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 en
ter 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.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I cannot speak for Titus, but when we had the news, I did not know what to do. The world changed in a day and the senators were quick to send new orders. Perhaps I should not have accepted them.’ He took a deep, slow breath. ‘It does not matter now. With your permission, I will see to my affairs.’
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.
‘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. Octa
vian 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.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 188
