Brutus strode eastwards and upward. He felt a strange anticipation, the first true emotion since he had pressed iron into his greatest friend and felt the shudder that told him he had reached the heart. He ached to lay eyes on the forum and the senate house, the stone centre of the vast Republic. He had to struggle not to quicken his step, to maintain the slow pace that was both their dignity and their protection. They would not run from what they had done. Their survival depended on showing no guilt, no fear. He would enter the forum as a liberator.
At the top of the Capitoline, Brutus paused. He could see the open space of the forum, ringed with temples. The senate house gleamed white, unsullied, the guards at its doors tiny figures in the distance. The sun was growing hot and he could feel sweat trickle inside his ornate chestplate. The senators at his back moved slowly up, not understanding why they had stopped. The line around him widened, but their authority had been spent that morning and not one of them, not even Cassius or Suetonius, dared to move down the hill without Brutus leading the way.
‘We are Liberatores,’ Brutus said suddenly. ‘There are many in that place who will welcome what we have done. There are hundreds more who will breathe in relief when they hear that the tyrant is dead and Rome is safe, the Republic is safe. There will be a vote for amnesty and it will pass. All this has been decided. Until then, remember your dignity, your honour. There is no shame in what we have done.’
Around him, they stood a little taller, many of them raising bloody hands that had been clenched and hidden at their sides.
Brutus looked to Cassius once more and this time his expression was mild.
‘I have played my part, Senator. You must do the rest. Carry the small men with you and place every step with care, or we will be hunted down.’
Cassius nodded, smiling wryly.
‘I have the votes, General. It is all arranged. We will walk in free and we will be honoured.’
Brutus looked hard at the senator who carried all their futures in his hands. Cassius was a man of bone and hard flesh, with no weakness evident in him.
‘Then lead us in, Senator. I will be at your back.’
Cassius’ mouth firmed at the suspicion of a threat, but he raised his head and strode down into the heart of Rome.
As they approached the senate house, Brutus and Cassius could hear raised voices, a dim roar of undisciplined sound. The great bronze doors were open, and a voice cried out above the rest. The noise dropped away into silence.
Brutus trembled as he touched the steps, knowing that the few hours left before noon would be among the most important of his life. They had the blood of Caesar on their hands. A wrong word or rash act and their own would be spilled before the sun set. He looked over to Cassius and was reassured once more by the man’s confidence. There were no doubts in the senator. He had worked long and hard for this day.
Two legionaries came to attention as Brutus and Cassius ascended. The soldiers were out of their depth and they hesitated when the senator raised his bloody right hand, making sure they saw it before he inclined the palm to include Brutus.
‘General Brutus is my guest,’ Cassius said, his mind already on the crowd inside.
‘He’ll have to leave the gladius here, sir,’ the soldier said.
Something in the way Brutus looked at him made him drop his hand to his own hilt, but Cassius chuckled.
‘Oh, hand it over, Brutus. Don’t embarrass the man.’
With ill grace, Brutus untied the scabbard rather than pull a bare blade and frighten the soldier. He gave up his sword and strode to catch Cassius, suddenly angry, though he could not have said exactly why. Julius had never been stopped at the door of that building. It was irritating to be reminded of his lack of status at the very moment of his triumph. In the senate house, Brutus was no more than an officer of Rome, a senior man without civil rank. Well, that could be put right. Now Caesar was dead, all the failures and setbacks of his life could be put right.
More than four hundred men had crowded into the senate house that morning, their bodies warming the air, so that there was a noticeable difference inside, despite the open doors. Brutus looked for faces he recognised. He knew most of them, after many years of standing at Julius’ side, but one new face arrested his sweep. Bibilus. Years before, the man had stood with Caesar as consul, but something had happened between them and Bibilus had never appeared in the Senate again. His sudden return spoke volumes about the shift in power – and about how many already knew. Brutus saw Bibilus had aged terribly in the years of isolation. He had grown even fatter, with dark and swollen pouches under his eyes and a web of broken blood vessels on his cheeks. His jowls were scraped raw as if he had shaved for the first time in months. The man’s gaze was fever-bright and Brutus wondered if he had been drinking, already celebrating the death of an old enemy.
It did not look as if Cassius’ news would cause much shock in that chamber. Too many of the senators had smug and knowing expressions, exchanging glances and nodding to each other like virgins with a secret. Brutus despised them all, hated them for their effete manners and their pompous sense of their own worth. He had seen Egypt, Spain and Gaul. He had fought for the Republic, murdered for it, while they sat and talked the days away and understood nothing of the men who bled for them in the field.
Cassius approached the rostrum. Once it had been an artefact of Roman power, carved from the prow of a warship of Carthage. That one had been burned in riots and, like so much else in the building, it was now just a lesser copy of what it had once been. Brutus raised his eyes to the man standing behind it and grew still. He realised he had been the subject of cold scrutiny since he’d entered the chamber.
