The Emperor Series Books 1-4. Conn Iggulden
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and ignore the pain and weariness that threatened to drag him back down to darkness.
‘With you, Marius, I must make a special solution. This is my offer. Can he hear me?’ he asked one of the men Marius could not see. More slaps woke him from his stupor.
‘Still with us? Tell your men to accept my legal authority as consul of Rome. The Primigenia must surrender and my legion be allowed to deploy into the city without incident or attack. They are in anyway, you know. If you can deliver this, I will allow you to leave Rome with your wife, protected by my honour. If you refuse, not one of your men will be left alive. I will destroy them from street to street, from house to house, along with all who have ever shown you favour or support, their wives, children and slaves. In short, I will wipe your name from the annals of the city, so that no man will live who would have called you friend. Do you understand, Marius? Pull him to his feet and support him. Fetch the man water to ease his throat.’
Marius heard the words and tried to hold them in his swirling, leaden thoughts. He didn't trust Sulla's honour further than he could spit, but his legion would be saved. They would be sent far from Rome, of course, given some degrading task of guarding tin mines in the far north against the painted savages, but they would be alive. He had gambled and lost. Grim despair filled him, blunting the sharpness of the pain as broken bones shifted in the rough grip of Sulla's men, men who would not have dared lay a finger on him only a year before. His arm hung slack, feeling numb and detached from him, but that didn't matter any more. A last thought stopped him from speaking at once. Should he delay in the hope that his men could win through and turn the situation to his advantage? He turned his head and saw the mass of Sulla's men fanning out to secure the local streets and realised the chance for a quick retaliation had gone. From now on, it would be the messiest, most vicious kind of fighting, and most of his legion was still on the walls around the city, unable to engage. No.
‘I agree. My word on it. Let the nearest of my men see me, so that I may pass the order on to them.’
Sulla nodded, his face twisted with suspicion. ‘Thousands will die if you tell untruth. Your wife will be tortured to death. Let there be an end to this. Bring him forward.’
Marius groaned with pain as he was dragged away from the shadow of the wall, to where the clash of arms was intense.
Sulla nodded to his aides. ‘Sound the disengage,’ he snapped, his voice betraying the first touch of nerves since Marius had seen him. The horns sounded the pattern and at once the first and second rows took two paces back from the enemy, holding position with bloody swords.
Marius' legion had left the walls on the southeast side of the city, swarming through the streets. They massed down every alley and road, eyes bright with rage and bloodlust. Behind them, every second, more gathered as the city walls were stripped of defenders. As Marius was propped up to speak, a great howl went up from the men, an animal noise of vengeance. Sulla stood his ground, but the muscles tightened around his eyes in response. Marius took a deep breath to speak and felt the press of a dagger by his spine.
‘First-Born.’ Marius' voice was a croak, and he tried again, finding strength. ‘First-Born. There is no dishonour. We were not betrayed but attacked by Sulla's own men left behind. Now, if you love me, if you have ever loved me, kill them all and burn Rome!’
He ignored the agony of the dagger as it tore into him, standing strong before his men for one long moment as they roared in fierce joy. Then his body collapsed.
‘Fires of hell!’ Sulla roared as the First-Born surged forward. ‘Form fours. Mêlée formation and engage. Sixth company to me. Attack!’ He drew his sword as the closest company clustered round to protect him. Already, he could smell blood and smoke on the air and dawn was still hours away.
Marcus looked over the parapet, straining his eyes at the distant campfires of the enemy. It was a beautiful land, but there was nothing soft in it. The winters killed the old and weak and even the scrub bushes had a wilted, defeated look as they clung to the steep crags of the mountain passes. After more than a year as a hill scout, his skin was a dark brown and his body was corded with wiry muscle. He had begun to develop what the older soldiers called the ‘itch’, the ability to smell out an ambush, to spot a tracker and move unseen over rocks in the dark. All the experienced trackers had the itch and those who hadn't acquired it after a year never would – and would never be first-rate, they claimed.
Marcus had first been promoted to command eight men after he successfully spotted an ambush by blueskin tribesmen, directing his scouts around and behind the waiting enemy. His men had cut them to pieces and only afterwards did anyone remark that they had followed his lead without argument. It had been the first time he had seen the wild nomads up close and the sight of their blue-dyed faces still slid into his dreams after bad food or cheap wine.
The policy of the legion was to control and pacify the area, which in practice meant a blanket permission to kill as many of the savages as they could. Atrocities were common. Roman guards were lost and found staked out, their entrails exposed to the brutal sun. Mercy and kindness were quickly burned away in the heat, dust and flies. Most of the actions were minor – there could be none of the set-piece battles so beloved of the Roman legionaries on such broken and hostile terrain. The patrols went out and came back with a couple of heads or a few men short. It seemed to be a stalemate, with neither side having the strength for extermination.
After twelve months of this, the raids on the supply caravans suddenly became more frequent and more brutal. Along with a number of other units, Marcus' men had been added to the supply guards, to make sure the water barrels and salted provisions reached their most isolated outposts.
It had always been clear that these buildings were barbs under the skin of the tribespeople and attacks on the small stone forts in the hills were common. The legion rotated the men stationed there at regular intervals and many came back to the permanent camp with grisly stories of heads thrown over the parapets, or words of blood found on the walls when the sun rose.
At first the duties of caravan guard had not been onerous for Marcus. Five of his eight men were experienced, cool hands and completed their duties without fuss or complaint. Of the other three, Japek complained constantly, seeming not to care that he was disliked by the others, Rupis was close to retirement and had been broken back to the ranks after some failure of command and the third was Peppis. Each presented different problems and Renius had only shaken his head when asked for advice.
‘They're your men, you sort it out,’ had been his only word on the subject.
Marcus had made Rupis his second, in charge of four of the men, in the hope that this would restore a little of his pride. Instead, he seemed to take some obscure insult from this and practically sneered whenever Marcus gave him an order. After a little thought, Marcus had ordered Japek to write down every one of his complaints as they occurred to him, forming a catalogue that he would allow Japek to present to their centurion back at the permanent camp. The man was famous for not suffering fools and Marcus was glad to note that not a single complaint had gone down on the parchment he had provided from the legion stores. A small triumph, perhaps, but Marcus was struggling to learn the skills of dealing with people or, as Renius put it, making them do what you want without being so annoyed they do it badly. When he thought about it, it made Marcus smile that the only teacher he'd ever had for diplomacy was Renius.
Peppis was the kind of problem that couldn't be resolved with a few words or a blow. He had made a promising start at the permanent barracks, growing quickly in size and bulk with good food and exercise. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to steal from the stores, often bringing the items to Marcus, which had caused him a great deal of embarrassment. Even being forced to return everything he took and a brief but solid lashing had failed to cure Peppis of the habit and eventually the Bronze Fist centurion, Leonides, had sent the boy to Marcus with a note that read: ‘Your responsibility. Your back.’
The guard duty had started well, with the kind of efficiency