‘Maecenas, see what is going on, would you?’
His friend rose and Octavian was unaware of the look of awe in his eyes. Maecenas nodded slowly and walked to the door. He was gone only a few moments.
‘Caesar, you should see this,’ he said.
Octavian looked up at the formal use of the new name, raising his eyebrows. Maecenas would not waste his time at such a moment, not after what he had just witnessed. Of all of them, he knew the knife edge Octavian walked with every word and step. Octavian glanced back at Flavius Silva, but he looked blank, still in shock from his reprieve.
‘Very well,’ Octavian replied. He went to the door and the legates rose behind him.
As he threw back the leather flap, Octavian stood still. The tent was surrounded by legionaries in lorica armour. They bore shields and swords and the standard-bearers of the Seventh Victrix had taken position on either side of the command tent, so that Octavian looked up at fluttering standards and a legion eagle. Once more he was reminded of the legacy of his family. Marius had made the eagle the symbol of Roman might, from Egypt to Gaul, replacing a host of banners with just one. It gleamed in the sun.
Octavian forced a semblance of calm. He had survived meeting the legates, but the reality was that he was powerless. The sight of the ranks stretching into the distance on all sides made his heart sink. He raised his head, suddenly stubborn, and glared round at them. They would not see him afraid, no matter what happened. He owed Caesar that much.
They saw him come out, a young man in armour with hair almost gold in the sunlight. They saw him look up at the eagle standard of the Seventh Victrix and they began to cheer him and thump their fists against their shields in a crashing thunder that rolled across the Campus Martius as far as the city beyond. It spread from the first ranks to those so far behind they could not even make out Caesar, come to inspect his legion.
Octavian struggled to keep his astonishment hidden. He saw Legate Flavius Silva come out, with Titus Paulinius close behind. Maecenas, Agrippa and Gracchus stepped to the side so that they could see what he saw. The sound built and built until it was a physical force, making the air shake and thumping in Octavian’s ears.
‘We have not forgotten Caesar,’ Flavius Silva shouted at his side. ‘Give us the chance to prove to you we have honour still. We will not let you down again, I swear it.’
Octavian looked to Titus Paulinius and was astonished to see the brightness of tears in the other man’s eyes. Paulinius nodded, saluting.
‘The Eighth Gemina is yours to command, Caesar,’ he said above the thunder.
Octavian raised his hands for quiet. It took a long time, spreading out from the point where he stood until even those a hundred ranks back grew quiet. In the delay, he had found words.
‘Yesterday, I believed Roman honour was dead, lost in the murder of a good man. But I see I was wrong, that it survives here, in you. Be still now. Let me tell you the days to come. I am Gaius Julius Caesar, I am the divi filius – son of a god of Rome. I am the man who will show the Senate they are not above the law, that the law rests in the least of those among you. That you are the lifeblood of the city and that you will stand against all enemies of the state – in foreign lands and within. Let yesterday be forgotten. Let that be your new oath today.’
The hammering clamour began again as they heard and understood. Spears jabbed into the air as his words were shouted into a thousand ears down the ranks.
‘Prepare them to march, legates. Today, we will occupy the forum. When we stand in the heart of the city as its guardians, we will wipe out the stain of what went before.’
He looked towards the walls of Rome. He could see Pompey’s theatre there and he inclined his head to the memory of Caesar, hoping the old man could see him just this once. There too lay the Senate, and he showed his teeth at the thought of those arrogant noblemen waiting for him. He had found his path. He would show them arrogance and power.
The two legates gave the order and the machinery of the legion began to act, commands echoing across the camp as each layer of officers took charge of actions as familiar to them as breathing. The legionaries jogged to collect their kit for a march, laughing and talking among themselves as they went.
Legate Paulinius cleared his throat and Octavian looked at him.
‘Yes?’
‘Caesar, we were wondering what you wanted done with the war chest. The men have not been paid for a month and there has been no word from the Senate about using the funds.’