Mark Antony’s latest consular year was not yet over. Before the events of that morning, he had been little more than a figurehead for Caesar, but that had changed. The Republic had been restored and Mark Antony held the reins. He dominated the room and Brutus had to admit he looked the part. Tall and muscular, Mark Antony had the features and strong nose of old Roman bloodlines. None of the Liberatores had known how he would jump when they planned their assassination. One of their number, Gaius Trebonius, had been given the task of distracting the consul. Brutus saw the young senator on the seats nearby, looking so pleased with himself that it made Brutus’ stomach twist.
Mark Antony stared over the seated heads at him and Brutus sensed his knowledge and his shock. The consul had been told, or had heard the news as whispers went around the chamber. Caesar was dead. The tyrant was dead. They all knew, Brutus was suddenly certain. Yet the words still had to be spoken.
Cassius took his position at the base of the rostrum, standing a head lower than the consul looming over him. As Brutus watched, Cassius raised his right arm and touched the wood like a talisman. Into the silence, Cassius spoke.
‘On this day, the Ides of March, Rome was set free from an oppressor,’ he said. ‘Let the news fly from here to all nations. Caesar is dead and the Republic is restored. Let the shades of our fathers rejoice. Let the city rejoice. Caesar is dead and Rome is free.’
The words brought forth a wave of sound as the senators cheered, striving to outdo the men around them with sheer volume. They were red-faced as they roared and stamped, making the stones tremble. Mark Antony stood with his head bowed, the muscles in his jaw standing out like tumours.
Brutus thought suddenly of the Egyptian queen in the fine Roman house Caesar had given her. Cleopatra would not yet know what had happened to the father of her son. He imagined her panic when she heard. He did not doubt she would pack her jewels and get out of Rome as fast as good horses could run. The thought made him smile for the first time that morning. So many things would be made new in the months to come. Caesar had been like a weight on the city, pressing them all down. Now they would spring up, stronger and better than they had been before. Brutus could feel it in the air. This was his time at last.
The Senate had almost forgotten how things used to be. Brutus could see the litt
le men revise their opinions of their own power. They had been mere servants. In a morning, in a raw-throated bellow, they had become men again. He had given them that. Brutus lowered his head in thought, but when he heard Mark Antony begin to speak, he looked up, suspicion flaring.
‘Senators, be still,’ Mark Antony said. ‘There is much to be done today, now that we have this news.’
Brutus frowned. The man was a famous supporter of Caesar. His time was over. The best he could do was leave the chamber with dignity and take his own life.
‘There are legions in the Campus Martius waiting for Caesar to lead them against Parthia,’ Mark Antony went on, oblivious to Brutus’ irritation. ‘They must be brought to heel, before they get the news. They were loyal to Caesar. They must be approached with care, or we will see them mutiny. Only the authority of the Senate stands between us all and anarchy in this city. Senators, be still.’ The last words were a command, deeper and louder in order to silence the last of the excited chatter.
At the door Brutus shook his head in sour amusement. Mark Antony was not a fool, but he overreached himself. Perhaps he thought he could be part of the new era, despite fawning on Caesar for so many years. It was more politics, but Brutus knew the senators were still numb, still feeling their way in the new world that had been thrust upon them. The consul might even save himself, though he would have to choose each step with care. There were old grudges to be settled yet and Antony would bear the brunt of many of them. Even so, for that morning at least, he was still consul.
‘There must be a formal vote before a single one of us leaves,’ Mark Antony continued, his strong voice rolling across the chamber. ‘If we grant amnesty to the murderers of Caesar, it will choke a rebellion before it begins. The citizens and the legions will see that we have restored justice and law, where it was once trodden down by a single man. I call that vote.’
Brutus froze, a worm of unease itching in his head. Cassius stood at the rostrum with his mouth slightly open. He should have been the one to call a vote for amnesty. It was all arranged and the Liberatores knew they would win. To have Caesar’s favourite pre-empt them with that vital step made Brutus want to bellow out in accusation. The words bubbled up in him, clear in his mind. Caesar had given Rome to Antony when he left the city to attack his enemies. Antony had been his puppet consul, the mask that let him hide tyranny beneath the old forms. What right did that man have to speak as if he now led the new Republic? Brutus took a half-step forward, but Mark Antony’s voice continued to echo over them.
‘I ask only this: that in death, Caesar be given his dignity. He was first in Rome. The legions and the people will expect to see him honoured. Will the men who brought him down deny him that? There should be no suspicion of shame, no secret burial. Let us treat the divine Julius with respect, now that he is gone from the world. Now that he is gone from Rome.’
In frustration, Cassius stepped up to the raised dais, so that he stood at Mark Antony’s side. Even then, the consul was a powerful figure beside his slight frame. Before he could speak, Mark Antony leaned close to him and murmured.
‘You have your victory, Cassius. This is not the time for small men and small vengeance. The legions will expect a funeral in the forum.’
Cassius remained still, thinking. At last, he nodded. Brutus stayed where he was, his right fist clenched over the empty space on his hip.
‘I thank Consul Mark Antony for his clear thinking,’ Cassius said. ‘And I concur. There must be order first, before law, before peace. Let this vote take place and then we will be free to manage the common citizens, with their petty emotions. We will honour Caesar in death.’
