The Gods of War

by Conn Iggulden

  In three merchant ships, only the two thousand survivors of Julius’s beloved Tenth made the final crossing to Alexandria. His extraordinarii had been left behind with the Fourth to wait for transport. He did not know if he could find Pompey there. The land had never been conquered by Rome and all he knew of the customs were memories taught to him as a child. It was Alexander’s city, named for him. Though Egypt was another world to Julius, Alexandria was the resting place of the Greek king he had idolized all his life.

  The mark he had left on the world had endured for centuries and even the Egyptian kings were descended from one of Alexander’s generals, Ptolemy. If Pompey had not fled across the sea to escape him, Julius knew he might well have traveled there just to see the glories he had heard described as a boy. He remembered standing once at a broken statue of the Greek king and wondering if his own life could be used so well. Now he would step onto the soil of Egypt as ruler of the greatest empire in the world. He need not bow his head to any man, or any man’s memory.

  The thought brought a wave of homesickness as he realized spring would have come in the forum in Rome. The orators would be addressing the crowds, teaching points of philosophy and law for small coins. Julius had spent only a few months in his birthplace in almost twenty years and grown old in her service. He had left his youth on foreign lands and lost more than Rome had ever given him.

  What had he gained in comparison to the lives of men he called friends? It was strange to think that he had spent the years so freely. He had earned the right to be first in his city, but he could take no joy in it. Perhaps the path had changed him, but he had expected more.

  The main entrance to the port of Alexandria was through a deep-water passage between enclosing arms of rock that made the experienced men frown. The gap through which they sailed was narrow enough to be easily blocked, and Julius could not escape the feeling that the harbor was a natural trap.

  As the ships glided under sail toward the docks, the heat seemed to increase and Julius wiped sweat from his brow. The soldiers on deck gestured in amazement at a vast square column of white marble built at the edge of the port. It stood higher than any building in Rome and Julius was touched by nostalgia for the days when he had nothing more to fear than a whipping from his tutors. The Pharos lighthouse had seemed impossibly distant then. He had never expected to pass so close and he craned his neck with the others, lost in wonder. Somewhere in the city lay the greatest library in the world, containing all the works of philosophy and mathematics that had ever been written. It was somehow obscene to bring his killers into such a place of wealth and learning, but soon his vengeance would be over and he would be free to see the lands of gold.

  The water was busy with hundreds of other craft carrying the trade of nations. Julius’s merchant captains had to work to avoid collision as they approached the spit of land reaching out into the perfect anchorage that had once attracted Alexander.

  Julius turned his gaze at last to the city, frowning as distant figures resolved into armed warriors, waiting on the docks. He saw bows and spears held upright. The front ranks carried oval shields, though they wore no armor and only a breechcloth and sandals, leaving their chests bare. It was clear enough that they were not Roman. They could not have been.

  At their head stood a tall man in bulky robes that glittered in the sun. The man’s gaze could be felt even at a distance and Julius swallowed dryly. Were they there to welcome him or prevent a landing? Julius felt the first prickle of alarm as he saw that the closest soldiers carried drawn swords of bronze, gleaming like gold.

  “Let me go first, sir,” Octavian murmured at his shoulder. The legionaries of the Tenth had fallen silent as they caught sight of the army on the docks, and they were listening.

  “No,” Julius replied without turning round. He would not show fear in the face of these strange people. The consul of Rome walked where he chose.

  The corvus bridge was lowered with ropes and Julius walked over it. He heard the clatter of iron studs as his men followed and he sensed Octavian close at his side. With deliberate dignity, Julius strode to the man who waited for him.

  “My name is Porphiris, courtier to King Ptolemy, thirteenth of that name,” the man began, his voice oddly sibilant. “He who is king of Lower and Upper Egypt, who displays the regalia and propitiates the gods. He who is beloved—”

  “I am looking for a man of Rome,” Julius interrupted, pitching his voice to carry. He ignored the shock and anger in Porphiris’s eyes. “I know he came here and I want him brought to me.”

