*
“There are more and more of them out there,” Maecenas said, on returning from an inspection tour with Salvidienus Rufus. “And at the head of the line is a delegation of centurions who insist on speaking to you. They say they represent at least four legions, but I doubt they’re speaking for all forty of the constituent cohorts…” he added. Octavian was bent forward, staring at the walls of the praetorium with one hand in his hair and the other resting on the table.
“Have you spoken to them?” he asked, without moving either his face or his eyes. He had just had one of his coughing fits. He was not in bed, but he was blue in the face and it was better that no one outside the sect saw him like that: it might adversely affect his influence over the troops, assuming he still had any. No soldier was willing to be led into battle by a sickly commander.
“I told them the truth: that you’re waiting for news from Rome,” the Etruscan explained. “And not just to gain time: it must be made very clear that we are the ones acting within the law, not Antony or Lepidus. They have to be frightened of becoming outlaws.”
“That’s not such a great offence these days,” commented Octavian bitterly, accompanying his words with a fit of coughing. “Since Caesar’s death, almost every player on the political stage has been an outlaw at some point or other, myself included, and without it causing them any serious disadvantage, I’d say. Today’s outlaw may be tomorrow’s consul, and they know it…”
Maecenas appreciated his friend’s clear-headedness. To an acquaintance he might have seemed gloomy, but the Etruscan already knew him well enough to realise that he had absolutely no intention of giving up and surrendering to Antony. “Always remember that they’ve had enough of civil wars,” he commented, “and they want you and Antony to agree so that you can avenge Caesar and finish all this once and for all, and they’re willing to support the strongest one to make a union happen. It all depends on you showing them that you’re the strongest.”
“Unfortunately, at the moment it seems that he’s the strongest,” Octavian admitted. “I should give thanks to the gods that Antony almost wiped out two legions when he was in Brindisi. At least those soldiers will never be willing to put themselves under his command and accept that I should submit to him. Have you ensured that their defensive perimeter is in order?”
“Don’t worry. All twenty cohorts of the Marcia and the IVth are taking turns to guard the praetorium. If, by any absurd stretch of the imagination, Antony convinced the others to open the camp’s gates, he’d find it difficult to break through their barricade.”
“That’s exactly what I’m frightened of,” the young consul confirmed. “Anyone could let an enemy patrol in, even at night, and allow them to open the gates.”
“That’s true,” Maecenas re-assured him, “but if Antony had wanted to attack, he’d have done so as soon as he got here three days ago. He just wants you to relinquish operational command to him and become his subordinate.”
Octavian coughed again, pressing his palm over his mouth and staring at the blood that appeared on it. His doctor Glycon – who was always by his side during these attacks, even mild ones like this – hurried to soak a cloth in a bowl of water and press it gently to his face. “But if the soldiers rebelled and arrested me,” the consul said, having cleared his throat, “I don’t think he’d turn it down. People have short memories, you know. Seeing me in difficulty, the legionaries would quickly forget that I’ve done infinitely more for them than Antony has recently.
“And above all that you’ve paid them more than he has,” the Etruscan specified, before stopping to listen to the sound of a fracas outside. He looked out and saw Rufus, who had preferred to wait outside the tent and keep an eye on the increasingly tense situation, pushing back an insistent centurion. The officer was shouting that he wanted to talk to Octavian at all costs, while behind him others were trying to push him through the Martia legion’s barricade of soldiers.
And they were all armed.
Rufus had to pull out his sword and point it at the centurion’s throat. The man froze, but only for an instant, then he took a few steps back, turned to his men and began to bemoan the consul’s behaviour. Maecenas saw that Rufus was agitated and feared that he might lose control: he knew that the young man was hot-headed and had none of Agrippa’s poise. In fact, a moment later, Rufus shouted at the centurion to shut up and dealt him a heavy blow between the shoulder blades with the pommel of his sword, and the officer fell to the ground gasping while the young tribune set about kicking him viciously.
