‘Wait just a little longer, my friend,’ Octavian said as Maecenas began to stand up. ‘Wait and tell me if I have thought it through well enough.’ Both men settled back and he went on. ‘The Senate are seasoned with Liberatores, or at least their supporters. The rest have fled, but we can depend on the Senate to protect them even so, if only to secure their own interests. That much we have learned. They cannot support me, and Mark Antony is my natural ally, if he would but realise it. Still, wherever they’ve sent him, he is away from the city for the present, removed from the board. Those who are left are my enemies almost to a man.’
‘I don’t see how that is cause for celebration,’ Maecenas said. ‘They are the ones who make the laws, in case you had forgotten.’
‘But they enforce them with the legions,’ Octavian said. ‘Legions that Caesar gathered in the Campus for a campaign. Legions that were either formed by him or sworn to him. As I see it, I can claim that loyalty, just as I can with his clients.’
Maecenas sat straight, his languor vanishing.
‘That is what you meant last night? The legions have spent the last month walking the streets of the city, killing rioters and enforcing a curfew. They are the Senate’s men now, no matter what Caesar intended for them. You cannot seriously be thinking they will mutiny for you.’
‘Why not?’ Octavian said angrily. ‘With Mark Antony out of the city, they are ruled by the same toothless traitors who granted amnesty to Caesar’s murderers. No one has answered for that, not yet. I have seen their loyalty, Maecenas. I have seen it in Gaul and in Egypt. They will not have forgotten him. And I am his son, a Caesar.’
Maecenas stood up and opened the door to the outer rooms. A fire crackled in the grate and two male slaves came over immediately to do his bidding. With a sharp gesture, Maecenas sent them outside, so that he could not be overheard. The steam had grown too thick and his senses swam just as he needed to be sharp. In the colder air, he drew deep breaths.
‘Join me in the plunge pool, Caesar. It will clear your head before you commit us to a course which can only see us all crucified for treachery.’
Octavian glared at him but rose with Agrippa and crossed the room to where a deep pool sat dark and undisturbed. The water was near freezing, but Maecenas stepped down into it without hesitation, his skin prickling in goosebumps as it tightened. Agrippa joined him with a hiss of breath and Octavian slid over the edge, bending his knees so that the chill water reached his neck. When he spoke again, his teeth chattered so much that he could barely be understood.
‘You think I should live in the sun, M-Maecenas? As you said Alexander would choose, if he could see his whole life laid out before him? I d-did not believe it then and I don’t now. I cannot rest until the Liberatores are all dead. Do you understand? I will risk your life and mine a thousand times until that is true. Life is risk! I feel the shade of Caesar watching me and who else will bring him justice? Not Mark Antony. It falls to me and I will not waste a single day.’
The cold bit to the heart of him and his arms were almost too numb to heave himself out and sit on the stone edge. Agrippa was just a moment behind, while Maecenas remained, his brown arms and legs in sharp contrast to the pale skin of the rest of his body. The cold had numbed him, but his heart raced even so.
‘All right,’ he said, putting out an arm. ‘Pull me up.’ Agrippa gripped his hand and lifted him out. ‘I do not desert my friends just because they have decided to infuriate the Senate and the legions of Rome.’
CHAPTER NINE
The group that mounted horses outside Caesar’s town house on the Esquiline was considerably larger than the four weary men who had entered the night before. Octavian had followed Maecenas’ advice and given orders to the most senior slaves to act as factors for him. They were visibly determined to do well for the new master. Bringing in legion-trained mounts from one of the other properties was just the first of a thousand tasks. A dozen other men had gone out from the house on errands to all the holdings of Caesar, including the garden estate on the Tiber, as it had not yet been passed to the people of Rome. What records and accounts existed would be found and made ready.
Maecenas had insisted Gracchus also bathe before accompanying them. The soldier was still damp-haired and flushed from his hurried wash, but they all felt better for being clean. It was as if they could put the mistakes and trials of the past behind them, scraped away like the black muck that came off with the brass strigils and oil.
Turning west down the hill, the wary group drew the attention of a few street boys. Octavian assumed they were after stray coins, but there were no outstretched hands and they kept their distance. He wondered if they had been sent by someone to keep an eye on his progress, the cheapest spies Rome had to offer. Yet every street they crossed added more to the crowd and the newcomers were not mere urchins. Men and women pointed him out in hushed tones, their eyes swivelling in interest as friends hissed the name of Octavian or, more often, Caesar. They too walked with him, until there were dozens then hundreds in the wake of the horses, all heading to the Campus Martius.
Octavian sat his mount stiff-backed, in a set of armour that had been fitted to him by the house staff. Maecenas was resplendent in armour and cloak, though as far as Octavian knew, he held no formal rank. For himself, he had considered a toga, but unlike Maecenas, he had commanded Roman soldiers, and the officer’s cloak sent a signal to those who watched for such things.
As they came to an open market square, the busy crowd fell silent and again he could hear the name of Caesar like a breeze through them. His group swelled again, doubling and redoubling in size until it felt as if he led a procession through the heart of the city. By the time he reached the foot of the Capitoline, he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women, all craning for a glimpse of the single man at the centre. His new name was called and shouted from groups and always the numbers swelled. Octavian kept his gaze stern as he walked the horses onward.
