A rumble of agreement echoed around the theatre and the vote was passed quickly and without dissent. Senator Hirtius summoned a runner while the debate went on and pressed his ring to orders that would be carried west. When he was finished, he listened for a time and then addressed them all.
‘It is almost dawn, senators. I suggest you return to your homes and guards to get some sleep. We will meet again … at noon? Noon it is. No doubt by then we will have heard more from this new Caesar.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mark Antony was in a foul mood as his legions marched north, snapping at anyone foolish enough to address him. The Via Appia was a wonder: six paces wide and well drained for hundreds of miles. Only on such a smooth surface could the legions make twenty to thirty miles a day, the legionaries counting off each milestone as they reached it. The problem was that he had not intended to go anywhere near Rome. One dusty and exhausted messenger from the Senate had changed all his plans.
Mark Antony stared into the distance, as if he could see the Senate waiting for his triumphant return. He felt them there, like a nest of spiders twitching threads that ran under his feet. He shook his head free of the image, still struggling with sheer disbelief. Octavian had to be insane to have attempted such a rash move! What was the boy thinking? The anger he had caused was there to be read in the Senate orders. Bibilus, Hirtius and Pansa had sealed it with the Senate symbol, the visible sign of their authority over all legions. Mark Antony was ordered back with all speed and one purpose – to destroy the upstart in the forum.
The men ahead began to cheer and Mark Antony dug in his heels and trotted forward to see what had pleased them. The road had been rising gently for most of the morning, cutting through chalk hills in great clefts that represented years of labour. He knew before he saw it, catching a hint of salt on the cool breeze. The Mare Tyrrhenum came into sight at the head of the column, a dark blue vastness on his left shoulder. It meant Rome was no more than a hundred miles further along the road and he would have to decide soon where to rest the men and let the camp followers catch up.
The cheering rippled oddly down the lines of marching men, as each century caught the same view and hollered out for good luck, proud of the pace they had set. Mark Antony drew his mount aside for a time, watching them pass and nodding with stern satisfaction to anyone who sought out his gaze. He had not told them yet that they were going home.
Mark Antony thought in frowning silence, weighing the problems before him. Two full legions had broken their oaths and mutinied for a boy who called himself Caesar. If the name had that sort of effect, he could not trust that the Senate would be able to contain him. All Mark Antony’s instincts told him to strike north, to continue with his original plans against Decimus Junius. The legions of Brundisium had refused to answer orders once already. They’d come close to cutting Mark Antony to pieces when they thought he was one of those who had sanctioned Caesar’s murder. What would they do when they discovered he had been ordered to attack the man’s heir? Gods, it was impossible! The far north under Decimus Junius was ripe for plucking and he had the forces to do it. Yet he dared not leave Octavian with two legions answering to him. The real Caesar had achieved much with fewer men.
He looked back down the marching ranks, taking solace from the sight of thirty thousand soldiers. If they kept discipline, he knew he could force Octavian to surrender. Let the Senate worry about what to do with him after that, he thought. While men like Bibilus debated his fate, there would be no one watching Mark Antony. He could still take the legions north.
The walls of Rome were not as high as many of the buildings they contained. Even at night, looking inward, the dark masses of tenement blocks rose above the three men standing on the stone walkway above a gate. The poorest families lived as high as six or even seven storeys up, without running water and in the unhappy knowledge that they could not possibly escape a fire. To Octavian, the gleam of oil lamps at their open windows seemed like low stars in the distance, too high to be part of the city at his feet.
Agrippa and Maecenas leaned against the inner part of the wall. The city itself had not been threatened since the slave army of Spartacus, but the defences were still maintained, with an entire network of support buildings and access steps. In more normal times, it would be one of the duties of city guards to walk the walls, more often to remove gangs of children or pairs of young lovers than because of any threat to the city. Yet such mundane tasks had been ignored since the legions occupied the forum and the entire city waited in fear for the tension to break. The three friends were alone, with the empty walkway stretching in both directions. Even so, they kept their voices low, constantly aware that the Senate would love to overhear what they planned.
‘You don’t need to worry about Silva and Paulinius,’ Agrippa said. ‘They won’t change their loyalties again, no matter what the senators promise or threaten. It would cost them too much – the gods alone know what sort of punishment the Senate would impose. Execution of the senior ranks at the very least. Their lives are bound up with ours, as things stand.’
Octavian looked at him, nodding. The moon was approaching full and the stars were bright enough to wash the city in pale light. He felt exposed on the wall, but he had to admit it was more private than anywhere else. Idly, he kicked a small stone off the sandy surface, watching it vanish into the darkness below.
‘I’m not worried about their loyalty. What worries me is what we are going to do when the consul comes back from Brundisium with six legions.’
Agrippa looked away, reluctant to say what he had been thinking during the days of negotiation with the Senate. There had been a sense of progress before that afternoon, when the messenger to Mark Antony made it back to Rome. In just an hour, the Senate had regained some of their wavering confidence and the news of returning legions had spread across an already fearful city. Agrippa kicked irritably at a loose stone. The meeting on the wall was not to discuss how to turn the negotiations into a triumph, but how to prevent destruction and dishonour.
