The Emperor Series Books 1-5. Conn Iggulden

The position was clear.

      ‘Now, gentlemen, your orders for tomorrow.’

      Cornelia waited patiently until her father had finished, allowing his rage to wash over her, leaving her untouched.

      ‘No, Father. You will not have him tracked down. He will be my husband and you will welcome him into our house when the time comes.’

      Cinna purpled in renewed anger. ‘I’ll see his body rot first! He comes like a thief into my home and you sit there like a block of marble and tell me I will accept it? I will not, until his body lies broken at my feet.’

      Cornelia sighed gently, waiting for the tirade to slow down. Shutting her ears against the shouting, she counted the flowers that she could see from the window. Finally, the tone changed and she brought her attention back to her father, who was looking at her doubtfully.

      ‘I love him, Father, and he loves me. I am sorry we brought shame to the house, but the marriage will wash it all away, despite the gossips in the market. You did tell me I could choose a man I wanted, remember?’

      ‘Are you pregnant?’

      ‘Not as far as I know. There will be no sign when we are married, no public show.’

      Her father nodded, looking older and deflated.

      Cornelia stood and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You won’t regret it.’

      Cinna grunted dubiously. ‘Do I know him, this despoiler of innocence?’

      Cornelia smiled, relieved at his change in mood. ‘You do, I’m sure. He is the nephew of Marius. Gaius Julius Caesar.’

      Her father shrugged. ‘I have heard the name.’

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      Cornelius Sulla sipped cooled wine in the shadow of his tent, looking over the legion camp. It was the last night he would have to bear away from his beloved Rome. He shivered slightly in the breeze and perhaps in anticipation of the conflict to come. Did he know every aspect of Marius’ plans or would the old fox surprise him? Messages of official welcome lay upon the table, ignored for the formality they were.

      Padacus rode up, pulling the horse into a flashy stop with the rear legs buckling on the turn. Sulla smiled at him. So very young, and such a very beautiful man, he noted to himself.

      ‘The camp is secure, General,’ Padacus called as he dismounted. Every inch of his armour was polished and glowing, the leather soft and dark with oil. A young Hercules, Sulla thought as he received and answered the salute. Loyal unto death, though, like a pampered hound.

      ‘Tomorrow night, we will enter the city. This is the last night for hard ground and living like barbarians,’ Sulla told him, preferring the simple image over the reality of soft beds and fine linen in the general’s tent at least. His heart was with the men, but the privations of a legionary’s life had never appealed to the consul.

      ‘Will you share your plans, Cornelius? The others are all eager to know how you will handle Marius.’

      Padacus had pressed a little too closely in his enthusiasm and Sulla held up a palm.

      ‘Tomorrow, my friend. Tomorrow will be soon enough for preparations. I will retire early tonight, after a little more wine.’

      ‘Will you require … company?’ Padacus asked softly.

      ‘No. Wait. Send a couple of the better-looking whores to me. I might as well see if I have anything new to learn.’

      Padacus dropped his head as if he’d been struck. He backed to his horse and trotted away.

      Sulla watched his stiff retreat and sighed, splashing the remaining wine in his goblet onto the black ground. It was the third time the young man had offered and Sulla had to face the fact that he was becoming a problem. The line between adoration and spite was fine in young Padacus. Better to send him away to some other legion before he caused trouble that could not be ignored. He sighed again and walked into the tent, flicking the leather sheet closed over the entrance behind him.

      The lamps had been lit by his slaves, the floor was covered in rugs and cloth. Sweet-smelling oil burned in a tiny cup, a rare mixture he enjoyed. Sulla took a deep breath and caught a flicker of movement coming at him from the right. He collapsed backwards out of the line of the attack and felt the air move as something slashed above him. Sulla kicked out with powerful legs and his attacker was knocked from his feet. As the assassin flailed round, Sulla caught his knife hand in a crushing grip. He levered himself up so that his weight was on the man’s chest and he smiled as he watched the man’s expression change from anger and fear to surprise and despair.

      Sulla was not a soft man. True, he didn’t favour the more extreme Roman tests of courage, where injuries and scars showed prowess, but he trained every day and fought in every battle. His wrists were like metal and he had no difficulty in turning the blade inward until it was pointing towards the man’s throat.

      ‘How much did Marius pay you?’ Sulla sneered, his voice showing little strain.

      ‘Nothing. I kill you for pleasure.’

      ‘Amateur by word and deed!’ Sulla continued, pressing the knife closer to the heaving flesh. ‘Guards! Attend your consul!’ he barked and, within seconds, the man was pinned down and Sulla could stand and brush dust from himself.

      The guard captain had entered with the rush of people. He was pale, but managed to snap out a clean salute as he stood to attention.

      ‘It seems that an assassin has made his way through the camp and into the tent of a consul of Rome without being challenged,’ Sulla said quietly, dipping his hands into a bowl of scented water on an oak table and holding them out to be dried by a slave.

      The guard captain took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Torture will get us the names of his masters. I will supervise the questioning myself. I will resign my commission in the morning, General, with your permission?’

      Sulla continued as if the man had not spoken. ‘I do not enjoy being accosted in my own tent. It seems such a common, grubby incident to disturb my repose in this way.’

      He stooped and picked up the dagger, ignoring the owner’s frantic struggles as the grim soldiers bound him with vicious tightness. He held the slim blade out to the nervous captain.

      ‘You have left me unprotected. Take this. Go to your tent and cut your throat with it. I will have your body collected in … two hours?’

      The man nodded stiffly, taking the dagger. He saluted again and turned on his heel, marching out of the tent space.

      Padacus placed a warm palm on Sulla’s arm. ‘Are you wounded?’

      Sulla pulled his arm away in irritation. ‘I am fine. Gods, it was only one man. Marius must have a very low opinion of me.’

      ‘We don’t know it was only one man. I will set guards around your tent tonight.’

      Sulla shook his head. ‘No. Let Marius think he has scared me? I’ll keep those two whores you were bringing me and make sure one of them is awake through the night. Bring them in and get rid of everyone else. I believe I have worked up an appetite for a little vicious entertainment.’

      Padacus saluted smartly, but Sulla saw the full lips pout as he turned and made a note. The man was definitely a risk. He would not make it back to Rome. An accident of some kind – a fall from his glorious gelding. Perfect.

      At last he was alone and Sulla sat on a low bed, smoothing a hand over the soft material. There was a quiet, female cough from outside and Sulla smiled with pleasure.

      The two girls that entered at his call were clean,