‘Don’t look now,’ Maecenas said, bringing his horse in close, ‘but I think we’re being followed.’
Octavian gave a snort, the break of tension almost reducing him to undignified laughter. He went on up the Capitoline hill and did not pause when the horses reached the crest. Pompey’s theatre lay below on the other side, a vast building three times the size of the old senate house in pale stone. There were no flags flying on the roof as the crowd streamed down the hill. The Senate were not in session that day, though Octavian did not doubt they would have heard of his progress across the city. He smiled grimly to himself. Let them hear, he thought. Let them wonder.
At a crossroads, Agrippa nudged him at the sight of Roman legionaries standing guard. Those men looked on in sheer astonishment at the undisciplined rabble coming out of the city. Octavian could see the soldiers arguing as he passed and he did not look back to see if they had joined the rest. They would find out soon enough what he intended.
Beyond Pompey’s theatre, the vast space of the Campus Martius opened up, though it was far from empty. For centuries, it had been the place where Romans exercised and came to vote, but the field of war was also the muster spot for legions about to march. Those who had gathered at Julius Caesar’s orders for the campaign against Parthia had been there for much longer than they had planned or expected and the marks were everywhere, from toilet pits and trenches to thousands of oiled leather tents and even small buildings dotted around the plain. Octavian led his column towards the centre of them.
The Seventh Victrix and Eighth Gemina legions were in a twin camp laid out to specifications created long before by Caesar’s uncle, the consul Marius. Nothing had changed in almost half a century and Octavian felt a wave of nostalgia as he reached the outer boundary. Only respect for the ancient Roman plain had prevented the legions from raising a great barrier of earth as set down in the regulations. Instead, the camp was marked with massive wicker baskets, tall as a man and filled with stone and earth, a symbolic structure rather than a true obstacle.
As he approached the line, Octavian glanced back and blinked in surprise as he saw how many had come from the city. At least a thousand walked with him, their faces bright as if they were on a public holiday. He shook his head in silent amazement, then took heart from it. This was the power of the name he had been given. It was also a reminder that they supported Caesar rather than the Senate that had killed him.
The afternoon sun was hot on his back as he halted. Two legionaries stood at the entrance to the encampment, staring forward without looking at the man facing them. Octavian sat his mount patiently, patting the animal on its broad neck. He had seen soldiers entering the camp ahead of him, racing to carry the news. He was content to wait for the officers to come to him, accepting the advantage it gave him as his due.
As if echoing his thoughts, Maecenas leaned in close to speak in a low voice.
‘No doubts now, my friend. Show them a little noble arrogance.’
Octavian nodded stiffly.
Four horsemen came trotting through the camp, visible over the boundary from some way off as they moved down the wide avenue. From the distance of a few hundred paces, Octavian could see that two were cloaked, wearing ornate armour in silver, with markings of brass that spread down onto layered leather tiles over their bare thighs. Their companions wore simple togas, with a large purple stripe running along the edge.
Agrippa looked at Octavian in satisfaction. It had not been that long ago that they had struggled to get a meeting with a single military tribune in Brundisium. Yet here were two legates and two military tribunes, riding out to meet a man who had not even asked for them.
‘It seems the name of Caesar still has currency,’ Agrippa murmured.
Octavian did not reply, his expression set in stern lines.
The Roman officers reined in facing the crowd from the city, fixing their collective gaze on Octavian. The citizens fell silent and tension grew in the still air. It was a matter of delicacy, as the man with the lower rank should greet the other, but no one knew for certain what rank Octavian held. After an uncomfortable pause, the senior legate cleared his throat.
‘How should I address you?’ he asked.
Octavian looked him over, seeing a man in his late forties with grey temples and a world-weary air. The legate’s face was lined and weathered by a dozen campaigns, but his eyes were bright with interest, almost youthful.
‘Why, address me as Gaius Julius Caesar,’ Octavian replied, as if puzzled. ‘Son of the man who formed your legion and commanded your utter loyalty. You are Legate Marcus Flavius Silva of the Seventh Victrix. My father spoke well of you.’
The older man rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, staring.
‘I am honoured to hear that, Caesar,’ he said. ‘My companion legate …’
‘… is Titus Paulinius of the Eighth Gemina,’ Octavian interrupted. ‘We have met before, in Gaul.’
‘It’s him,’ the other legate muttered. The tribunes might have introduced themselves then, but Flavius Silva nodded and spoke first.
‘In honour of Caesar, you are welcome in the camp. Might I enquire what business has brought such a crowd from Rome? I have had nervous reports for the last hour. The riots are not yet forgotten here, not by my legion.’
He looked with distaste at the crowd behind Octavian, but they only stared back, unafraid and fascinated. Octavian chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. He suspected the legates would be easier to handle if every move and word was not witnessed. He had not planned on having such an audience.
He turned his horse on a tight rein and addressed the crowd.
‘Go to your homes now,’ he ordered. ‘You will know when I have remade Rome. It will be all around you.’
