Rufus saw red with rage, especially after being called that name. “Even a ‘boy’, triumvir, would have adopted a more astute tactic,” he said, bluntly. “You knew that for the moment you had less men than Brutus and Cassius, but you decided to make camp practically right next to them. And if we don’t hurry up and finish fortifying all the sectors, starting with the one along the marsh, our enemies will come as and when they want. It amazes me, in fact, that they have not yet done so!”
“You idiot! Our strategic situation is complicated, and we can’t hold off doing battle just because your master has a tummy ache…” quipped Antony. “We must fight now, I cannot wait until it is convenient for Octavian. I told him that he wasn’t up to facing the demands of a campaign. And now I have to fight without his troops! If he would at least send them to me, but no – he holds onto them and doesn’t allow us to use them! By the gods, why didn’t Lepidus come, instead of that useless creature?”
“It’s you who’s trying to cause trouble, triumvir!” insisted Rufus, not at all intimidated. “All they need to do is rush down the slope – which favours them – and they can do for us as though we were unarmed, inside or outside the fortifications. And then, they can get firewood in the wooded hills on their side, while we have only the marsh available: we will never fortify it properly. And they can also draw water from the river, while we have to dig wells. And if that’s not enough, they get their supplies from Thasos, which is right here, while we get ours from Amphipolis, which is three hundred and fifty stadions away…”
At that point Maecenas took him by the arm and dragged him away from the battlements before Antony, who was the larger of the two, could lay a hand on him.
“I understand, triumvir, that your choice was dictated by necessity,” said the Etruscan in a conciliatory tone. “The hill upon which you set the camp is the only one on the plain, and you could not place yourself any further away as the rains are likely to turn the whole area into a swamp. You were wise.”
Antony’s expression grew less grim. “That’s right. Explain it to that idiot,” he said, and turned to look away, once again ignoring Octavian’s two emissaries as they climbed down from the battlements.
“What’s wrong with you?” protested Rufus, when he and Maecenas were alone. “Don’t you see that he wants to win without us? What if he loses? Why didn’t you say anything? What damn use are you?”
“For reasoning.” his friend answered, with ostentatious condescension. “That is why I’m here. Let us go straight back to Octavian, as soon as we can.”
*
When the slave came to announce that Gaius Chaerea was at the door, Octavia was pleasantly surprised. She would never have expected the centurion to come and visit her on his own. And while her husband Marcellus was out, moreover. Then it occurred to her: he must have some news on behalf of the sect, for that was the only thing which could have induced him to overcome his resistance. She felt disappointed, and at the same time curious. What was so important that it could have induced him to come personally, without delivering the message via some courier? She had the little Marcella taken into another room and prepared to welcome him.
She spent more time putting on her makeup and coiffing her hair than she would have for any other guest, realising only when she was ready that perhaps Gaius had urgent news to report to her and that further delay was not appropriate. Although the centurion had already chosen his own family over her and had practically left the sect in order to avoid coming into contact with her, Octavia still had the unreasonable belief that she exercised a powerful influence on him, and she would not give up the opportunity to test him even in these circumstances. She knew it was wrong – that she shouldn’t do it and that it caused him great suffering, but she couldn’t help it: that was her battle, and she would fight it all her life for the only man she had loved.
She had always dedicated herself to others. Well, in this, at least, she would put herself first. She and Gaius had saved each other’s lives only a short time before: if that was not a sign that the gods blessed their union, she could not see what would be.
When he was brought into the tablinum where she was awaiting him, the usual clutch in her stomach confirmed that she would never give up trying to win him back. He bowed his head deferentially, trying to maintain a respectful and aloof attitude, but said nothing.
Even Octavia was silent for a few moments. Then, seeing that he was waiting for her to speak first, she decided to break the ice. “News from Greece, dear Gaius?” she said, getting up from her couch and taking a step toward him.
Just one step, for the moment.
“It’s still too early for that, my lady,” he replied evenly. “But, we can at least say that Octavian and our ministers have managed to pass our enemies’ blockade of the Adriatic unscathed. We know only that they landed without major difficulties on the coast of Epirus, despite your brother falling ill during the journey. But it is nothing serious. Now there are only two legions stationed in Brindisi awaiting boarding and we will have the numerical superiority over Caesar’s murderers.”
She moved imperceptibly closer to him. “I hope that everything goes well. Antony is certainly a commander of higher quality than Brutus or Cassius. But you…” she said. “I see that you still speak of ‘we’: you still feel yourself part of this sect, then?”
“Of course,” he said, looking away as she approached. “I no longer agree with its methods, but its goals are still mine.”
“I thought you had withdrawn because of me. And instead it is because you dislike the methods?” she said innocently, close enough now for him to feel her breath on his face. She sensed confusion in his eyes.
“I… There were many things that led me to leave…” said Gaius hesitantly, visibly uncomfortable.
She maintained her composure. If she really wanted him she would have to force the situation unscrupulously, overcoming the feelings of guilt which always oppressed her.
“But you are not convinced, are you?” she pressed him.
“I am, yes.” But the tone of his voice said otherwise.