None of the soldiers who made up the cordon dared interfere with a superior, so Maecenas felt duty bound to intervene. He walked over to Rufus and grabbed his arm in an attempt to restrain him, but Rufus was much stronger than he, and easily shook him off, forcing him to repeat the gesture. The Etruscan called him by name, but the younger man was blinded by rage and continued to kick the centurion without heeding his words. The subordinates of the man on the floor had by now unsheathed their swords and were making it clear that they wanted to intervene to protect their superior, but the men of the Martia tightened their barricade and the praetorium’s defenders turned their swords on their comrades.
“Someone’s going to die here,” Maecenas thought, “and that will make everything more difficult. I must make this imbecile see reason.” But on his second effort to block him, Rufus not only wriggled free but pushed him back. The Etruscan lost his balance, and found himself lying on the ground, covered in mud, but even then Rufus did not seem to realise what he’d done. He continued to shout and insult the rebels, waving his sword at them and every so often launching a kick at the centurion who was trying to escape his beating by crawling away, probably with several broken ribs. Maecenas tried to get up, but a pair of powerful legs stepped between him and Rufus.
He looked up and saw Agrippa, who had joined them in that precise instant. The young man, who was far stronger than him, grabbed Rufus with both arms and yanked him back. Perhaps not even recognising his friend, Rufus turned around and told Agrippa to leave him alone, trying to free himself with a punch. But Agrippa was faster and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. “Do you want to cause a riot, you fool?” he whispered in his ear, quietly enough to be out of the soldiers’ earshot, but loud enough for Maecenas to hear.
A genuine expression of hate appeared on Rufus’ face. “Don’t you dare humiliate me further in front of my subordinates,” the tribune hissed softly. “Get your hands off me.”
Agrippa released him instantly, but Maecenas was in no doubt that he did it out of good sense not fear. The young man helped the Etruscan to his feet, then turned to Rufus and Maecenas, indicating a centurion who was with him: “There’s no reason for us to quarrel. The news we were waiting for from Rome has come. This is Popilius Laenas,” he said, even managing to smile in an effort to ease the tension between them, “who Gaius Chaerea charged with the task that should have been his. And he has plenty of interesting things to tell us…”
*
“Here we go, at last,” Agrippa said to himself, as he saw a small group of armed men appear on the opposite bank of the Po, near a boat moored in the reeds. He ordered his oarsmen to put his boat to water and continued to observe the movements of Antony’s men. He had to seize the moment, otherwise it would all have been in vain.
Since Popilius Laenas had brought the Senate’s official approval for an agreement with Antony and Lepidus, leaving it up to the consul to determine the means, he’d been keen to put an end to the tension that hung over Octavian’s legions. He’d even offered to take the news to Antony personally, just to enjoy the look on his face. Maecenas and Octavian had agreed: it would be best to send a prominent envoy over the river so that he could deal directly with Antony, otherwise Antony might not take their proposals seriously. But the Etruscan had suggested waiting until the next day: being a good strategist, he’d decided that they should make a spectacle of the meeting for the benefit of the soldiers.
A large military audience had assembled on both banks of the river. Everyone was curious to see what would happen to Antony’s latest victim. And it was legitimate to worry about what might happen in Octavian’s camp afterwards, given that the consul and those loyal to him struggled to hold back the soldiers after the first drowning.
The boat left the opposite shore. Agrippa climbed aboard his own and the oarsmen began to row towards the centre of the river in the direction of the first vessel. The young tribune looked at the prisoner, who was behaving in a dignified manner, neither complaining nor fidgeting. The other people in the boat, however, seemed nervous at the arrival of a vessel from the opposite bank. But they continued to perform their duties. The oarsmen rowed and, once the boat had reached the right position, two soldiers cut the ropes around the prisoner’s hands with a dagger and pushed him into the water.
