A great roar of appreciation echoed around the theatre. Mark Antony kept his face a mask. It was true his properties had remained untouched in the riots while those of other senators had been deliberately targeted. He had been a friend of Caesar, his name whispered as the one who had delivered the oration, who had inspired the crowds to revenge for the assassination. The Senate were still seen as the men who had brought Caesar down and that rankled with them.
As Bibilus sat, Mark Antony rose, judging the moment was right and preferring not to let the poisonous Suetonius speak as well.
‘I am a servant of Rome, as Senator Bibilus knows full well. If it is the will of this house that I carry your orders to Brundisium, I will do so. However, let my objections be made part of the record. Such an action achieves nothing but revenge at a time when we must be unified. I call the matter to a vote.’
The voting was over in a matter of moments, with a triumphant jeer ringing out through the theatre. Bibilus sat back with his friends patting him on the back. They had shown what they thought of Caesar’s favourite.
Mark Antony continued to play his part, hiding his satisfaction. He waited through a few minor speeches and discussions, hardly contributing, until the senators were ready to depart. He endured Bibilus’ insolent triumph as the man levered his bulk up to leave, surrounded by his favourites. Mark Antony shook his head slightly. Julius had never spoken of what passed between those two men, but Mark Antony had made a few enquiries of his own. Caesar had taken a group of child slaves from the ex-consul’s house, passing them to families without children. Bibilus had replaced them with adults and never bought a child since that day. The truth was there to be read and Mark Antony wondered if Bibilus had resumed his old cruelties now that Caesar was gone. He made a private vow to have the man watched. He had been ruined once and could be again.
As Mark Antony came out into the open air, the Campus Martius stretched into the distance, the great training field of the city. It was almost hidden from view by the loyal legions camped there and he felt a pang of doubt. If he succeeded in taking control of the army at Brundisium, it would be a challenge to the new authority of the Senate. The legions before him on the Campus might be ordered to march against him. As his lictors gathered, he firmed his jaw. He had come too far, risen too far, to sink back into the mass of men claiming to rule Rome. He had Caesar’s example to follow. Men like Bibilus and Suetonius would not be able to stop him. For the first time in years, Mark Antony thought he understood Julius a little better. He felt alive with the challenge and the tasks ahead. To rule Rome, he needed the legions at Brundisium. With them at his command, he would be immune from anything the Senate could do. That prize was surely worth the risk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Evening was coming on in smooth shades of grey by the time Octavian reached the street on the Aventine hill where the consul had his main property. He yawned, suppressing tiredness. From the moment at dawn when he had heard his legacy from Caesar, he had hardly stopped moving. He’d visited three different homes in the city, complete with slaves and staff, all of whom were now his. It was dizzying. He had come into Rome with nothing, but it was somehow fitting that Caesar’s will had been the agent of his change in fortune. Alive, Caesar had been unpredictable, given to ignoring laws and rules as he saw the fastest way to achieve his objectives. Octavian had learned from him. If he hesitated, those who might oppose him would have time to gather their strength.
It was strange to see the consul’s property pristine and untouched. On the streets nearby, Octavian had passed through great swathes of rubble and ash, seeing views of the seven hills that had not existed for a century or more. There were already builders and sweating workmen in those places, paid by the wealthy owners. The vistas created by destruction would not last long. Yet Mark Antony’s homes remained, his reward for firing the emotions of the city.
‘Maecenas and I both think this is a terrible idea,’ Agrippa said, as they strode up the hill.
Gracchus was with the three men, in the main because he had made himself useful all day. His motive for sudden loyalty was obvious and Maecenas baited him at every opportunity, but another sword was undeniably useful and Octavian had not sent him away.
Octavian did not reply and the four of them reached the massive oak door set into the wall that ran alongside the cobbled street. There was a small iron grille and Agrippa bent down to peer through it, raising his eyebrows at the courtyard within. It was chaotic, with more than a dozen slaves running to and fro, loading a carriage and bringing draught horses into position.
