Fig Tree

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘You said the trial was dismissed, grandfather! Why then must I remain here on this godless flyspeck?’

  Octavian ignored the question. For an instant, he doubted his own judgement. He saw nothing truly wrong in Marcus being part of plots against him, or even using power and influence to rise above the law. He had done the same himself, more than once.

  He felt grief constrict his chest as he realised he had made his decision. Tiberius would be a safe hand at the helm, the man Rome needed, or deserved. Though Octavian could feel his grandson’s charm, though he loved him as dearly as anyone alive, he knew by then that Marcus was truly dangerous. The boy had become a man of great power, a man to lead, whom others would surely follow. Octavian wondered how long it would have been before Marcus led the guards off the island in their own boat. Yet he could see the fault lines in his grandson, perhaps because they were so similar to his own. Towering vanity, rage and cold manipulation, each one a poison to the owner in its own way. All of it seething under the handsome face and faintly hurt expression.

  ‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ Octavian said. ‘I have watched you always. And I have loved you more than you will ever know.’

  Marcus opened his mouth, but made no sound, though his eyes glinted in sudden fury. The old man was dying, he was suddenly certain. He could see the traces of it on him. Marcus raised his head, thinking of the small sail boat and the guard, Rinius. None of his captors had heard what his grandfather had said. He would be able to find the right words for them, words they could believe. He’d be off the island in a week, to find somewhere quiet, somewhere just to wait, until the great Augustus had passed.

  His grandfather left the room with the big centurion standing close in case he fell.

  ‘I can still outlive you,’ Marcus whispered, when they had left.

  Outside in the yard, Octavian turned to the legionaries he had brought with him, still standing as if made of stone. Quintus stood at the fore, fit and tanned, ready for orders. Octavian took a deep breath of the warm air, hearing the song of birds in the bushes and trees that had been allowed to grow too close to the walls of the fort for decades.

  ‘Quintus?’ he said. ‘I want you to go back into that room. Kill the man you find there. Remove his head and wrap it well, before placing it in a bag. I will take it with me.’

  ‘Your will, Princeps,’ Quintus said, with no hesitation. He drew his sword and saluted with it, before disappearing back into the barracks. The group of men stood in strained silence, listening to the crashing and shouts of pain until there was peace and a thumping, repetitive sound.

  When Quintus returned, he was still breathing lightly, but stained in blood, from his forearms to spatters across his face and neck. Octavian did not look at him, could hardly see at all through the tears in his eyes. His grandson was gone and he was free to grieve. To his surprise, he felt a weight lift, his spirit suddenly less burdened. It was a strange thought, but his decision that day was surely among his last. All Octavian had left to do was die. Tiberius would become emperor.

  He looked at the cart waiting, at the shocked and disbelieving faces of Naevius and the other fortress guards. Octavian wiped his eyes.

  ‘There is no need to staff this place after today,’ he said to Naevius. ‘Let it fall into ruin. Have your men gather their belongings and come down to the docks.’ He turned to Quintus, still unable to let his gaze drop to the bloody object the man bore in his right hand.

  ‘I think I will walk down, Quintus. Have the cart come behind me, in case I tire.’

  Octavian set off, feeling his joints ease with the movement. He knew he’d lost the game of Latrunculi. It had been the work of an absolute master to grant him the victory without it being even slightly obvious. He shook his head, putting it behind him. Such a man was far too dangerous. Marcus would have eaten poor Tiberius alive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Livia had wept when Octavian returned to Capri and handed her the head. Centurion Quintus had busied himself on the trip home, rewrapping the grisly item and sewing the seams so that no trace of blood showed. It was heavy though, with guilt that burned.

  Over the next month, Livia had helped Octavian draft formal letters to Roman generals and governors. Augustus was seventy-seven years old. His health was failing and Tiberius would be Caesar after him. They were to prepare themselves for an orderly and peaceful change of power.

  The letters went out to every corner of the empire and his household moved more slowly behind them, heading to a home he’d always loved on the mainland, south of Rome. Octavian went there to wait for death to come for him, in peaceful surroundings.

  The house he’d chosen had been his for decades and had always been one of his favourite properties. For Octavian, it felt like truly coming home, a simpler place than the grand palaces of Rome and Capri. There was no barracks there, just a sprawling house with a few dozen slaves to attend to him in his final days.

  In the courtyard of the house, a fig tree grew that had been planted by Livia’s own hand, when they were both still fresh with youth. It had found a good grip in the soil beneath the yard, growing heavy with fruit as the summer waned. Octavian had always loved figs and Livia had planted a tree in every house they owned, so that he would always have the dark green and red fruit wherever he went. In the evenings, he would walk out and grasp the ripening figs, enjoying the feel of them.

  He did not know how to tell Livia his health was improving, at first. Whether it had been the sea journey to and from the island prison, or simply that some ague had left him, but as the weeks passed, he felt stronger every day. The shake in his hands dwindled almost to nothing and the warmth of the sun seemed to ease much of the pain in his joints. For a time, Octavian said nothing of it, but it was Livia who broached the subject and all its troublesome implications.

  ‘You have a better colour than when you came here,’ she said one evening. ‘Your hands are steady and you seem … sharper in your thoughts.’

  Octavian sighed before he turned to look at her.

  ‘I am prepared for death,’ he said firmly, then waved a hand in helpless resignation. ‘But I admit it seems death is not yet prepared for me.’

  ‘The letters have gone out, Octavian,’ she said, her eyes distant. ‘They will be reaching your people any day now, as far off as Gaul and Egypt. Rome is preparing to mourn.’