Maecenas cleared his throat, leaning back against the wall as he regarded both men.
‘So, gentlemen, we are in a difficult spot. Tell me if I have it wrong, won’t you? If we do nothing, we have the Senate’s legions just a few days’ march away. We don’t have enough men to hold the walls, not for long. If we use the time left to execute Gaius Trebonius, Suetonius, perhaps Bibilus and a few others, we will only anger the consul further and make him even less willing to keep us alive. You will not abandon the legions here and run for the hills …?’
‘No,’ Octavian muttered.
Maecenas blew out air, disappointed.
‘Then I think we are going to be killed in a few days and our heads put on this wall as a warning to others. At least, well, at least there is a view.’
‘There has to be a way out of this!’ Octavian said. ‘If I could make those whoreson senators grant me just one concession, I could withdraw the legions in something that would not be utter defeat.’
‘As soon as they understood you weren’t going to have them dragged out and slaughtered, they knew they had won,’ Maecenas went on. ‘There is still time for that, at least. You’ll get your concession – your Lex Curiata, say – then we can withdraw to somewhere Mark Antony won’t feel stung into attacking. Remaining in the forum is the problem. He has to respond to that!’
Octavian shook his head without reply. They had discussed it many times, but it was a line he would not cross. In his desperation, he had considered a few judicious murders, but such an action would destroy how he was seen in the city. If he ever faced the Liberatores in the field, it would be very different, but his entire position rested on him being a champion for the old Republic and the rule of law. Even Caesar had kept the Senate benches filled and refused to call himself a king. Octavian hawked phlegm into his throat and spat out his irritation. The amnesty could be overturned, he was certain, but he had not yet found the lever he needed to do it.
> ‘You haven’t tried bribery yet,’ Agrippa said, making them both turn towards him. In the moonlight, he shrugged. ‘What? You said you’d listen to anything.’
‘They think they have only to wait to see us crumple and fail,’ Octavian said, bitterness flooding his voice. ‘There’s nothing I can offer them that they won’t think they can have anyway when I am dead.’
Maecenas moved off the wall, looking up at the bright moon. After a time, he nodded.
‘Then we’re done. You can’t stay for a pointless gesture that will see us all killed and two legions destroyed. All you can do is march the men out of Rome and put this down to experience. It’s a loss, but you’ll learn from it if you survive.’
Octavian opened his mouth, but despair stole away any words. He could not shake the feeling that Caesar would see a way through. It was partly an echo of that man that had pushed him into occupying the forum in the first place, but since that day, nothing had worked out the way he’d hoped.
Agrippa saw the desolation in his friend and spoke, his deep voice rumbling.
‘You know, Caesar lost his first battle in the civil war. He was captured not too far from this gate and held for torture. He lost everything, his uncle, his position, his wealth, everything. It is not the end to fail and move on, is it? As long as you are alive, you can begin again.’
‘I have two legions in the centre of Rome and for the next few days, no one is close enough to stop me,’ Octavian snapped suddenly. ‘There must be some choices left. There must be!’
‘Only the ones you won’t consider,’ Maecenas replied. ‘At least let me send a century to take Suetonius. I could do it tonight, Octavian, while the pompous little shit is asleep. What does it matter now to talk of trials and formal execution? You don’t have the power for such things, not today. But you can do that much.’
Octavian looked south, to where the Via Appia stretched into the distance. It would not be too long before the consul’s legions came marching up that wide road. He could see them in his mind’s eye, bringing an end to all his hopes.
‘No,’ he said, his fists clenched. ‘I’ve told you. They are the ones who plotted and moved in secret. They are the murderers. If I am not the defender of the Republic, if I show so little respect for the law that I can butcher a senator in his house, I have no standing at all, no call on the people of Rome.’ He made a bitter decision, weighed down by impossible choices. ‘Get the legions ready to march. We have a few days still. Perhaps I can wring something from those theatre fools by then.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the Via Appia, entire villages had sprung up to service and care for travellers. All along its length, it was possible to purchase anything from glass, jewellery and woven cloth, to hot food and even horses.
The Brundisium legions marched past all the usual stopping places, pushed to their best possible pace by the strange urgency that had obsessed Mark Antony. On a good road, they could manage thirty miles if the need was great, though he began to lose men to sprains and exhaustion. For once, those with obviously bloody feet or swollen knees and ankles were not punished further. One or two lucky members of their century remained to watch over groups of ten or a dozen at whichever roadhouse was closest. With Rome almost in sight, they would catch up quickly, or lose skin off their backs.
Mark Antony gave the order to halt the column only when he was certain they were in range of the city for the following day. On grain-fed mounts, he and the legates were relatively fresh compared to the marching men, but still he ached.
With the sun setting, he dismounted in the courtyard of an inn that looked as if it had been there from the time the first stones were laid for the road. Servants, or perhaps the children of the owner, ran to take his horse and accepted the coins he tossed to them. He went inside, ducking his head under a low lintel and seeking out the table where the legates would be eating.