Octavian stood very still as the older man shifted from foot to foot, waiting for an answer. Julius Caesar had been preparing to leave Rome for years. Octavian had not even considered the gold and silver he would have gathered for the campaign.
‘Show me,’ Octavian said at last.
The legates led his small group across the camp to a heavily guarded tent. The legionaries there had not deserted their posts to see him and Octavian could see their pleasure. He smiled at them as he ducked inside.
There was more than just one chest. The centre of the tent was stacked with boxes of wood and iron, all locked. Flavius Silva produced a key, matched by another in the hands of Paulinius. Together, they opened a chest and heaved back the lid. Octavian nodded, as if the shining mass of gold and silver coins was no more than he had expected. In theory, the funds belonged to the Senate, but if they had not asked for them to be returned by then, there was a chance they did not even know of their existence.
‘How much is there?’ Octavian asked.
Flavius Silva did not have to check the amounts. Being in charge of such a sum in the chaos Rome had endured must have ruined his sleep for a month.
‘Forty million, in all.’
‘That is … good,’ Octavian said. He exchanged a brief glance with Agrippa, who was glassy-eyed at the sum. ‘Very well. Give the men what they are owed … and a bonus of six months’ pay. You are familiar with the bequest made by Caesar to the people of Rome?’
‘Of course. Half the city is still talking about it.’
‘I will ask for the funds from the Senate when we are in the forum. If they refuse, I will pay it from these chests and my own funds.’
Flavius Silva smiled as he closed the chest and locked it once more. Simply having such a fortune in his possession had gnawed at him like a broken tooth he could not leave alone. He felt a weight lift at being able to pass the responsibility to another.
‘With your permission, sir, I will see to the camp.’
‘But not your affairs, Legate.’
The older man flushed.
‘No, Caesar. Not my affairs. Not today.’
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
Mark Antony arrived at Brundisium after sunset, seeing the gleam of thousands of lamps and watchfires against the black horizon. He had known the numbers of men waiting there. Caesar had discussed the plans with him the previous winter, as they prepared the campaign against Parthia. The horsemen of that eastern empire had been a thorn in Roman skin for many years and Caesar had not forgotten the old enemy. There were debts to be paid, but that massive undertaking had been ruined by assassins’ blades, like so much else.
That forewarning had not prepared Mark Antony for the reality of six full legions of veterans camped around the city – and the navigation lamps of the fleet like fireflies on the dark sea. As the consul and his guards reached the outskirts of one Roman camp, they were challenged by alert legionaries. His consular ring allowed him to pass, though he was stopped and questioned again and again as they crossed the territory of the different legions. Any hope of travelling incognito was lost, so that by the time the sun rose, the entire city had been told the consul was coming and the wrath of the Senate was finally at hand. They had waited for a long time to know what would follow the chaos in Rome and the usual bustle of the city scraped to a halt in the face of potential disaster.
Mark Antony found lodgings in the town by the simple expedient of ordering every other patron out
of their rooms. Some of them were senior officers in the legions, but not a word was raised in complaint and they hurried back to the main camps as fast and as unobtrusively as possible.
The consul ate a silent breakfast of porridge sweetened with honey and some fresh melon and slices of orange. Mark Antony had ridden hard for three nights and was weary enough to call for a tisane of heated wine and herbs to restore him. The tavern-keeper was nervously obsequious as he brought the tall cups, bowing and retreating at the same time. The consul had the power to order thousands of men dead by the end of the day and the people of Brundisium whispered of nothing else as he finished his food and sat back.
On impulse, Mark Antony rose and walked out to the seafront, taking a path to the rocky crags that overlooked the deep waters. He took pleasure in the sharp air, away from the smell of too many people crammed into too small a space. It cleared his head to stare out across the sea.