The current was strong. Agrippa ordered his oarsmen to head towards the man to intercept him. He calculated that he’d moved slightly too late. They were parallel to him now, but they would lose him at the point where the current grew stronger. He picked up the rope he’d brought for just such an eventuality and tried to attract the legionary’s attention so he could throw it to him, but the man was too busy trying to keep afloat to notice. And he wasn’t an expert swimmer – in fact, he was just flailing around rather than swimming. Agrippa therefore tied one end of the rope to his waist and, having given the other end to one of his men, dived into the water.
Thanks to his size he was able to reach the soldier and intercept him. He reached out and grabbed his arm, but the terrified man continued to thrash about, and, with his other arm, began to slap and punch at Agrippa’s face. Agrippa tried to defend himself by turning away, but by doing that he risked losing his grip. He looked towards his boat and his men began to pull him in while the oarsmen continued to row towards the opposite bank. Keeping his face in the water to protect it from the blows of the man he was saving, Agrippa stretched out his arms and grabbed him by the neck. The soldier tried to pull away but by this point was so weak that he could do little against Agrippa’s superior strength, and finally they reached the boat.
Once they’d pulled him on board, a standing ovation broke out on the edge of Octavian’s camp. Agrippa felt encouraged: as Maecenas had predicted, the soldiers would have been reminded who protected them and who, in contrast, merely used them for their own ends. In the meantime, his boat reached land. Antony and Lepidus’s soldiers looked on in stunned silence, having just witnessed the same scene. Agrippa looked at them carefully, and read admiration, not mistrust nor even hostility, on their faces. It was going well: Maecenas’s plan was bearing fruit.
After he’d untied the rope round his waist, he wrung out the edges of his tunic, which were dripping wet, slicked back his hair and ran a hand over his face, then he picked up the armour he’d left in the bottom of the boat and, with the help of one of his men, put it on. He put his hand on the shoulder of the man he’d saved, who, having returned to his senses, looked at him with gratitude. He was about to speak, but Agrippa indicated that there was no need, then picked up the bag with the Senate document in it, told his men to wait for him, and stepped ashore.
He walked towards the woods surrounding the narrow clearing near the river, in the direction of the deployed soldiers, his bearing as proud as his dripping clothes would allow. The legionaries stepped back respectfully to allow him to pass and when he spotted a non-commissioned officer he said, “Take me to Mark Antony, optio. I have urgent news for him – from Rome.” The officer hesitated and looked around for his centurion who, standing a few paces away, signalled for a soldier to escort Agrippa. The man came over and led him through the wood, which turned out to be only a thin line of trees, beyond which extended a much wider plain. On this, there loomed a fortified marching camp, in front of which foragers were at work, engineers were busy building scorpios and ballistas, carpenters worked on boats, and supply patrols went about their business. The presence of wooden planks alongside the boats showed that Antony was planning to erect pontoon bridges to facilitate the passage of his troops over the river and enable them to besiege Octavian’s camp. The Senate’s authorisation had arrived just in time.
His escort took him through the camp’s entrance and led him down the main thoroughfare. Some of the soldiers loitering between the tents recognised him and greeted him, whispering his name to the others who didn’t know his face, despite the fact that he had become something of a celebrity amongst the legions since distinguishing himself at the battle of Modena. There were some jibes about him being soaking wet, but once news of what he’d done at the river spread through the camp no one dared to mock him. On the contrary, even the men at the praetorium looked at him with respect when he arrived there. One of Antony’s bodyguards, who was on sentry duty outside his billet, took Agrippa’s weapon, escorted him to the commander’s tablinum, announced him, and told him to enter.
What he saw surprised him, at least until he remembered who he was dealing with.
“Well look who we have here – a drowned rat,” said Antony, sitting at his desk with his wife Fulvia standing next to him, her tunic lowered to her waist. Under the table, a slave girl was busily attending to the intimate parts of both.