“Why do you repress what you feel?” Octavia hardly recognised herself – she hadn’t realised that she was capable of being so shameless. “Why suffer so much? I know you are not happy.”
“But I wouldn’t be happy even if…”
She put a finger to his lips to shush him, and moved her face close to his, removed her hand and kissed him. He stepped back a little but didn’t pull away. She took advantage of their nearness, and when she put her lips to his for the second time, Gaius did not flinch. Octavia was the first to open hers, and he followed suit, docile at first, then with growing enthusiasm, until he finally put his hands round her waist.
Happily, she threw her arms around him and jumped up onto on him, putting her legs around him like a child. Large as he was, the centurion could more than cope with her weight.
Octavia began to kiss his face – breathless, enthusiastic kisses, from forehead to chin, running her fingers through his hair as he shifted his hands to her thighs and then to her waist and breasts.
Panting, she broke away for a moment to say, “I’m so happy that you finally decided to come here to me. Don’t you see that we belong together?”
He looked at her quizzically. “But it was you who called me …” he said, his breathing equally laboured.
“No, I didn’t call you. Didn’t you come here to announce our arrival in Greece? Or was it just an excuse to see me?”
“No… I… I was not going to come here. But I was told that you wished to speak to me and…”
They looked at each other questioningly, both undecided as to whether to continue in their effusions or investigate the causes behind their meeting.
At that moment, a glint behind Gaius caught Octavia’s eye. She screamed instinctively, the centurion spun round, and she saw her husband emerge from the door that connected the tablinum to the library brandishing a dagger. The blade swung a pal
m’s width from the officer’s chest, before Gaius managed to seize the attacker’s wrist. Octavia watched the brief scuffle and its predictable outcome: Gaius was so strong and experienced that he easily overcame Marcellus. He twisted her husband’s arm, causing him to emit a strangled cry, before realising with whom he was dealing and standing paralysed by shock. He let go of Marcellus’s arm, but only after taking his knife from him.
Octavia was appalled. Gaius stepped between her and the senator, putting himself in front of the door to the hallway to prevent him from leaving. “This explains why I’m here…” said the centurion finally, addressing both of them.
Only then did Octavia realise that it had been her husband who had drawn Gaius into a trap. Marcellus, in the meantime, looked away, his face full of resentment and shame.
“Why did you want to kill him, my husband?” she asked.
The senator paused again, then looked into her eyes. He was bullish as always, only more listless. “Do you need to ask? I have had enough of you two… Do you think I do not know about your son?”
Octavia flinched. “How… how did you know?”
“I did some investigating. I had you followed to the Suburra when you went to see him, months ago, and forced the companion of Gaius to tell me the truth, on threat of the child’s life. I knew that you had never loved or respected me, but that discovery removed any scruple…”
Octavia saw Gaius wince at learning that Fabia had been threatened. The centurion seemed about to attack him, but he managed to contain himself. “You spoke to my wife?” was all he said, albeit in a threatening tone.
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter – she wasn’t harmed in the slightest,” Marcellus said, with a shrug. “I only forbade her to inform you.”
“You wanted to kill us both?” asked Octavia, who had an unpleasant feeling.
Marcellus said nothing and looked away, and his attitude was eloquent. As much as it hurt her, she decided to press him. “And perhaps this isn’t the first time you’ve tried, is it?”
More silence.
Gaius realised what she was implying. “So you have the deaths of Atia and Etain on your conscience.”
Marcellus took a few moments too long to answer, and when it came, his denial was unconvincing: it was practically a confession. The man, thought Octavia, was not even capable of lying. Gaius was trembling with indignation, and she felt her eyes filling with tears for her mother and her maid. And for the fate that Marcellus would have had in store for her, if Veleda and Agrippa had not saved her. She had to wait for the lump in her throat to pass before she was able to utter a word again. But Gaius got there first.
“You caused a massacre… out of revenge?” he said.
“I… I did not want all those deaths,” blurted out Marcellus, whose voice had grown querulous. “It was the Republicans’ fault…” He, too, began to cry.
“Explain. And you had better talk now,” urged Gaius. “You’ll pay for this, you know that?”
“That will depend if you co-operate,” intervened Octavia. “My brother does not want a scandal in the family, nor more deaths. Not unless you force him. Co-operate and perhaps you will be safe,” she said, conscious of the need to not scare him too much if they wanted to obtain any information.
“Your brother?” Marcellus said, defiantly. “Your brother is in Greece, and might lose at any moment…”
“And he might also win. Indeed, that is the most likely thing. But if he does lose, I will kill you,” said Gaius. “Speak,” he added, and this time drew his sword and pointed it at the man’s throat.
The senator hesitated, then decided. “Well… the supporters of the liberators knew how I felt, and had been trying to persuade me to do something for them. After discovering your child… I was furious, and I decided to collaborate. They put me in touch with Quintus Labienus, and he got me to tell him where you would be…”
“And to get back at me, you had all those people killed?” asked Octavia, her face now bathed in tears. “Even your mother-in-law? What had my mother to do with all this?”