  Porphiris bowed his head, concealing his dislike. “We have received word from the merchants of your search, Consul. Know that Egypt is a friend of Rome. My king was distressed to think of your armies clashing in our fragile cities and prepared a gift to you.”

  Julius narrowed his eyes as the ranks of armed men parted and a muscular slave walked forward with a measured tread. He carried a clay vessel in his outstretched arms. Julius saw figures of great beauty worked into the surface.

  As it was placed at his feet, the slave stood back and knelt on the docks. Julius met the gaze of the king’s representative and did not move. His question had not been answered and he felt his temper fray. He did not know what they expected of him.

  “Where is Pompey?” he demanded. “I—”

  “Please. Open the jar,” the man replied.

  With an impatient jerk, Julius removed the lid. He cried out in horror then and the lid slipped from his fingers to shatter on the stones.

  Pompey’s pale face looked up from under fragrant oil. Julius could see the gleam of his Senate ring resting against his cheek. He reached slowly down and broke the surface, touching the cold flesh as he drew out the gold band.

  He had met Pompey first in the old Senate house, when Julius had been little more than a boy. He recalled the sense of awe he had felt in the presence of legends like Marius, Cicero, Sulla, and a young general named Gnaeus Pompey. It had been Pompey who cleared the Mare Internum of pirates in forty days. It had been he who broke the rebellion under Spartacus. For all he had become an enemy. Julius had bound his family and his fate with Pompey in a triumvirate to rule.

  There were too many names on the scrolls of the dead, too many who had fallen. Pompey had been a proud man. He deserved better than to be murdered by the hands of strangers, far from home.

  In front of them all, Julius wept.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 24

  As the chamber doors swung silently open, Julius caught his breath at what he saw within. He had expected his audience to take the form of a private meeting, but the vast hall was filled with hundreds along the sides, leaving a central aisle free right up to the throne. They turned to see him and he was astonished at the range of colors that swirled and mingled. This was the court of the king, painted and bejeweled in opulence.

  Lamps on heavy chains swung in unseen currents above his head as he crossed the threshold, trying not to show his awe. It was not an easy task. Everywhere he looked, there were black basalt statues of Egyptian gods looming over the courtiers. Among them, he recognized the figures of Greek deities and he could only shake his head in amazement when he saw the features of Alexander himself. The Greek legacy was everywhere, from the architecture to the customs of dress, subtly blended with the Egyptian until there was nowhere else like Alexandria.

  The scent of pungent incense was strong enough to make Julius feel drowsy, and he had to concentrate to keep his wits about him. He wore his best armor and cloak, but against the finery of the courtiers he felt shabby and unprepared. He raised his head in irritation as he felt the pressure of hundreds of eyes on him. He had seen the edges of the world. He would not be cowed by gold and granite.

  The throne of kings lay at the far end of the hall and Julius strode toward its occupant. His footsteps clicked loudly and, like gaudy insects, the courtiers ceased all movement as he approached. Julius glanced to his side and saw that Porphiris was keeping pace without a
sound. Julius had heard rumors of eunuchs serving the kingdoms of the east and wondered if Porphiris was one of that strange breed.

  The long walk toward the throne seemed to take forever, and Julius found to his annoyance that it was raised on a stone dais so that he must look up as a petitioner to the king. He halted as two of Ptolemy’s personal guard stepped across his path, blocking it with ornate staffs of gold. Julius frowned, refusing to be impressed. He thought Ptolemy regarded him with interest, though it was hard to be certain. The king wore a gold headdress and mask that obscured all but his eyes. His robes too had threads of that metal woven into them, so that he gleamed. Julius could only guess at the heat of wearing such a thing in the stifling chamber. Porphiris stepped forward.

  “I present Gaius Julius Caesar,” Porphiris said, his voice echoing, “consul of Roman lands, of Italy, Greece, of Cyprus and Crete, Sardinia and Sicily, of Gaul, of Spain, and of the African provinces.”

