The Emperor Series Books 1-4. Conn Iggulden

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СКАЧАТЬ officer's rank of tesserarius. Advancement will come quickly if you show ability; slowly or not at all if you don't. Understood?’

      Julius nodded, keeping his face impassive. The days of high life in Roman society were over. This was the steel in the empire that allowed the city to relax in softness and joy. He would have to prove himself, this time, without the benefit of a powerful uncle.

      ‘These two, how do they fit in?’ Gaditicus asked, motioning towards Tubruk and Cabera.

      ‘Tubruk is my estate manager. He will be returning. The old man is Cabera, my … servant. I would like him to accompany me.’

      ‘He's too old for the oars, but we'll find work for him. No one loafs on any ship I run. Everyone works. Everyone.’

      ‘Understood, sir. He has some skill as a healer.’

      Cabera had taken on a slightly glassy-eyed expression, but agreed after a pause.

      ‘That will serve. Will you be signing on for two years, or five?’ Gaditicus asked.

      ‘Two, to begin with, sir.’ Julius kept his voice firm. Marius had warned him not to devote his life to soldiering under long contracts, but to keep his options open to gain a wider experience.

      ‘Then welcome to the Third Partica, Julius Caesar,’ Gaditicus said gruffly. 'Now get on board and see the quartermaster for your bunk and supplies. I'll see you in two hours for the oath-taking.

      Julius turned to Tubruk, who reached across and gripped his hand and wrist.

      ‘Gods favour the brave, Julius,’ the old warrior said, smiling. He turned to Cabera. ‘And you, keep him away from strong drink, weak women and men who own their own dice. Understand?’

      Cabera made a vulgar sound with his mouth. ‘I own my own dice,’ he replied.

      Gaditicus pretended not to notice the exchange as he once again crossed the planks onto his ship.

      The old man felt the future settle as the decision was made and a spot of tension in his skull disappeared almost before he had realised it was there. He could sense the sudden lift in Julius' spirits and felt his own mood perk up. The young never worried about the future or the past, not for long. As they boarded the galley, the dark and bloody events in Rome seemed to belong to a different world.

      Julius stepped onto the moving deck and pulled a deep breath into his lungs.

      A young soldier, perhaps in his early twenties, stood nearby with a sly look on his face. He was tall and solid with a pocked and pitted face bearing old acne scars.

      ‘I thought it must be you, mudfish,’ he said. ‘I recognised Tubruk on the dock.’

      For a moment, Julius didn't recognise the man. Then it clicked.

      ‘Suetonius?’ he exclaimed.

      The man stiffened slightly.

      ‘Tesserarius Prandus, to you. I am watch commander for this century. An officer.’

      ‘You're signing on as one of those, aren't you, Julius?’ Cabera said clearly.

      Julius looked at Suetonius. On this day, he hadn't the patience to mind the man's feelings.

      ‘For now,’ he replied to Cabera, then turned to his old neighbour.

      ‘How long have you been in that rank?’

      ‘A few years,’ Suetonius replied, stiffening.

      Julius nodded. ‘I'll have to see if I can do better than that. Will you show me to my quarters?’

      Anger at the offhand manner coloured Suetonius' features. Without another word, he turned away from them, striding over the decks.

      ‘An old friend?’ Cabera muttered as they followed.

      ‘No, not really.’ Julius didn't say any more and Cabera didn't press for details. There would be time enough at sea to hear them all.

      Inwardly Julius sighed. Two years of his life would be spent with these men, and it would be hard enough without having Suetonius there to remember him as a smooth-faced urchin. The unit would range right across the Mediterranean, holding Roman territories, guaranteeing safe sea trade, perhaps even taking part in land or sea battles. He shrugged at his thoughts. His experience in the city had shown that there was no point worrying about the future – it would always be a surprise. He would become older and stronger and would rise in rank. Eventually, he would be strong enough to return to Rome and look Sulla in the eye. Then they would see.

      With Marcus standing at his side, there would be a reckoning, and a payment taken for Marius' death.

       CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

      Marcus waited patiently in the outer chamber of the camp Prefect's rooms. To pass the time before he was admitted to the meeting to determine his future, he read the letter from Gaius again. It had been travelling for many months and had been carried from hand to hand by legionaries passing closer and closer to Illyria. Finally, it had been included in a bundle of orders for the Fourth Macedonia and passed on to the young officer.

      Marius' death had come as a terrible blow. Marcus had wanted to be able to show the general that his faith in him had been well founded. He had wanted to thank him as a man, but that was impossible now. Although he had never met Sulla, he wondered if the consul would be a danger for himself and Gaius – Julius now.

      He smiled at the news of the marriage and winced at the brief lines about Alexandria, guessing much more than Julius had revealed. Cornelia sounded like an angel to hear Julius write of her. It was really the only piece of good news in the whole thing.

      His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy door to the inner rooms opening. A legionary came out and saluted. Marcus rose and returned the gesture smartly.

      ‘The Prefect will see you now,’ the man said.

      Marcus nodded and marched into the room, standing to attention the regulation three feet from the Prefect's oak table, bare except for a wine jug, inkpot and some neatly arranged parchment.

      Renius was there, standing in the corner with a cup of wine. Leonides too, the centurion of the Bronze Fist. Carac, the camp Prefect, rose as the young man entered and gestured to him to sit. Marcus lowered himself onto a heavy chair and sat rigidly.

      ‘At your ease, legionary. This is not a court martial,’ Carac muttered, his gaze wandering over the papers on his desk.

      Marcus tried to relax his bearing a little.

      ‘Your two years is up in a week, as you are no doubt aware,’ Carac said.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Marcus replied.

      ‘Your record has been excellent to date. Command of a contubernium, successful actions against local tribesmen. Winner of the Bronze Fist sword tourney last month. I hear the men respect you, despite your youth, and regard you as dependable in a crisis – some would say СКАЧАТЬ