The sight of the fleet and the rising sun improved his spirits, a floating symbol of Roman power. He only wished he had somewhere to send them, but his objectives lay with the soldiers of the legions. For the time being, he was the Senate in transit, their plenipotentiary, with all their authority lodged in him. He made a mental note to tell his wife Fulvia how it felt when she arrived.
As he walked back into the streets, Mark Antony spotted two of his men dogtrotting along the road towards him. They drew up and saluted.
‘Where are the legates?’ he demanded.
‘They have gathered in the main square to wait for you, sir.’
‘Very well,’ he said, striding on. ‘Lead the way, I haven’t been here for years.’
He could hear the noise and voices filtering back through the side roads long before he reached the central square. It was the Roman forum in miniature, with too many soldiers in it for comfort. The consul had an unpleasant memory of the last crowd he’d addressed.
A shout went up when he was spotted and centurions with vine sticks cleared a path for him, shoving men back with curses and oaths so that the consul could walk forward. Mark Antony did not have to feign a grim countenance. He had expected to find soldiers terrified of senatorial justice. Instead, he saw only anger as he walked through them. Any commander knew he occasionally had to be deaf when he walked through his men, but this was more than cheerful mockery from the safety of a crowd. The legions heaved and struggled against their officers and the insults were obscene.
It was customary for a consul to be greeted with cheers and applause as he stepped up to a platform to address a legion. Mark Antony left his guards at the base, but as he climbed the steps, the noise fell away, leaving only the six legates clapping him on. In such a packed space, it was a pitiful sound, followed quickly by hard laughter. The legates were sweating as he stood at the oak rostrum. Mark Antony had a fine voice and he drew himself up to make it echo back from the buildings around the square.
‘I am consul of Rome, the Senate-in-transit. In my person the authority of Rome resides, that I may judge others for their offences against the state.’
The laughter and calls died away. He let the silence stretch, choosing how he would proceed. He had intended to show mercy and so win them to his side, but somehow they had been turned against him.
‘What of your offences?’ a voice yelled suddenly from somewhere in the crowd. ‘What of Caesar?’
Mark Antony gripped the rostrum with his big hands, leaning forward. He realised they saw him only as a representative of the Senate. He was lucky they had not rushed the platform where he stood.
‘You talk of Caesar?’ he snapped. ‘I am the man who gave his funeral oration, who stood with his body as it was consumed in fire. I was his friend. When Rome called on me, I did not hesitate. I followed the lawful path. None of you can say the same.’
He was about to continue, but more and more voices shouted out angrily against him, individual complaints lost in the raucous bawling. When it did not die down, he saw some of them were actually leaving, walking off in all directions from the square as if he could say nothing they wanted to hear. He turned in frustration to the legates at his back.
‘Bring out the troublemakers, gentlemen. I will make an example of them to the rest.’
The closest legate blanched.
‘Consul, we have the men ready, as you ordered, but the legions know that you proposed the Senate amnesty. If I give that command, they could tear us apart.’
Mark Antony’s chest swelled as he took a step towards the man, looming over him.
‘I am weary of being told the dangers of crowds. Is this a mob? No, I see Roman legionaries, who will remember their discipline.’ He spoke more for the benefit of those listening than the legate himself. ‘Take pride in that discipline. I tell you, it is all you have left.’
The legate gave the order and a line of bound men were brought out from a nearby building. Centurions forced their way through the packed crowd, dragging the men into position so that they faced the rest. In any legion, there were always a few offenders who fell asleep on watch, or raped local women, or stole from their tent-mates. Optios and centurions kicked and cuffed the chosen hundred to their knees.
Mark Antony could feel the rage sweeping through the rest. As the grumbling roar swelled, the legate appealed to him once again, keeping his voice low.
‘Consul, if they mutiny now, we are all dead. Let me dismiss them.’
‘Step away from me,’ Mark Antony said in disgust. ‘Whoever you are, resign your commission and return to Rome. I have no place for cowards.’