The senators looked to Cassius, and Brutus nodded fiercely at the way he had taken control. There were legal officers whose task it was to announce votes and debates in that place, but even as they rose from their seats around the rostrum, Cassius spoke again, ignoring their presence. He would not allow a delay on that morning, nor another to speak until he was done. Brutus began to relax.
‘Those in favour of complete amnesty to be granted to the liberators of Rome, rise and be counted.’
Brutus saw the sweating bulk of Bibilus leap to his feet with the energy of a younger man. The rest followed a bare moment later. Those who were already standing, like Mark Antony, raised their right hands. There was a beat of silence and Cassius nodded, tension flowing out of him.
‘Dissenters?’
The assembly sat down as one and not a single man rose. Somehow, it hurt Brutus to see. Half of them owed Caesar their lives and fortunes. Their families had been tied to his, their rise to his. He had picked them one by one over the years, men he wanted to honour in his wake. Yet they would not stand for him, even in death. Brutus found himself obscurely disappointed, for all he understood it. They were survivors, who could read the wind as well as anyone. Yet Caesar deserved better from Rome, on that day of all others.
Brutus shook his head in confusion, aware again of the blood on his hands as it dried and cracked. There was a fountain not far off in the forum and he wanted to be clean. As Cassius congratulated the Senate, Brutus slipped out into the sunshine. He collected his sword from the guards and walked stiffly down the steps and across the open ground.
There was already a crowd around the fountain, men and women of the city in colourful robes. Brutus felt their eyes on him as he approached, but he did not look at them. He knew the news would be on the wing already. They had not tried to hide it.
He rubbed his hands together in the freezing water, brought by aqueduct from distant mountains, drawn through narrowing lead pipes until it rushed out clear and sweet in the forum. Someone gasped as they saw the red stain that spread into the water from his skin, but he ignored them.
‘Is it true?’ a woman asked suddenly.
Brutus looked up, then rubbed his wet hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Her stola robe was fine, revealing a bare tanned shoulder, her elegance accented by hair piled and caught in silver pins. She was beautiful, kohl-eyed like a courtesan. He wondered how many others across the city were asking the same question at that moment.
‘Is what true?’ he asked.
‘That divine Caesar is dead, that he has been killed? Do you know?’ Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears as she stared at the man washing blood from his hands.
Brutus remembered the blow he had struck a few hours and a lifetime before.
‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, turning away.
His gaze drifted to the Capitoline hill, as if he could see through it to the vast building of Pompey’s theatre. Was the body still there, lying on the stone seats? They had left no orders for Caesar to be tended in death. For an instant, Brutus felt his eyes sting at the thought of Julius alone and forgotten. They had been friends for a long, long time.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Octavian winced as he felt the heat of the rocks burning through his thin sandals. Though Rome claimed to have finally brought civilisation to Greece, he could see little sign of it in the hill villages. Away from the coast, the people were either suspicious of strangers or openly hostile. Even a simple request to use a well was met with frowns and doors shut in their faces. All the while, the sun beat down, reddening their necks. Octavian remembered how he had smiled when the local praetor said there were places in Greece where a young Roman had about as much chance of survival as a tax gatherer. It had been an exaggeration, but not by much.
He stopped to wipe sweat from his face. The land itself was wild, with canyons that seemed to drop for ever. Octavian took a deep breath, suddenly certain he’d be walking out. Nothing would give the local boys more pleasure than seeing three footsore Romans searching for stolen mounts.
Octavian stayed alert as he climbed, looking for some sign of the group of ragged men they followed. The trail had been easy at first, until it split and split again. Octavian didn’t know if the bandits knew they would be pursued or had just taken different routes home, va
nishing into the cauldron of mountains as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. He felt an itch and craned his neck to see as far as he could. It was too easy to imagine a bowman leaning over the lip of some crag and attacking before they even knew he was there.
‘Call out if you see anything,’ he said.
Maecenas snorted, waving a hand at bare rocks. ‘I’m not a tracker,’ he replied. ‘For all I know, they could have passed through here with a herd of goats just an hour ago. Why don’t we go back to the main group and take up the search from there? This is not how I expected to spend my leave. I imagined more wine and less … climbing.’ He grunted as they reached a great step in the rocks.
There was no sign of a path and each man heaved himself up, their sandals skidding and scrambling as they went. The sun was fierce above and the sky was an aching blue. All three were sweating heavily and the single flask of water was already empty.
‘At least the men from the town know these hills,’ Maecenas went on. ‘They know where to search.’
Octavian didn’t have the breath to respond. The slope grew steeper and steeper until he had to use his hands to steady each step, then really climb. He was panting lightly as he reached the top of a crag and stared, judging the best route down the other side. The maze of grey rocks stretched into the distance, empty of life beyond the lizards that skittered away with every step.
‘You’d have me stand by and watch, doing nothing to help them?’ Octavian said suddenly. ‘A rape and a murder, Maecenas. You saw her body. What honour would there be in letting a few farmers chase them down while we stand and watch, confirming everything they say about idle Romans? Come on.’
He jerked his head at a route that would take them to the floor of the canyon and began climbing down. At least the shadowed clefts were cooler, until they climbed back into the burning sun once more.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 177
