke it. He'll be there. Now, I want everyone ready to march within the hour. I've had enough of this camp. I've had enough of Greece.”

  He turned to Gaditicus with a wistful expression. “Now we can go home,” he said.

  * * *

  They found the first of two legions only eighty miles inland under the command of Severus Lepidus. In the heavily fortified camp, Julius and Ciro presented the body of Mithridates to Lepidus on a bier of cut wood. Ciro remained silent as they laid the body on a low table in an empty tent, but Julius saw that his lips were moving in silent prayer, showing respect for a vanquished enemy. As Ciro finished, he felt Julius's gaze on him and returned the look without embarrassment.

  “He was a brave man,” Ciro said simply, and Julius was struck at the change in him since they had first met in a tiny village on the African coast.

  “Did you pray to Roman gods?” Julius asked him.

  The big man shrugged. “They do not know me yet. When I reach Rome, I will speak to them.”

  The Roman legate sent an escort of soldiers to guide the Wolves to the sea. Julius did not protest the decision, though the escort felt more like a prisoner detail than a guarantee of their own safe passage.

  Durus was aboard his ship when they finally arrived at the docks and called him out. He didn't seem overjoyed that they had survived, but quickly mellowed when Julius told him he would be paid for his time as well as the passage back to Brundisium, the closest port on the Roman mainland.

  It was strange to be back on a ship again and Julius spent some of his new wealth in buying every barrel of wine in the port for a final celebration. Despite Suetonius's objections, the wealth of Celsus was shared out amongst the surviving Wolves and many would return home rich by their previous standards, even after an expensive trip in the comfort of a caravan ride or on horseback.

  The veterans had asked to see Julius privately one last time before they left for home in the east. He had offered them ranks with him back in Rome, but they had only chuckled and looked at each other. It was difficult to tempt men of their age who had gold in their pouches, and he hadn't really expected them to come. Quertorus had thanked him for all of them, and they had cheered him, filling the ship with the noise. Then they had gone.

  Durus caught the dawn tide out without fanfare or announcement. The young survivors of the Wolves had all stayed on, and they relished the short experience as sailors, with the easy enthusiasm of the young. The seas were calm and it was only a few short weeks before they tied up at the Brundisium port and stepped down onto the land.

  Those who had been there from the beginning looked at each other dazedly for long moments as three centuries of his Wolves formed into a column for the march to Rome. Freshly promoted to command a fifty, Ciro dressed the line and stood in wonder as he considered finally seeing the city that had called him. He shivered, rolling his shoulders. It was colder than his tiny farm on the African coast, but still he felt a rightness to the land. He sensed the ghosts of his line had come out to greet their son, and was proud.

  Julius went down on his knees and kissed the dusty ground with tears in his eyes, too overwhelmed to speak. He had lost friends and suffered injuries he would carry for the rest of his life, but Sulla was dead and he was home.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 27

  Cato wiped a pudgy hand across his brow. Even with the chill of winter still gripping Rome, the Senate building was full and the air heavy with the heat of three hundred of the nobilitas packed into the small space. Cato held up his hands for silence and waited patiently as the babble of noise slowly stilled.

  “This Caesar, this reckless young man, has shown nothing but disdain for Senate will. Acting alone, he has caused the deaths of hundreds of Roman citizens, many of them veterans of our legions. As I understand it, he assumed an authority he was never granted and behaved throughout as I would expect a nephew of Marius to behave. I call on the body of the Senate to censure this little cockerel—to show our repugnance at his waste of Roman lives and his disregard of our authority over him.”

  He resumed his seat with a satisfied grunt, and the Master of Debate stood, looking relaxed. He was a large, florid man with little patience for fools. Though his authority was nominal, he seemed to enjoy controlling the more powerful men of the Senate.

  Cinna had risen at Cato's words, his face flushed in anger. The Master of Debate nodded for him to speak, and Cinna swept the rows with his gaze, holding their attention.

  “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 f
ollowed.

  “. . . 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.”