  “You are welcome here,” Ptolemy replied and Julius hid his surprise at the soft, high-pitched tone. The voice of a young boy was hard to reconcile with the wealth and power he had seen, or with a queen renowned for her beauty and intelligence. Julius found himself hesitating. Fumes of myrrh hung in his throat, making him want to cough.

  “I am grateful for the quarters provided to me, great King,” Julius said after a moment.

  Another man stood to one side of the golden figure and leaned down to whisper into his ear before drawing himself up. Julius glanced at him, noting the vulpine features of a true Egyptian. His eyelids were stained with some dark sheen that gave him an eerie, almost feminine beauty. There was no Greek blood in this one, Julius thought.

  “I speak with Ptolemy’s voice,” the man said, staring into Julius’s eyes. “We honor great Rome that has brought trade here for generations. We have watched her rise from simple herdsmen into the glorious strength she has today.”

  Julius found himself growing irritated again. He did not know whether it would be a breach of manners to address the man directly, or whether he should reply to Ptolemy himself. The king’s eyes were bright with interest, but gave no clue.

  “If you would speak to me, tell me your name,” Julius snapped at the courtier.

  A ripple of shock went around the hall and Ptolemy leaned a little closer in his seat, his interest obvious. The Egyptian was unflustered.

  “My name is Panek, Consul. I speak with the voice of the king.”

  “Be silent then, Panek. I am not here to speak with you,” Julius said. A babble of noise came from behind him and he heard Porphiris take a sharp breath. Julius ignored him, facing Ptolemy.

  “My people are indeed a young nation, as Alexander’s was when he came here,” Julius began. To his astonishment, every single head in the chamber bowed briefly at the mention of the name.

  Panek spoke again before Julius could continue, “We honor the god who began this great city. His mortal flesh lies here as a mark of our love for him.”

  Julius let the silence stretch as he glared at Panek. The man returned his gaze with placid blankness, as if he had no memory of Julius’s command. Julius shook his head to clear it of the fumes of incense. He could not seem to summon the words he had intended to say. Alexander a god?

  “A Roman consul came here before me,” he said. “By what right was his life taken?”

  There was silence then and the gold figure of the king was as still as his statues. Panek’s gaze seemed to sharpen and Julius thought he had irritated him at last.

  “The petty troubles of Rome are not to be brought to Alexandria. This is the word of the king,” Panek said, his voice booming around the hall. “Your armies and your wars have no place here. You have the head of your enemy as Ptolemy’s gift.”

  Julius stared hard at Ptolemy and saw the king blink. Was he nervous? It was difficult to judge behind the heavy gold. After a moment, Julius let his anger show. “You dare to call the head of a consul of Rome a gift, Panek? Will you answer me, Majesty, or let this painted thing speak for you?”

  The king shifted uncomfortably and Julius saw Panek’s hand drop to Ptolemy’s shoulder, as if in warning. Now all trace of calm had vanished from the oiled face. Panek spoke as if the words burned his mouth.

  “The hospitality you have been offered extends for only seven days, Consul. After that, you will board your ships and leave Alexandria.”

  Julius ignored Panek, his eyes firmly on the gold mask. Ptolemy did not move again and after a time Julius looked away in fury. He could feel the anger of the guards around him and cared nothing for it.

  “Then we have nothing more to say. Your Majesty, it has been an honor.”

  Julius turned away abruptly, surprising Porphiris so that he had to hurry to catch him before the far doors.

  As they closed behind him, Porphiris deliberately blocked his path. “Consul, you have a talent for making enemies,” he said.

  Julius did not speak and after a moment Porphiris sagged under his stare.

  “If the king considers you have insulted him, your men will not be allowed to live,” Porphiris said. “The people will tear you apart.”

  Julius looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Are you a eunuch, Porphiris? I have been wondering.”

  Porphiris moved his hands in agitation. “What? Did you not hear what I said to you?”

  “I heard you, as I have heard the threats of a dozen kings in my life. What is one more, to me?”