‘It seems we have chosen a busy time for the consul,’ he said. ‘There is no need to do this, Octavian.’
‘I say there is. And you will have to get used to the new name. I have the right to it, by blood and adoption.’
Agrippa shrugged.
‘I will try to remember, Julius. Gods, it doesn’t sit well to call you that.’
‘It will get easier. Use makes master, my friend.’
In the courtyard, one of the scurrying slaves had noticed the big man peering in and approached them, making waving motions with his hands.
‘Whatever you want, the consul is not available,’ he said. ‘If it is official business, see your senator.’
‘Tell him Caesar is here,’ Octavian said. ‘I think he will come out for me.’
The slave’s eyes widened.
‘Yes, sir. I will let him know.’ The man trotted away, looking back over his shoulder every few paces until he had disappeared into the main house.
‘There’s nothing to be gained here; you do know that?’ Maecenas said. ‘Even your excited new dog knows it, don’t you, Gracchus?’ Gracchus merely glared at him, saying nothing. ‘At best, you will anger a powerful man.’
Mark Antony came out into the courtyard, looking harassed and flushed. He gave orders as he went and more men and women scurried around him, staggering under chests and bales tied with leather.
The consul made a gesture to a man they had not yet seen, presumably guarding the door on the inside. They heard the rattle of iron as a bar was lifted and bolts drawn. It opened smoothly and Mark Antony stopped a pace within his property, regarding them with impatience in every feature. His gaze took in the fact that they were armed and his mouth firmed.
‘What is so important that you must trouble me in my home? Do you think the name of Caesar has such power still?’
‘It brought you out,’ Octavian replied.
Mark Antony waited a beat. Following the letter of the Senate’s orders, he could have gone to Brundisium with just a few servants. The reality was that he was moving his household, including his wife and children. He did not know when he would return and his mind was on the labyrinthine politics of the Senate, not the young man who called himself Caesar.
‘It must have escaped your notice that I am busy. See me when I return to Rome.’
‘Consul, men speak of you as one who was Caesar’s friend. I have read the text of your oration and it was … noble, no matter what came next. Yet the terms of his will have not been ratified in Senate and will not be, without your support. What of the legacy to the people of Rome?’
‘I’m sorry. The Senate have already voted. They will pay the legacy only when the damage to the city is restored. I will be away from Rome for a time, on orders from the Senate. There is nothing more I can do.’
Octavian stared at him, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. ‘I came to you in peace, because I thought you, of all men, would support me.’
‘What you thought is no concern of mine,’ Mark Antony snapped. He turned to the unseen figure on his right. ‘Close the door now.’
It began to creak shut and Octavian put out a hand to the wood.
‘Consul! I will have justice, with you or not. I will see Caesar’s assassins brought down, no matter what they call themselves or where they hide! Will you stand with them, against the honour of your friend?’
He heard Mark Antony sn
ort in disgust as he walked away and the pressure on the door increased as the man inside threw his weight against it. It slammed shut in his face. Octavian hammered on it, enraged.
‘Consul! Choose a side! If you stand with them, I will …’
‘By the gods, grab hold of him, would you?’ Maecenas said.
He and Agrippa took Octavian by the shoulders and pulled him away from pounding on the consul’s door.
‘That may have been the worst idea you ever had,’ Maecenas said grimly as they walked Octavian down the hill. ‘Why not shout out all your plans to the Senate, perhaps?’
Octavian shook him off, walking in stiff rage and looking back at the consul’s door as if he could force it open with anger alone.
‘He had to be told. If he has the sense to see it, I am his natural ally. If he wasn’t such a blind fool.’
‘Did you think he would welcome you with open arms?’ Maecenas said. ‘He is a consul of Rome!’
‘And I am Caesar’s son and heir. That is the key to all locks, with or without Mark Antony.’
Maecenas looked away, unsettled by his friend’s intensity.