Legate Silva gaped at his words, exchanging a worried glance with his colleagues. Octavian continued to glare at the crowd, waiting. At the back, more than one child was held aloft to see the new Caesar, but the rest were already turning. They were not sure what they had witnessed, but the lure had been inescapable and they were not displeased. Octavian watched them go, shaking his head in wonderment.
‘They just wanted to see me,’ he said, under his breath.
Agrippa clapped him on the shoulder, his voice a low rumble.
‘Of course they did. They loved Caesar. Remember that when you are dealing with the Senate.’
When Octavian looked back, it was to see the legion officers watching him closely.
‘Well?’ he said, remembering Maecenas’ words on Roman arrogance. ‘Lead me in, gentlemen. I have a great deal to do.’
The two legates and their tribunes turned their horses into the camp, with Octavian, Agrippa and Maecenas riding together on the wide road. Gracchus brought up the rear, praying to his household god that he would not be killed that day. He had hardly been able to believe the presence of four such senior men coming out to meet Octavian. He decided to send another message to Tribune Liburnius back at the port as soon as he had a moment to himself.
The command tent of the Seventh Victrix legion was as large as a single-floored house in some respects, supported by wooden beams and a lattice above their heads that would withstand even a gale. The horses were taken by experienced grooms and led away to be watered and fed. Octavian entered to find a long table laid with thick vellum maps piled at one end. Legate Silva saw his glance.
‘Routes and plans for Parthia, months of work,’ he explained. ‘All wasted now, of course. I have not offered my condolences, Caesar. I can hardly tell you the grief felt among the men for your loss. The riots went some way to keeping our minds off the assassination, but it is still keen, still sharp.’
As one, they drew up chairs and took places around the table. Octavian inclined his head in thanks.
‘You broach the very matter that brought me here,’ he said.
A legionary chose that moment to bring in wine and water on a tray. Octavian waited for the drinks to be served and raised his cup.
‘To Caesar, then,’ he said. The legion men were already echoing the toast as he added, ‘And to revenge on his killers.’
Flavius Silva sputtered into his wine cup, almost choking. He was red-faced by the time he could breathe clearly again.
‘You don’t waste words, do you?’ he said, still coughing into his fist. ‘Is that your purpose in coming here? Caesar, I …’
‘You have failed in your duty, your sworn oath,’ Octavian snapped. He hammered his fist on the table with a crash. ‘Both of you! The Father of Rome is murdered in daylight, while you drink wine on the Campus and what? What happens? Do his loyal soldiers enter Rome and demand the trial and execution of his killers? Do you march on the senate house? No, none of these things. The Senate declare an amnesty for murdering filth and you accept it meekly, reduced to keeping order in the city while those who do care for justice and honour take to the streets! How sickening, that those without power must do what you will not – and then see you draw swords on them, serving the very masters responsible for the crime! You asked me why I came here, Legate Silva? It was to call you to account for your failures!’
The legionary with the wine jugs had fled. Both legates and tribunes were leaning away from the table as Octavian rose from his seat and harangued them. They reacted as if his words were the lashes of a whip, staring down at the table in horrified humiliation.
‘How dare you sit there while the dogs who killed your master, your friend, still sit in the Senate and congratulate each other on their success? Caesar trusted you, legates. He knew that you would stand for him when all the world was against him. Where is that honour now? Where is that trust?’
‘The Senate …’ Titus Paulinius began.
Octavian rounded on him, leaning over the table in his fury.
‘The Senate did not command your legions until you meekly handed them over. You are Caesar’s right hand, not the servants of those old men. You have forgotten yourselves.’
Legate Flavius Silva stood slowly, his face ashen.
Octavian froze, struck by the precise phrasing Flavius Silva had used. It was too late to take back what he had said and he thought furiously as the legate waited for permission to leave. Octavian had accused him of vast and irretrievable dishonour. He knew with sudden clarity that Flavius Silva would take his own life, the only choice Octavian had left him.
He had depended on a show of Roman arrogance to bring him to this point. He could not retreat from it. He firmed his mouth, resting his fists on the table.
‘Sit down, Legate,’ he said. ‘Your responsibilities cannot be so easily evaded. You will live, so that you can put right every stain on the honour of the Seventh Victrix.’
Outside the tent, he could hear the sound of marching men. The two legates were instantly aware of it, as a ship’s captain might notice a change of course almost before it had begun. Flavius Silva lost some of the wintry look in his eyes, dragged back by Octavian’s scorn and the noise of his men moving. He resumed his seat, though his gaze flickered to the great flap of the door and the dust-speckled light that shone into the darker tent.
‘I am at your command, Caesar,’ he said. The words brought colour back to his pale cheeks and Octavian allowed himself to relax a fraction.
‘Yes, you are,’ he replied. ‘And I need you, Flavius Silva. I need men like you – and you, Titus. Men who remember Caesar the Imperator and everything he achieved. The Senate will not shelter murderers from us. We will root them out, one by one.’
The noise beyond the tent had grown and Octavian frowned at the interruption, just when he needed to weigh every word. He gestured to the door without looking.
Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) Page 12