They stood watchfully as he approached. With Rome in range, he knew he had to tell them why he had been pushing so hard. It would leave only the morning for the men to hear and digest the news. With just a little luck, they’d be in the forum before they had a chance to consider rebelling against their new orders.
‘Where is Liburnius?’ Mark Antony asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be the first one here.’
No one answered, though they looked at each other or at the serving girl bringing jugs of fish sauce to the table.
‘Well?’ Mark Antony demanded. He pulled out a chair for himself.
‘The Fourth Ferrata has not halted, sir,’ Legate Buccio said. ‘I … we assumed it was on your orders.’
Mark Antony’s hand dropped from the back of the chair.
‘What do you mean “has not halted”? I gave no such order. Send a rider out and get him back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Buccio replied.
He left to pass on the errand to some unlucky soldier and Mark Antony settled, allowing the others to sit down. He poured pungent fish sauce onto his plate, smelling it with satisfaction before reaching for bread to dip into it. As he took his first mouthful, he became aware that the remaining men were still stiff and uncomfortable in his presence. He smothered a sigh.
Buccio returned, his glance flickering around the other men of his rank. Mark Antony looked up as the legate took his seat and poured his own sauce. The man was an ancient compared to some, with deep wrinkles like the lines of a map in his neck and shaven head. His brown eyes were unaccountably worried as they met those of the consul.
‘I’ve sent the runner, sir.’
‘I believe you were going to discuss the … difficulties we’ve been having, Buccio,’ one of the other legates said, toying with his food and not looking up.
Buccio glared at the speaker, but Mark Antony was looking at him by then and he nodded, making the best of it.
‘I have had some … comments, Consul. I have trusted men in my legion, men who know I will not hold them responsible if they pass on the gossip of the barracks.’
Mark Antony’s mouth firmed.
‘The men have given their oaths, Legate. To spy on them after that undermines their honour and yours. You will cease the practice immediately.’
Buccio nodded hurriedly.
‘Very well, sir. But what I have learned is serious enough for me to bring it to you, no matter the source.’
Mark Antony stared at him, chewing slowly.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I will be the judge of that.’
‘They have heard about the new Caesar, Consul. Not just my men, by any means. Legate Liburnius was saying the same thing to me only yesterday. Can you confirm it, sir?’
Mark Antony stiffened, the sinews standing out on his neck. He should have guessed the legionaries would have heard the news. They marched together all day and the slightest rumour spread like a rash. He cursed under his breath. He should have burned the Senate orders, but it was too late for that. Folding his hands in front of him, Mark Antony tried to conceal his irritation.
‘Whatever Octavian calls himself now,’ he said, ‘I will deal with him when I return to the city. If that is all you have heard …’
‘I wish it was, Consul.’ Buccio took a deep breath, steeling himself for the reaction. ‘They are saying they will not fight against Caesar.’
The hush that followed was unbroken as every man there suddenly found his food fascinating.
‘You are talking about mutiny, Legate Buccio,’ Mark Antony said grimly. ‘Are you saying your men have not yet learned that particular lesson?’
‘I … I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was something you should hear.’
‘And you were correct in that, though I cannot help doubt your ability to lead if this is how you deal with it. Internal legion matters should be kept internal, Buccio! I would have thought nothing of a few floggings in the morning. A commander does not have to hear everything that goes on; you know that! Why bring idle gossip to my attention?’
‘Consul, I … I could handle a few fools rou
sing the others, but I understand that half the men are saying they will not fight, not against Caesar. Not in Rome, sir.’
Mark Antony leaned back. He waited while steaming chickens were brought to the table and torn apart by the hungry men.
‘You are all senior officers,’ he said when the serving staff had moved away to give them privacy. ‘I will say this to you. Rome gives your soldiers everything: a salary, status, a sense of brotherhood. But they endure the discipline because they are men of Rome.’
He waved a hand in frustration, trying to find words that would make it clear to the mystified faces around the table. Before he could go on, another of them cleared his throat to speak. Mark Antony rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. Legate Saturnius had not impressed him in their deliberations to that point. The man had no shame when it came to seeking his favour.
‘You have something to add?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Saturnius replied, leaning forward onto the table. ‘More often than not they come from impure lines, sir. I believe that is the problem. How can we expect the sons of prostitutes and merchants to understand our beliefs? They are prey to every new fashion, every wild speaker in the Republic. A few years ago, I had to have an agitator strangled because he was copying out the words of some Greek politician. The very few who could read were whispering his dangerous ideas to the ones that couldn’t. That one man was very nearly the rot that broke a legion!’
Saturnius looked to Mark Antony for approval, but found him gazing stonily back. Oblivious, Saturnius wiped his mouth of grease and went on.
‘The common soldiers are like unruly children, and in the same way, they must be disciplined.’ He began to sense the others were not with him and looked around the table. ‘It is all they understand, as the consul said.’
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 191