‘It’s late,’ Agrippa said. ‘What do you say to going back to the house on the Esquiline?’
Octavian smothered a yawn at the very thought of sleep. The house was one of five he had inherited that morning, the deeds presented to him by the argentarii.
‘Without a law passed in Senate, I am not yet the official heir to Caesar,’ he said. A thought struck him, so that he stopped, bringing the small group to a halt. ‘But thousands heard the priestess read the will. That was enough for the argentarii. What does it matter if the law isn’t passed? The people know.’
‘The people have no power,’ Agrippa said. ‘No matter how they riot, they are still helpless.’
‘That is true,’ Octavian replied. ‘But there were soldiers there as well. The legions in the Campus know that I am Caesar. And they do have power, enough for anything.’
By the time night fell, the consul and his retinue were barely three miles out of Rome, trundling along the flat roads east. Mark Antony had called a brief halt at the walls of the city, dismounting to burn a brazier of incense to Janus. The god of beginnings and gates was a suitable patron for everything he hoped to achieve.
Over a hundred men and women travelled with him. His wife Fulvia was at the heart of it, with their two sons, Antyllus and Paulus, and her daughter Claudia from her first marriage. Around them, dozens of scribes, guards and slaves marched or rode. The reins of his horse were tied to a flat-sided carriage where his wife lounged on cushions, shaded from the vulgar gaze. He could hear his boys bickering through the wooden walls, still annoyed that he had refused their demands to ride ahead with him. Only Fulvia knew all his plans and she was far from a prattler. He jumped down to the road and strode along, stretching his legs for the ride ahead.
The legions at Brundisium had been loyal to Julius, loyal enough to refuse the orders of a Senate they saw as tainted by the Liberatores. That was the revelation that had come to him while Bibilus spoke in spite. Mark Antony had not planned to be the champion of those who had loved Caesar, but he could take the role. The legions of Brundisium would surely follow him if he asked in Caesar’s name.
As he walked alongside the carriage, the face of Octavian came to mind and Mark Antony grunted in exasperation. The young man was no more than a distraction, at a time when he could not afford to be distracted. Six legions waited at the coast, no doubt in fear of the Senate’s anger. They had not yet mutinied, at least not formally. If he found the words to call them, they would be his to command. It was exactly the sort of grand stroke Julius would have attempted and the thought warmed him.
With the energy of a younger man, Mark Antony put his foot on the step and leapt up onto the carriage, clambering in through the narrow door to where his wife and children were eating. Fulvia and her daughter were playing a game with a long string wound about their fingers. They were in mid-laughter as he appeared among them, the sound cut short. Mark Antony nodded to his two sons and stepdaughter, ruffling the hair of Antyllus as he stepped over him.
In her thirties, Fulvia had broadened across the hips and waist, though her skin and black hair were still lustrous. Claudia moved to give him space and Fulvia held out her arms to her husband. The consul almost fell into them in the low space, landing with a gasp on the bench as his feet tangled in cloth. Paulus yelped and Claudia smacked his leg, making the younger boy glare. Mark Antony leaned close to Fulvia, speaking into her ear.
‘I think I have waited my whole life for a chance like this,’ he said, smiling.
She kissed him on the neck, looking up at him in adoration.
‘The omens are good, husband. My soothsayer was amazed at the signs this morning.’
Mark Antony’s high spirits dampened slightly, but he nodded, pleased that she was happy. If he had learned one thing from the years at Caesar’s side, it was that omens and entrails were not as important as quick wits and strength.
‘I’m going ahead. You’ll see me in Brundisium and I hope with more than just a few guards at my back.’
She winked at him, smiling even as their sons demanded to know what he meant. Mark Antony cuffed their heads affectionately, kissed Claudia and Fulvia goodbye, then opened the door and vaulted down to the road, leaving his wife to deal with the endless questions.
In just moments, he had gained the saddle of his gelding and untied the reins. His personal guards were mounted and ready, keen to be off. On a Roman road, they had no fear of bad ground in the moonlight. They would be twenty miles clear by dawn.