  Porphiris gaped in amazement. “King Ptolemy is a god, Consul. If he speaks your death, there is nothing in the world that will save you.”

  Julius seemed to consider this. “I will think on it. Now take me back to my men in that fine palace your god provided. The incense is too strong for me in here.”

  Porphiris bowed over his confusion.

  “Yes, Consul,” he said, leading the way down.

  As night came, Julius paced up and down the marble floor of his quarters, brooding. The palace he had been given was larger and more spacious than any building he had ever owned in Rome, and the room where he had eaten was but one of many dozens available. Porphiris had provided slaves for his comfort, but Julius had dismissed them on his return from the king’s court. He preferred the company of his own Tenth to spies and potential assassins.

  He paused at an open window, looking out at the port of Alexandria and letting the breeze cool his indignation. As well as the eternal flame on Pharos, he could see thousands of lights in homes, shops, and warehouses. The docks were busy with ships and cargo and darkness had changed nothing. In another mood, he might have enjoyed the scene, but he tightened his grip on the stone sill, oblivious to its craftsmanship. He had been awed at first at the level of ornamentation in the city. His quarters were no exception and the walls around him were lined with some blue ceramic, overlaid in gold leaf. It had palled after only a short time. Perhaps because he had been so long in the field, or because his roots lay in a simpler Rome, but Julius no longer walked as if his steps could break the delicate statuary on every side. He didn’t care if they fell into dust at his tread.

  “I was all but dismissed, Octavian!” he said, clenching his hands behind his back. “You cannot imagine the arrogance of those courtiers in their paints and oils. A flock of pretty birds without enough wits to fill a good Roman head between them.”

  “What did their king say about Pompey?” Octavian asked.

  He had taken a seat on a cushioned bench carved from what looked to be a single piece of black granite. He too had experienced the Egyptian welcome, with half-naked guards preventing his men from exploring the city. Domitius had managed to evade them for an hour, then been brought back like an errant child, with the guards shaking their heads in disapproval.

  “The king might as well have been a mute, for all I had from him,” Julius said. “From the few words I heard, I’d say he was only a boy. I never even saw his famous queen. More insults! His courtiers are the real power in this city and they have dismissed us like unwelcome tr
adesmen. It is insufferable! To think that this is Alexander’s city and I have a chance to see it. I could have spent days in the great library alone and perhaps gone further inland to see the Nile. Rome would have waited a little longer for me to return.”

  “You have what you came for, Julius. Pompey’s head and ring . . .”

  “Yes! I have that grisly remnant of a great man. His life was not theirs to take, Octavian. By the gods, it makes me furious to think of those golden-skinned eunuchs killing him.”

  He thought of his promise to his daughter, that he would refrain from taking Pompey’s life. How would she react when she heard the news? Pompey had not died at his hand, but perhaps the manner of his passing was worse, so far from his home and people. He clenched his jaw in anger.

  “They made it sound as if we would have sacked the city in our search for him, Octavian. As if we were barbarians to be placated and sent on our way with a few beads and pots! He was my enemy, but he deserved better than to be killed at the hands of those men. A consul of Rome, no less. Shall I let it pass without revenge?”

  “I think you must,” Octavian said, frowning to himself.

  He knew Julius was capable of declaring war on the city over Pompey’s death. Though the courtiers and king could not know it, almost four thousand men and horses could arrive at the port at any time. If Julius sent word back to Greece, he could order a dozen legions to march. One spark and Octavian knew he would not see Rome again for years.

  “They believed they were doing your will when they gave you Pompey’s head,” Octavian said. “By their standards, they have treated us with courtesy. Is it an insult to be given a palace?”

  He decided not to mention the humiliations the Tenth had endured from the palace guards. Julius was more protective of his beloved legion than his own life. If he heard they had been ill-treated, he would be blowing the war-horns before the sun rose.

  Julius had paused to listen and in the silence Octavian could hear the tap-tap of his fingers behind his back.