Marcellus looked down. “I… They had assured me that they would eliminate only you. It was to serve as another warning to your brother, after the assassination of Quintus Pedius.”
Octavia could contain herself no longer, and slapped her husband with all her strength, releasing a cry of despair as she did so. It occurred to her that Octavian had left without being able to find out who in the sect had revealed the hiding place of his family to his enemies, and despite having him appointed consul to replace Quintus Pedius, had marginalised Lucius Pinarius, assuming that it must be him. Her brother had confided in her before going to Sicily, and her cousin had come to visit her often to complain of being sidelined, despite his institutional role and their relationship.
Well, there was a traitor in the sect. It was her own husband, who did not even know of the association’s existence, but had plotted against his own family. Octavian had gone to war undermined by doubt, feeling little confidence in his closest collaborators and putting to one side a resource which could be valuable in this moment, when they had already lost two recruits. She had to let him know what was going on. Her brother could not face a decisive pitched battle without the knowledge that the cult was firmly under his command. That would be the most active contribution that she could give the Mars Ultor. Even if it meant making a gesture that, for her, was the greatest of sacrifices.
She took Chaerea by the arm and pulled him aside so that her husband could not hear. “Gaius, I must ask you a favour,” she whispered.
*
Octavian would have given anything not to be feeling ill just then. He cursed himself, and cursed the frailness which would never allow him to emulate Caesar and become the most important leader in the history of Rome. He didn’t often feel sorry for himself: there were Agrippa and Rufus, and their victories were his, because they were a group that had him as its banner, its heart and its reason for existing.
But in that moment he would have gladly have given up their help for a little bit of good health. He could not bear to admit that Antony, who would love nothing more than to shout from the rooftops that he was unfit for military campaigns, was right. Certainly the triumvir was gratified by his illness, considering as he did Octavian’s presence in Greece counter productive. Octavian hated helping Antony discredit him and he wanted to reach the field of Philippi, where the bulk of the army was quartered, as soon as possible, but in the condition he was in, it would provide Antony with further opportunities to mock and humiliate him. Nor did he want to send his troops on ahead, which would mean risking total exclusion from any victory.
No. Antony would have to wait until he recovered, he told himself as he drank the infusion of herbs that his new doctor Astorius had given him. The other triumvirs had to wait for him, even if it meant losing the army of Caesar’s killers. In any case, it all depended on Antony: for all he knew, his opponents were in no hurry to fight – indeed, it was in their interest to delay. Since his landing on the coast of Epirus, Octavian had been informed of the plight of the troops, short of supplies and cut off from communications with Italy by Staius Murcus and Domitius Ahenobarbus’s fleets in the Adriatic. Not to mention the need to put an early end to the campaign and take part of the legions back to Italy, thus preventing Sextus Pompey from taking advantage of its poor defences to invade and take control of it.
As soon as he recovered, he and his ministers would claim the credit for the final victory over the murderers of his father, whoever had actually been responsible for it. Even if it was Antony. That was part of the reason he had made peace with him: to be able to use him as a battering ram with which to break down the resistance of his opponents and as an unknowing assistant in his revenge and his rise to power. And then, once the campaign was successful, Maecenas would find a way to downplay his period of ill health. Because nothing is stronger than a victory, and no one ever questioned the words of a winner.
Light filtered
suddenly through the flap of the tent, dazzling his half-closed eyes. The silhouettes of three figures were outlined against the light, and gradually took on the appearance of Agrippa, Maecenas and Rufus. For some reason, the presence of all the ministers of Mars Ultor comforted him: after excluding Lucius Pinarius from any future meetings, he liked to think that the demands of war were bringing closer together what remained of the sect after the last, painful losses. Including the partial defection of Gaius Chaerea: he had made a compromise with the centurion that he would remain at the service of Mars Ultor with the sole task of watching over his relatives back in Italy.
But when he was finally able to see the faces of his friends, he knew immediately that there was nothing to rejoice over.
“Things are looking bad, Octavian,” began Rufus, who seemed particularly agitated.
“We came here as fast as we could – we nearly killed the horses,” added Maecenas. “But I cannot guarantee that all hell hasn’t broken loose in the meantime.”
“What do you mean?” asked Octavian, feeling a sweat break out in addition to the one he already had because of the fever. The doctor hastily laid a wet cloth on his forehead, but he threw it aside. He did not like looking frail in front of his subordinates, except for Agrippa, who had seen him in his most embarrassing moments as a child.
“Antony wants to fight before you arrive, there’s no doubt of it,” continued the Etruscan.
“He intends to take all the credit for the victory,” said Rufus, “and, moreover, make you look ridiculous by showing that you have been completely useless.”
“Is he mad?” cried Agrippa. “He’s outnumbered! He hasn’t got our troops yet!”
“For that matter, he is also at a disadvantage from a tactical point of view,” said Rufus. “The slope of the land goes against him and he has problems with supplies. And he can’t even find the wood to complete the construction of the trenches.”
“I doubt that will stop him,” objected Agrippa. “He has great confidence in his own abilities…”
Revenge Page 27