The rising sun brought pale light through the blown-glass windows high in the walls. Maecenas sat back, enjoying the sense of utter relaxation that came from a private bath-house. Steam filled his lungs with every breath and he could barely see his companions.
Caesar’s town house had been in a state of half-life when they entered it, with most of the furniture covered in great sheets of dusty, brown cloth. In just a few hours, the staff had lit the fires and the floors were already warm enough to walk on in bare feet. In the presence of a new owner, they had scavenged fresh fruit from one of the markets and begun to prepare a cold meal. Maecenas thought idly that he was sitting where Caesar himself had sat. Where Caesar still sat, he corrected himself with a smile, looking through the mist at Octavian. Dripping with sweat and steam, his friend stared into some private vision, his muscles as tight as ropes in his arms and shoulders. Looking at him, Maecenas remembered his friend collapsing, sightless and pale. He did not want to see that again.
‘Are you ready yet for the cold bath or the massage?’ he said. ‘It will relax you.’
At least Gracchus was not present. Maecenas had given him the task of bringing life back to the house. The legionary was still working hard to remain and Octavian had not objected. Despite his misgivings, it was almost pleasant to deal with one whose greed for gold made him transparent.
‘Agrippa?’ Maecenas asked again. ‘What about you?’
‘Not yet,’ Agrippa rumbled, his voice echoing oddly in the steam.
‘Oct … Caesar?’ Maecenas said, catching himself.
Octavian opened his eyes, smiling tiredly.
‘Thank you. I must get used to the new name. But we are private here and I do not want to be overheard. Stay.’
Maecenas shrugged slightly, letting the warm air flow out of his lungs and then sucking in a deep breath.
‘I hope today will not be as busy as yesterday, that’s all I am saying,’ Maecenas said. ‘I seem to have gone from a relaxed holiday with friends to the most unpleasant levels of excitement. I have suffered through sea voyages and galloping horses, as well as arguments and threats from sad little men like that tribune. I think perhaps we should relax here for a few days. That would be a tonic for us all. At least I slept well enough. Caesar kept a fine house; I’ll give him that.’
‘I don’t have time to waste,’ Octavian said sud
denly. ‘The murderers of Caesar have gone to ground and it is my task to dig them out and kill them with a spade. If you were in my place, you would do the same.’
‘Well, I am in your place, or at least in the same bath-house. I am not certain of that at all,’ Maecenas replied. He scratched his testicles as he spoke, then leaned back against the cooler tiles, enjoying the heat. Of the three of them, he sat closest to the simmering copper trough that thickened the steam in the room, delighting in the weakness that deep warmth brings.
‘I need information, Maecenas. You say I have thousands of clients sworn to support me, but I don’t know who they are. I must have all Caesar’s properties searched and catalogued and his informers contacted, to see if they will continue their work for me. I imagine I need to pay the stipend for thousands more, so I will need educated men by the hundred to arrange such things.’
Maecenas smirked. ‘I can tell that you have not grown up with servants. You do not manage so many yourself, or you would end up doing nothing else. There will be estate managers on the staff; give the job to them. The sun is barely up, but they’ll have what you need by noon, just to please the new master. Give them the chance to run themselves ragged for you. They love it, believe me. It gives their lives purpose and frees the noble owner from tedious details.’
Agrippa rubbed a hand down his face, gasping in the heat.
‘Listening to you is always an education, Maecenas,’ he said wryly. ‘How your slaves must love you, to have their lives given meaning in such a way.’
‘They do,’ Maecenas replied complacently. ‘I am like the rising sun to them, the first name they think as they wake and the last before they sleep. When Caesar here allows us a few days of relaxation, I will show you my estate in the hills near Mantua. It will take your breath away, for sheer beauty.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Agrippa replied. ‘For now, though, I have had enough of sipping my breath. I’m for the cold and the massage table.’
Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) Page 11