“Greetings, Mark Antony,” said Agrippa, pretending to have received a respectable welcome and trying to maintain some formal aplomb, despite the state he was in and the scene playing out in front of him. “I bring a message from the Senate, which has been sent to the young consul by the old consul. Given the circumstances, I’d ask you to read it immediately.” He couldn’t help but catch Fulvia’s eye. He’d felt her deep, penetrating glare from the moment he’d entered the room.
Antony didn’t put out his hand to take the message and said nothing. Fulvia, however, spoke with that warm, sensual voice that sent shivers down his spine. “It seems that you were quite the hero down at the river, and made my husband look the fool of the situation…”
Agrippa had expected such an objection from Antony and had prepared a response. But he hadn’t expected it from Fulvia, whose presence in the camp he’d been unaware of. The woman still had the power to seduce him: he detested her and desired her at the same time, especially as he had now lost Etain. But with Etain it had been something else, something that was more than just sex, while with Fulvia he could lose himself in her perverse lovemaking, and even in his moments of greatest despair – when he had lost Etain and been thrown out of the sect – he couldn’t deny to himself that he missed her.
“Erm… I only stopped a brave Roman soldier from dying unnecessarily, ma’am. One more soldier will be useful to both of us when we fight side by side against Rome’s external enemies.”
“So tell me, young Agrippa,” said Antony. “What makes you think we’ll be fighting side by side?” As he spoke, he grabbed the slave girl by the back of her neck and pulled her towards his turgid member, while with his other hand he grabbed one of Fulvia’s magnificent breasts and began squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger, as though to flaunt her before the eyes of his interlocutor. And she was letting him.
Agrippa swallowed. He couldn’t remember ever having been in a more embarrassing situation. “What it says in this message, if you’ll deign to read it,” he said, trying to make a show of confidence. He felt the breath of Antony’s bodyguard behind him.
But Antony ignored his answer. “And, who might these so-called ‘external enemies of Rome’ that we should fight together, be?” he continued.
“Caesar’s murderers, who you yourself began fighting before the Senate even declared them public enemies. Decimus Brutus, for example, who you besieged at Modena. And who you’ve just had killed,” he said.
Antony jumped up, shoving the slave away and moving away from Fulvia. “I didn’t have him killed, as you and your young friend know very well,” he protested indignantly. “You want to frame me, do you? Well I’ve already sent a letter to Marcus Brutus and Cassius tel
ling them that it wasn’t me.”
“They’ll never believe you,” said Agrippa. “After all, it was you who besieged him all that time at Modena and then pursued him. Maybe now you’ll decide to finally pick a side.”
“I’ve already chosen a side. And it’s mine, you insolent dog!” he snapped, walking round the table and raising his arm to slap him. The young man raised his arm too, holding out the message from the Senate. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Fulvia was smiling, apparently pleased by his behaviour.
Antony relinquished the slap he’d intended to give Agrippa and stared at the letter for a long time before eventually snatching it from his hand. Then he walked back over to his wife, unrolled it, and read it with her. Agrippa saw the slave crawl away while Fulvia, in the meantime, had put her tunic back over her shoulders.
Antony nodded several times then raised his eyes to Agrippa. After a long silence that not even Fulvia, who obviously wanted to speak, dared interrupt, he said, “So, the Senate has given this pantomime consul the authority to make an agreement with me and Lepidus ‘for the good of the Republic’ and to form a common front against Caesar’s murderers…”
“Exactly, sir,” Agrippa confirmed. “And if you’ve read it all, you’ll see that the consul has also been given the authority, in this emergency situation, to appoint you to any public position he deems appropriate for tackling the war and at the same time ensuring that the empire carries out its administrative functions.”
“A sort of amnesty if we co-operate, eh?”
“If you want to put it like that… You and Lepidus would certainly no longer have to be looking over your shoulders, and you’d know that you only had one enemy to deal with. Which is why Octavian invites you to talk to him about it: an agreement would be advantageous to both of you and he would like to meet as soon as possible.”
Revenge Page 7