  ‘They will have to wait then,’ he snapped. ‘I did not choose to get well, Livia. I have made my choices and I will not turn from them now. Perhaps this is just a final surge of life before the end.’ He stood up, feeling only a little pain as he looked at his hands, flexing them.

  ‘I am at peace, Livia. I tell you I am ready, even if my fingers cling on to the precipice and will not let go.’ He shook his head and she stood with him, raising a hand to his cheek.

  ‘I will be with you always,’ she said. ‘This is a good, peaceful house and the figs are ripening. I think I can find enough to fill a plate for you before you sleep.’

  He looked at his white-haired wife with great affection, touched by the offer.

  ‘I would like that, Livia. Thank you. I think I will have the slaves rub some of the tiredness out of my muscles.’ He looked up at the darkening sky. ‘Tomorrow will be hot again. I can hardly see a cloud.’

  She kissed him briefly, watching her husband walk in before she crossed to the fig tree and began to select the sweetest fruits, testing each one with gentle pressure from her thumbs. Her husband was a man of Rome and she loved him dearly.

  While Octavian was made clean and dressed in a sleeping robe by his servants, Livia went to the kitchens and dismissed the staff there, standing alone with the figs on a long wooden board. She used a sharp knife to cut away the stalks and harder skins, until the peeled fruits were arranged on a glazed clay dish. From a pocket, she took out a vial and a tiny brush, painting one half of the moist fruits with the oily substance. The poison mingled with the dribbles of juice and she had to be careful not to wipe the tears fr
om her eyes until she had washed her hands and rubbed them dry.

  She found Octavian looking refreshed and ready for sleep, sitting upright in a chair by their bed. His eyes lit up when he saw the plate of figs and he took one from the side she offered him, crushing it in his mouth and closing his eyes for a moment in delight.

  ‘It is a little bitter,’ he said, ‘I think they will be perfect in another month.’

  Livia joined him, sitting at his side and choosing always the figs that faced away from him. It did not take long to empty the plate and neither of them noticed when a slave appeared to remove it from her hand, vanishing as silently as he had come.

  Octavian yawned.

  ‘We could go to the lake, tomorrow, perhaps, to spend the day in the summerhouse there. I could have the staff prepare cold food.’ He winced suddenly, reaching down to his stomach and rubbing a tender spot. He saw Livia look up and he smiled.

  ‘I think one of those figs was a little far from ripe, my love. My bowels are …’ He gasped at a sudden spike of pain, shifting in his seat. His eyes opened wide then and he looked at his wife in shock and understanding, seeing her grief.

  ‘The figs?’ he asked, pressing his fists into his stomach as the pain continued to build. Livia began to sob softly, her head dipping into her hands. He saw her nod and some of the tension went out of him. He had led Rome for half a century and he understood.

  ‘I see. Help me into bed then, my love. I need to lie down now.’

  She gave him her arm to rise, aiding her husband and pulling back the single sheet that was all they needed in the summer months. She was still weeping and he chuckled through the pain.

  ‘Why are you crying, woman? I came here to die, after all. You are the mother of Rome and I am proud of you, still.’

  When he was lying down, with pillows propping up his head and shoulders, Livia drew up the chair and sat at his side, holding his left hand. Octavian’s face had gone grey, sagging as his heart began to fail. He breathed in stutters, his eyes drifting open and closed.

  ‘Call my seneschal, would you?’ he whispered. ‘I have thought hard on the words I would say. I would have them heard.’

  When she did not move, he forced himself to turn his head and look at her.

  ‘There will be no accusations, my love. This is my time and I will go in peace.’

  Livia wiped tears away and stood, calling for his servants. The seneschal, Angelus, had been with him for thirty years. He came quickly and stood aghast as he looked down on his master.

  ‘My slaves will be freed, Angelus,’ Octavian whispered. ‘My will makes provision for you all, for your years of service.’

  The seneschal bowed his head, his sorrow showing.

  ‘Thank you, Princeps. It has been a great honour.’

  Octavian smiled with his eyes closed as the most senior men and women of his estate crowded into the room around him. The silence was unbroken as he spoke again.

  ‘I found Rome in clay,’ he whispered. ‘I left her clad in marble.’

  He breathed out, long and still. Livia felt his hand grip hers and she sobbed aloud. Without opening his eyes, Octavian pulled in half a breath and turned his head towards her.

  ‘Have I played my part, my love? Have I done enough?’

  ‘You have, Octavian,’ she said, holding his hand up to her cheek and pressing it against her. The life went out of him then and he sagged, his chest growing still.

  About the Author

  Conn Iggulden is one of the most successful authors of historical fiction writing today. His two No.1 bestselling series, on Julius Caesar and on the Mongol Khans of Central Asia, describe the founding of the greatest empires of their day. Conn Iggulden lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and their children.

  www.conniggulden.com

  Also by Conn Iggulden

  The Emperor Series

  The Gates of Rome

  The Death of Kings

  The Field of Swords

  The Gods of War

  The Blood of Gods

  The Conqueror Series

  Wolf of the Plains*

  Lords of the Bow

  Bones of the Hills

  Empire of Silver

  Conqueror

  Blackwater

  Wars of the Roses Series

  Stormbird

  By Conn Iggulden and Hal Iggulden

  The Dangerous Book for Boys

  The Dangerous Book for Boys Yearbook

  By Conn Iggulden and David Iggulden

  The Dangerous Book of Heroes

  By Conn Iggulden and illustrated by Lizzy Duncan

  Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children

  Tollins II: Dynamite Tales

  * Published in the USA as Genghis: Birth of an Empire

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