He stepped back to the rostrum and his voice was a harsh roar.
‘Rome has moved on while you sat here and mourned the death of a great man,’ he bellowed. ‘Has grief stolen your honour? Has it torn away your ranks and traditions? Remember you are men of Rome, no, soldiers of Rome. Men of iron will, who know the value of life and death. Men who can go on, even in the face of disaster.’
He looked down at the miserable legionaries on their knees. It had not been hard for them to guess their fate when they were rounded up and left in darkness to await the consul’s punishment. Many of them struggled against their ropes, but if they tried to stand, they were kicked back down by the watchful centurions.
‘It was mutiny when you refused orders,’ Mark Antony told them all. ‘Mutiny must be washed in blood. You have known that, from the first moments the orders came from Rome. This is the stone that began to fall that day. Centurions! Carry out your duty.’
With grim faces, the centurions removed hatchets from their packs, smacking the blunt ends into their palms over the heads of the kneeling soldiers. In swift, cracking blows, they broke skulls, raising their arms high again and again, then moving on to the next.
Spatters of blood and brains were flung up with the raised weapons, reaching the faces of the closest ranks. The legionaries there began to growl and their officers roared at them. They stood, with chests heaving and expressions feral, repelled yet fascinated as the men died.
As the last body was released to spill the pale contents of its skull onto the ground, Mark Antony breathed hard, facing them again. Slowly the dipped heads came up. The gazes were still hostile, but no longer filled with his imminent destruction. They had held. Most of them realised the worst was past.
‘And the stone has fallen. There is an end,’ Mark Antony said. ‘Now I will tell you something of Caesar.’ If he had promised them gold, he could not have achieved a more perfect silence as the noise fell away.
‘It is true that there has been no vengeance for the Ides of March. I called the amnesty myself, knowing that if I did, his killers would see no danger from me. I wanted to speak to the people of Rome and not have myself exiled or slaughtered in turn as a friend of Caesar. That is the nest of snakes that politics has become in Rome.’
They were no longer drifting away at the edges. Instead, they were pressing back in, thirsty for news from a man who had been present. Brundisium was far away from Rome, Mark Antony reminded
himself. At best, they would have only third-hand gossip about what had gone on there. No doubt the Senate had its spies to report his words, but by the time they did, he would have moved again. He had made his choice when he left Rome with his wife and children. There was no taking it back.
‘Some of those responsible have fled the country already. Men like Cassius and Brutus are beyond our reach, at least for now. Yet one of the men who murdered Caesar on the steps of Pompey’s theatre is still in Italy, in the north. Decimus Junius believes he has moved far enough from Rome to be safe from any vengeance.’
He paused, watching the expressions change as they began to believe in him.
‘I see the men of six legions before me. Decimus Junius has a region near the Alps with barely a few thousand soldiers to keep the peace. Is he safe from us? No, he is not.’ He showed his teeth as his voice grew in strength. ‘You called for vengeance for Caesar. I am here to give it to you.’
They responded with cheering as wild as their anger had been only moments before. Mark Antony stood back, satisfied. The Senate had intended him to lose face in decimating the legions. Instead, for the lives of a hundred criminals, he had won them to him. He smiled at the thought of Bibilus and Suetonius hearing the news.
He turned to the legates, his expression changing to a frown at the sight of the man he had ordered to resign, still present and pale as wax.
‘What legion do you lead?’ Mark Antony demanded.
‘Fourth Ferrata, sir.’ For an instant, desperate hope of a reprieve shone in the legate’s eyes.
‘And who is your second in command?’
The man’s expression was sickly with fear, his career in ruins.
‘Tribune Liburnius, Consul.’
‘Tell him to see me, that I may judge his fitness for command.’
The legate chewed his lip, summoning his dignity.
‘I believe that is a Senate appointment, sir,’ he said.
Emperor: The Blood of Gods (Special Edition) (Emperor Series, Book 5) Page 13
